Bensberg for Colorado Springs District 3 City Council

My daughter means everything to me, and I am voting for Jim Bensberg. Though that might sound like a non sequitur, I will explain why it is not.

In 1997 when Jim was working for U.S. Senator Wayne Allard, my daughter, age four at the time, was court ordered to visit opprobrious people, two biologically related, two not. Even now when she returns to Colorado from college, more events surface that make my gut wrench.

Of the myriad public figures I contacted—political, legal, entertainment, such as Oprah, and others made public circumstantially—Jim was the only human being who helped.

Most who have been in a stressful situation know, the brain can function on survival mode. Fearful for my daughter’s safety, yet doing what I could without retribution, my challenge was finding an objective legal defense group that could potentially save my daughter from further court-ordered abuses.

Jim found that group for my four-year-old.


Finally knowing someone in the world cared about children’s safety, happiness, and well-being, I breathed a bit deeper. And though my little girl was forced into unspeakable situations for another eight years, she became empowered through Jim’s help and that of a police officer. At 12, she emancipated herself from that horrifying situation. Everyone, especially her many teachers who worked to help her throughout elementary school, immediately saw the metamorphosis from an injured little girl into a beautiful, intelligent young lady.

I thank God for Jim Bensberg.

Jim believes as I do on another vital issue: money. As he has grown to become a friend of our family, and I his, we both live conservatively, wisely, with thought. Waste is not a part of his lifestyle, private nor public. One needs only to see Jim to believe that point—he maintains a healthy, trim physique.

Learn more by clicking here.

When in Doubt, Vote It Out

The following arrived Sunday, October 14, from a friend whose dedication to changing the world continues for the better, at least most of the time:

[edited version] "I just read [El Paso County, Colorado, Sheriff] Terry Maketa’s essay on “Why I need a tax hike for the Sheriff’s Department” and looked at his current budget: $47.8 million. Taking the land area of El Paso County, I subtracted the City of Colorado Springs, which has its own police department, subtracted Fort Carson (military police), the Air Force Academy (more military police), took out Peterson Field [Peterson Air Force Base] (ditto), took out Space Command/NORAD, and did not include Woodland Park, which is in Teller County.

 "So on Maketa's current budget, it is costing us brave souls a million dollars per square mile per year for law enforcement. Just for law enforcement, not roads, bridges, whatever. And he can’t make ends meet at that level. Something is seriously wrong in this country.…
 
"It just struck me that the government is sucking up all of the money 'per square foot,' or 'per capita,' or whatever—one of the reasons the private sector is dead.

"We have to do 'Stormwater' at half a billion dollars, because of lawsuits from Pueblo about the water coming down Fountain Creek. Well, for that money, actually about half that, we could buy the whole town of Pueblo and move it somewhere south of Albuquerque. Things are just getting all out of proportion."

The above-mentioned friend is a successful entrepreneur who established a few national corporations and continues to travel internationally, helping less fortunate countries become self-sustaining. So, with permission, I forwarded my friend's email to other friends, saying, "I'd welcome your comments and received the following."

A. "I think you should become a columnist, in the great style of Andy Rooney. You hit the nail on the head…government is sucking all of our money; either directly, or indirectly."

This friend obviously credited me for the entrepreneur's research, but I need to give him a break—he also resigned from his job the same day he wrote and plans to leave this cowtown. Next…

B. This from an unlikely Harvard Business School grad and current adjunct professor: "I'm against the logic being used and prefer the concept of 'zero-based budgeting' where we don't assume that the infrastructure needed to support the troops on the ground has been well-invested and justified ... the other aspect to consider is that population density varies (open land versus single-family homes versus mega-apartment complexes) ... the purported arguments and logic appear flimsy and we need to review how much of the budget is currently for hands-on protection versus equipment and paper pushers amd middle management ... at least that's my quick overview."

