Here’s Lookin’ at You, Kid

My dad has one eye—well, actually two, but one is plastic.

At age seven, he was playing Cowboys and Indians with his brother and the neighbor boys. My dad liked to horse around, so he was a cowboy. Unfortunately, an “Indian” shot an arrow into his eye.

Since then, he has worn a prosthetic eye. Every couple of years he has a new one made, and his old eyes are placed in his jewelry box. If a thief were to search Dad’s room for valuables and discover Dad’s eyes, the burglar may leave a deposit.

Dad has a good sense of humor about the situation. Being in the lending business, he’d say to an unsuspecting client, “If you can tell me which eye is artificial, I’ll give you the loan.” Credibility.

As a child, I grew up seeing Dad’s eye sitting in a glass of water by the bathroom sink at night. For me, it was normal. When I’d have a friend sleep over though, reactions would range from a screech to, “I won’t brush my teeth with that thing watching me.”

To my friends, seeing an eye in a glass was like keeping fat from your liposuction in a Ziploc bag as a conversation piece or saving your appendix in a jar to remind you how useless some things can be. You kind of wonder.

When I was about four, Mom, Nana, and I went on an Amtrak journey from Wisconsin to Indianapolis to visit Nana’s oldest daughter and her four kids. The trip involved sleeping overnight on the train, and I had been raised to understand that some people took out their eye before going to sleep.

At bedtime as we were walking past a group of passengers to go to our sleeping compartment, I innocently asked Nana, “Are you going to take out your eye?” The passengers abruptly ended their conversations and tried not to gawk.

As a rebellious teenager, I always had the urge to freeze one of Dad’s eyes in an ice cube and drop it into a friend’s drink. I figured it would open some eyes. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Pancakes

My friend, who for years was a professional Santa Claus, was walking down a store aisle one day when a little boy walked over to him and patted his tummy. “Baby?” the little one asked.

“No, son,” my friend replied, smiling, “pancakes.”

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Wigs Whippin’ in the Wind

Mom had cancer, age 30. As a result of her treatment, she suffered hair loss. While some may sadly and sympathetically offer a syrupy, “What a shame,” Mom saw it as an opportunity to become addicted. She slipped into a parade procession with two friends, Vickie and Rebecca, and became obsessed with expressing herself. It was hairy.

Vickie was a beautician, as they were called, and Rebecca had lovely, bleached, perfectly coiffed locks. The setting was a small Midwestern town in the late sixties: psychedelic mod flowers, miniskirts, wide belts, Simon and Garfunkel, Vietnam, Apollo 13, Mrs. Robinson, valium, and beehives.

Mom’s friends loved to flirt with new hairstyles, and wigs provided them with hours of entertainment. They could be styled and restyled, put on and flung across the room, all without pain.

With her thinning hair, Mom had reason to comb the beach in search of a cover-up, so she purchased a cute human-hair wig. Each time Vickie or Rebecca would buy a new wig, so would Mom. Before long she had amassed a closet full of hairdos—human strands and synthetic. On the top shelf, all neatly posed as if on a catwalk ready for show were Styrofoam heads topped with every style of the sixties. Coupled with my dad’s pistol, it was quite the scare.

Each wig had a personality and, therefore, a name: Martha Washington, Dutch Boy, Dutch Girl, Twiggy, Morticia, Blondie, Elvis. When Mom would rise in the morning to prepare for work, she’d decide who she wanted to be and plop on the appropriate character.

One Saturday on a grocery shopping escapade at the Red Owl, the bag boy and I walked outside while Mom paid the bill. I opened the back door of our station wagon, and he started placing our groceries in the backseat.

Just as Mom stepped out of the store, a big gust of wind blew under Mom’s wig and lifted it off her head, exposing her bobby-pinned thin hair. It flew across the parking lot, under cars, faster and farther away from her. Every time she’d catch up to her wig, the wind would revive and she’d have to start running after it again.

The boy tried his hardest to muffle his laughter, while I watched in amazement as my mom chased her ’do. Exasperated, she finally reached her wig.

Embarrassed and frustrated, instead of laying claim to the dirty hairball and picking it up, she kicked it another ten feet, stomped over to it in a huff, picked up the hair, and walked to the car.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Swallow This

Note: You may want to read “Tattoo and Piercing” (Dec. 8, 2007) before reading this.

I don’t believe a woman’s intuition is any better than a man’s, but women may listen to and follow through on intuition more than men. In fact, I have male friends whose intuition is better than most, so when they offer insight, I listen. On this day, I wish one of my friends had stopped by and shared some insight, ’cause I certainly didn’t listen to my own.

I’d been doing my annual hand-sewing to repair a sweater and laid the thread-laced needle on the living room window ledge. Walking past the window, admiring the greening spring grass, I glanced down and thought, I should put that needle away in case the kitties find it intriguing.

