Thursday, July 31, 2008

Duck, Duck, GOOSE

When I was 18 and preparing for college, I opted to take only 15 credits, rather than the typical 18. Being a high-school wild woman, I wasn’t sure how much academia I could handle. With fewer credit hours, I could have more time to do well with each class or get involved with extracurricular activities.

Shortly after school began, I realized paying for college was more important than partying and fitting in, so I got a job, and then another.

One position was working for my university’s Alumni Relations. The other job was a no-brainer: I was a female mail person—kind of transgender. I sorted mail delivered to my 10-story dorm, first by sex—men, women, other—then by floor, before sliding pieces into the appropriate slots.

One day I sat in the mailroom on a shelf that also served as the base for the bottom row of mailboxes. I was bent over, flipping mail into piles as if I were dealing cards. I was on the men’s side, masked by a wall of mailboxes, and I could hear the muffled sounds of a few guys talking behind me.

With a jingle of keys, I heard a key being inserted into its hole. As quick as a prairie dog popping out of its hole, then dashing back into hiding, a hand came through a slot, pinched my rear, then its owner ran down the hallway with a howl.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, July 28, 2008

Too Much Sex

I just read one of the dumbest stories.

The executive director of the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region, Dr. Wes Metzler, has asked the Colorado Springs City Council to pass a law requiring cats to be licensed. This guy has too much time on his hands and obviously believes his employees do too. Will he “hire” volunteers to handle this cat-licensing function?

According to The Cheyenne Edition, the $12 or $25 “annual cost…would go toward a more humane way of dealing with another part of the cat problem, Metzler said. The organization wants to reduce the population of ownerless feral cats by trapping and neutering them, then returning them to their colonies.”

This should be done to some humans. Many illegals live in Colorado and receive more benefits, including health, than residents who have been paying taxes in America all their lives. Do they wear tags or microchips? Should we start capturing and housing stray illegals in shelters (think of America’s current illegal alien–prisoner population already) and if no one adopts them in five days, euthanize them? Or should we neuter them and place them back in their native colonies. Hmm.

I think licenses should be issued globally to 18-year-olds to permit them to have one child in their lifetime. Therefore, each couple could have only two children. If they divorce, they are allowed to birth no more children.

Why not extend Metzler’s proposal to license the deer in my yard? “Tag or microchip? And while we’re at it, OFF with your gonads!” With fewer deer, maybe I wouldn’t need to call the Division of Wildlife requesting euthanization services (see “Tragedy,” July 7, 2008). Sure fawns are adorable, but they quickly grow, lean over barricades, and dine on our prized vegetation. Then they excrete indestructible poop all over our yards.

Euthanize or license? When I awaken in the morning and see three big bucks and eight does in my backyard, shouldn’t I be able to euthanize one for dinner? They’ve been getting free room and board while destroying my yard. It would be more sensible than licensing them.

For Colorado Springs residents, here’s an interesting link: www.hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=221&srcid=627. (I especially like the last answer.*) According to this page, “there is no ordinance prohibiting cats running loose, we do not have the authority to chase and catch them. We will come out and pick up the cat if you can catch it on your property and confine it to a box, room, cage or trap.” Under Metzler’s proposed law, would animal welfare officers drive around on $4-per-gallon fuel, capture stray cats, and if they don’t have a $25 microchip and missing body parts, take them back to the chop shop to do their deed, then drop them off at the same location where the officer found them? Goofy.

Twice, thinking I was a good Samaritan, I brought stray kittens into my home, then had them vaccinated and neutered (costs: $15 and $34). I do not let them outside. Now Metzler wants to punish me? If the City passes such balderdash, I’ll find new representatives. My councilman, Heimlicher, doesn’t respond anyway.

So the more responsible cat possessors should be charged and punished for the crimes of the irresponsible. Having to euthanize animals due to overpopulation is sad, but human overpopulation is worse. Humans do much more harm and are the source of most of our problems. And unlike cats that cover their excrement, a lot of humans consume much more than is required for sustenance and leave their trailings for the next generation.

