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.

If you like it, link it!
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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.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/01/limp-wrists-and-poodles.html

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.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/01/thing-you-gave-away.html

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.

If you like it, link it!
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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!
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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!
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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