Of course, a needle doesn’t offer the same fascination as twitching yarn, a bouncing ball, or Shiloh the dog’s tail, so why worry? I proceeded to the dining room table and began to write.

Half an hour later, I looked up from my computer and saw the last of my thread being swallowed by the younger, extremely skittish of our two felines—the one I called Piercing because I needed him as much. Oh my gosh, I thought. How dumb can an animal be? Me being the animal.

I pushed myself away from the table, stomach in my neck, and ran toward the freakish cat to pull the needle from his tongue.

Catching this cat is like catching a hummingbird on caffeine. Since Shiloh, our Lab, first found him in our neighbor’s woodpile, he has never been tame, except to Shiloh and Tattoo. You can’t reach down and pet him, much less hold him and duct tape him to the wall. He has the personality of traumatized Siberian tiger and the weight to sound like one when he walks.

When we decided to keep him, he was a fur-covered twig, emaciated and starving. Feeling sympathetic and feeding him was my first mistake. Accepting him after another neighbor discovered him in her garage was my second. Paying to get him neutered and vaccinated was my third. The fourth is right around the bend.

Down the stairs he ran, faster than my ex when I said a bill was due, and into his unreachable cubby. He’s going in there to die, I surmised. I felt awful. Honest.

An hour later he emerged from his cubby and tried to eat. Sadly, he tried to eject the needle with a gag. Thanks to our hardwood floor and his inability to dig in and launch, I caught him. Six calls to veterinarians and one return call later, my daughter and I drove to a vet, who, since it was day’s end, sent us to emergency, which he said would be cheaper. Ha! My friend who just sold her animal hospital informed me otherwise.

Three and a half hours and $220 later (mistake number four), the kitten was still alive and had a hole in his tongue where the vet had to pull the needle and thread out—after cutting the knot off—and not through the same passage in which it went. Piercing now wears a tongue ring.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Glissando

(Puzzle piece number 11 of 38.)
What good are stairs if you can’t slide down ’em in some way? Of course, it’s better to plan the journey first.

I wish I were a kid for a day, so I could slide down my friend Patti’s carpeted stairs. Patti had a great laugh—sort of a fast rat-a-tat-tat-tat in the back of her throat that would fill a staircase with joy, and her little nose would crinkle like a tightened shar-pei’s neck.

Patti was the youngest in her family and lived in a warm, family-oriented home. Spoiled rotten, Patti’s parents let her get away with almost anything—and when I went to her house, so did I!

From the upper bedroom level, their house had eight steps down to the main level, then another eight steps down to the family room. Patti and I would bump and giggle, jolt and jiggle down those stairs for hours. Ready, set, bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-splat! Then we’d wiggle and waggle on our rears round the bend for the next set. “Wheeee!” Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-splat! What a riot!

My stomach would ache from the jarring and laughter, and I wore out the seats of many pairs of pants. We probably wore down their carpet too.

That childhood experience must have lit a fire in my belly, because growing older didn’t hamper my enthusiasm for staircases in the least. When I got to high school and saw six long lengths of stairs with smooth wooden handrails and waist-high walls from which they hung, my first thought was, Wow! I could slide down those babies!

When high school protocol became familiar, some free-spirited guys and I would carefully scope for power figures, and if the coast was clear, we’d glide! Books in one arm, half-length wall on the other. We’d sail from a main floor down to the landing, round the corner and soar down to the next floor. We always felt giddy and lucky every time we escaped capture.

But one day the Luck Fairy was visiting a different school, and four boys and I were caught. I was petrified, thinking the worst: He’ll call my parents. He’ll expel me. He’ll publicly humiliate me, make me repent, dance, and sing in front of the entire student body. Contradicting prior events in my life, the principal made the boys walk up and down a length of stairs ten times: only the boys.

I never slid down the rail again, which took self-control because it was so risky, exciting, fun. It would be so cool to be in high school again…for just a day.

Back to the Patti era and right across the street. The stairs in our ranch-style house could have been seen as entertainment had they been padded and carpeted. But leading to our cold, dark, dank, concrete-floor basement were 13 consecutive steps—hard, rigid, wood steps.

Dad would walk down those steps each evening after work and on the weekends to put on his jeans and dirty-work shirt. He and I would then drive to our ranch to feed the livestock, while Mom stayed home to prepare dinner and think of dirty tricks to play on Dad.

One weekend evening Dad and I were driving home from the ranch after an exhausting day’s work. We were starving and looking forward to our showers. We parked in the driveway, tiredly extracted ourselves from the car, and headed toward the house.

I walked toward the upstairs bathroom as my dad headed downstairs. Without warning, I heard a bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-splat as my dad bellowed, “Joan-ieeeeeeee!” Mom had waxed the basement stairs.

What good are stairs if you can’t slide down ’em in some way? Of course, it’s better to plan the journey first. I wonder if his journey was planned. Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but is cleverness next to vengeance?

