Confessions of a Coal Miner's Granddaughter

Christmas Ornaments, Part 2

2011-12-13T00:00:00.002-05:00

My great-aunt Courtney Berkley Wheeler lived to the ripe old age of 102. She passed away in 1999 after outliving her husband, all eight of her siblings, three of her six children, and numerous other close and distant relatives. She was my favorite Berkley relative and to say she was a pistol was an understatement.

One Christmas in the early 1980s, I received this Christmas ornament in the mail:

It was, and still is, the most obnoxious, old-school satin Christmas ball. And it's pink. Pepto pink. And it was made by my great-aunt Courtney. She made all of these for her great-nieces (pink) and great-nephews (blue). Did I mention there were 67 of us greats? And she made these when she was in her 80s?

Did I mention she also raised not only six children, but also raised her grandchildren of the three children who died young due to polycystic kidney disease? The same disease that claimed her husband? Did I mention that around the time she made these 60-odd Christmas ball ornaments that she burned herself while trying to light her wood stove with gasoline? And that the only reason she passed away was she lost her sight, then her hearing, and just didn't want to exist in a world with nothing to see or hear?

Chuck Norris couldn't touch this woman.

My great-uncle Earl, Courtney's younger brother, described her in the following way in his book The Tenacious Berkeley, Berkleys:

Courtney, the beauty of the Berkley mountain, had more young men vying for her attention than birds in a cherry tree. The timber business, when the virgin timber was cut from the Berkley place, brought young men from far and near; and they all met at the Berkley place on the least provocation. One banjo player, Roy Wheeler, was handsome and determined. He and T.J. (Courtney's father) did not see eye to eye but that did not deter him. Finally, he talked Courtney into eloping. It was a rainy night and he had two horses tethered in a thicket near the house, and he waited at a designated spot until Courtney got a break and could leave the house. They rode to the railroad station in the rain and traveled to Catlettsburg, Kentucky, where they were married on September 17, 1912. It was fortunate indeed that T.J. did not apprehend them before they got away. He was lower than a snake's belly in a swamp for some time, but as usual, he accepted it and made the best of his fury without permanent damage.

When she celebrated her 100th birthday, it was a whirlwind day and I was lucky to get a quick picture with her.

The next year, on her 101st birthday, I was actually able to sit down and talk to her. It had been years since we had seen one another* and, at this point, she was blind. I asked her Aunt Courtney, do you know who I am? and she immediately responded, eyes bright, Oh my! You're Heather! Simeon's granddaughter! We spoke at length and caught up on family gossip and our lives. I think she may have even flirted with the Ty-man.

I absolutely loved her and I love my Pepto Pink Aunt Courtney Christmas ball. It hangs on the Christmas tree in a place of honor, near the top, each and every year.

*The year before, when our picture was taken, was such a crazy, busy day that I don't think she knew whether to wind her butt or scratch her watch. She spent most of the day bewildered at the crowds. I was bewildered, too, and I was only 25.

Christmas Ornaments, Part 1

2011-12-12T00:00:00.004-05:00

In order to make it through the holidays without expending too much brain energy coming up with original blog posts, I thought it might be a good idea to document some of the cooler ornaments on our Christmas tree before the dog eats them all.

Our Christmas tree is like a book and the ornaments tell a story. They describe the funkiness of the 1970s with trippy little felt elves, my fetish with everything Opus, and the presence of our children with cute school-made ornaments they'll be embarrassed over in years to come. I don't have what I call a "Macy's Tree." My tree would never make it into an issue of Architectural Digest but it makes our family smile. One of my favorite things to do is to sit in my living room, (lights out, Christmas lights on) and look at all of the ornaments, remembering how I happened upon each and every one.

This ornament is one of my favorites:

My brother and his wife were stationed in Germany for three years and Vonda would always hit up the local Christkindlmarkt for gifts. Their last year in Germany, Vonda sent me my Jack-o-lantern scarecrow Christmas ornament. I have to admit that I'm a lover of all things Halloween. It's my favorite holiday and when I saw this ornament, I squeee'd because now, I can have a little bit of Halloween mixed in with my Christmas every year.

I'll be bringing more CMG ornaments in the days to come. Hope you enjoy them as much as we do!

Never Hang a Dead Body on Your Christmas Tree

2011-11-30T00:00:00.002-05:00

OR

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS

You guys know about our new dog, right?

