Big Blue and Raising the Belly Button

I quite enjoy my work as a copyeditor and writer. But, as with any trade or profession, it has its downside: sitting.

Sitting is something I don’t do well for very long without wine or duct tape. I was raised in the Midwest with physically hardworking parents, and reading was not a part of their repertoire. Sitting too long meant you were lazy, unless, of course, you were watching football. I was lucky to be able to read a cereal box while eating.

I imagine I would have had much better grades had I learned to sit, read, and study. But since 2003, I have acquired a taste for all three. That year I added editing to my stable of salable skills, rather than giving it out for free. My work is peaceful, educational, and time efficient. And what’s best: I am paid to find mistakes and help a book become more clear, cohesive, and readable. When I offered these services to my former husband, he never paid me…with money.

One hint publishers offer is, when editing, take frequent breaks, get fresh air, and eat a large dark chocolate bar. That way you will do your best work—quicker. I have another idea to keep one’s body from succumbing to inactivity, aside from asking your partner to come home for lunch: change seats and positions.

Changing positions sprinkles spice into life. Some days I do it on the sofa, other days at the dining room table. Sometimes I’ll stand next to the island, then later move to a comfy living room chair. But my newest position is sitting on George my neighbor’s big blue ball with my iBook on a chair. My back bathes in the sun’s warmth while the screen sits in the dark.

After almost a week of working in this new position, I checked myself out after a shower and thought, just maybe, my belly button was higher than it was the week before. Sitting on the ball forced my body to stay erect and, therefore, to develop firmness.

God did not bless me with a flat stomach—ever. And I’m still a little hurt about that. Even my friend since eighth grade, George (not blue-ball George), wrote to me recently, “As for the stomach? Yes, you always had one. Depending on the day and time of month, it was there, in different framework. But still there.”

Oh, and he threw this one in: “You always had little boobs.”

And now, my friend, I have a belly button that is reaching them.

I Swear

When I was in my last year of school, I told my unconventional mother that I planned to share a home with a couple of Christian girls. Her first reaction was, “So what are you gonna say if you hit your thumb with a hammer? Oh darn? Bummer?” Concluding with, “Good luck.”

They say some behaviors skip a generation or they continue. Well, not in my wild family. Nana was discreetly wild. Mom was out of control. And then there’s me. But when my daughter was 14, she declared, “Swearing is the dumbing of America.”

Well, in England one group feels a lot like my mom.

Apparently there is physical relief from swearing. And though this is not about Tourette’s syndrome, it could be related. In the University of California–Berkeley Wellness Letter (Nov. 2009), they report that Keele University’s School of Psychology in England conducted a study indicating swearing helps people better endure pain.* Researchers determined that using an irreverent word “triggers not only an emotional response but a physical one too.”

I’ve seen both responses—emotional and physical—demonstrated in close succession in bars when some guy says to another guy something about his mother. “What did you say?” Pop in the ol’ kisseroo. Response time from emotional to physical: one nanosecond.

The sixty-four undergraduates participating in the Keele study placed their hands in icy water while repeating their favorite naughty word, such as twaddlefart or poppycock.

Once thawed, the students repeated the icy-water dip, but this time each said a more mundane, no-one-would-cast-a-finger word, such as wet, chilly, or well whadaya know…more ice water.

The result: While using the more unpleasant word, students, in general, withstood more icy pain.

The deduction: When heading into a painful situation, such as court or hiatal hernia surgery without anesthesia, first soak in ice water and fully express yourself, so all your maledictions will be dispersed beforehand. (Though if court is the dreaded destination, I’d suggest icing the lawyers instead.)

So if it’s uncommon for you to curse, you may want to find one or two gems to tuck into your cache of infrequently used words, just in case you find yourself in pain. Ocr around one.

copyright © 2010 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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* See research study at http://74.125.155.132/custom?q=cache:T3lpZixdkckJ:www.keele.ac.uk/depts/ps/people/RStephens/NR_Stephens_etal_2009.pdf+swearing+and+pain&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=google-coop-np

Soirées

It’s all worth it.

Our Christmas Eve soirée was filled with so much love and friendship that I will feel abundantly fulfilled for a long time.

So next time my tank’s on not-quite-full, I’m having a party!

How ’bout you?

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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’Tis the Season

It starts with a little sadness when cooler weather lingers longer. Leaves begin shriveling up and don’t look a whole lot different than my skin. When the back yard is covered in dried, brown foliage and winter’s approach is inevitable, melancholy dances atop my deepening sadness, thickening any atmosphere near me. Life feels like potato soup—with corn starch.