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Seamingly Creative

(Puzzle piece number 10 of 38.)
In “Unearthed,” my first post, I mentioned that my parents were not cut from matrimonial cloth. Rather, they wove an erratic web of discontent. Like pants that were too tight: they kept crawling up each other’s butts.

Their ubiquitous disharmony far surpassed light moments, and their periods of silence superseded even mundane conversation. So one way Mom communicated with Dad was through subterfuge—with a creative streak.

About a year after Mom discovered her sewing machine (see “Secrets”), Dad accepted a transfer from Wisconsin to Minnesota. Mom and I were not thrilled in the least about leaving Nana, her mom, and the comfort of having her nearby. I had just started kindergarten and depended on Nana to walk me across the street to her home on school days. Nevertheless, before winter break, Dad cemented our plans to move from cold to colder.

The first winter in western Minnesota was excruciating. It snowed almost all the time and the frigid winds blew drifts so high, we were able to climb onto our roof. It was that winter when I discovered there was no Santa Claus—even I couldn’t get my little buns down our chimney.

Months after settling into his new position as branch manager, Dad decided to buy a ranch and raise beef cattle—his lifelong dream, Mom’s and my nightmare.

We didn’t live on our ranch; in fact, I wonder if we lived at all. We worked. We all had full-time jobs in addition to being full-time ranchers. Dad ran the loan company, Mom managed an appliance business, and I functioned as student, homemaker, maid, and referee between parents.

We lived in town close to my elementary school and commuted ranchward to care for our cattle, horses, and cats. Workaholism is one of our family addictions (laziness is a sin).

On weekends, Dad practically lived on the ranch. He’d erect fences, build structures, plant oats, wheat, and alfalfa, care for the animals, and expel flatus. Mom would keep her distance as much as possible, thinking of ways to torment my father.

When a person feels the call of nature while in a field or in the woods, one doesn’t run to find a biffy, as Norwegians called the loo. If the person is male, relief is all the easier. So Dad unzipped his overalls, but found no opening in his boxers. Feeling a flood of desperation, he quickly reached to the back of his shorts, figuring he’d put his boxers on backward, only to discover another sewn seam.

Under his breath, he muttered, “That wife.”

Yes, Mom and her sewing machine. What a stitch.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Seniors' Day at the Market

In one sense I’ve been lucky. For years cooking wasn’t my thing. Fortunately I’ve dated men for whom it was. I had an attraction to guys who would feed me. There were a few things I made well: spaghetti, stir fry, cheesecake, and ambiance were among them.

As I was leaving our home during our divorce, I asked my ex, “Will you show me how to grocery shop?” So he did.

At first I was nervous, stepping gingerly amidst all that food, wondering what I would do with my purchases when I brought them home. But a short time later, say, a year, I had the chore pretty well licked and was ready to go it alone.

Like an archaeological dig, I ventured into new territory, unearthing exotic finds with verve. At home I perused Bon Appétit for ideas on preparation and presentation. The next thing you know, I was a budding Martha Stewart, making the house look like Home Extraordinaire, throwing dinner parties with all the right wines, and truly enjoying this newfound talent, if memory serves.

Then one day my grocery shopping escapades stepped up a notch: they became social events! I’d draw lipstick on my best smile, primp my attitude, slide into my red shoes, and cruise to the store with anticipation.

Calling most employees at this huge supermarket by name, my greetings are personal, “Hey, Bob! How’s that colostomy bag holding up?” “Wow, Sherry! That liposuction is really working!” “Jim! Don’t hold those melons too long.”

Some go out of their way to share a grope. Others have opened a checkout lane just to catch up and chortle. The fun flows into other lanes, and people start smiling all over the place like a flood. The only thing missing at this affair is wine!

Being a freelancer, I shop when I have time, need, and money, not on a particular day. Mornings are usually best because there are fewer shoppers (but fewer checkers). The clientele varies, depending on the time of day and the day itself.

One morning I walked into the store around nine and saw a stubby bus parked by the entryway. Being a regular Sherlock Holmes, I deduced that it was Seniors' Day at the Market. Sure enough, like freshly fallen snow, cotton-tops had infiltrated every aisle. They were everywhere, cautiously pushing carts as if blindly furrowing their way, reaching out every so often to drop something into their baskets.

In my own senior moment, I stood lost, reading the directory for guidance, when I caught something moving in my periphery. Gradually moving toward me, head turning left and right, was a petite, doddering old woman, eyes level with her hands firmly gripping the cart’s handle.

She sees me, I thought. Yes. How can you miss a tall girl like me…or my nose?