Did you know that dogs eat anything? And when I say anything I mean anything/everything/ZOMG they'll eat that?!?

I did not know this, but I do now.

Picture it. I was in my kitchen, loading up the advent calendar with treats for the kids. The house was quiet, kids were at school... and I heard a noise. It sounded sort of wet and crunchy and it was coming from behind me. I looked but there was nothing behind me that could make that noise. Huh.

So I kept working. And I kept hearing it. The sound of something being eaten. After five minutes (Nope. I'm not really bright before noon.) of looking for the source of the crunching I found Macy in the kids' playroom. At first, I thought she had discovered a powdered doughnut one of the kids may have dropped. And then I realized what was going on.

She had eaten almost all of a starfish Christmas ornament that had hung on the kids' Christmas tree. It was an actual dried starfish I purchased in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and said starfish was painted with a snowy-white paint that had a faint glitter finish. Girlfriend had feasted on this dead animal with a FULL BOWL of food just a few feet away.

First I was all O_o. And then I was all GUH! MAAAA-AAACEEEEEE!!!!! And then I was all Where's that frakking vet's phone number?!?

Actual conversation:

Vet: Animal Hospital of Boondocks Atlanta! How may we help you?
Me: MY. DOG. JUST. ATE. A. STAAAARRRRFISH!
Vet: Um.
Me: Yeah. I know! It was an ornament on my kids' tree! AND SHE ATE IT!
Vet: A real starfish?
Me: Damn skippy.
Vet: Hold on... OK. The doctor wants to know where you got the starfish from.
Me: South Carolina.
Vet: But, is the starfish from South Carolina or was it marked "Made in China"?
Me: Nope. Nothing. Why?
Vet: Starfish from Asia can contain a toxin that can cause paralysis.
Me: No shit! Even when it's dried and several years old?
Vet: Yep.
Me: Fucking China.
Vet: You need to bring her in for an X-ray to make sure she chewed up the starfish. If there are big, sharp chunks, we'll need to operate to get those out.
Me: Uh.... What if I don't.
Vet: Just watch her for vomiting and diarrhea and then bring her in.
Me: Yeah. We'll be there in five.

The X-ray revealed that the starfish had been well-chewed and our dog had to devour four cans of sticky, wet, smelly high-fiber canned food to coat the starfish and force her to poop. A bunch.

I'm still waiting for this monster poop. You may see headlines about "Suburban Atlanta Dog and Owner Buried In Mound Of Crap."

What went through Macy's mind yesterday?

Ooooo! Yummeh star-thingy!
I LIKE this yummeh star-thingy!
Why is the tall lady yelling my name?!?
Hide under the big bed!
OH! We're going for a ride! GOODY!
Looky! I get yummeh stinky food! LOTS of yummeh stinky food!
That was fun! I need to eat more yummeh star-thingys! I get to ride in the car and eat stinky food! I LOVE MY NEW LIFE!

What have I learned? Don't hang dead bodies on the Christmas tree.

What did Macy learn? Not a damned thing.

Saying Good-bye

2011-11-26T00:00:00.004-05:00

Twenty-one years ago, my naivety was stripped away and I learned the truth of the adult world. Even at the age of 18, a legal adult and yet still an emotional kid, I thought adulthood was this magical stage when everyone's head suddenly straightened out, no one mistreated anyone else, and it was this magical point in your life when you kissed those fickle, catty teen years good-bye and became *mature*.

Twenty-one years ago I learned that not only could adults screw each other over, they could do it to those of us who were still kids.

The woman who broke my heart all those years ago, and showed me that adults could be pretty shitty, just passed away over the Thanksgiving weekend. And there's been an outpouring of grief and emotion and loss from those who knew her.

But not from me.

When I heard about her death, the events of those many years ago came flooding back with clarity and since I had accepted what had happened and moved on, I moved on again.

Then, I began to see the posts on Facebook of the people who knew her as well. And the outpouring of love was staggering. So many people called her their second mother, they recalled all the times she had helped them through rough times, how she had shown them unconditional love and support, and how they would all miss her terribly.

