Have you ever felt your head itch and reached through your hair to scratch and as you're blissfully scratching the head-itch, your fingernails hit a pimple you didn't know was there and in hitting the pimple, you inadvertently pop it, causing the pimple, and you, extreme discomfort to the point that your scalp feels like it's on fire and your whole body gets the owie-chills and when you try to part your hair and look in the mirror and find the zit so you can go EEEEWWWWWW!!!! NASTY!!!!! you actually end up wrenching out your back/shoulders, thereby ruining your afternoon?
I seem to have had one of those weeks.
T.G.I.F.
18 February 2011
17 February 2011
Wild, Wonderful West Virginians
I grew up in quiet, Appalachian suburbia. Let's face it, I may claim to be a West Virginia hillbilly, but I'm truly a city girl. Charleston isn't a big city, but it's West Virginia's biggest city and I spent my formative years in the lap of Chemical Valley. My parents weren't wealthy. Heck, they were more like holding-on-to-lower-middle-class-by-their-fingernails. It was our neighbors, the people who worked for Union Carbide, Rhône-Poulenc, and FMC, who were upper middle-class, who owned the suburban dream and who funded my public education with their tax dollars. It was the children of these people who were my friends. I had an easy childhood with two parents who loved me and were law-abiding citizens. None of my friends were trouble-makers, their parents worked high-paying jobs with the chemical companies, and we all took the buses to and from school while the coal barges and coal trains took our black gold (and its profits) elsewhere.
Just 40 minutes away from my hometown of South Charleston is Boone County, West Virginia. Just 40 minutes away from all of us living the Appalachian dream, there is a completely different world. It's a world of coal mines that can kill you in a heartbeat, coal companies who don't care if their miners live or die because they can replace one miner with two or three waiting in the wings. It's a world of live today because you may be dead tomorrow. It's a world of lying to, cheating, and stealing from your fellow man because King Coal and the government has lied to you, cheated you, and stolen from you your whole life and what other way is there? It's a world of pickin' and clickin'.
It's the world of the White family.
I remember watching the Dancing Outlaw on PBS when I was 13 and being completely astounded by the spectacle of Jesco White and his family. Six years later, Jesco was the half-time entertainment at the local Thanksgiving Day football game. His tap-dancing Elvis act was marred by a horrible sound system and the inability of the game announcer to play Jesco's requested music. Jesco then precluded his dancing with a drunken barrage of foul language directed to the announcer and the audience in general. That day will forever stick in my brain.
Now, 20 years later, I have watched the Wild, Wonderful Whites of West Virginia, a documentary about the White family, produced by Johnny Knoxville. The White family still takes my breath away. Yes, reader of mine, there are true hillbillies still living in the hollers of West Virginia and they are immortalized on film. Not all West Virginians are like the Whites. In fact, I don't personally know anyone from West Virginia like this family. But, they do epitomize all West Virginians to a degree. We will all give you the shirts off our backs and the last dollars in our wallets if you need it. But if you do us wrong? Well, then you may not want to stick around to witness the consequences.
Ladies and gents, I give you the trailer for the Wild, Wonderful Whites of West Virginia. It's currently playing on Showtime and available on DVD. It's 90 minutes of your life you'll never get back, but it's 90 minutes of peeking into the lives of some old-school, hell-raising, West, By God, Virginians.
(BTW, maybe watch this at home. Stuff is bleeped and fuzzed, but still. Just to be safe. Don't say I didn't warn you.)
Just 40 minutes away from my hometown of South Charleston is Boone County, West Virginia. Just 40 minutes away from all of us living the Appalachian dream, there is a completely different world. It's a world of coal mines that can kill you in a heartbeat, coal companies who don't care if their miners live or die because they can replace one miner with two or three waiting in the wings. It's a world of live today because you may be dead tomorrow. It's a world of lying to, cheating, and stealing from your fellow man because King Coal and the government has lied to you, cheated you, and stolen from you your whole life and what other way is there? It's a world of pickin' and clickin'.
