EcoHearth: Come Home to the Earth

One of the joys of living in Nowhere, New Mexico, is the number of UFO sightings that take place here. Apparently abductions abound, also.

Nice! One can dream, right?

A whole new universe to explore. Traveling around on a spaceship that probably doesn’t burn fossil fuel. Time off from work. Little ‘green’ men who presumably already know about tofu, water conservation and wind power. Sounds good, no? Read on…

There’s a certain evil substance I’m haunted by. It’s heinous for my mind and body, bad for the planet, must jet thousands of nautical, polluting miles in order to reach me here in the southwestern USA, and is… horribly… bright yellow. Few Homo sapiens look good wearing yellow, and even fewer look good chewing great gobs of yellow dye #230 between smacking, enthusiastic jaws. Read on…

When attending dinner parties with ‘others,’ that is, people with wealth and stature and gorgeousness (the latter possibly financed by their wealth and/or stature), I can only recommend The Nod. As a last-ditch option to suicide.

Shrill talk doesn’t work. Honest talk doesn’t work. Hiring Michelle Obama to stand in your stead might work, though I have no experience to this end.  I suggest The Nod. Read on…

When you work in non-profit venues—that is, something low-impact or even beneficial for the earth—it’s easy to get disillusioned, even bitter, with human nature. I know I do.

I mean, okay, some couples wake up and smile at one another and say, “Good morning, dearsexybearchocolate-toes! It’s a beautiful day! I feel great about the world! I feel great about me! And I feel great about you since you are great enough to be with me!” Read on…

I awake this morning, perfectly coiffed, made-up, smiling, well-rested, sun-yellow gown beautifully reflecting the light from the south window. I’m white-toothed, clear-skinned, gorgeous, dry in my crisp, ironed Pratesi sheets—in front of my roaring fireplace, casually observing the kindly, rustic goings-on beyond the filmy, white, sunlit, canopy curtains.

My happy, lovely, quintuplet housekeepers are playing harps as per usual—all singing to me how much they adore doing my shitwork. The cleaning, ironing, cooking, dog-poop picking-up and farming are done. Read on…