Then I’ll make the mistake of rousing the words Christmas and bank account in adjacent thoughts, and whap! depression moves into my heart like mice when the cabin owners are gone.

“But Christmas isn’t about marketing, buying stuff, and being materialistic.” Right. But it would be nice to have an option.

Along with the gloom come ruminations of decisions that could have been wiser, relationships that could have lasted longer, opportunities that I didn’t pursue, relationships that lasted too long. But now, at my age, starting over is like having a cold car with a dead battery in the middle of winter. I think you get the drift.

“But what about the white-bearded guy who started Kentucky Fried Chicken when he was two hundred years old?” He was too blind to see that his chicken had hair all over it.

Yes, folks, ’tis the season. The holidays are upon us like a thong on a hippo, and they may not be pretty.

So what can pull a po’ ol’ gal out of her heavy-hearted humility?

A party! Sharing food year-round is my way of giving. (I can listen well too.) But eating nutritious fare with friends is one of the best things in life. It makes the sun shine brighter on a cloudy day and the moon look twice as good against a window.

So c’mon and join the Christmas Eve soirée, no matter what your persuasion. ’Cause like a little tree growing out of a chunk of granite, Auntie’s leaving dormancy and sending out (s)hoots.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Conversion to Vegetarianism

Praise God! I never thought I would hear these words out of my daughter. I mean, she’s a tough cookie, extremely opinionated, and unwavering in her beliefs, to a point that I find her insular at times.

So today is a monumental day. After nearly 17 years of life, she is converting.

As she finished dinner—barbequed chicken, rice, and her favorite veggie, corn—Ivy whispered, almost inaudibly, while covering her lips, “I want you to start cooking…(hushed) lentils. I don’t want to eat meat anymore.” Oh, and I might add to her list of characteristics—comedienne, hilarious, and dramatic wild woman.

My eyes widened. “Really? I mean, you joke around with me all the time. You really want to go vegetarian?”

Her eyes wandered to her left as she contemplated this commitment, then transitioned into discussing the movie her video production teacher has been showing them on the horrific abuse and torture of the still-living animals at slaughterhouses. “Yes,” she replied.

“The reason I went vegetarian at 18 was for the same reason. I saw one of those movies too. Even when we were beef farmers, we never raised the one we were going to eat, because we’d get very attached to each of our cows, calves, and bulls.” Plus I had a friend who didn’t eat meat. “You’ll feel better, look better, and be a better steward of Earth!”

But I backslid 27 years later. In 2005 when “that man” joined our family, he took us down the evil path. He was a wolf, a wolverine, a lion—a carnivore. So being the dutiful little wifelet I wanted to be, I began serving roasts and other dead animals. To my amazement, I uncovered a gift I didn’t know I had for preparing these lifeless creatures. I experimented with herbs, spices (my specialty), and marinades I’d concoct. Ooo-la-la, I felt like hot chilies!

And by the next year when “that man” had moved on (with a boot in his arse), I could have gone back to my meatless ways, but Ivy had an affinity for animal carcasses. Being a dutiful little momlet, I continued to permeate our home with these odors.

Ivy also went on to reeducate me about corn’s omnipresence in our lives and as livestock’s unhealthy filler feed. I added that the reason I’ve rarely consumed corn for three decades is because it’s comprised of starch, sugar, and used as filler. When she agreed, I smiled broadly.

Could life be any better? She’s becoming more like me!

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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My Fish is Dead

My little fish flipped out again, but this time she was out too long. By the time I found her, Angel was harder than the last time and her tail had turned black.

Just the night before I was telling someone fish stories (see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/06/angels-nine-lives-i-pray.html): about the last time I found her crispy and two flip-outs just this week. She was like the Little Mermaid who wanted to grow legs.

As I slept that night, I worry-dreamed about the fish, and at 6:18 a.m., I flew out of bed, thinking I had heard her hit the floor again. But instinctually I let Shiloh outside instead of checking on my fish. When we came back in, there was Angel on the kitchen rug again. This time I knew she was dead, but because I’ve been able to revive her in the past, I put her in her bowl, held her upright, and prayed.

This time, though, her energy was completely different than all the other times she’d flipped out. Then, a minute later, she slightly moved her gill. Within a half hour, she could keep herself upright, and throughout the day, she improved and the black in her tail turned white again. But it was obvious, her color and personality had declined.