It's the world of the White family.
I remember watching the Dancing Outlaw on PBS when I was 13 and being completely astounded by the spectacle of Jesco White and his family. Six years later, Jesco was the half-time entertainment at the local Thanksgiving Day football game. His tap-dancing Elvis act was marred by a horrible sound system and the inability of the game announcer to play Jesco's requested music. Jesco then precluded his dancing with a drunken barrage of foul language directed to the announcer and the audience in general. That day will forever stick in my brain.
Now, 20 years later, I have watched the Wild, Wonderful Whites of West Virginia, a documentary about the White family, produced by Johnny Knoxville. The White family still takes my breath away. Yes, reader of mine, there are true hillbillies still living in the hollers of West Virginia and they are immortalized on film. Not all West Virginians are like the Whites. In fact, I don't personally know anyone from West Virginia like this family. But, they do epitomize all West Virginians to a degree. We will all give you the shirts off our backs and the last dollars in our wallets if you need it. But if you do us wrong? Well, then you may not want to stick around to witness the consequences.
Ladies and gents, I give you the trailer for the Wild, Wonderful Whites of West Virginia. It's currently playing on Showtime and available on DVD. It's 90 minutes of your life you'll never get back, but it's 90 minutes of peeking into the lives of some old-school, hell-raising, West, By God, Virginians.
(BTW, maybe watch this at home. Stuff is bleeped and fuzzed, but still. Just to be safe. Don't say I didn't warn you.)
14 February 2011
Fartlekker
I just need to make an announcement here. I've come a long way in six months and I'm damned proud of myself.
Allow me to paint a picture. You're walking across the LA Fitness main floor and you look up at the staircase that gives access to the treadmills, elliptical trainers, and cycles. Coming down those stairs is a decent-looking 39-year-old woman. She's holding the railing as if she's a debutante being introduced to high society, but there's no glittering cloud of chiffon surrounding her. Instead, she's wearing yellow Adidas Supernova running shoes, black pants, a dark purple short-sleeved, sweat-stained shirt, and a black running cap. She's carrying a bottle of water and an iPod and wiping her extremely sweaty, red face with a purple towel. She looks whipped as she moves to the stretching mats, sucking on the water bottle as if her life depends on it. What you do see is her fatigue, but what you don't see is her inner satisfaction.
That picture? That was me this morning after completing my first fartlek (Swedish for "speed play") workout. What did I do during said workout? Well, I ran for 10 minutes, sprinted for three minutes with a one-minute slower run rest (do that six times), then cool-down run/jog for 10 minutes. I am here to tell you that it kicked my rear, but I did it. Six months ago, I couldn't even run one mile and this morning, I ran 4 miles for 45 minutes with interval sprints mixed in.
Yep, I'm here. I'm finally here. Now, excuse me while I go collapse into a boneless heap and curse those damned Swedes.
Allow me to paint a picture. You're walking across the LA Fitness main floor and you look up at the staircase that gives access to the treadmills, elliptical trainers, and cycles. Coming down those stairs is a decent-looking 39-year-old woman. She's holding the railing as if she's a debutante being introduced to high society, but there's no glittering cloud of chiffon surrounding her. Instead, she's wearing yellow Adidas Supernova running shoes, black pants, a dark purple short-sleeved, sweat-stained shirt, and a black running cap. She's carrying a bottle of water and an iPod and wiping her extremely sweaty, red face with a purple towel. She looks whipped as she moves to the stretching mats, sucking on the water bottle as if her life depends on it. What you do see is her fatigue, but what you don't see is her inner satisfaction.
That picture? That was me this morning after completing my first fartlek (Swedish for "speed play") workout. What did I do during said workout? Well, I ran for 10 minutes, sprinted for three minutes with a one-minute slower run rest (do that six times), then cool-down run/jog for 10 minutes. I am here to tell you that it kicked my rear, but I did it. Six months ago, I couldn't even run one mile and this morning, I ran 4 miles for 45 minutes with interval sprints mixed in.