Take responsibility. Demonstrate self-control. Discipline children and animals under your control, and hopefully they will learn about boundaries.

Since cats and some humans do not self-regulate, governments should step in and tell people what to do, as they have in China and might in Metzler’s world. Why don’t they self-regulate? See the bottom level on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

It’s hard to work on self-actualization when your basic needs haven’t been met. Meow.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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* http://www.hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=227&srcid=221
City/County Law: It shall be unlawful to own or keep a dog which, by barking, howling, baying or other utterance, disturbs the peace and quiet of the neighborhood. (6.7.115) (Res. 78-136, Sec 16)

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Filtered Cigarettes


My daughter asked me why most cigarettes have filters. “If you’re going to kill yourself, why do it so slowly?” she wondered aloud.

What are your thoughts? Do other habits fall into the same category?

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Finding My P’s and Q’s


Where can I find a little peace and quiet? While you’re at it, I’ll take a lot of peace and quiet!

I’d like real, honest-to-God peace where no offensive noises peal past my canal, strike my eardrum, vibrate my ossicles, fill my cochlea with fluid, tickle my organ of Corti, and land in my temporal lobe.

I want to hear sweet sounds, birds chirping, water flowing, a handsome young studmuffin asking, “May I bring you another drink, honey? How about a massage?”

No cars speeding on highways, no blaring train horns, no detestable television, no yipping or barking dogs, no people talking loudly, no men snoring or emitting flammable substances—nor women doing the same, for that matter.

My home should be my sanctuary. Lately it’s been more of an animal refuge at high-occupancy season. I don’t understand how people can allow their dogs to bark incessantly.

I need to feel safe and comfortable, so if you’re thinking, I know of a wonderful, peaceful campsite near a stream, I’ll take the stream, but you can keep the outdoors.

Sleeping outside is for animals. When I tinkle, I want to hear the whoosh of water afterward. When I arise, I want to smell fresh coffee brewing, feel a hot shower, see clean, fluffy towels. I love being in warm water, a tub or springs—it’s better than the hot water I used to be in.

When school ended in May, my daughter and I decided that Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs was the answer. Guests are asked to whisper, and we walk around in swimsuits and robes. First, we drove to Santa Fe to amble around in shops and galleries. Though shopping’s not my bag, nor am I an art aficionado, I love to meet people and dine in new atmospheres.

The first night, after swimming in the hotel pool, my daughter and I felt relaxed. We had packed some food that we enjoyed while playing chess. Suddenly at 9:00 p.m., like a bull charging into a plaza de toros, a hotel guest rushed in above us. For the next two hours, this 900-pound beefsteak stampeded back and forth as if dodging a matador. I politely knocked on the ceiling, as if petting the bull.

By 11:00 p.m., long after we’d turned out the lights, I was prepared to enter this bovine’s toril (entrance) with my little picador by my side and introduce the moose to my vara (lance). I came here for a little peace, and I was ready to give him a bit of mine. There would be no paseo tonight! My final, threatening ceiling knock took him down—and at last I slept.

The next morning we headed to Ojo Caliente, a place my girlfriend and I used to visit annually till work overtook our lives. Driving through an Indian reservation, curving on back roads, we arrived at the oasis! Too early to check in, we aimed at the bathhouse and slid into our swimsuits.

This is the life. Little to no conversation, a slow-moving environment, and pools of arsenic, soda, iron, and lithia—there’s even a mud pool. Pigs never had it this good, though several were spotted on location in swimsuits. A couple of wet hours later, we checked into our cabin and had a bite to eat before slipping back into the pools.

That eve, my daughter treated me to a delightful dinner at Ojo Caliente’s quaint Artesian restaurant with a gracious wait staff, where we observed a more-than-usual number of heterosexual guests. I like this place for a variety of reasons, and one is that I never have to worry about the men making passes at me.