And I began to get upset. How come they all got this wonderful, caring, loving woman and I got the shaft? Why, due to a simple twist of fate, did this have to happen? Her daughter and I were members of the same organization and due to seniority, my name was ahead of her daughter's for a state office appointment. She changed the rules the following year and put her daughter's name ahead of mine. And I watched my years of service and all my hard work swirl down the drain. I get that she was watching out for her daughter and putting her interests first, which is what all mothers are supposed to do, but not at the expense of others who have worked just as hard for longer.

So I, too, mourned her passing this weekend, but for different reasons. They all will miss her and what she was for them. I mourn and miss what never was for me.

Why We Crate Our Kids

2011-11-21T00:00:00.001-05:00

OR

HOW WE ENDED UP WITH A DOG

What the Hell?

I know, I know. I've never said it out loud, but I'm a cat person. This does not mean that I shun all dogs and ignore them outright. If your dog is cute and not actively trying to separate my arm from my body, I will pet and love on said dog until it's time for me to leave. And then, I will go home and thank God that all I have to do is scoop a litter box and not walk in the freezing rain to watch my dog take a dump. Oh, and? SLOBBER! Ick. And that whole "incessantly licking one's genitalia" just escapes me.

But then, there's Macy:

Macy showed up unannounced at our kids' school and after spending a day in their class, it was discovered she had a microchip and 24 hours later, her family picked her up. And then 24 hours after that, the wife called to say that the husband wouldn't let her keep the dog.

Hrm.

We decided to take her in because she was already housebroken, up-to-date on all her shots, and the best part? She sat in a room full of little kids for six hours and never once growled or tried to bite at anyone.

After one day with her, I had decided that no matter what, we would keep her forever because of what I saw and discovered. She made it from Dallas, GA to Acworth/Kennesaw, about 16 miles, with no tears or scrapes on her pads. She didn't walk there, she was dropped off. When she was discovered, she had no collar, yet when she was turned over to us, she had a well-used collar on her neck. When Ty-man took her out to our fenced-in backyard to run and play, she cowered off to the side of our house when he took off the leash.

This dog was neglected by her previous family and purposefully dumped.

Supposedly, when these people adopted her in February, the rescue organization stated that her previous owners had abused her. And it's obvious that that was the case because when I hollered at the boys yesterday to come to dinner or suffer the wrath of Mama, she slunk out of the sunroom, ears back, as if she were mentally preparing herself for a beating.

What. The?

This dog doesn't bark. I've heard her whine in her sleep and whine at Andy. She hasn't once messed in the house even through the trauma of being passed off to strangers. She follows us everywhere, walks down the sidewalk like a pro, and rolls over on her back after wagging her butt because she's so happy to see you after a whole five-minutes of not seeing you.

Why? Why in the damned world are people so mean and nasty? I don't get it. She's the most awesome dog I've ever met and I'm not being biased here. I mean, I'm already biased for cats. I should be all She's OK but my Andy rocks your face off! And yet I'm not, because she's awesome.

But the best thing about having Macy as a member of our family? She ignores her crate, but the kids don't.

I think I'll turn their bedrooms into clothes closets and just buy them each a crate.

My name is Heather and I'm a dog-lover.

Wow. It's Really Dusty Around Here.

2011-11-15T00:00:00.001-05:00

August 17th. That was the date of my last post.

Is anyone even subscribed to this damned feed any more?

*Wiping off the cobwebs*

Who. The. HELL? Picked out this pattern? Oh, yeah. Me.

For the last year, I've been a mama who has been trying to take care of myself physically. When my doctor put me back on my insulin-controlling meds last year, I knew that I also had to start exercising. And run I did. I've logged quite a few miles and become intimately acquainted with a 4-mile bike trail that kicks my running rear end. I've also been lifting weights and Zumba-ing all over most of Woodstock. I'm not saying I'm at the gym hours upon hours every day, but just that 30 to 60 minutes each morning slays me.

Physically, I'm at the top of my game.

Mentally, I'm the equivalent of that dead toad Ty-man peeled off the driveway yesterday morning.

But, hey, my insulin is again my bitch.

Dear Pancreas,
Suck it.
Love, Me

(BTW, if this post makes no sense? It's because Ty-man turned on Thor. How is a girl like me supposed to write a sensible post when a boy like Chris Hemsworth is bulging all over my TV screen? *Sigh*)

I miss the old snarky, writing me. I'll drive the kids to school and think Oh! Oh! I've got to write this down. Or I'll be at the grocery store and I'm all DANG! My head is so FUNNEH! By the time I'm home, the funny has frittered away to nothing. I look out at my blogging friends and think, She's traveling the country, he's working on his stand-up comedy, he's collecting money for charity, she's educating the masses about being an American Muslim, he's helped create this awesome magazine and they're all writing.