Yep, I'm here. I'm finally here. Now, excuse me while I go collapse into a boneless heap and curse those damned Swedes.
09 February 2011
A Love Letter For Egypt
Dear Egypt,
I love you. I fell in love with you on March 2, 2000, when I stepped off the plane in Cairo and smelled the city, felt the heat, and heard the lilting sounds of Arabic. Your history had ensnared my mind from childhood, but you, Egypt, your vibrant colors and your wonderful people ensnared my heart on that day.
I will never forget Abdullah, the guide who took us inside Menkaure's pyramid, who called me Sugar and said Okey-dokey so many times I thought I was visiting my cousin in West Virginia. There was also a young lady named Iman who worked at our hotel and peppered us with questions about American life. We, of course, returned the favor and picked her brain about life in Cairo. She was amazingly sweet, a young 25, and hoping to soon marry her sweetheart. The next day, when Toni and I sought her out to give her some money for her wedding dress fund, she greeted us as old friends with clasped hands and the kissing of cheeks. I hope, with all my heart, that she is happy with a husband, a home full of children, and much love.
I'll never forget the man in Aswan, who, after selling Toni and I a Kit-Kat bar asked where we were from. I replied, America! And he said, with a hand to his heart, No! You are from the sun and she is from the moon! It was at that moment I discovered the extreme flirtatious nature of Egyptian men. Toni went on to receive more marriage proposals than we could count and me? Well, I was told over and over that my blue eyes were magic eyes. It's because of those sweet, amorous men half a world away that I never see blue when I look at my eyes in the mirror. I, instead, see magic and mystery and a spark of something not there before 2000.
Then, there was Mustafa, the Nubian gentleman who invited us into his home for tea and welcomed us like family. There was the guide at the pyramid of Djoser who made sure I didn't fall off the ledge I wasn't supposed to be on in order to get the perfect photo. He wasn't angry, just amused at the funny lady with her old, beat-up Nikon. I'll never forget the waiter at the Old Winter Palace in Luxor who laughed with delight when I showed him he could get ketchup out of the Heinz bottle by hitting the 57. I also can't forget Ahmed, the young man who worked on our Nile cruise boat. He and I discussed American politics (he admired Reagan and disliked America's involvement with Israel and Palestine), cinema (Die Hard was a favorite), and Egyptian women versus American women (In his humble opinion, we Americans are much too thin.). I wonder where he is right now.
My dear Egypt, I came for your pyramids, your tombs, your glittering artifacts, but I unexpectedly fell in love with your people. I want you to know peace, tranquility, freedom, and harmony. Seeing the protests gives me hope that those things are in your future. I only wish for each of you the absolute best and I can't wait to return, someday, with my children so that they, too, may have an Egyptian love affair of their own.
All my best,
Heather
I love you. I fell in love with you on March 2, 2000, when I stepped off the plane in Cairo and smelled the city, felt the heat, and heard the lilting sounds of Arabic. Your history had ensnared my mind from childhood, but you, Egypt, your vibrant colors and your wonderful people ensnared my heart on that day.
I will never forget Abdullah, the guide who took us inside Menkaure's pyramid, who called me Sugar and said Okey-dokey so many times I thought I was visiting my cousin in West Virginia. There was also a young lady named Iman who worked at our hotel and peppered us with questions about American life. We, of course, returned the favor and picked her brain about life in Cairo. She was amazingly sweet, a young 25, and hoping to soon marry her sweetheart. The next day, when Toni and I sought her out to give her some money for her wedding dress fund, she greeted us as old friends with clasped hands and the kissing of cheeks. I hope, with all my heart, that she is happy with a husband, a home full of children, and much love.