My friend looked at the fish, shook his head, and said, “She’ll be—”

“No! Don’t say it!” I cried.

His mom used to raise fish for Colorado Springs pet stores and had numerous aquariums that she constructed, so he knew what a dying fish looked like.

All night the worst thoughts pervaded my mind. At midnight Angel was barely alive. I had more strange dreams. By three she was sideways on the bottom.

I have never handled death well. My connection to everything is so strong that I feel subtle energy emanating from not only humans and animals but from trees and mountains. Sometimes all this stimulus is too much to deal with. It makes me wonder why I adopt animals…and I won’t anymore.

The night my Nana died, I parted company with her prior to her departure. She had raised me, yet I couldn’t handle being with her at that moment. I’m not sure I should feel guilty, so I justify my retreat. At the precise moment her spirit left her body, though, I was amidst a crowd and gravitated to a quiet corner where I sat and felt her pass.

When my little yellow Lab and almost human, Alex, transitioned May 20, 2000, I knew the exact second he died and came upstairs to find him. That experience is still one of my worst. Not sure I could even write about it. No matter who dies, I know I’m partially to blame. And I should have gotten my little fish a different bowl.

I will bury Angel in my rose garden and never forget her. I will still hear her noises—the small ploop, ploop sounds of her eating or blowing bubbles, the foraging between stones to find fallen food. I’ll miss looking into her bowl and greeting my little fishy-poo—’cause that girl had personality.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Testosterone

Practically all year they graze and drink together, walk side by side or in single file, keep each other company, and even lick each other…or themselves…because they can.

But when the leaves fall and the smell of crisp, dry foliage fills the air, they become, shall we say, frisky and downright mean toward each other—and anything else in their way.

Rutting season is here. It’s when I feel trapped in my house and don’t hike for fear a buck will charge, ’cause they never pay cash.

On a recent hike, one scoped me while Shiloh was off trail relieving himself. When my hiking buddy calmly said, “Turn around,” and I saw this 14-pointer leap over the wood fence aiming toward me, I almost relieved myself. Fortunately, he made an abrupt 120-degree angle and headed up the hill. What a relief.

And yesterday when a 5 by 5 (ten tines on his beams) looked through our garden-level window, his knees at my eye level, and he started scratching the ground, lowering his ears, and steering his rack toward me, I closed the blinds.

He then turned left, snorted at his contender on the other side of our fence, and Mr. Testosterone Two, in turn, wheezed his reply.

Elks bugle; mule deer wheeze through their noses like elephants trumpeting through their trunks (sec 0:17 on clip). Hormones drip from their noses. I saw it. As many times as these powerful animals have been in our yard, I have never heard them make that sound.

All day long, they engaged in a standoff, each on one side of our fence, posturing like little kids who have to pee. Hindquarters lowered, knees bent inward, small movements back and forth, eyes watering, then a quick rearing of the head with a snort.

What a tedious chore this hostile escalation is. Occasionally, one of the adversaries will lie down and drink a beer, while the other rolls his eyes and exhales, miffed because he was so close to engaging. These two are proof that evolution can go in reverse. They’re supposed to be challenging each other for female access, but yesterday no does were to be seen in our yard.

At dusk, with the smell of musk overpowering the aroma of cracked leaves, I heard the neighbor dog whimper and felt the earth move beneath my chair. “Quick!” I shouted to my daughter, and we ran to the living room window. There were Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, horns locked, buck snot flying, doing an intimate tango, and destroying one of my gardens.

Crack! Two large pieces of pottery holding my stand of parsley ruined. Over bricks and flagstone, scraping and dragging their hooves across the ground, they forced each other from one side of our yard to the other. While it was as exciting as the Thunderbirds flying over the house, it was clear how much these horny deer could destroy.

Finally, one sperm donor heard his mommy calling him home for dinner, so he extricated himself from the lovelock and sprinted east through the woods, his hungry rival trailing close behind.

So now my backyard looks like the war zone it was. Jack-o’-lantern remains are strewn about. Deep, muddy gouges slice through the carpet of green grass. Flagstone is scratched white and peppered with mud. Chunks of fur lie on the grass and rock.