C. "Good to hear from you. Give me a call," from a politician friend.

D. From a former DoD-contractor employee and educator: "If he would deport every illegal alien and make Colorado Springs a very distasteful place for illegals, it would save the county one whale of a lot of money. If the jail were a little more unpleasant, maybe the illegals would leave. They could hassle all of the medical marijuana places. His law enforcement budget covers jails, etc.

"Maybe he needs to copy Joe Arpaio in Arizona. Check this out: www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxNgJk0WSqs
peace."

The next astute response comes from the most credible friend I know, whose intelligence, drive, talent, and sense of humor still blow me away after 27 years. Cream of the crop, this guy. He actually gave me a tour of NORAD in 1985 when he was first manufacturing satellite equipment.

E. "You activist, you! I am in agreement with the writer. I present a few reasons I believe the Sheriff's budget is sufficiently funded at this point. Is there really a need for an El Paso County Explosives Response vehicle complete with robot, or is this an asset that could be shared between city and county? The El Paso County Tactical Rescue Unit? Really? Two HazMat vehicles?

"If the Sheriff's requested sales tax passed, then we, as citizens of Colorado Springs, who comprise over two-thirds of the county population AND provide our own police protection, would be responsible for the majority of the revenue generated. Citizens of Colorado Springs currently pay 0.4 percent Public Safety Sales Tax, a tax approved by the voters in 2001 to assist our city's police and fire departments.

"I am chairman of the PSSTOC, the citizens' committee that oversees spending of these funds. So, if we not only fund our own protection through the general fund but also pay an extra 0.4 percent specifically for our own protection, why in the world should we, as residents of COS, be expected to pay an additional 0.23 percent for protection outside our city limits?

"It should be remembered that the Sheriff's Department does maintain much of the jail facilities. However, we currently pay a 1 percent county sales tax that should generate about $62 million a year from city residents. We also pay miscellaneous fees for roads and bridges through our property taxes and register our vehicles through the county DMV. How much do we need to carry those who live outside our city limits? How much do we and should we rely on county services?

"The statement has been made about the explosive population growth in El Paso County. The majority of this population growth is in the many housing developments in the Falcon, Widefield, Security, and Cimarron Hills areas. Otherwise, I believe it is safe to say that El Paso County has a fairly low population density, consisting of ranches and horse property. Looking at crime statistics for the county, the vast majority of incident reports come from these four areas. Why don't these population centers, especially Falcon, either pay more for their services or create their own police forces?

"I believe Falcon should incorporate, pass their own city sales tax, and create their own police force. Obviously, the residents do not agree. However, we are once again being asked to take responsibility for them. Let them take responsibility for themselves. This, to me, is the crux of the argument. Why are we, as city residents, being asked to fund our public safety and their public safety?

"Luv Ya…"

You heard him: Vote No. Vote No on all judge-retention petitions too—they are not God.

Gates, Girlfriends, and Nature

What an exciting few days ending with a somber canceling of a date with Angie and a simultaneous message to my client, “Microsoft, oh, Microsoft, it’s a good thing Bill Gates started a foundation, or I'd be really upset with him.” Why does Word have to be a necessary evil? Cannot all their social-disease-like bugs be vanquished, and can they not cease their busybody, ADHD upsets, aka upgrades? What a misnomer upgrade is for them.

I might be a geek, but is a person’s ingenuity continually required when using a single piece of software? ’Twould be cool to use something for a spell without a glitch. Que será, será. Let’s start with some fun.

Friday I escorted my down-in-the-dumps neighbor to my favorite towny pub, Johnny’s. Johnny Nolan is a guy who’s been serving me since 1989 at the Ritz. Though Rebecca had never been to Johnny’s, she knowingly greeted a fellow parent, whose child attended the same school as my now-social, maybe-not-so-shy-after-all girlfriend’s daughter. I then introduced her to a lady whom she’d seen walking her dogs. We were on a roll. The iced tea flowed and so did water from the heavens.

Wild ’n’ fun was the remainder of the eve, when alas! Saturday greeted me six hours later with slime. Good thing for two carpet shampooers, since dog puke was what I saw. Yippee, I thought, this is why God sent me to Earth, so I can clean up others’ messes. Sometimes I wonder.