Back in the cabin we again relaxed over a game of chess when, at 9:10 p.m., a member of the Harlem Globetrotters moved into the cabin next door. The floor in our cabin shook as the ball bounced repeatedly on boards that stretched through a string of cabins. We knocked politely on the bathroom wall.

Once Mom, Dad, and their little Globetrotter had carried all their things in and slammed the front door for the last time, we smelled cigarette smoke coming through the air conditioner next to us. I turned on the back porch light, opened the door, and asked Mr. Fumé Cloud, “Did you hear someone playing basketball out here?”

“No,” he said, “but I heard someone knocking on our bathroom wall.”

I decided I didn’t like this guy. He was polluting my air, so I kept the porch light on, hoping bugs would bite him and make him swell up like a balloon, and he’d float away.

The next day we drove back to the neighborhood noises, and I’m still trying to find my p’s and q’s. Maybe I should have stayed in town and gone to the local pub. After a few pints and quarts, I’d forget about peace and quiet and join the rest of the noisemakers.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, July 21, 2008

Freedom [A guest editorial]


A political right. A personal liberty. Freedom. So many times when people think of the subject of freedom, they think only of not being in slavery. So many times when a young child is annoying another and is asked to stop, he’ll say, “It’s a free country, and I can do what I want to.” But do these people really know what freedom means?

This simple, yet so complex idea has changed America, a country in which almost all black people were slaves, into a place where every man and woman is equal. Freedom means that one is able to do what one wants to do.

America’s government puts limits on our freedom, but why? To protect us, the American people, and still it protects our freedom. These restrictions make it so no one can take away our freedom. It has been securely put into place.

Freedom could represent an action, describing the ease with which somebody moves, the ease with which someone speaks.

In order to move freely, one must have a certain grace. This implies that grace and freedom have a connection. To speak freely, one says what’s on his or her mind, but does this mean that grace has gone away? Depending on the idea of the speaker, yes and no. Some people can be quite blunt, others, more eloquent.

Physical actions could not be performed with a physical restraint. External control would not allow one to walk, run, sit, or stand. Luckily, most of the people in this world are allowed to move without iron coveralls restricting every movement. So many people take this for granted every day, and so many people expect it to be there no matter what time of day it is or who is in charge of their life.

Freedom can also be mental—to have the freedom to think is something that is granted to every human being born. If we did not have the freedom to think, we’d all be vegetables lying around on dirt. Nothing would be accomplished.

Physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual freedom come easily to most people, but with these freedoms come great responsibility. This responsibility is to make the right choices concerning the person’s own welfare and the welfare of those around him.

Remember: freedom is ambiguous, yet versatile. It can be exhilarating, but it can also become a trap. This only will happen, though, if the free person ignores the responsibility that comes with freedom, his own welfare, and the welfare of those around him.

Freedom: what are you going to do with yours?

copyright © 2007 by ALW, age 14. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, July 20, 2008

Green Abundance

I just filled up my cute little 1994 gas guzzler. The pump showed a cost of $75, and I felt fumingly faint. Commiserating on the way home to my daughter about that charge on top of the huge increase in grocery prices, I decided to go on a driving diet, set the pets free, and quit eating.

After the groceries were cleaned and put into the freezer for the day I decided to start eating again, I walked to my file cabinet to record info on my fuel purchase, including mileage: 15 miles per gallon.

When I looked at my last entry, I turned green. It had been seven weeks since my last fueling! In seven weeks, I’d driven 305 miles! I used to drive more than that each week when I was in sales. Last year I drove 4,000 miles. This year it may be even less.

You may translate that into: Auntie Eartha sure has a boring life, but it isn’t true! My life is as rich as a hot fudge sundae…with nuts. I’ve hung around with more nuts and had more fun in the last seven weeks than most college kids do in Boulder. To balance the play, I’ve worked hard in my yard and home.