I'll never forget the man in Aswan, who, after selling Toni and I a Kit-Kat bar asked where we were from. I replied, America! And he said, with a hand to his heart, No! You are from the sun and she is from the moon! It was at that moment I discovered the extreme flirtatious nature of Egyptian men. Toni went on to receive more marriage proposals than we could count and me? Well, I was told over and over that my blue eyes were magic eyes. It's because of those sweet, amorous men half a world away that I never see blue when I look at my eyes in the mirror. I, instead, see magic and mystery and a spark of something not there before 2000.
Then, there was Mustafa, the Nubian gentleman who invited us into his home for tea and welcomed us like family. There was the guide at the pyramid of Djoser who made sure I didn't fall off the ledge I wasn't supposed to be on in order to get the perfect photo. He wasn't angry, just amused at the funny lady with her old, beat-up Nikon. I'll never forget the waiter at the Old Winter Palace in Luxor who laughed with delight when I showed him he could get ketchup out of the Heinz bottle by hitting the 57. I also can't forget Ahmed, the young man who worked on our Nile cruise boat. He and I discussed American politics (he admired Reagan and disliked America's involvement with Israel and Palestine), cinema (Die Hard was a favorite), and Egyptian women versus American women (In his humble opinion, we Americans are much too thin.). I wonder where he is right now.
My dear Egypt, I came for your pyramids, your tombs, your glittering artifacts, but I unexpectedly fell in love with your people. I want you to know peace, tranquility, freedom, and harmony. Seeing the protests gives me hope that those things are in your future. I only wish for each of you the absolute best and I can't wait to return, someday, with my children so that they, too, may have an Egyptian love affair of their own.
All my best,
Heather
06 February 2011
Dialog, Part 31
OR
YEP, IT'S MY 39th BIRTHDAY
Miss-Miss: Let's play I-Spy! OK. I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing purple!
Me: Hmmmm, the pillow?
Miss-Miss: NO! The sunroom!
Me: OK. My turn. I spy, with my little eye, something pink.
Miss-Miss: My shirt! *Giggling* I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing gray!
Me: *Puzzled* Huh. OK. *Looking around.* The TV?
Miss-Miss: NO! Your hair!
Me: *Facepalm*
Yeah, I'm getting older. As of this moment, I have entered the final year of my 30s. There are only 365 more days left to be as close to "Young and Hip" as I'll ever be. All too soon, I'll be knocking on the door marked "Old Fart."
Being on this cusp is weird. There's a constant inner monologue going on that I, at times, wish would shut the fuck up. Moments when my brain screams Run that extra mile, woman! It's good for you! and my knees and hips reply Oh, sure. Go right ahead, honey. But we'll make sure you pay for it all next week. My brain and body seem to be going their separate ways, constantly. Like, for example, my brain screams Oh! YEAH! Feel that rhythm! Dance, baby! and my ears scream Turn that crap down! Do you think the entire neighborhood wants to listen to that garbage? I swear, it's like I'm a psychic medium but the only spirit I'm channeling is my father. And finally, there are those moments of watching the neighborhood kids play kickball in our cul-de-sac, using our driveway as home plate, when I think Oh, looks like they're having a great time! and yet I find myself clamping my hand over my mouth because all it wants to shout is Get off my lawn you pesky, good-fer-nuthin' kids!
I don't get it, this dichotomy of getting old. My brain is convinced, absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I'm 19*. But I know when others look at me, especially those who truly are 19, that I'm not. I see it in the mirror when I look at those gray hairs that so prominently stand out to Miss-Miss, and I feel it when I do run that extra mile.
I don't like it. But, I'm going to fight it, every damned step of the way. I will not age gracefully. I will age fighting.
So, happy birthday to me, dammit, and my ability to be 39 in body, but 19 in spirit!
* I would have to say that looking back at all of my ages, 19 was my favorite. I was out of the house, away from the parents, in college, had a bunch of friends, and was having the time of my life, all still with a happy view of the world. Yeah, 19 was the best.
YEP, IT'S MY 39th BIRTHDAY
Miss-Miss: Let's play I-Spy! OK. I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing purple!