During my morning therapy session, my daily check-in with nature, the reality that keeps me sane (my hike), I talked with my galfriend in Tacoma. This friend of 26 years went to high school with sculptor Dale Chihuly, famed glass blower (vs. some gas blowers I know). Quite a renowned artist herself, Nola vindicated me through our conversation about recent events that had left me underwhelmed. She reminded me of the hardworking, responsibility-taking, always-there human being I am, which, in this time of amnesia, was quite helpful and restorative, as justice ought to be.

After our conversation, I’d felt as if I’d dropped a 10-pound shit and was ready to start taking sustenance again. That afternoon after having read and listened to two books, I made a vibrant, colorful mahimahi dinner with pineapple, red pepper, and mango, intuitively appropriate for my next caller—from Miami.

Again, the heavens opened and cleansed the parched earth with heavy rains.

My sister, Cherri, rang from Florida, where the nightlife is hot, as are the Brazilians, Venezuelans, Dominican Republicans, and she. Known in Breckenridge for her unusual hats and bare feet, this girl needs to be rediscovered, and not just as the creative artist she is.

Comfortable in her own dark skin, you have to wonder why Oprah never found Cherri and her deep, warm voice speaking deeper, warmer words—unless she’s taking on a preacher’s role. Though we didn’t have a sleepover night when we’d fall asleep talking, we ended the night in peace, together.

Sunday’s puke free, sunny day refreshingly opened its arms. I developed a new set of greeting cards then set off on my explore. A hungry female coyote and red-tailed hawk being bullied by smaller species were my entertainment, less formidable than what I will see Wednesday morning.

My former high-tech-company colleague soon rang to wish me a happy belated and to impart news of her moving back to Colorado to share space with her daughter and grandson. I recalled little Stephanie groaning and whining as we scaled to the top of Mount Rosa 20 years ago.

I recalled Geri, our personnel manager, watching me vomit when I was pregnant, thinking I was dying of divorce. Friends. Good times and others, and always transitions.

After we ended our conversation, lightning shared time and space with heavy thunderous clouds drenching the receptive ground with water. At 10 p.m. a great horned owl hooted me to sleep from the southwest corner of my property. Ahh, nature.

A few hours after the robin pooped on me Monday morning, saintly Anita came over to help hem my new drapes—day two of her devoting life and talent to me. Long-time friend Joe had given me these enormous, new, burgundy window coverings after the Air Force Academy rejected them. Finally getting some of my 401(k) rollover tax dollars back. Thank you!

That eve, no storm, no owl, but a kind neighbor with a cold beer. Ahh, life.

Tuesday brought updates from Kelly in Wisconsin, Patrice in Virginia (soon to be Montana), and Bob, my old hiking bud. For the first time in 19 years, my life seemed normal in comparison. At 11 p.m. Thor reacquainted himself to those below in a fury. Torrential rain, lightning, and thunder pummeled those things earthbound. The household canine, whom I bought for protection and companionship, became a frightened lap dog and kept me awake all night bumping my bed. Try to move a 100-pound, growling Lab when he’s glued to the carpet. Just try.

Wednesday before therapy, my iBook powered itself off. I was as scared as Shiloh was last night but with no one to rescue me, as usual. The geek in me troubleshot four times until I hit the target, of course, then excused myself for a hike.

Halfway across large, open lower Bear Creek Park, I saw a juvenile cougar sprint across my path. In the two decades that I’ve hiked this vicinity, I’ve never seen, nor have I wanted to see, a mountain lion. I stopped, did an about-face, and walked, watching behind me for quite a stretch.

And when I finally reached home, I found that the only thunder was, well, think “scared ——less.”

Nola: nola.nobullart.com, nola.sumi.org, pacificgalleryartists.org/Tresslar.htm

Hungry for Chess

He left me. The emptiness I feel inside cannot be filled in any other way. I miss the occasional glances across the travertine marble table, the quiet comments, candles brightening the board, tumblers of Glenlivet Scotch.

