Oh, Rubbish!

No matter what the weather—hot, rainy, cold—I would not want to be a garbage collector. I’m talking trash, not the type of garbage people spew from their mouths, though neither sounds appetizing.

The noise and pollution from the truck, the assortment of smells, inclement weather, and steep hills make me wonder why anyone would want the job. Yet we have five different garbage-hauling companies throwing stuff into their trucks on a weekly basis.

Why do so many companies vie to collect our refuse? Because it’s profitable! My junk is sort of their treasure.

As a Neighborhood Watch block captain for 11 years, I sometimes serve law-related services. But other times I serve as a complaint department.

“Auntie,” they say, “what are you gonna do about all these loud, disturbing, stinky, polluting garbage trucks on our street? Why can’t we have just one?”

Good questions.

So I went to work. I talked with my waste collector’s sales rep, and she came up with rates for my 41-household street. Once presented to my group, however, I learned that people didn’t want to change—even if it meant saving money.

Resistance to change was due to loyalty. Loyalty! Being loyal is so important to this old auntie, so I wasn’t sore for spending all that time on our trashy project.

Neighbors had made their choice to employ a particular company and over time found them reliable and considerate. One service knocks on their customers’ doors if their garbage hasn’t been set out. Another will search in the backyard to find the garbage cans!

Even I have left cookies and cheesecake in containers with utensils hanging in plastic bags from my tree for my hard-working guys, because I appreciate what they do.

It would be great, however, if our City would direct specific waste collection companies to pick up in specific areas. It’s the eartha thing to do!
(Puzzle piece number 20 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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All Men Are Dumb

My best girlfriend at UW-Eau Claire shared a house with four other girls. I had the privilege of being included in a lot of their fun, thank goodness, or I’d have had a pretty boring college life.

When time would permit, or the need was severe, we’d go to the bars on Water Street to have a beer or two—except my girlfriend, who remains one of the most innocent, best Christians on earth. Why she ever chose me as a friend is a mystery, but I thank God she did.

When she and her roomies would see a cute guy, they would say, “Ooo, that guy over there has nice shoes!” And if, after talking with a guy, he was not only good-looking but intelligent too, they’d say, “Wow! He has great shoelaces!”

I wonder what they’d have said if the guy were barefoot. Might have to go up the leg a bit.

In their house, the girls hung a sign that read: All men are dumb. As I’ve grown older, I have my own ideas about that statement. But I wanted to know what those college girls meant, so I jotted my sweet friend a note. Here is an excerpt from her reply:

“When we said, ‘All men are dumb,’ it…referred to dating-type situations. The guys always seemed to have a knack for doing the opposite of what you needed at the time. They couldn't see the obvious!”

Then she shared how one young man seemed interested in her roommate, until one day the guy asked for her best friend’s phone number. A social zero. A nincompoop.

“In other words,” my friend continued, “all men are dumb. They just don't get it. They should be able to understand better how to relate to women. They should be more intuitive and should learn from experience. Somehow, they don't. And they keep disappointing women, most of the time without even being aware of it!

“This happened on a regular basis in our apartment. We would just shake our heads and point to the sign.”


If this happened with college-age guys, why does it pertain to today’s forty-, fifty-, sixty-, and seventy-year-old men? Men still use the same lines too.

“You’re different than other girls.” [Aren’t we all?]
“I’m different than other guys.” [Yes, you think you are.]
“I’ve never felt this way before.” [There’s sure to be a cure someday.]
“I really love you.” [Well, of course!]
“You’re the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met.” [’Been out much?]
“You have a hot tub?” [Tonight it’s a one-seater.]

Ah, let’s give men a chance. Maybe gals need to move past men’s words and glide directly into their meanings. But maybe guys need new lines, such as:

“Would you like to come over and smell my herbs?”
“May I please mow your lawn?”
“How about if we go out to dinner tonight. You look fabulous!”
“I love communicating with you.”
“I won’t try to fix anything unless you ask me to. Just let me listen.”

Then watch the amazed gal fall sweetly into the dumb guy’s arms. What a catch!

I look forward to any clever retorts! Soon, my best guy friend’s perspective.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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When Writers Don’t Write

What is this writer doing when she isn’t writing and publishing her work?

• Writing or designing for clients.
• Cleaning up after animals and her child.
• Editing others’ work.
• Contemplating the universe, and envisaging ways to help it.
• Paying bills, setting or attending meetings and appointments, grocery shopping.
• Hiking.
• Wondering what her old friends are doing these days.
• Helping others in a variety of ways.
• Making a list of things to do and checking them off—after she’s done them.
• Thinking about all the things she needs to do.
• Keeping the neighboring area informed about Neighborhood Watch and crime issues.
• Repairing the continually crumbling house and its contents.
• Visualizing playing guitar and piano and singing.
• Working in the yard and garden.
• Mentally writing essays for publication.
• Wishing she were on vacation, on which she hasn’t been since 2006.

What are you doing when you’re not doing what you think you should be doing?

I think I think too much. Better start doing!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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The F Word

How do you feel when the f word is directed toward you?

As for me, I get excited, scared, maybe even uncomfortable, but not angry. Contrarily, I might feel warm and secure, depending on who says it to me.

But in the back of my mind, I wonder if the person using the word is serious. Maybe he’s just joking. I question his intention and wonder if he really means it. I ask myself, does the f word mean the same to him as it does to me?

Even if it’s in writing, I still can’t make him keep his word. It’s not a contract. Just a set of words. Anyway, it could be fleeting—maybe he meant it on the day he wrote it, but changed his mind the next. You know how fickle some people can be. I mean, when you use the f word, do you really think about it first?

Now what if the f word is delivered in tandem with the l word? How do you feel then?