And I'm here. Watching re-runs of Big Bang Theory and thinking about writing.

So, I'll write. I've got a book of writing prompts and I've got stupid things that I think are funny and if any of you are still out there, I'll write for you. If you're all gone, well, that's OK too. I'll write it anyway.

Reboot of my brain in 3... 2...

Pretty

2011-08-17T00:00:00.001-04:00

There's a lot of ugly shit going on in the world. What's new, right? But with the realization that my kids are growing up way too fast being the cherry on top of this crap sundae, I decided that I need to share these photos from our recent family beach vacation with you. They make me smile, chill, and relax, and I hope you do the same.

(OK. That last one wasn't taken on our vacation but rather yesterday before we left for the first day of kindergarten and the first day of the last year of pre-k. Lord help us.)

End... and Begin

2011-08-16T00:00:00.001-04:00

For five years and eleven months, I've been schlepping my kids in and out of car seats.

I HATE car seats. I know they're designed to keep my kids safe and that's all they're meant to be, but seriously? I have cussed my way through many days of travel with these things. Last summer, the kids finally gained enough strength in their hands to clip themselves into the seats, but they never mastered getting themselves out. And all summer long I have effed and bs'ed my way through numerous errands.

The kids start school today (twins are in kindergarten - O.M.G!!!) at the same Montessori school, but with two new teachers and said teachers are keen on all the kids being as independent as possible. This means no more mama unstrapping kids; they need to be able to do it themselves.

On Sunday evening, Ty-man switched out the old car seats for the new booster seats and set the blasted, evil, hated car seats on the curb for landfill fodder.* As I stood outside and watched a stage of my kids' lives end, I talked to Neighbor Jodi.

Jodi: Aren't you going to take a picture of those?
Me: Hell, no!
Jodi: But this is an event! They're not little kids anymore! They're growing up!
Me: Jodi, I hate those fucking seats. I'm not going to cry over three pieces of kid equipment that gave me nightmares for five damned years!

And then she berated me and made me take a picture.

So, I took the friggin' picture.

I'm not sad the car seats are gone. I'm ecstatic. What I'm sad about is that my daughter wanted her hair much shorter for the beginning of school. I'm sad that my twins are just a year away from elementary school. I'm sad that J-man is almost two years younger than the twins but is just as mature as they are.

I'm sad that sooner rather than later my weekend morning cuddles will stop, that the hugs and kisses will slowly disappear, and that the unsolicited I love yous will quiet.

The car seats? Pfffft. Please. I hope they find a new home, protect some sweet kids, and continue to get cussed at every day by tired, harried parents.

I just wish I could keep all the great parts of my kids being this age and never see them go.

* SERIOUSLY! Why can't I sell my damned car seats?!? I hate this litigious society we live in. I should be able to have the damned seats inspected, certified that they're still doing their job of confining little humans, uncomfortably, in a minivan, and sell the damned things for 50 bucks a pop. INSTEAD, I have to set them out for the garbage man, only to catch some random woman in a pickup truck picking them up FOR FREE from MY CURB WITHOUT EVEN ASKING!!! Bitter? Yeah, just a bit. I told her she better not sue us for taking property THAT WASN'T HERS! OK. Fine. I'll let it go now.

It's About Danged Time. I KNOW!

2011-07-21T00:00:00.002-04:00

Here I am, over two weeks later, finally giving you a recap of my group's investigation of Waverly Hills Sanatorium.

I know. I SUCK! There, I said it before you did.

And this recap isn't going to include any evidence. I know. I REALLY, TRULY SUCK! My team (Paranormal Georgia Investigations) is still going over evidence and we're meeting on July 30th to share what we found. After my team has shared, then I'll share with all of you. Until then, I've got some pictures and stories. Cool?

For those of you who don't know what or where Waverly Hills is or was, then go here. Read it. I'll be here until you get back.

Done? Awesome.