And the dazed doofi didn’t even leave me an antler.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it! http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/11/testosterone.html

The Golden Years (my ass)

When I was young, it drove me crazy that older people—usually my boyfriends—would turn their conversation around to their health. Well, it wasn’t really about health, it was their lack of health. Dialogue gravitated to aches, pains, their wives, and what didn’t work that used to, how they used to be able to do something they no longer could, and how hard it was to keep up.

That was during a time when I’d rather have been talking about whose parties were coming up, sales I’d made, music I’d played, weekend jaunts I’d taken or planned, dinners, and sex. Now those topics were exciting.

Even ten years ago I said, “I’m so much more comfortable with myself as I get older. I look better, feel better, and have more confidence. But now? You know what I think of “the golden years”? They suck like a pool drain. I hate getting old. What makes it even harder is that I’m still a teenager in my brain.

But when I hit 49, the declining-health talk I’d formerly cringed at began to eek out of me when I spoke. It’s not as if I planned it, it simply emerged. I began talking about what was happening to my body: cells that needed to be destroyed, movements that weren’t being inspired, not feeling like a hottie, shrinking boobs. And whereas talking about bodily events used to lead to interesting discussions, the exchange became more of a dirge.

And you know that phrase “There are those who do it and those who talk about it”? I was talking about it. By choice. I got so self-conscious about all the purportedly uncontrollable* things going on in my body that I couldn’t imagine being too close to someone, not even the dog.

If this rings any bells with you, we’re part of the same club. The dreaded Silver Club, like a golf club—not the building, the silver rod with a mallet at the end to hit balls with. Hard, ’cause you’re so pissed off. How can you feel so young in your brain yet have a body that looks and acts so different, so old?

When I aged another year and joined Club 50, I decided to view the physiological changes as natural and not fight them. You know, start loving myself in this evolutionary stage. For 50, I figured I didn’t look too bad anyway. ’Course I need glasses. Plus the only person who sees me in the morning is my daughter, and she’s way past the shock.

So what do I do with the wrinkles around my eyes? Fill ’em with makeup. When the inner tube that used to be a stomach area gets too big, I wear long shirts. I use the little bumps that used to be my boobs as an excuse for not wearing a bra. Really, what’s the point?

When my pants feel tight, I don’t wear any. And because I work from home, when I look old, fat, and unacceptable, I can forgo being seen, except of course by the critical chick in the mirror. But I’m learning to ignore her criticism. (She-devil.)

So if you see a caulked-up, long-shirted, brassiereless gal wearing no pants, walking her dog, don’t think, Whoa! There’s a golden girl who’s lost her marbles. Think, teenager. Think, Woodstock. Think, titillating!

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

* purportedly uncontrollable: I’ll elaborate on this topic later.

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Soldier in Hiding

In 1953 my friend was stationed at the Fort Ord army base in Monterey, California. By that time, he’d already graduated from college with a bachelor’s in music, had lived through basic training, and was enrolled in the army’s clerk school.

After a short stint in the army, he and another private were promoted to a different unit and ordered to collect their personal items. Together they headed to the barracks to pack. When they arrived, they quite unexpectedly found a young private already in the barracks, which was forbidden without permission.

As my friend and his cohort gathered their belongings, they occasionally glanced to the barracks’ other side, trying to ascertain why the other private was there. When they heard voices outside, all three men turned and looked out the window and saw two captains approaching.

Frightened, the obviously prohibited private jumped into his wall locker and shut the door.

The captains strolled in, and conversation indicated there would be a changing of the guard. Protocol dictated that an outgoing officer review equipment and tour the buildings with the incoming one, so the assuming officer would learn the ropes.

As the outgoing captain walked and talked through the routine, he casually opened a locker for inspection—the one containing the scared private. Noticeably shocked, but maintaining his composure, the captain said, “Soldier! What are you doing in there?”

The young man sheepishly drawled, “I don’t know, sir.”

With that, and trying to suppress his laughter, the captain closed the locker door and continued with his instruction.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Bee Dipper

Adam’s Mountain Café has grown from a quaint, eclectic restaurant in Manitou Springs, Colorado, to a more cosmopolitan, cultured enclave in the old Spa Building, on Manitou Avenue, the street where it first began.

During the 25 years I’ve dined there, the chefs have continued to create amazing dishes with a classy flair. Primarily known for exquisite vegetarian fare, they also serve tasty dead animals too. With nuts, cheeses, herbs, spices, and sauces, they transform ordinary into an extraordinary expression of flavors.

On a cool summer day, our friend treated my daughter and me to lunch. It felt so good to get out of the house and have someone wait on me. When the waiter brought our beverages, I inhaled the steam from my warm peppermint tea and began to thaw.