I received a birthday card from my former beau, in which he used both the f and l words. Dumb me. I believed what he wrote, and by my next birthday, he was gone.

So now do I believe a person when he says the f word? Probably not. Especially when the l word comes before it.

You know what they say: Never say never, or always, or "I’ll love you forever." Because forever may end tomorrow.
(Puzzle piece number 19 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Baiting Bears

(Puzzle piece number 18 of 38.)
Hiking with my buddy one morning, we noticed particular people’s garbage had been strewn onto streets in our neighborhood. As you know, there can be only three reasons this would occur.

One, a person is concerned about their neighbor and seeks to ascertain if he is eating nutritiously. So the person peruses the leftovers, leaves a mess, and, perhaps, a healthy meal on the porch.

Two, a neighbor is searching for treasures. You know the saying: One man’s junk…

Three, the person is intentionally or unintentionally baiting bears.

I’d guess the latter.

Now, it’s possible that a person must leave early for work and bears are still foraging. It’s also possible that silly gooses set their garbage out the night before pickup day. I’d like to cook those “gooses.” Garbage strewn looks bad, spreads disease, makes sanitation workers have to pick up some of the mess, and leads me to carry a bag and wear latex on my morning hikes—and I’m not talking condoms.

Bears don’t like stopping by my place—not enough meat, and by now my ex-boyfriend has disintegrated. I’ve been primarily a vegetarian since I was 18, which was, hmm, 16 years ago. Even when I toss my veggie scraps in the compost heap, the bears just poop and leave. I have yet to see my second bear, while most of my neighbors see them looking into their windows, hopping onto their cars, strolling through their yards, and bringing their cubs by to visit the lady who feeds the deer.

It’s just not fair! All I get to see are its spillovers, but I’m awaiting…with bated breath!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Regulating Dust

(Puzzle piece number 17 of 38.)
Fall is in the air, which is sort of depressing. School has begun, days are getting shorter, it’s cooler in the morning, and I have to wear clothes.

I love summertime, long days, smiling spirits, sundresses on girls, poetry popping out of every living thing. I love the dance of people peeling off their winter doldrums and starting to socialize again. Neighbors nourish their plants, repair their homes, say hi, and seem to have more time to be friendly and say too much.

When it’s cold, it’s almost as if our arms are too frozen to wave, our faces too stiff to grin.

One of my routines for autumn preparation is to moisten cloths with bleach-water, place them over my registers, and start the furnace fan. Dust that has settled in the ducts blows into the cloth, and any bacteria or viruses will be seriously injured when bumping into the bleach.

Don’t use too much bleach, though. My ex-husband reminds me of his pink underwear. When married, working 60 hours a week, and clothes needed to be washed, I’d toss everything in at the same time. Eventually my ex didn’t let me do the wash anymore : )

Back to the cloths over the registers: Don’t leave them on for more than a minute, or the furnace may bite the dust.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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A Note to Burglars

(Puzzle piece number 16 of 38.)
If any of you guys ever enters our home again, just don’t take my food stamps!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Violated

(Puzzle piece number 15 of 38.)
Something strange and scary happened yesterday, a Sunday. My daughter and I finally went out, had lunch, and shot pool. That’s strange in itself, because we’ve been extremely conservative and boring this summer.

The scary part was coming home. Our alarm had been disarmed, and my daughter found our chef’s knife lying on the kitchen floor.

Stupidly, she and I searched the entire house. It appeared that no doors or windows had been entered in the main two levels of the house. In the lower level were our Lab and two cats, one of which would have taken a serious bite out of crime had he been given the chance. But he hadn’t. He was blocked by a loosely hung door between the upstairs hallway and stairs that descend to our lower level. When the door is bumped, it bangs against its frame and makes an abrupt, jarring noise—enough to scare anyone out of the house. And we’re presuming that is why no one was in the house when we arrived.

After the initial shock, I realized I’d lost my reading glasses downtown and was on the phone trying to locate them. My daughter was in her room changing clothes. I then called the friend we had just played pool with to tell him about our experience, when suddenly my daughter shrieked and ran toward me, face flushed, frightened like I’d never seen before.

“Mom! Man!” she screamed. I immediately thought he was in our house, so I flew out the door expecting her to follow as I abruptly ended my phone conversation. I couldn’t understand why she headed in a different direction, until I saw she’d put her shoes on. “He’s on the side of the house!” she screamed, and proceeded to chase the guy! I immediately dialed 911, ran after my daughter, explained our emergency to the operator, then had my daughter describe the offender she saw standing outside her window.

Within about four minutes, four police cars were in front of our home, and my friend, who flew from across town to help, reported that two more police cars were on the adjacent street. We explained to three of the officers where the guy had run, and within four minutes, one officer ran for his car, which he mounted like his steed and drove at about 50 on our 20-mile-per-hour street.

Two officers saw the guy and chased him into a large field two blocks away, then lost him amidst some cattails and possibly into an apartment. Within another 10 to 15 minutes, the police had CSPD K-9 dog unit searching the area.

By 8 p.m. it was starting to get dark. The two officers who had seen the thug left the other officer to take info for the report. We deduced that the criminal had scaled a back wall with the help of a children’s swimming pool and entered through an open garage window 10 feet up. Like too many homeowners, the door between the garage and house was not locked.

We feel violated, trapped in a way. Does this mean we can’t keep our windows open? Do we have to stay home and guard our house like a dog would—if his owners don’t cordon him off from a particular area? Must we be hypervigilant about locking our doors, about whom we open our doors to?

Apparently.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Duck, Duck, GOOSE

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

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

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

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

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

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Too Much Sex

I just read one of the dumbest stories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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

Filtered Cigarettes

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

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

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Finding My P’s and Q’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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