Like Jaws swimming nearer her catch, crash! she struck me with her cart. I tried to catch my balance with a step or two sideways, but landed on my rear on the floor. Without a blink or word, she just kept on rolling past me…and I sat bruised in a puddle of giggles, watching her amble around the corner, toilet paper stuck to her shoe.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Babies and Boundaries (Illegal Immigration)

(Puzzle piece number 9 of 38.)
Imagine knowing you are not welcome somewhere, but you decide to go anyway—like crashing a rival frat party. Your determination is so strong to get in that you don’t give a rat’s tail what people think. They may look at you with disdain, distrust, and disgust, as if you’re some kind of alien, but hey, maybe you’re used to that.

Your goal is to get in and see if they’ll notice. If they do, maybe they’ll even like you, yet looking in the mirror makes you wonder.

After you’re there, maybe you can make some exchanges and take advantage of freebies, like food, a T-shirt, some liquor, maybe even a place to stay and have sex at no cost, except maybe a social disease, which you probably already have.

When you get in, maybe you’ll just blend in with zillions of others who somehow made it past the door. And at the relative rate of reproduction, you’d fit right in. Yet the ones who were invited see you for who you are and don’t respect you or the way you handle yourself.

They don’t like your polluting the air with your smoke, from your mouth or your car, and tossing cigarette butts and waste out your window. You just don’t care about the environment, inside or out, and they start to mistrust you.

And since very few like you have been educated to understand there is a limited supply of sustenance, including water and clean air, others dedicate time and energy to have you removed, like refuse.

Unfortunately for everyone, after you sneaked in, you lacked self-control and irresponsibly used zero contraception, so now a baby’s on the way. And soon, maybe another, knowing your history. No one taught you to read or to think.

Who’s going to take care of all these babies? you ask yourself. Are you going to lay the blame on that party you sneaked into? “Yo, looky here. You left the door unlocked and now I got a kid. Here! You take it! We got plenty more of these back home.” Back home.

Do you have the wherewithal and the desire to change?

You can sneak into Free Land, but once you foul yourself and our environment, where then will you go? Oh, right. You’ll be dead soon or we’ll be feeding, clothing, and housing you in one of our prisons.

So don’t worry. Be scared.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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NordicTracks and Prostheses

(Puzzle piece number 8 of 38.)
On this, I would like your input, please.

After you sweetly and tenderly boot your former partner’s physical existence out of your life, what do you do with the leftovers?

I’m not talking specifically about food or social diseases, though these days, a social disease could be quite the serious hangover. But today I’m talking about material stuff, which a lot of us have way too much of (one of Auntie’s pet peeves).

Allow me to paint a couple impressionistic to realistic pieces: You cast a gaze upon your mantle and view a photo of the happy, little, ignorant couple, and it makes you cringe, then rip! Leafing through paperwork, you uncover a love note, causing you to emit a groan, then you get sick, then rip some more! Or maybe you’re a toughie, and you force a laugh. Ha!

You head over to the fridge, hoping to find some satisfaction for your belly and what do you see? your former’s favorite beer or wine or sparkling water. As you’re rolling your eyes, you spot a hole in the wall where a nail once held another cruddy Kodak moment.

Why couldn’t I have attracted a stray cat rather than a skunk? ’Cause I’d miss the cat if it split.

So you tootle through your place to locate some spackling compound to fill the hole in the wall and your head, and you spot Former’s cordless drill set in the garage. The least he could’ve done is left charged batteries.

You’re too annoyed to read a book, so you decide to do a load of wash and listen to the new Eagles Long Road out of Eden CD, repeatedly listening to the instrumental “I Dreamed There Was No War,” yet feeling like starting one. When you’re putting the warm, dry clothes away, out fall Former’s socks and undies, apparently tossed into the laundry basket preboot.

That’s it for leftovers! What am I gonna do with all this stuff? Burn it in the fire pit? It’s a novel way to meet fireguys and firegals.

You can toss, rip, recycle, or exchange stuff, like the person him- or herself. But what do you do with big things, like a grand piano, a NordicTrack clothes tree, or a prosthetic leg?

My best guy friend (BGF) had his leg removed because of cancer and tried a prosthesis, which never fit him quite right, so he quit using it.

“What did you do with it?” I asked him one day over 20 years later.

“Oh, I left it at a former girlfriend’s house…in her closet.”

“And what did she do with it?”

“I don’t know. I never talked to her again.”

Therein lies the dilemma. Once departed, returning for anything seems unlikely.

So what do you suppose this former girlfriend did with my BGF’s temporary extension. Craigslist and eBay didn’t exist back then. Did she have a garage sale?

What would you do with big leftovers?

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Limp Wrists and Poodles

(Puzzle piece number 7 of 38.)
All my friends could tell: the relationship wasn’t working.

The knots in my stomach prevented restful sleep, and I’d awaken nauseated. Still, I had made a commitment and, to me, it meant “life.”

“As in, ‘sentence’?”

