Sunday, September 26, 2010

Hermitgrrl revealed

I always wanted this blog to be anonymous, but that is silly since the only people who scope this know me. So here's a cool pic of me being a glow stick version of the statue of liberty. Oh dear. I suddenly sense hidden meanings which I did NOT intend. I am no statue of righteousness. LOL. Wearing a necklace my sistah got for me in PA. Love it. Mac's kick ass. They have this built in camera thingy that has all these awesome effects, like "thermal" which is what I used. It really brought out the glow sticks, which I obtained at a party next door. A lot of people were happy to donate their glow sticks to my hair, and, silly as it sounds, I felt kinda like a princess. Girl stuff, I guess. Ha Ha funny green alien girl princess. Anyway, a girl's allowed to show off her plumage once in a while, right? Shrug. Who knows? :)
Love to all.


I'd like to give a shout out to my Granny, who just turned 80, and grew up in the south yet refused to allow racism to permeate her or her kids minds, one of whom, obviously, gave birth to me.

Happy Birthday Awesome lady!

This week, to he@# with "should"

It's been a long week. I guess, it being Sunday, I should say "last week". But I'm kind of over 'should'. Like, I 'should' have left those babies to die. I 'should' have done so many things. We all have those thoughts- I'd make that a question, as if seeking affirmation, but like I said I'm casting aside the 'should' 's. Of course we all have regrets- hindsight is 20/20. I don't regret taking those babies in, nor do I regret turning them over to a rehabilitation center. I miss them, of course. Little Elvis, who always wanted to leave the building and /or sing (scream). Rocky, who was good at the bottle, Consuela who would fall asleep with her head tucked under herself in my arms. I did the right thing. I saved their lives, and turned them over to people who could further assist them in their reintroduction to nature.


Did you know that computers have "fingerprints" and "DNA" just like us? It's called an IP address. Traceable. You can put it in a data base, compare it to, say, emails you've received. Well. I had many a person warn me about rabies, etc. And I cared very much that people were worried about me; hell, I felt loved. But the other day I encountered a full uniform, shiny metal star on chest, AZ wildlife fish and game man. My gate was locked so he actually walked up my long, long driveway to find me. This wasn't an act of love. It was pure malice. So I started digging up IP's.

To digress, (my favorite way of telling stories, John would be proud) I have tried to walk the silk thread line between supporting my mom and not messing with other people. "Other" meaning the ones against her. All I want is for every one to be happy- haha, yeah, I'm an idealist, I know. But when "some one" reported me for 'harboring wildlife', I had to consider: who had I told? Who knew (and thought it bad) that I had rescued babies with the sole intent of saving them, rehabbing them.

I traced the IP addresses. Sure, I know who reported me, or at least have a good bit of connective evidence, but revenge? An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind. I'm sure as hell no saint, but I wish people could accept that instead of directing their hate at a random whipping boy they could spend their energy on making their own lives good. Why spend all your energy trying to hurt others, when you can spend that energy on making your life, and the lives you care about, better?

I heard a story on NPR once, told by a holocaust survivor. She went through mucho therapy and she came out with this: "I have the power to NOT forgive the Nazi's". That alone gave her strength. Because who doesn't want forgiveness? For even the tiniest thing, like, when I was 18 my Mom threw me a party, with actual "you're 18!" napkins and plates and I blew her off to go hang out with my friends. I've apologized for this many a time- for being a selfish, stupid teenager, and she has forgiven me again and again. She understands that I was just a, well, teenager. Full of self righteous independence.

What if my Mom had closed her door to me, not accepted my apologies? I would have withered inside, just like the Nazi's who found regret, not to mention self hate, and couldn't even seek redemption through apology. That is why it's so important to just let go of the hate. The self loathing. It's a slippery, down hill slope, self loathing. But if you keep giving out your love and kindness, instead of hate and revenge, maybe... we could all live happy?

yeah, it sounds like crazy talk. but isn't that sad? that it could be considered 'crazy' that i want everyone to be happy? Like i said, I'm no saint. I'm probably a big fat sinner. My intentions are good, though, and I think that is a goal worthy of striving for. Good intentions and happiness for all. Dang. I got all maudlin, didn't I. Like I said I'm an idealist. I hate drama, and I hate hate. See, I'm just as bad as the next guy. F#$@ hate. I'm starting to think that maybe all anyone needs is a big effin' hug and love. Wouldn't the world be better?