Daily hikes begin and end at my home—no driving.

My gorgeous, vivacious, overambitious girlfriend in Grand Junction called and said, “With the economy as it is, people are going to have to start living like you!”

Me? That’ll be the day hitchhiking becomes popular again. We’ll start with a green thumb.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.


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Monday, July 14, 2008

Update on Shiloh


Thank you for being concerned about Shiloh.

After his metal-edging-caused injuries, he looks like a football with stitches holding his pigskin together. He sports bandages to protect the wounds.

Still, he keeps telling me he wants to play ball and go for a hike. I feel so guilty. I’ve hiked almost daily for eight years with my friend Bob, and we’ve had variations of a routine. When we don’t plan our precise hike time, he calls me to make arrangements— scheduling, not flower. Shiloh, 4, knows my ringtone for Bob, gets excited, and starts looking out the window for Bob to come. This is no surprise, because everyone gets excited when Bob comes…then hides.

Next, I gather my shoes, keys, leash, ball, and drool towel. This step sends Shiloh whipping around in circles, flying in the air like a helicopter, touching ground occasionally on his worn-down nails, and bumping his nose against the door. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Mom! You’re always so slow! Let’s go! Let me chase that ball!” You know how dogs are.

I then toss the ball for the fur-covered bundle of energy who resembles an equine more than a canine. When he sees Bob’s car, Shiloh runs up to greet it, ball in mouth, smiling. Then he runs back to me, tail bobbing around in circles, for another toss of the ball.

At last, I leash him—Shiloh, not Bob—and we’re on our way. Actually, Bob’s mom used to leash him, but that’s another blogging. Personally, I prefer the whip.

Now our routine is different so the convalescing pupper-dog doesn’t get aroused. Bob doesn’t call, so Shiloh has nothing to get excited about. I gather my shoes and keys quietly while Shiloh is eating breakfast. At the set time, I tiptoe up the street where Bob now parks, so Shiloh doesn’t hear Bob’s car. Sneaky.

Our veterinarian at Banfield gave a positive prognosis, though it may be a while before the big guy is mended enough to traipse the trail. It’s pretty strange to walk without stopping for frequent pee breaks, but Bob’s learning to hold his bladder.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, July 7, 2008

Tragedy


I took a life today. It had been my plan since yesterday, but she slipped away. And today blood was spattered on the inside of our home and garage. I was shaking and breathing convulsively, approaching shock.

The blood wasn’t from the one whose death I planned; it was from Shiloh, our Lab.

My friend had called at 8 a.m. to say he’d be late to set more fence posts on my property, so I read the paper, then tossed the ball for Shiloh. My last throw was sloppy, poorly aimed. As Shiloh grabbed the ball, he landed on our neighbor’s metal edging, which had no protective cap. It was so sharp, it could slice a tomato.

Shiloh grimaced and limped over to me with his sweet enthusiasm. Though he was obviously in pain, he climbed the three stairs to go into the house. Reluctant, yet knowing I had to check, I reached down and touched his back leg. My hand came back wet and warm with blood. The edging had severely cut into him and ripped a huge piece of flesh that still hung from his leg.

I typically black out when I see too much blood—the fainting started when I was nine—but somehow I gathered the first-aid kit, wet towels, antiseptic, triple antibiotic, and courage, and became a para-paramedic, hands shaking as if I had delirium tremors.

It was while I gathered the health-care patching tools when I glanced into the backyard and saw the one whose death I was planning. I felt more ill, dizzy.

Necessity overcame frailty, and I began to cleanse, apply antibiotic into, and tape Shiloh’s wound, over which I placed sterile cotton and an Ace bandage. I spoke to Shiloh calmly, praising him, still shaking uncontrollably. Rugs and the garage floor were covered in red.