Utterances such as “Oh no, I didn’t see that,” “Crap!” and “Can I take that back? My hand was only off the piece for a second” enveloping an otherwise peaceful environ added perfectly to the ambience.

Only once did it end in complete frustration, maybe twice. After all, it’s not about winning, it’s how you play the game.

He left me to move back to Delaware to be closer to his daughters. Although he loved Colorado, skiing, kayaking, gardening, and international travel from this centrally located state, he said, “If something happens to me, it makes more sense for me to be in Delaware than for both girls’ families to come here. You know, I’m almost 82.”

So the next thing I knew, we were throwing a love-filled farewell gathering for George and Jeanne. They had lived in Colorado for about 30 years: she, a retired school nurse, he, a navy guy with a PhD in chemistry who had worked until retirement for DuPont. In Telluride, he’d taken to gardening, and lucky for me, he taught me what I know in that department—and how to drink Scotch.

From spring till autumn, I’d garden with George—he in their gardens, me in mine, then his kindness drew him to help me, probably from pity. He could make a dirt pile become a terraced work of art. I’d pop a silk flower atop the pile and call it a day.

On warm summer afternoons, the three of us, which sometimes grew into eight or more, would enjoy happy hour in our back garden by the fire pit. Life couldn’t be better.

But all year round for about 10 years, George and I played chess together on Thursday nights. It is this game, the mental challenge, and his company I long for most. Unlike racquetball, whose competitiveness I quite enjoy, chess acts like fertilizer coursing through and enhancing my neurological pathways. Unlike golf when everyone’s eyes are on me, we closely watch the board, anticipating our challenger’s next move, and our own. And unlike sex, I don’t have to do it alone.

Our between-game conversations flowed with depth and humor, and our equally challenging Ping-Pong matches kept our hearts beating together. I have thanked Jeanne many times for loaning me her husband on Thursday evenings.

Concurrently and until recently, my daughter would challenge me to three games of chess a night, but as texting has become her favorite pastime, chess with her lacks appeal.

So the invitation is out: Join me for chess Thursday or Friday evenings. I might not be the best, but I’m up for a challenge, and maybe even a Scotch.

Colonoscopy

What’s the first thing you think of when someone says, “I just turned 50”?

Maybe you wonder if they scheduled their colonoscopy. It’s the second stage in the rite of passage; the first is admitting that you actually are 50.

The week before my procedure, I brought up the topic to everyone I met. At a wine and music event, I sat at a table with folks who’d endured more than one colonoscopy. All of them said it’s no big deal. But the day before isn’t any fun.

So the day before “the day before,” I ate very little. And on Sunday when I was allowed nothing but clear liquids, it wasn’t much different from Fridays, when I generally don’t eat. Preparation C, for “cleanout,” also consisted of four tablets of “the worldwide no. 1 selling overnight laxative,” Dulcolax, which on me acted like pepper triggering a sneeze: It was not an overnight phenomenon. My neighbor’s advice of staying home and not going to the neighborhood potluck was sage.

A couple of hours after swallowing Dulcolax, I was directed to pour seven doses of MiraLax powder into 64 ounces of chartreuse-colored Gatorade. MiraLax is polyethylene glycol, a synthetic resin used as a solvent or wax. I’m guessing in this case, it’s not wax. In the drug facts, it reads, “Stop use and ask a doctor if you get diarrhea.”

Kind of ironic.

Because I’d consumed so much liquid already, I had little room for much else, yet after three hours, the Gatorade was gone, along with everything inside me.

The next morning at 4:30 I was back at the bottles—MiraLax and Gatorade. My tongue fell out of my face at 6:10 a.m. No more.

Showered and lighter, I floated next door to Bette’s for a lift to the gas blower. You know how some women have a husband to take them to doctors’ appointments? Well, I don’t need a husband—I have Bette.

In the waiting room, we waited. When nurse Kris called my name, we jumped up and went into a preparation room. “I’m scared,” I told Kris. “I’ve never had an IV before. Do I have to have drugs? Do you know how much to give me? I’m rather skinny. Have you lost anyone yet? Why would you want this job?”