I'm thankful that my parents raised me, to not be in any way shape or form, racist. Or elitist. Or hateful in any way. I mean, I encountered the most racist man I've ever met, and I didn't engage in argument (or clock him over the head with a crowbar) I just pulled the "live and let live" card. Heck, maybe that makes me a pansy. But what if every one did that? What if he did that? Had his opinions, but went with the card I pulled, and kept up the exterior politeness?

Don't know.

I read an article about how people migrate towards 'like' people. But that's another tirade at another podium for another day.

I can honestly say that I wish all people well. If everyone was happy they would have no need to bring others down, so that is my wish: Happiness to everyone.

Even Gandhi had his bad moments. He said mean things to his own children. No one will ever be perfect, and I am far from there. But I still wish the best for everyone. Even those who wish me ill will. If they were happy they wouldn't want to hurt others. Damn I'm so bleeding heart syndrome. Well, that's all I got for now. I'm kind of still a "young'un" myself so you all may have already figured this stuff out. But i must say, I stick by the "can you look at yourself in the mirror and feel okay?" diagnostic. You know I don't mean your exterior. I'm going to go check right now.
Love to all,

Friday, September 17, 2010

hermit lady's baby raccoons

Well, we all know that every time I try to link something it FAILS. I blame blogger. So, you might not be able to google or youtube it for a few days, but there is a video of me an the baby raccoons in my garden.

whenever this IS searchable, look up "Hermit lady's baby raccoons"
hope y'all get to see them funny lil monkeys

Monday, September 13, 2010

5 of a kind

I guess, in poker, that only happens when you're playing with wild cards. But I like playing with wilds. Haha that is such a double entendre in this here post. I have quintuplets. That's 5, right? Yeah, 5 baby raccoons. Every single person tried to talk me out of it, but do you think I could leave those babies there to die?????? I sat down next to them, them and their funny monkey noises, and they crawled all over me and into my lap for warmth. Their little toe and foot pads were so cold! Seriously, I get the dangers, the likely hood of their mom coming back, blah, blah, blah. I'd rather die from rabies or plague than live without being able to look myself in the mirror, which, if they died 'cause I left them there, I wouldn't be able to do. And you know what? If we only live once, or reincarnate, or go meet up with St Peter, I want to be able to stand tall, as few regrets as possible, proud as I can with enough humility to not be a jerk. And I'd rather live a short happy life than a long miserable one, though I'm hoping for long AND happy heehee.
Would anyone leave 5 human babies alone on the shore of a lake, hoping they would make it through the coyote filled night or that their mom would come back? Don't think so! I am fiercely devoted to these babies survival, and I don't give a crap what anyone has to say negatively about it. I think it's already been established that I'm a bleeding heart. I'm gonna take care of these babies, and they are going to live and thrive, dammit. I lost Leo's babies, and now Leo herself, and even though it wasn't my "fault", I feel like I have a shot at redemption here.
And St. Peter, if you're listening, I'd like to come back as a bird. Thank you.

P.S. I actually worked on uploading and organizing photos the other day, but now my camera won't connect or be "recognized" by my computer. I have a love/ hate relationship with computers. But if I can figure out this latest glitch, I'll show you the cutest quintuplets and you will perhaps better understand why I had to save them. Stupid bleeding heart, I gotta get a Doc to look at that. But then again, if there were a cure, would I want it? I really don't know.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

no title yet GASP!

This is just an rough draft assignment for my english class I'm working on. The topic we had to pick was "the first time we did...."anything at all. So, here goes.