Well, maybe. So despite the anxiety, I’d still do his laundry, make his breakfast, snacks, and lunch to go, then dinner. I’d shampoo the carpets every other day when his minipoodle would pee on the floor.

“Wait a minute!! You had a relationship with a guy who had a miniature poodle?”

Yeah, so? I was in love and would do anything for him. But during the day, I did wonder what he was doing. Is he looking for a place to move? Has he found a new person to replace me? Is it a guy?

When we’d have a disagreement, he'd leave for a couple of days. That way he wouldn’t have to talk and let me know what he was thinking. I’m not sure where he’d go.

And he really didn’t like saying thank you or showing appreciation for all I did for him, while I put my own work on the back burner. But I just knew eventually he’d thank me. Plus he said that as soon as he established himself in this new city, he’d help pay some of the household expenses, such as rent, utilities, and groceries, since, as a handyman, he ate as much as a teenage boy. It was so cute! Especially when he’d talk with his hands and flick his wrist…

“Excuse me? The guy didn’t say thank you, and he had a limp wrist?!”

…and his favorite movie was In & Out with Kevin Kline. He loved the part where Kline and Tom Selleck kissed for ten seconds.

Then one day long after he “established” himself and still wasn’t financially contributing, I awakened feeling used…

“as in up?”

Yep! So the poodle went to the Humane Society, the lunch-to-go stayed at home, the grocery bill went down 60 percent, and he went, well, he’s probably in and out of somewhere!

And I got glasses.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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The Thing You Gave Away

(Puzzle piece number 6 of 38.)
Have you ever given something away then discovered you really needed it? But you made a commitment, the thing was gone, and it was too late to reclaim it. Kind of like passing a fluffer in public, then wishing it weren’t such a smelly one.

So you walk around glumly for a while, regretting your generosity, kicking yourself with the foot you’ve grown out of your backside, wondering if the recipient would kindly return it to you saying, “Gee, I really don’t think I’ll use this as much as you would, so thanks, but you can have it back.”

But when that winning lottery ticket doesn’t materialize, you gently ease the foot out of your rear and move on, living with the memory of The Thing You Gave Away.

Well, I gave my heart away. I know it sounds a little strange, because here I am, but not entirely.

There are nights when I know my heart’s recipient is stomping all over it, laughing without a care as it bleeds all over the room, thumping to escape its cruel captor.

One night the nebula inside my chest billowed as if something were ready to barge out. It felt like an impatient, hungry beast was lunging for its long-awaited meal. Honestly, I thought I was a goner.

But I lived. The beast apparently got its meal, the billowing subsided, and I winched myself out of bed the next morning.

Perhaps, just as cells replace themselves and some organs regenerate, pieces of the nebula in my chest are attracting more positive energy. Soon the dust and gas particles will congregate, reconstitute, and sing Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild.”

These transformations don’t usually happen when I’m alone at nighttime, though. They emerge when I get out of my house and hike, and laugh with friends, and think of crazy, embarrassing things I’ve done (like accidentally, publicly…), and when I contemplate naughty things I could do to retaliate for the brusque treatment given my heart.

Yes, pretty soon I should be back to a better normal, new heart completely intact, ready to take on the next challenge. Till then, though, I’ll keep my foot on the ground, gas in my SUV, and scarred, or is it scared, heart securely guarded by my pawns.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Blue by You

(Puzzle piece number 5 of 38.)
My fifth birthday comes up as a strong memory. My favorite color is blue, which coincides with the mood of my childhood and the sentiment of my parents’ marriage. Even our Christmas tree donned blue lights and blue balls—think special and painful. So Mom decided to throw me a blue birthday.

She rounded up a few kids she knew and invited us all into our spacious grassy backyard where she’d stuck four-foot wood dowels into the ground. Each dowel was topped with a big blue balloon, so the yard resembled a Columbian execution zone with heads on top of stakes.

After playing in the humid blue balloon maze, we developed quite an appetite. Keeping with Wisconsin nutrition habits, we all gathered inside to eat cake—blue cake with blue icing and blue candles. It was as if Chicken Little was right: the sky had fallen.

By party’s end, Mom was surrounded by blue-tongued, blue-toothed, blue-lipped, wired little bloopers. I’m sure that the next day there were some freaked out little kids when they looked into their toilets—preflush.

What goes in, must come out, so pick a complementary color…and chew thoroughly.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Enough Already: Morals, Values, and Freedom*

I know a woman who believes
enough is never enough.
She comes from a wealthy family
while some have it rough.

Everything she gets is free
from our government, you and me,
yet she hails from a different country.
Thank God for her, America’s the land of the free…
home, food, car, gym membership, medical treatment…

There was a woman whom I had wanted to meet for quite some time. I’d see her strolling alone while I walked and talked with my hiking partner. It was obvious this woman was angry: her face emanated it. But it struck me as curious, because her ethnicity is often associated with peace.