Nurse Kris patiently answered my questions. “You don’t have to be sedated. Would you like to have the procedure done without drugs?” Her tone of voice and expression formed my reply.

“Maybe not,” I whimpered.

“And who’s this with you?”

“Bette. She’s my confidante, neighbor, and drives the short bus for me.”

“So is it all right if she hears all the bad news that the doctor might tell you?” she sort of asked.

“Oh yes, please. All the news from North Korea too.”

“Okay. Take off your clothes and put on this cute little gown that exposes your rear,” Kris sweetly ordered. “Be right back!”

While she was gone those two minutes, I said to Bette, “What do you suppose is behind these curtains?” I peeked around the side to find sliding glass doors, a hallway, and another room across the hall that looked like a laboratory. Suddenly I felt as if I were in a university hospital and a whole class planned to observe my procedure from the hallway, giggle, and make anatomically correct comments about my hemorrhoids.

Kris skipped back in, pulling me out of my nightmare. “Now lie back on the bed and relax.”

Sure.

When nurse number two walked in, I realized they were ganging up on me for the kill. “This is Elizabeth,” Kris announced. “She’ll be inserting your IV and feeding tube.” I could picture the straitjacket with a chink cut out for my butt hole.

“Will it hurt? I think I hear my daughter calling me.”

“No, it’s nothin—”

“Ouch! How long will this hurt?” Elizabeth, pretending to be mute, strapped the needle hole to my arm with several rounds of tape. I was stuck now. “It still hurts,” I whined. I noticed the pleasure she took in using my body as an oversize pincushion. Bet she’s mad at her boyfriend.

Behind me, Kris kindly interrogated in rapid-fire succession. “When was the last time you ate solid food?”

“I think, a month ago.”

“When was your last drink of liquids?”

“I had a shot of tequila at 6:10 this morning.”

“Have you had any aspirin or anti-inflammatory drugs in the past week?”

Drugs, that’s what I forgot. “No.”

“Have you any allergies?”

“Onions,” I said, “and men. That’s why I have Bette here.”

They liked that. “Do you have a family history of colon cancer?”

“My family’s full of it,” I honestly replied.

“Wheel ’er in!” Back flew the curtains, slide went the glass door, and whoosh went the gurney on which I rode.

“Never been on a gurney before!”

In the laboratory I met Gail, the drug-prep nurse. I suddenly felt like a character in Young Frankenstein. We chit-chatted about painful topics, probably to get me in the mood.

Then I felt something move inside of me. “I think I have to go to the bathroom,” I told her.

“We have a suction.”

“Oh? What are you doing with all those needles?” I hesitantly asked.

“I’m preparing your drugs.”

Then I heard someone waltz in behind me and slide over to the sink by the window. As she washed her hands, I asked, “Are you Sue the doctor?”

“Yes, I am!” the perky little 15-year-old blonde answered, then pranced over to me. As she sat down and looked at me, she asked, “So why are you here today?”

“I’m here for the interview. Did you clean those instruments?”

“Yes. And are you having any problems?”

“Well, I may have irritable bowel syndrome, because you know as we get older, we have fewer enzymes to digest— What are you doing with that needle?!”

“Oh, I’m just putting a little sedative in you,” the little bombshell said as she injected Versed and fentanyl in me.

“I’m really small, so you don’t have to put very much in,” I uneasily offered. “And I’ve been having pain right here, and I’m thinking maybe it’s my colon and not my left ovary and…” I crashed.

I faintly heard, “Can you roll over on your left side for me?” I grunted and rolled like a beached whale. I did feel a sharp pain when they turned on their gas blower.

“Bette!” I eeked when I awakened in the first room. “How long have I been here?”

“About 15 minutes.”

“Am I going to live?”

“Yes.”