My daughter had stayed overnight at my ex-husband, Jonny’s, house. When I called him to ask for help, I realized I was in shock. I stuttered, spoke each word slowly, pronouncing each syllable. I couldn’t complete my sentences and stumbled through tears. I simultaneously wiped blood from the hallway. He said he’d awaken our daughter and come over.

I went back into the garage to nurse Shiloh and saw that he was still bleeding, from another foot. One of his front pads was cut in half, so I resumed rinsing, applying antibiotic, and taping the open pieces back together. My body still shook. I called Jonny again with more urgency and sobs, saying we needed to take Shiloh to the vet.

As I comforted Shiloh and tried to stabilize myself, I called the Division of Wildlife’s district wildlife manager with whom I’d spoken yesterday, hoping I could keep the wounded doe in my yard until he could shoot her. I knew there was no chance of repairing this badly broken girl. “Off duty today” is what I heard, thinking he was just blowing me off. But he said he’d contact another wildlife manager. I wouldn’t hold my breath. I know they receive multitudes of calls, so I explained in detail that this young doe needed to die.

I asked my neighbor Greg to stay abreast of the wounded doe’s location while we took Shiloh to the veterinarian. We couldn’t lose sight of her today.

The day before, I had carefully followed her to learn where she migrated, so we could do the right thing. Though badly injured, she had already adapted to her trauma by pulling herself with her front legs while maneuvering her hindquarters in a walking motion to propel her. She moved out of sight, so I had told the DOW manager not to come on that day, the Fourth of July. Could she even endure another night? a terrifying night of shots, barks, lights, and noises?

She’d been hit. Knowing teenage drivers, I presume he or she was speeding for no good reason but testosterone and ran over the yearling as she tried to cross a street. But it could have been any inattentive driver. She was emaciated. Her right leg’s bones were shattered inside a bag of skin and fur on which she landed with every stride. She dragged the leg at the knee. The skin had broken and infection was eating her alive. Her left leg wasn’t much better. That’s why I made the call. She needed to be quickly saved from an inevitable, painful, agonizing death.

But her eyes were alert. That’s the hardest part about taking a life: looking into eyes that indicate life beyond them. As dumb as a lot of these deer appear, her eyes glowed a will to live.

Soon Jonny and our daughter arrived. We placed Shiloh’s bed into the back of the car and carefully lifted him upon it. Amazingly, the wildlife manager called to say he’d be at my place around 11. At the animal hospital, I learned that Shiloh’s injuries were worse than I thought: the edging had cut his right leg’s tendon and muscle. Guilt overwhelmed me. If I hadn’t thrown that last sloppy shot. It was all my fault. I can throw better than that. I signed papers and left Shiloh with the veterinary team.

Back at home, my neighbor told me where the doe had laid. I put Shiloh’s bloodied rugs into the washer and began hosing out the garage.

At last the DOW district wildlife manager, Jeremy, arrived, apologizing for his lack of timeliness. He told me that killing a wounded animal is a last resort. Sometimes animals heal. I know this; I’ve lived this. But the DOW receives calls like mine all the time, so they doubt the severity of an animal’s injuries—people can be so compassionate—except when they drive fast, carelessly, and don’t think seconds into the future. I assured him that we needed to end her pain.

He walked slowly toward her in the backyard behind Greg’s. She spooked and dove onto a concrete patio five feet below her, falling on her broken body. Jeremy turned to me and nodded, “She’s pretty bad.”

When he loaded his rifle with a telescope, my past slammed me. I lost it. Covering my ears, I walked away sobbing in the middle of my street. I didn’t want to hear the shot, see the jolt, the shock, the fall that I had seen so many times before. A neighbor saw me. I waved her away, sat on the side of the street trembling.

The wildlife manager eventually came back to his still-idling truck in my driveway, saying he needed to get a tranquilizing kit. Why didn’t he have one with him? The doe was still too mobile, and though he didn’t like to waste the meat, he couldn’t risk shooting something other than the deer.