Me: Hmmmm, the pillow?
Miss-Miss: NO! The sunroom!
Me: OK. My turn. I spy, with my little eye, something pink.
Miss-Miss: My shirt! *Giggling* I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing gray!
Me: *Puzzled* Huh. OK. *Looking around.* The TV?
Miss-Miss: NO! Your hair!
Me: *Facepalm*
Yeah, I'm getting older. As of this moment, I have entered the final year of my 30s. There are only 365 more days left to be as close to "Young and Hip" as I'll ever be. All too soon, I'll be knocking on the door marked "Old Fart."
Being on this cusp is weird. There's a constant inner monologue going on that I, at times, wish would shut the fuck up. Moments when my brain screams Run that extra mile, woman! It's good for you! and my knees and hips reply Oh, sure. Go right ahead, honey. But we'll make sure you pay for it all next week. My brain and body seem to be going their separate ways, constantly. Like, for example, my brain screams Oh! YEAH! Feel that rhythm! Dance, baby! and my ears scream Turn that crap down! Do you think the entire neighborhood wants to listen to that garbage? I swear, it's like I'm a psychic medium but the only spirit I'm channeling is my father. And finally, there are those moments of watching the neighborhood kids play kickball in our cul-de-sac, using our driveway as home plate, when I think Oh, looks like they're having a great time! and yet I find myself clamping my hand over my mouth because all it wants to shout is Get off my lawn you pesky, good-fer-nuthin' kids!
I don't get it, this dichotomy of getting old. My brain is convinced, absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I'm 19*. But I know when others look at me, especially those who truly are 19, that I'm not. I see it in the mirror when I look at those gray hairs that so prominently stand out to Miss-Miss, and I feel it when I do run that extra mile.
I don't like it. But, I'm going to fight it, every damned step of the way. I will not age gracefully. I will age fighting.
So, happy birthday to me, dammit, and my ability to be 39 in body, but 19 in spirit!
* I would have to say that looking back at all of my ages, 19 was my favorite. I was out of the house, away from the parents, in college, had a bunch of friends, and was having the time of my life, all still with a happy view of the world. Yeah, 19 was the best.
04 February 2011
The Ty-man He is the 39
This morning the Ty-man awoke to the final year of his 30s. Wearing his "Don't Mess With Texas" t-shirt and looking generally disgusted to not be sleeping in on the anniversary of his birth, he smiled as each of our kids wished him very enthusiastic happy birthday wishes. I'm sure when he blows out his candles later today, he'll be dreaming of a conservative America full of shining, happy people. That or a 2012 Corvette C7.
For two whole days, I'm married to an older man. A slightly older disgruntled, yet content, Republican who was recently named the President of his family's company.
Ruffles and Flourishes, people, with a little Hail to the Chief mixed in for good measure.
Happy 39th birthday, my love!
For two whole days, I'm married to an older man. A slightly older disgruntled, yet content, Republican who was recently named the President of his family's company.
Ruffles and Flourishes, people, with a little Hail to the Chief mixed in for good measure.
Happy 39th birthday, my love!
02 February 2011
Natural Selection
A couple of weeks ago, I went to my annual eye doctor appointment and came face to face with my own mortality. Allow me to explain.
I have been a patient of Dr. Gottlieb's for 15 years. Since becoming Mrs. Ty-man and making Georgia my permanent home, Dr. G is the guy who has poked around my eyeballs for over a decade. And we're pretty comfortable with one another. Not Oy, mate, take a look at this goiter. comfortable, but we talk about our kids, latest book reads, and scuba diving. He's also honest with me about what's going on with my eyes.
I've always known my prescription is strong. I'm extremely near-sighted and wear -5.75 prescription contact lenses in both eyes. But, I wanted to know my vision. You know, like I have 20/20 vision! or I'm a fighter pilot and can see 20/10! When I asked Dr. G what my vision is, he laughed. Yes, he laughed. It was more of a controlled snort followed by some spittle, but a laugh nonetheless. And what he said was close to the following.