So I slipped on my sundress, opened the door, and in my Versed-induced hypnotic state said thank you to everyone and wiggled my butt to the car. I think.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/08/colonoscopy.html

Silence and Its Antithesis: the Barking Dog Syndrome

If I were a dog, I’d be the type that people would only hear barking when there was a reason to bark, like if I saw a cute guy or spotted a skunk or heard a mountain lion or was upset with my owner for not giving me a juicy bone.

And I’d wag my tail a lot—particularly after I barked at the cute guy.

I would not bark garrulously, for fear someone wouldn’t like me, or would walk away and not say why, or would kill me. Like most, I lack complete confidence. I’d do my best to behave, so hopefully others would like me.

Last year we had a lot of burglaries in our region, so perhaps homeowners bought dogs to protect their property. But like car alarms that only seem to go off on non-break-in occasions, barking dogs don’t seem to be alerting anyone to danger.

The dogs and their owners in my home’s vicinity must have their fur stuffed with groundless confidence, because all I hear is obnoxious, incessant, peace-draining barks. Sometimes perpetual barking fills what should be our night’s silence. I hear more noise than a bar filled with bikers and a band on a Friday night.

I must be the only one who hears the commotion, though, because if someone lived even a couple of houses from any of these abhorrent dog owners, they would conquer the explosive cries with a neighborly little chat or love note, right?

But I live two or three blocks from these thoughtless meatheads and know not precisely where they are. You see, many of the barking-dog owners in a three-block radius of my home sense when I put my jammies on. They know I won’t venture out in the dark wearing jammies to hunt them down.

But soon I may. The mercury is rising.

Oh my God! This just happened. It’s 11 p.m. Two dogs have been barking at each other like jealous boyfriends for 10 minutes. A shot just rang out. Not a firecracker or bottle rocket, a shotgun sound—and the dogs aren’t barking anymore. Hmm, silence : )

Is there something wrong with silence? Apparently the law thinks peace is a good thing.*

The other evening as I prepared to sit in my hot tub, a backyard neighbor’s high-pitched-yipping dog indicated displeasure with its life via uninterrupted yapping for 12 minutes. Mindless little moron.

Preparing to help its yelp with a little pop of the pea shooter, I summoned my strength and opted for a little silence-breaking soliloquy myself.

“No!” I yelled out the window. The pinhead barked a little louder—then went inside.

Minutes later while sitting in hot water, a retriever-sounding dog wailed and screamed and sounded as if it were being castrated without aid of brandy just four houses east of the first dog. I decided to pour vinegar on its wounds later, but first loudly sang, “Staaahaaaaaaaap!” (That’s an elongated “stop,” but if I’d typed a series of o’s, it would look like “stoop.”)

Shortly after my song, the dog stopped—then went inside.

My home should be my sanctuary. Things in my midst should evoke peace. That’s not been the case.

I wonder, 

Am I the only one who hears these dogs yelp?
Are these dog owners deaf?
Are the neighbors of these owners deaf?
Are these dog owners ever home?
Do these rude dog owners give a hoot whether their neighbors three blocks away can’t sleep all night because their dog barks and lives without the attention it apparently needs?
What about all the neighbors in between the dog and three blocks away?

If I were a dog, I’d hunt down the owners of neglected and abused dogs and bite them. Real hard.

To the inconsiderados:
Your dog is driving us nuts,
and frankly, we haven’t the guts
to say to its face
“you’re invading our space,”
so perhaps you would do it for us. Amen.

I’m thinking about starting two new services:
(1) I’ll post barking-dog videos with addresses on Auntie,
(2) for $10, I’ll send an anonymous letter with a nicer poem, or just the letter of the law, to the person you request.

Let’s hear your story of how you got a dog owner to stop his or her dog’s barking.

Remember: It is not the dog’s fault.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/07/silence-and-its-antithesis-barking-dog.html

* For El Paso County, Colorado:

http://hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=221&srcid=627
Is there a set time that animals are allowed to bark?
Per the City/County ordinance an animal is not allowed to bark and disturb the peace and quiet of the neighborhood at any time, day or night. Please visit the Animal Control Ordinances page for more information.

http://hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=227
Barking Dogs
Incessant barking can be very disturbing to the peace and quiet of a neighborhood. In addition, it violates County ordinances to harbor such a disturbance. If your neighbor's noisy pet is habitually disturbing you, please call the Humane Society at 473-1741 to learn about possible courses of action.