I drew the ceramic honey bowl closer to me and removed the notched cover, so I could drizzle some sweet stuff into my tea. As I lifted the little wooden honey dipper, I watched the viscous liquid slowly cascade back into the bowl.

When the dipper was almost drained of its honey, I leaned in to get a closer look. It appeared something was stuck to the wood.

After my eyes focused better, I giggled and said, “Look! Isn’t this a clever idea. This honey dipper has a bee as a decoration to keep the honey from falling so fast.”

My daughter looked into the bowl, then inquisitively at me, “It is a bee, Mom,” she said, “but it’s still a great idea.”

So the moral of the story is, look closely at food or drink before moving it past your lips, because recently, in the middle of the night when I drank my water, I swallowed a spider.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Psychopaths, Spiders, and Hotrods

A reader called Hotrod responded to my “Internet Dating” story with some astute points that have made me reconsider my narrow viewpoint, so I encourage you to read his comment.

I would agree, psychopaths are everywhere, and there is no requirement for honesty, whether you meet someone in person or online. And I should know. I had a financially disingenuous guy in my life for a year. His deceitful behavior cause creditors to call my number and send collections notices to my mailbox continuously—after four years of my boot in his arse. It’s extremely disheartening to know that I could make such a poor choice, like if I shopped at Wal-mart.

Hotrod asked, “How is it that your hot tub has so many strangers happening by for you to meet?”

Thank you for asking. Here’s a story of only one stranger in my tub that I can recall. One eve I jumped into the hot tub for a little plumping. I slid into the lounge, closed my eyes, and meditated for a while, when I sensed something behind me. Slowly I turned around, and there, inspecting the color of my roots, was a sweet little gray jumping spider with furry legs.

I said hello with my eyes, six fewer than my new acquaintance’s, and he greeted me. Rather than acting frightened, he moved closer to the end of my big nose, which was still quite a distance from my eyes. His forward nature intrigued me, so I pulled my finger out of the water and moved it toward him. This made him jump back a few spider lengths.

He sensed I wasn’t a predator and was as curious as he, so we performed the meeting dance. Finally he indicated he had dinner to catch, made a right turn, and cascaded down the tub’s wall.

I was so fascinated by my little visitor that I went upstairs and learned about jumping spiders. Though their field of vision is narrow, it is incredibly sharp.

A characteristic I find most interesting is that they have an internal hydraulic system. They alter the pressure of their blood, which extends their limbs, and it enables them to jump 20 to 80 times their body length. Wherever the spider goes, it tethers a silk filament to whatever it is standing on, so if it falls, it can climb back up. [Taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jumping_spider] Cool!

And these little creatures are stalkers. They use the features God gave them to hunt, see, pounce, and bite. So next time I meet my acquaintance, I may give him a wider berth, in case our meeting dance is really a meating dance.

Here’s another informational site: http://www.everythingabout.net/articles/biology/animals/arthropods/arachnids/spiders/jumping_spider/

Now I ask, with an epithet like Hotrod, would you find cool chicks at the racetrack? With a name like Eartha, I look up to the sky.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Endurance

In 1953 my friend was in the army’s basic training at Fort Ord in Monterey, California.

I’m pretty certain I could not live through the rigors of basic training, and in fact, some have not, due to the strenuous endurance training our men in the military must survive before moving to the next step.

For eight weeks back in ’53, sergeants drilled our future soldiers who withstood heat, exhausting exercises, mentally fatiguing drills, and obstacle courses only the fit can complete. Without preparation, these can be near-death experiences.

On a hot, humid day, a platoon of men had to do double time during an all-day, on-foot exercise with their gear that included rifles weighing just over 10 pounds. Their burden was beyond tolerable and enough to kill an overheated, dehydrated man.

Miles into this exercise and after walking at a slower pace, the sergeant shouted to the men to pick up their speed, and they began marching at double time again. Many detested this sergeant, a large, surly black man, whose only emotion seemed to be irritation.

A young private, a white man, was noticeably fatigued and appeared to be close to exhaustion. Seeing this, the muscled, temperamental sergeant moved toward him, grabbed the young soldier’s rifle, and carried it for him in addition to his own, then ran by the private’s side for the rest of the exercise.

Such inspiration the sergeant’s action aroused, that all the soldiers had renewed energy and purpose and successfully completed their mission.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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