If you were anyone else, I wouldn't tell you. But it's you. So, you're somewhere between 20/400 and 20/500, which means whatever the normal person sees at 500 feet you see at 20. And you don't see much. If this were prehistoric times, you wouldn't have lived past childhood. If this were Medieval Europe, you'd probably be home bound or the local seamstress. Something like that. Your life would have been very limited and you would have been considered by the populace as blind.
Wow. Just... wow. I mean, I know I'm all batty blind when my glasses are off or my contacts out, but I never think about it because I have the capability of 20/20, or close to it, vision during my waking days. I'm a chick with a cane at night when there's a child crying and I'm banking off the walls trying to get down the hall without toppling down the stairs. But... natural selection? I'd never thought of my poor vision as such. My vision, or lack thereof, would have meant my early demise in any time before now. Wow.
Just two days later, I was out for my usual neighborhood run, the only thing on my mind was a rewarding cup of coffee after three long miles. Quite a distance up the road, I saw what looked like a dog running across and jumping toward the woods behind my neighborhood. Because I didn't know said dog or if it was friendly, I switched to the opposite sidewalk and kept an eye on the woods until I had passed. I didn't think anything more of it until I returned home 30 minutes later and neighbor Jodi proceeded to tell me about the coyote which hung out in our cul-de-sac while I was gone. It showed up shortly after I saw it cross the road.
And all I could think was if I left the house a few minutes earlier and if time had been a few thousand years ago, I would have been naturally selected on my morning run.
Are you there, Bausch + Lomb? It's me, Heather.
I have been a patient of Dr. Gottlieb's for 15 years. Since becoming Mrs. Ty-man and making Georgia my permanent home, Dr. G is the guy who has poked around my eyeballs for over a decade. And we're pretty comfortable with one another. Not Oy, mate, take a look at this goiter. comfortable, but we talk about our kids, latest book reads, and scuba diving. He's also honest with me about what's going on with my eyes.
I've always known my prescription is strong. I'm extremely near-sighted and wear -5.75 prescription contact lenses in both eyes. But, I wanted to know my vision. You know, like I have 20/20 vision! or I'm a fighter pilot and can see 20/10! When I asked Dr. G what my vision is, he laughed. Yes, he laughed. It was more of a controlled snort followed by some spittle, but a laugh nonetheless. And what he said was close to the following.
If you were anyone else, I wouldn't tell you. But it's you. So, you're somewhere between 20/400 and 20/500, which means whatever the normal person sees at 500 feet you see at 20. And you don't see much. If this were prehistoric times, you wouldn't have lived past childhood. If this were Medieval Europe, you'd probably be home bound or the local seamstress. Something like that. Your life would have been very limited and you would have been considered by the populace as blind.
Wow. Just... wow. I mean, I know I'm all batty blind when my glasses are off or my contacts out, but I never think about it because I have the capability of 20/20, or close to it, vision during my waking days. I'm a chick with a cane at night when there's a child crying and I'm banking off the walls trying to get down the hall without toppling down the stairs. But... natural selection? I'd never thought of my poor vision as such. My vision, or lack thereof, would have meant my early demise in any time before now. Wow.
Just two days later, I was out for my usual neighborhood run, the only thing on my mind was a rewarding cup of coffee after three long miles. Quite a distance up the road, I saw what looked like a dog running across and jumping toward the woods behind my neighborhood. Because I didn't know said dog or if it was friendly, I switched to the opposite sidewalk and kept an eye on the woods until I had passed. I didn't think anything more of it until I returned home 30 minutes later and neighbor Jodi proceeded to tell me about the coyote which hung out in our cul-de-sac while I was gone. It showed up shortly after I saw it cross the road.
And all I could think was if I left the house a few minutes earlier and if time had been a few thousand years ago, I would have been naturally selected on my morning run.
Are you there, Bausch + Lomb? It's me, Heather.
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