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.

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