My first car was an '87 white Toyota minivan named Betsy. I didn't get a vehicle until I was 18, and even so I was still the first one in my group of friends to do so. However, that didn't mean I knew much more than the rules of the road. I didn't know how to change a tire, or that regular oil changes are as necessary as keeping gas in the tank (this may have contributed to the death of that poor beloved van). I even had a co-worker ask me once if I'd checked my blinker fluid recently, and for a few seconds I had to think about it. Then I socked him in the shoulder and he laughed and laughed.
One summer day, only a few months into my stint as a full fledged driver, I was at my friend John's house. The sun was so strong it made even the thickest leaves a translucent green and you could smell them, as if their pores were opening to breathe just as ours were to sweat. There was not a single breeze, but the beach was only ten miles away and we knew once we got down out of the mountains we could get some relief. There was no more having to ride our bikes, either, which would have had the opposite effect on our desire to cool off.
So John and I hopped in ol' Betsy, opened all the windows with a quick crank of the handles, and squirmed in the fuzzy seats. It was like putting on sweatpants, but as soon as we got the AC going we'd be okay. I turned the key and Betsy gave one feeble attempt to turn her engine over, and then nothing. I figured I'd just done it wrong, after all, I was still new at this whole driving thing. So I turned the key again, but this time all I heard was one sad little click. The sweat was really starting to pour now: I don't think they make fuzzy seats like that anymore, for good reason. At least the windows weren't automatic, but since there wasn't any breeze to speak of, it was still hotter in the car than out.
"I think the battery is dead," John suggested. Sounded reasonable to me. I knew the gas tank wasn't empty, but then, I didn't know what an alternator was or that there were fuses, which could have just as likely been the problem. I can say this now, perhaps slightly smugly, since I've killed a lot more cars since then. Which, come to think of, I shouldn't be proud of, but at least I've learned a few things.
"So, what do we do?" I asked, deferring to him as though as a male he might know more about this sort of thing.
"Well, if we had some cables, we could jump it...."
"But we'd need another car for that," I pointed out, and there wasn't one around. My house was a couple of miles away, and I could have called my Mom, but I was a cocky, independent teenager and I was going to prove it by figuring this out myself. By now it was just too hot in the car, so we got out to ponder the situation. For a brief moment the comparison of the outside air was almost refreshing. Our backsides were soaked from that brief sit in Betsy. Then our bodies re-acclimated and we were even more desperate to get somewhere cool.
"I have an idea," John said. (This later proved my presumption of male car knowledge exceeding that of females to be unfounded.) "I've heard that if you get a car rolling fast enough, like down a hill, you can jump start it that way," he said. Well, we happened to be on a hill, which I might say was lucky, unless I could've seen into the future.
"Then let's do it."
I was already aimed in the right direction, so I climbed back into that sweaty driver's seat and sat there for a moment while John climbed into the passenger side. At the bottom of the hill the road made a left turn, so I took a moment to consider before popping the E brake. At the turn there was a fence, and then a lawn, and then a house. I figured if the worst happened I'd bust a fence, but the car was going to start, right?
"Are you sure about this?" I asked. "I mean, have you actually seen this done, or know someone who's done it?"
"Oh, yeah," he said, casually waving his hand. Maybe he was just fanning himself, but I took it as a gesture of confidence. "My sister's Pinto dies all the time, and this is what she does."
"Okay." I took one last look around. I didn't want to do this when any other cars were coming: it was just a little country road, nothing like suburbia. No yellow line down the middle, no white lines on the side, and definitely nothing even close to resembling a sidewalk. Just the gray pavement stretching down... down... It wasn't really that long of a hill, but it was fairly steep. However, I hung out with guys mostly, and had a tendency to try to match their levels of testosterone with my own form of gutsy stupidity. There was no way I would back out of this. I wanted a running car, dammit, so I wiped my sweaty forehead and released the emergency brake.
Betsy started rolling slowly at first, and I tried the key a few times. Nothing.
"Wait 'till we're going faster," John said. About halfway down the hill, we seemed to be going pretty fast for being in a dead car, so I tried again. Still nothing. By now the turn was coming up pretty quick, and it seemed like the trees and houses were streaking by, flashes of green, dashes of gray and brown. I was starting to feel adrenaline buzzing through my limbs and out to to the tips of my nerves. My heart rate was was climbing in what seemed like direct proportion to the descent. I started pumping the brakes, but nothing happened, and I frantically twisted the key again and again.
Finally we hit the turn and I cranked the wheel. It locked. I smashed the brakes with all my strength and yanked the E brake and wonder of wonders, we missed the fence, slid with a terrifying, crunching, roar into roadside gravel, and managed to come to a stop. At this point the sweat pouring down us had nothing to do with the summer day. We sat there shaking a bit, then wobbled out of the car. The sun was like a spotlight, blinding us, bouncing off the white paint of the van and the fence I'd missed. My jaunty self assurance had leaked out of me faster than a wave might recede at the beach we wouldn't make it to. I was a kid again, a kid who hiked back up that steep hill to call my Mamma for rescue.
She came and looked at the battery. She had more car savvy than all my friends put together, which added to my lesson on sexual assumptions. There was a faintly sea foam green crystallized corrosion on the battery. It wasn't in need of a jump, it was in need of replacement. My first time I ever tried to jump a car, and it couldn't have even been jumped anyway.
"And honey," my Mom said, one hand over her her eyes and forehead, the other on her hip, elbow crooked. "This method only works with a stick shift."