One day in January 2003 as I hiked alone, I approached her, said hello, and asked if I might join her. She quietly and reservedly welcomed the idea with an apprehensive smile.

A pretty woman with nutmeg-toned skin and henna-colored hair, her English was understood fairly easily, but her thin body walked uneasily. Being forthright, I told her that I had wanted to meet her for months. I shared threads of my life and asked her about hers—what brought her here and when. Cautiously she offered some answers but sidestepped most questions by suspiciously “forgetting” segments of her life. Her omissions compounded her mysterious nature. She seemed intelligent, so I deduced that her forgetfulness was intentional and the thoughts she chose to share were selectively accessed.

Soon after meeting, I invited her over for wine, tapas, and conversation. Our energy blended into comfortable laughter, and I saw her anger subside. It was as if our souls knew each other. That’s when the friendship began.

I’d invite her to my parties and holiday gatherings, to which she proudly wore colorful, flowing clothes. She met many of my friends and even allowed some to hug her, rather than just bowing a namasté greeting. I learned that she had come to Oregon years ago to live with a communal group, where they shared a common culture. Everyone contributed to the whole, led by a man who brought peace, value, and deeper meaning to their lives.

It was a neat concept to me. Raised in the Midwest by workaholics, my lifestyle was more driven, more stressful. There were no handouts. Even as a child, if I wanted something, I worked to earn it. I hadn’t felt peace living with my parents. And by the look on this woman’s face, her peace was fleeting.

Within months of knowing her, a mad, selfish child erupted from this 65-year-old woman’s depths. She’d call at my busiest time of day and demand that I help her with a medical or legal issue, or advise her on her new car purchase and how to deal with financial matters. She’d have a communications problem with another, then need to understand a word’s definition.

She never asked, “Are you busy?” or “Do you have a moment?” Like an inconsiderate child, she demanded my attention. She no longer contributed to our relationship. Her rapid-fire questions never opened space for a response. When I would start to reply, she’d garrulously speak over me.

Though she doesn’t permit many to know her, her energy is felt by many. The managers of her apartment complex lost patience with her threats and complaints, so they encouraged her to move. After one year of living in a brand new, beautiful apartment, she chose to move back into her previous neighborhood. I researched possible places for her, gave her information, shared crime stats.

But listening is not her forté. Being demanding and living free are.

This woman-child frequents doctors’ offices because of an injury sustained at the hands of a doctor, the purported reason for her torment. Visits to the hospital emergency room for unrelated problems are too frequent for one without earned income. She walks to the gym when conditions are good and rarely drives her brand, new all-wheel-drive car; I see it parked in the lot by the latest apartment she complains about.

Recently I referred a handyman-painter friend to this woman—another momentary lapse of reason. He later told me he’d met her, felt sorry for her, and would paint her entire apartment for $350—an $850 job. I said he was being conned. I was embarrassed for referring him, hurt by her imposition, and told the woman just that. He still went to her apartment to paint, but she immediately told him to leave. I haven’t heard from her since.

As my mom used to say, “Enough already!” And now I’m free!

* This essay lacked in finding any humor in this mediocrity.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/01/enough-already-morals-values-and.html

Tattoo and Piercing

My daughter and I have a Lab—not the functional kind in which you can conduct experiments or discover cures for diseases. It’s not even the kind that retrieves the paper or his dish.

No, ours is a big, yellow one that eats, poops, expels flatus, and sheds. Sure, he’ll fetch a ball, but unlike the neighbor’s newspaper that I’d really like him to fetch, I don’t want the ball, ’cause it gets real slimy.

This Lab has grown accustomed to deer, so he won’t chase them out of our yard. In fact, one day a doe ran after him as he chased his ball on the street. He doesn’t bark or growl at dangerous people, like the Comcast guys or those I date. Only an occasional squirrel earns his attention if he hasn’t gotten enough exercise.

In mid-September 2006, we were in the house while Shiloh sniffed in the backyard. My daughter said, “Mom, I hear a kitten crying.”

“Fox food,” I replied. “Don’t worry about it. We need to get going.” I was on a mission and had work to do.

But right afterward we heard Shiloh utter an unfamiliar sound. “Ahhhroofff!” So we looked out my daughter's bedroom window down at the southeast corner of our yard and saw Shiloh digging toward the other side of the fence.

We immediately dashed down the stairs and out the back door and discovered a sweet, little gray ball of fur meowing. The little feline appeared unshaken by this 75-pound Labrador trying to become a fast friend.

To stop the dog from further under-the-fence destruction and eventually needing a pedicure, I scooped up the kitten, dashed back into the house, and tossed him in the garage.

“You did what?!” you may ask.

