Earth Overshoot Day

August 20, 2013

"In less than nine months, we have now used more natural resources than what it takes the planet 12 months to produce. For the remainder of 2013, we will be living on resources borrowed from future generations.

This year Earth Overshoot Day—the approximate date human resource demands exceed nature’s budget—fell on August 20. Two days earlier than last year. In fact, since 2001, Overshoot Day has moved ahead by an average of 3 days per year."

We have a choice, each and every day, in what we purchase, what we eat, do, how we behave and what we are willing to talk about and the action we take.

Happy Birthday, Angelina!

August 19, 2013

From a young age, I have had a talent for making a scene. Thankfully I am not one to suck down a twelve pack or overindulge in drugs, or anything that would make the ruckus even more memorable for the audience.     

Immune to surprise of the goings-on upstairs, I spot the landlord and his hired Hispanic hand, drilling out the lock from the big red door on the front porch. Evidently the extended village has been moved-out, their meager belongings rest, abandoned in the dank, wet impossible-to-pry-open-and-closed-double-door-with-ease, garage. Evicted, forgiven but not forgotten, six eventual adults-to-be and two kids, one infant and promises made in the dark, that do not pretend to hold true. The anger and disturbing sleep activities that once caused me much distress, have seeped out of me, in a slow trickle, until gone without a discernable trace. I once felt obligation to the human ruins and now they are distant memories. What happened to them could have happened to anyone, even me. The air is expectant, the hope of good people arriving anytime now, with matching furniture, a sensible sound system, intact vehicles and a functioning, preferably electric lawn mower.

The cat appears miraculously cured with endless brushing, of what few teeth he has left in his little head, rigorous gum scrubbing and gentle wiping of his eyes, with drippings from Hydrogen Peroxide-laden gauze pads. His right weepy eye is cleared-up and he spends a lot of time now, wandering the new adobe, nails clicking on the hard wood floors, searching for something to bide his time. Grill nibbles hard on my fingers, as if he is a feature in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, and yet I do not have the heart to force him to try and conquer dry kibble. So, life is good, great, in fact, and that is that, for today.

Poo Dooty

August 18, 2013

There is little dignity in walking the dog ‘round the transitioning neighborhood. Invariably, as the innocent home owner opens the door to the front or back of the house, the dog takes a huge dump and I have to scoop it up, scraping down to dirt, taking a big divet of grass, as though we are visiting a golf course and the offending party (me) has to replace the turf. The cruelty continues since I threw on a pair of black socks to wear with my tennis shoes, like a ninety year old lady, who doesn’t give a damn what the neighbors think. I give a damn, though, and keep glancing up and down the lane, to make sure no hot guy is coming my way. I’m pretty sure there is a chance that I would be spotted by him, looking like a total dweeb. I should resort to preparing a bag with all essential items, like an overdue pregnant woman, who organizes for the race to the hospital for a delivery. I have to go, and make a check-list.

Bella's Big Adventure

August 17, 2013

Bella snuck through the hole in the fence and disappeared in the blink of an eye. She seemed so well responsive when I suggested that, if she ate all of her food, after swallowing the meds I shoved down her throat, the three of us could head out for a stroll around the neighborhood. I let the dogs out in the back, turned around to get the leash off the hook, and she was gone. I raced back into the house, to bolt out the front door, glanced to the left and right, down the street, across the boulevard, discouraged since there was no sign of a white rear end and tail. No jingle of a collar and tags. Nothing. I grabbed my cell phone, shouting at Tyrus to go find Bella, while frantically dialing my friend’s cell phone. Left a garbled message about a dog gone missing, requested a call back to tell me where Bella tends to run off to, please give me a clue as to what to do. I scooted around the block, peering down alleys and between houses, begging pedestrians for information about a little white dog run amok. The owner phoned back within the quarter hour, to tell me Bella would return to the house, in time. I should try hollering her name as loudly as I can, with accompanied clapping. It took less than five minutes, and she came through the yard, tongue hanging out of her mouth, unmoved by my obvious distress at her AWOL adventure. I could hardly scold her. Clipped on the leash and meandered down the street on our waylaid walk.