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)

Cheap Date

(I’ve always said I’m a cheap date, but I’ll admit, when it comes to dining, I prefer very nice restaurants and they’re never inexpensive. For every rule there’s an exception, however.)

My friend suggested we go grab a bite to eat. I was hot, hungry, and dressed casually, so we headed down the street to a Texas Roadhouse, certainly not one my regular spots. They had a 35-minute wait, thank goodness, so we left. It was very noisy and we would have had to yell to talk with each other.

We jumped back in the car, headed south, and kept looking for a viable alternative. “Let’s try Estela’s Mexican Restaurant,” he said, and up the driveway we went. The place had always looked vacant to me, although their sign remained up for 16 years.


When we greeted the hostess, she asked, “Can I get your name?”

“Is there a long wait?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she answered. “We’re just taking everyone’s name.”

So my friend, being the smart aleck he is, said, “Schmaltz. Spelled S-c-h-m-o-l-p-f-t-z.”

The hostess’ grin got a little scrunchier while I cracked up and rolled my eyes. Promptly someone escorted us to a table for two.

The place was a whirlwind of activity with more waitstaff than I’ve ever seen in any restaurant. The atmosphere was spirited, positive, fun.

“Coming in!” waitpersons would yell as they approached the dual-swinging doors and entered the kitchen. Unusual, but they didn’t have a mirror to see if another person was coming out. So to avoid smashing a burrito on someone’s bust, they’d shout their arrival.

My friend and I caught up with life’s events, crunched on chips, and sipped water while awaiting our food and watching the flurry of people around us. Our waitress, Ashley, was a delight—friendly, attentive, and she genuinely laughed at all my friend’s quirky comments after I explained that they only let him out for a couple hours each week.

During one of Ashley’s visits to our table, she must have recognized that we were wondering why our dinners were taking so long, and she said, “Your dinners are coming. At least they’re free!” Amid the voices, people running back and forth, and clatter of dishes, I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, so I just kept smiling and said thank you.

After about a half hour, our meals arrived, steaming hot and smothered in a burnt orange sauce. We dove in. Halfway through, a beautiful woman who appeared to be the owner stopped by and in a breathless, happy tone asked, “How is everything? Are you enjoying your food? And who invited you to our party?”

“Party?” I started to laugh, “We’re at a party?”

“Yes! Tonight is our training night and private party, because we’re reopening!”

I couldn’t contain myself, and the laughter bubbled out of me. “I’m so sorry. We weren’t invited. Are you Estela?”

“No, Estela’s my mother. My sister works here too. We were open for years, then closed for the last nine. But you’re fine. It’s okay,” she said graciously with a huge welcoming smile on her face and perhaps muttering a Hail Mary that we’d vacate our seats soon so the invited guests could dine free.

We’d crashed a party, and the hostess was simply compiling a list of the invited guests who’d shown up. I had tears streaming down my face from semiembarrassment, yet felt overjoyed by this serendipitous faux pas.

My friend left a generous tip for Ashley. Then we thanked our host, Estela’s daughter, and made room for the invited. And I became a cheaper date.

Pretty Schmaltzie.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/07/cheap-date.html

Death to Deer

I am pissed. Profoundly upset. This may not be a typical Auntie Eartha column, but it must be said.

Some limp, cowardly weakling is out there killing our deer with arrows in a populated neighborhood: Tuesday it was a large buck. These are deer you can pet (see me above). They roam our streets and yards, graze on our plants, mount our does. They upset us, because they try to mate with yearlings.

Some of us get perturbed because they eat vegetation we wish they wouldn’t and poop on every square yard of our grass. But dear God, is someone so lame and stupid that he reaches out and kills a dog or something he can rub, like his wife, his child, his pet, or a tame deer?! What is happening to our neighborhood? Break-ins, heroin, Mexican national drug distributors, meth. Who are the mentally disturbed morons living in my area?!? Let’s get them out!!