Yep! As Pink Floyd would say, a momentary lapse of reason. I needed a kitten like I needed a tattoo—though I’ve seen some pretty nice tattoos, if you consider tattoos nice and don’t mind needles and permanently coloring your skin—but this was an itty-bitty, helpless, four-week-old kitten…and I had always wanted a gray kitten, but I didn’t need one. So I named him Tattoo.

Fast-forward 10 months and picture the dog digging toward the other side of the fence in the same location. But this time imagine a freaked-out animal with longer fur and nails not wishing to become acquainted. He hissed and growled like a rabid ex-boyfriend.

And then I heard myself use multiple F-words.

“Fox food. Those feral felines all need to be fixed.”

In the neighbor’s woodpile cowered a little hairball bearing a strong resemblance to Tattoo, but there was no way this one wanted to be scooped up. Wild and ravenous, he was probably viewing me in sections for future meals. Placing my hand near him could’ve been the end of my career.

For a few days, my daughter and I leaned over the fence to set food and water down for him. Our thanks came from under the logs as hisses and growls.

Then one day he was gone. Relief whooshed over me, knowing I’d have one less thing to think about. And with a satisfied smile, I thought to myself, fox food.

We live in a pretty tight neighborhood, always looking after each other and our homes, so the call shouldn’t have surprised me too much.

“Hello, Miss Eartha!” my sweet galfriend across the street sang over the phone. “I found a skin-and-bones little kitty in my garage…,” and I didn’t hear much after that.

Fiddlesticks! I thought. Where are those foxes when you need them? “Sure, I’ll take him,” I heard someone who sounded like me say. My daughter was elated. I needed another mouth to feed like I needed a piercing.

Itty-bitty kitty hissed and growled, but rubbed lovingly against Tattoo, who licked Piercing as though they were long-lost siblings, and they really were, one year apart.

So Tattoo, the Royal Fuzzhead of the House, is majestic and gorgeous. He ensures through his presence that anyone or anything must step over him, for he will not move when he is comfortable. And Piercing is still scared of me, the person who feeds him.

And Shiloh? Well, he eats, poops, expels flatus, and sheds, just like my ex-boyfriend.

Anyone need a Tattoo or Piercing? They’re fixed.

copyright © 2007 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/12/tattoo-and-piercing.html

Thank you!

(Puzzle piece number 4 of 38.)
I really appreciate your comments. It makes me feel as if I'm not alone ; )

Secrets

People trust me. I have always held their secrets deep within me to the point that I CRS, I can’t remember something. But I didn’t start out that way. Why do so many of us have to learn from our own mistakes?

As time goes on, though, I’m learning from OPM—other people’s mistakes—as my MO—mental objective.

I was four and home alone while my parents were at work. Looking back, I can only imagine that they hoped a prisoner would escape from the nearby jail and borrow me.

It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, and Dad came home from lunch carrying a sewing machine encased in a simply designed cabinet whose top flipped open to use as a sewing surface. As he carried the machine downstairs to hide it, he said numerous times not to tell Mom about this surprise. He said most things numerous times, as if he liked hearing himself…or perhaps he couldn’t remember that he’d just said something.

Anyway, Mom came home from work before Dad, and in my snitchy excitement, I squealed, “You have to come downstairs! Come quick!” And she made her discovery. Though a sewing machine could be seen in the same vein as a blender or a mixer or a package of sanitary napkins to some women, Mom actually seemed pleased with the gift.

When Dad got home to surprise her (too late, Daddio!), Mom acted as if seeing the sewing machine was as exciting as finding a new boyfriend. And they were happy for a moment.

Dad brought the machine upstairs, and eventually, Mom began to sew, which was like a nine-year-old using a backhoe—the world would have been a safer place had she left the machine in the basement.

One of her first attempts at seamstress wizardry was producing PJs for Dad. At the time, Dad was in great shape and not yet given to overindulgence, he led us to believe. So when Mom presented his new pajamas to him, he asked whom they were for, since they were three times his size. Eventually, all that PJ fabric was regurgitated into more fodder for hysteria.

It’s too bad Dad didn’t keep those jammies. They’d fit him perfectly today.

The “morsels” of the story: Keep secrets so they really are secret. Have integrity. And exercise, even if it’s a walk around the block or lifting something heavy for a few reps, like jugs.

copyright © 2007 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/12/secrets.html

Corvids

(Puzzle piece number 3 of 38.)
Have you ever thought that something was other than it really is?

Like taking a sip of your friend’s water at a fraternity party, only to spew it out because it’s really vodka? Or reaching down to pick up a quarter, when it’s really a punched-out piece of metal? Or scratching yourself when you think you’re all alone? (More about the camera in the corner and that topic later.)

The other morning, my daughter and I were slowly driving south near her high school when we saw a murder of crows gathering. (Who makes up the names of animal groups, anyway? At least a skulk of foxes and a crash of rhinos make sense!) As most know, corvids often gather because road kill is in sight. You can just hear them talking.