Re-tired

August 16, 2013

What is an appropriate gift for a retirement celebration? Wine, flowers, golf shoes, gardening knee pads, sweat pants with an elastic waistband, trilogy in a nice wooden box, shot glasses to accompany and a bottle of tequila. Hard to say.

Years ago, my daughter asked what grandpa does all day, since he no longer has to go into the office. He actually learned how to turn out a wooden bowl, cane the diningroom chairs, plant and fuss in the yard, volunteers with the Democrats in his county, goes to work-out at the gym daily, or rides his bike down the long country roads, fishes occasionally, or takes the canoe out for a spin.

There are plenty of couples having a meal together, or reading the paper over a cup of coffee at Dunn Brothers, scavenging at garage sales, augmenting heart-rates on morning walks, selecting pastries at ShopKo and taking long drives in their Toyota Prius.

A selected few of my friends are what we used to consider retirement age-65ish and still employed. They plan on being “at it” until at least 70. If the world were perfect, the retirement age would be decreasing, as to enjoy our golden years, sans a paycheck, less taxes, and soon enough, health insurance deductibles. Good thing we can depend upon Social Security in our old age. 

Wicked Wellstone

August 16, 2013

Crowds of ecstatic children surround me in the lobby of the Wellstone building in my neighborhood. I approach the Volunteer Coordinator to offer to facilitate a support group for young women, to create a sub-culture of self-aware individuals, who may have a greater chance at overcoming life’s greatest challenges. People need others to confide in, communicate complicated problems, solve threatening issues, trust, count-on, push and prod, as well as create a new and self-educated environment at home and work. Though the Wellstone representative disagrees with me, I refuse to give up this chance of being a part of the agency and supporting women to fulfill their dreams, goals and feel less at-risk in their sanded-down lives. If changing a system were easy, everyone would be doing it.

The cat, whose gums are slightly less red than yesterday, is stretched-out in my lap, warming me to the boiling point. Ty is lying on the hardwood floor next to the couch, waiting for the moment I make noise to get up, and head off to my bed. It has been a tiring day of little accomplishment, save a shared dinner, and walk with a friend who is kind enough to listen to my blather-on about a frustrating time in my existence. I am grateful for the large ears and wide shoulders surrounding me these days.

Big Buster

August 13, 2013

The board, Big Buster, is taller than I am, three quarters as wide and one half inch thick. Difficult to slide across the wood floor without a scratch, even tougher to get the heavy up over the back end of the car, and finagle it to the top of the rack. I pause more than a number of times, to gaze longingly at the front doors, sweeping up and down the block, with the hopes that someone would gallantly appear to help. Eventually, I manage to lift the bottom of the ungainly piece of wood up onto my sensitive toes, resting it on deck shoes, now camel with smudges across the top. Wincing with agony, I heave the scrap, gradually catching the edge of the car top carrier and sliding it, inch upon inch, up and over the midsection of the vehicle. Winch the mattress-firming ply down, tying unsailorlike knots in a jumble of rope. Ropes that crisscross every which way is more than a bit embarrassing, but more practical than having the board careen into the vehicle following behind, inevitably impaling the driver.

Taking back roads to Taelor’s new four-plex makes for a less strenuous ride, yet tedious with a loaded car, nonetheless. Fondly considering the Clampetts, I am grateful for not having to wrestle a slew of items on top of the car. An untidy heap of metal clanks around in the back, frame wrestled from its male/female grasp, lugged through the bedroom, dining room, living room, into the sun porch and plunked in the car through the gaping hatch.  

Setting up the bed in a space just twice the size of the mattress is a puzzling endeavor. Moving furniture around to accommodate turning the frame creates far more manpower. Moose, the cat, is in the middle, supervising and meowing her discomfort. The dresser is too large to fit in with the bed and desk so, out it goes. Student housing situations never change much, mishmash of furnishings from each individual’s “real” house crowd the narrow space. A never ending list of items still needed to make this environment a home is plastered to the refrigerator. I personally, keep a notebook in my purse (now that I realize posting it on my iphone is a mistake) for things I do not want to forget to track down at yard sales, Value Village, thrift stores, friend’s giveaway boxes or strewn along the side of the road. It may be road kill to some, treasures to others.