I felt relief not to have heard the shot. I felt an agonizing pain in my gut for the bright-eyed doe.

Forty-five minutes later, the DOW guy returned. I couldn’t watch this hunt. Other neighbors came out of their homes to watch the kill as if it were a public stoning. I was appalled. There was no dignity in this already tragic situation. After about an hour, another wildlife manager came to assist the first, to hold the yearling down while injecting the euthanizing fluid in case she kicked.

I later walked up the street to the yard where she had fallen and bleakly asked Jeremy what the status was. She was down. He explained that it was necessary, and they hadn’t initially responded to calls about her because of the volume they receive. The keywords to use, he explained, are emaciated, dragging leg, inflamed area by an open wound. Once infected, there’s nothing one can do to help them survive.

Empty relief flowed through me. It was over. She didn’t have to fear anymore. I felt responsible, yet someone else had hit her and run. Not a care, not a call occurred afterward. The result of his or her recklessness was death, and someone else had to strike the final blow. And today, it was the DOW and me.

(Puzzle piece number 14 of 38.)
copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, July 6, 2008

Birthdays and Blessings


I just turned 34 again.

I’ve been turning 34 for so long, I can’t remember how old I really am. And since no one is charitable enough to card me when I order a glass of wine, I don’t have to look at my driver’s license or even take it out of my car. I wonder if it’s expired.

To celebrate my big event, I invited 70 people from all over the U.S. hoping that someone from afar would surprise me with a visit and a substantial donation to my nonprofit organization, but no luck.

Instead, I received much more: respect, honor, and renewed friendship from 40 people closer to home and 20 more via phone calls, cards, gifts, and e-mails. I felt like a tsunami of love poured over me.

The best part about aging is being comfortable in one’s own skin—a condition some never achieve, making them difficult to endure. It’s looking into the trusty mirror, suppressing a gasp, and thoughtfully pondering, I wonder how many Botox treatments I’d need to spackle these cracks.

Beyond the weathered skin is where comfort lies…except on fat-stomach days. I used to have a plump body five days a month. The numbers have transposed: flat-stomach days, five; fat, 25. On those glorious five days, I try to be deeply comfortable, but the critic inside my head won’t shut up.

Mind, body, spirit.

My mind is still sharper than my tongue. I remember more than what would be expected if I worked as a firefighter, waitperson, or CIA agent. That’s why I’m not married. If I could forget some things, forgiveness would be so much easier. “Sure, I forgive you. What’s your name again?” I’ve tried to be more like Jesus and Gandhi, but I’ve only received the persecution.

True under-the-skin comfort comes through spirits. After drinking enough of them, you’re at ease. Okay, I mean spirit. Being comfortable in your own skin is deeply understanding and accepting who you are, continually getting better, living honestly, honestly living, and embracing yourself when no one else will.

Most of my friends make my life easier. They’re stable, fun, have no pretenses, and live authentically. Others move easily around them, because they love and respect themselves first. They are my role models. One of my best role models is my 15-year-old daughter—the best gift a mom could ever receive.

I am blessed…and I didn’t even have to sneeze. Thank goodness, because I forgot to put on my diapers.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Funct and Gruntled


My daughter is an actress but doesn’t attest to it. She speaks using numerous accents, sounding native to each country. Even her Spanish teacher uses her as a vocal model.

During her journey to Scotland last year, her accent easily blended with the Scots. When she imitates our Chinese waitress–friend, she mimics every nuance to such a point that I’m rolling on the floor, tears streaming down my face. “Poke with mixt wikitables? Yes, yes, soup good! Yummy soup!”

She also likes playing with the American-English language. “I’m funct and gruntled today,” she happily announced to me.

“What?!” I incredulously replied.

“Well, if defunct means dead and disgruntled means grumpy, I’m neither. I feel alive and happy!”

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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