“Hey, Mel,” one crow says to his buddy in a New England accent. “Looky over there. Lunch.”

And Mel cranes his head in the direction where Harry is gazing and replies, “Great! I haven’t eaten good carrion since that skunk last week. Man, my eyes are still burnin’. Let’s gather the group and grab a bite.” So Mel, Harry, and the rest of their horde fly over to check it out.

They’d gathered on the east side of the road and were starting to fly over the dark elliptical shape on the west side of the road when they saw us driving toward it. I sorrowfully said to my daughter, “Aw, how sad. Some animal must have gotten hit.”

Typically in our neighborhood, it’s deer that have the highest fatality or injury rate, but today the target was more the size and color of a cat. As we drove closer, one of the feathered cleanup crew members swooped near us, as if to say, “Don’t run over my lunch!” But my daughter looked down and said, “It’s a muddy, rolled-up sweatshirt.”

We came apart laughing, now imagining what the corvids were saying to each other after trying to take a bite.

“Blech! Ew! What is this?” Harry says in his Bostonian tone. “Who played this dirty trick on us? Here I had my appetite soarin’, and what do I get? A chunk of cloth one of those big, featherless things wears. That’s it! I’m aiming at some windshields.” And off Harry flies with the rest of his parcel. And here parcel means a “group of…animals.”

So next time you think you’re taking a sip of beer, smell it first. It may not be what you expected.

copyright © 2007 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/11/corvids.html

Gold Flush

(Puzzle piece number 2 of 38.)
When I was three years old, Mom decided I should have a pet. The decision was a challenge for her because she had to make up her mind, which was a challenge in itself. She actually had to choose what she would have to take care of. It couldn’t require much upkeep because she worked full time, so Mom settled on a goldfish.

Soon we ventured to Woolworth’s and purchased a single goldfish and a conventional glass fishbowl that we dressed with colored bottom rocks and a ceramic protrusion. Studies have proven that goldfish vary the monotony of swimming clockwise in their bowls by swimming upward, downward, and counterclockwise, so they can view their bottom matter from different perspectives, just as men do with women.

We placed the goldfish bowl on top of our Magnavox black-and-white TV-phonograph console, so when Walter Cronkite wasn’t holding my attention, I could enjoy ocular engagement with the fish. Plus the fish was in color!

The thing about fish is that they’re not able to jump out and fetch a ball, or scamper after a piece of yarn, or perch on your shoulder and poop. Confined fish may be great for meditation, but for a three-year-old full of energy, having a pet fish was as much fun as watching croquet, without the benefit of spirits.

Before long, the fish’s caregiver got tired of giving care. Mom’s low tolerance for the slow and high frustration level for tedium led to a negative future for her charge. One morning as Dad stumbled to the bathroom bowl and flipped up the seat, he yelped! Before my dad’s eyes, enjoying his morning laps in his brand new bowl was the sweet, little goldfish.

A bubbling, malodorous minute later, the poor, golder fish was flushed.

The moral of the story is: consider the consequences of accommodating even the cutest or cuddliest of critters, because caring for them may create crimps in your crazy continuance.

And be kind to goldfish: they may jump up and nip you.

copyright © 2007 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/11/gold-flush.html

Unearthed

(Puzzle piece number 1 of 38.)
It all began with a disciplinarian German father and a flamboyant French mother. Born on opposite sides of the track in the post-Depression years, these two had nothing in common. Yet looks and chemistry trumped sensibility, and Mom and Dad got married.

Nine months after “I do,” out I came, into the hands of a couple who stood a better chance of growing mangoes in a desert than raising a child. Fortunately, Nana, my mom’s mom, an oasis of love, lived downstairs.

Hoping I’d be a down-to-earth kind of gal, they named me Eartha. Plus a name like Terra Firma wouldn’t become popular until Frank Zappa came around.

Mom was a neat freak and things just had to be just perfect—pictures perfectly hung, dinner table perfectly set, day-of-the-week undies worn on the right day. And being a fashion filly and model, she and I often wore matching outfits—we’d be sailors one day, pirates the next.

My first recollection goes back to when I was 18 months old. Mom was ironing ten feet away in the dining room of our upstairs apartment, while I rocked in our big, scratchy brown chair that felt like a bear with a crew cut. Mom must have given me a Q-tip to, perhaps, clean my ears? or maybe to start me cleaning the house in a small way at an early age, because I held a cotton swab in my little hand. Well, I pushed that Q-tip too far into my ear and screamed! Mom ran over and pulled out the stick before it became embedded in my brain.

But perhaps it was too late. I was affected to such an extent that I still clean the cerumen out of my kid's ears.

I don’t remember much for another year after the tip touched my brain, just that my parents should have taken up fencing, not parenthood. And that life is not perfect, nor neat. Freaky.

copyright © 2007 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/11/unearthed.html