The demeanor of most of our bucks, does, and their children is placid, even the injured one shown here. Recently a young human driving inattentively and too fast on Parkview Boulevard severely injured one of our babies—its back legs were useless once the young driver in his Volvo hit the young one. A Colorado Springs police office came two hours after it had suffered and shot it twice to ensure it (the baby, not the young driver) was thoroughly dead, since the Volvo’s driver didn’t finish his own kill.

As I write this I want to go door to door and find the limp-membered idiot who thought he would make the world a better place by wounding a buck with his poorly aimed arrows till the buck suffered his death. Someone should do the same to this pitiful menace. Place an arrow strategically through his small part and later assess his situation, maybe stoke the fire…a very small fire.

When this slaughterer gets caught, and they always do, if we had the tax dollars and legal permission, we should send the cretin to Siberia to live on his “skill” to survive. But since it is so easy to call a deer into your presence around here, my prayer is that the bad guy lives a long, useless life starving…which he probably already is…mentally.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/12/death-to-deer.html

Nurture vs. Jail, and Rappelling the Financial Wall

Across America, I’ll bet voters approved very few tax increases. Here in Conservative Central, we decided not to approve an entire one percent increase to build yet another jail.

Some of the one percent would have gone to worthy programs, such as scraping pigeon poop off the General William Jackson Palmer statue in the middle of Platte and Nevada avenues, but for two consecutive years 50 percent of that money would have been spent on building and maintaining another jail.

Colorado Springs voters decided, perhaps two years ago, not to build another jail. Still, the county cheated on us and built one anyway, on the sly, behind our backs, using COPs. No, not police, certificates of participation.* I did not participate, nor did a lot of other constituents.

If parents would nurture, educate, and hold their children accountable for their actions, we wouldn’t need to incarcerate as many deviants.

If judges acted judiciously, which is akin to saying, “if drug addicts wouldn’t take drugs,” fewer people would live free, off our tax dollars, like judges do. [Auntie knows there are three good judges out there. The criminal in the following story isn’t one of them.]

I know a judge who sent someone to jail knowing the person was innocent. For this example, we’ll call the judge Loser Larry. Larry was fully aware that an opposing party contrived a story out of vengeance. Larry knew, because he was a party to the conspiracy and played along with the setup scheme of two attorneys, Kimmie and Lizzie.

Loser Larry conspired with them in his chambers without the pro se victim present. His action was illegal. Then, through his course of action, Larry denied due process. This is the Readers’ Digest version, but in Colorado’s Fourth Judicial District, travesty against victims is not unusual.

But if the county’s leaders really want more motel space for judges to fill, maybe our voting against the one percent tax will discipline judges a mite. Disciplining a judge in Colorado is like trying to control crazed groupies at a Stones concert, yet both parties smoke pot.

Some of us can sleep better knowing our taxes have temporarily stabilized, while others are losing their jobs.

Why do people have to lose their jobs? Were their positions superfluous? If they were, why did the positions exist?

If the people are necessary, why can’t employers simply reduce pay? Follow the airlines’ lead: “You want to keep your jobs? Take a pay cut.”

In 1996 I quit my job to more actively parent my daughter. If anything in my life was unessential to living and breathing, I eliminated it. Bare bones, babycakes.

Remaining only as a memory were massages, lunches out, subscriptions, call waiting, and my excessive gift giving. I now work from home, earn $34,000 less a year than I used to, drive less (4,000 miles per year), pollute less, waste little to no time. Plus I have time to take a daily hike.

Abundance comes through peace of mind (except during financially freaky times), continued healthy gourmet meals, more socialization, and playing music with our group.

Even in poverty, thank God for a simple life.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/11/nurture-vs-jail-and-rappelling.html

* certificate of participation: Financing in which an individual buys a share of the lease revenues of an agreement made by a municipal or governmental entity, rather than the bond being secured by those revenues.