Back in January, I spent FOUR DAYS on the phone (Seriously, four days. I'm not even kidding.) trying to reserve our private investigation night. Yeah. Their phone lines were tied up with other groups calling to make reservations. When I finally got through, July 10, 2011 became our date, our night to conquer "one of the most haunted locations in the world."

This place is massive and intimidating as heck. Even without the paranormal reputation, it's scary. Paint is chipping, doors are off their hinges, and the first floor is painted like a haunted house (in support of the ownership's annual Halloween Haunted House). You don't need ghosts to feel creeped out at 2AM in the massive hallways of this building.

I mean, look at it. Modern decay in all its glory. I could have spent eight daylight hours here, roaming the property and taking pictures, forget the eight hour night investigation.

The entire front of the second, third, and fourth floors are open to the outside. Originally covered in just metal screens, this is where the tuberculosis patients spent every day, rain or shine, hot or cold, breathing in fresh air because before antibiotics, health care professionals thought fresh air and sunshine cured tuberculosis. Little did they know that this "cure" was just a long, slow path to the inevitable death.

The hardest part to swallow about the history of this hospital was the room on the fifth floor where the children stayed. If both parents had tuberculosis, it was almost guaranteed that their children would have it, too. The children were given the best spot in the facility, the fifth floor roof, with the best access to fresh air, sunshine, and views of Louisville. Ty-man and I (yep, he went, too) wandered this fifth floor room trying to imagine our kids here. And we couldn't. We couldn't even begin to fathom what it was like bringing our kids here and leaving them, hoping for a cure but knowing deep down they would probably never walk out.

I even took a walk down to the bottom of the body chute with Muskrat and Dave. Originally, this sloping tunnel was used to carry supplies to the hospital. As the number of patient deaths increased, the bodies were brought down into this tunnel, out this gate, and into an ambulance. This was done so that the death numbers would be hidden from the patients. Depression over knowing you were close to death didn't help with the overall pre-antibiotic TB cure.

Let's not forget the annual haunted house decor. I'll never turn down an opportunity to do a sorority pose with a life-size gargoyle!

We all saw shadows during our eight hour long investigation. There were also a few noises we couldn't explain. Unfortunately, no one saw a full-body apparition, no one was shoved or pushed, no doors slammed shut, and no one peed their pants. But our EVP evidence has been an absolute goldmine. I can't wait to share those with you.

Oh, and? That flashlight on the right? Is on in that picture because it turned itself on.

You heard me.

How's them apples?

PS Thanks Muskrat, Dave, and Adam for going with us and sharing in our big night!

WHAT?!? Are You Saying My Head is FAT?!?

2011-07-08T00:00:00.001-04:00

I finally found out yesterday what the heck was inside my head.

But, before we get there, a little back story. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then you need to watch the video here and then check out my Elephant Man look here.

Done? All caught up? Great.

So, I rolled into Dr. Smart-Ass's office with my mother and all three kids in tow. Ty-man was at work and Mom didn't want me going alone. She was afraid I would receive a bad diagnosis. Since she was to be my babysitter, all five of us loaded up and headed off to the doctor's office.

Allow me to say that my swelling has gone down (almost - just a smidge left) and I'm not so much of a freak show (physically). Dr. Smart-Ass was very pleased with how everything looked and felt. As he began cutting out the stitches, I mentioned that this was my first set of stitches ever and my first time having said stitches cut out of me. He replied that it was his first time, too.

(God, I'm really starting to love that man. I think I'd sign up for Botox just to hang out with him!)

Now, the news. What he pulled out of my head was a cavernous hemangioma.

(I can hear all of you now. A cave whosiwhats? Did he just say she's a fat-head? An airhead? WHA?)

Cavernous hemangioma. You can read some more on them here and here. Essentially what I had was a tangled knot of blood vessels. Did I have the red birthmark? No. Was it spongy? No. Actually, it was kind of hard. Dr. Smart-Ass said that it was larger than he thought and actually up underneath my muscle structure. What I think is that I've had this for most of my life and it finally, in the last few months, popped out from under the muscle, right below my temple, and I felt it. Had it grown larger I may have seen the reddish hue on my skin, it could have deformed my face, and surgery to remove it would have been more complicated as it would have bled. Profusely.

Lucky, kids. I'm damned lucky and thankful that what he took out wasn't anything worse.

The best part is that my right eyebrow is now misbehaving. The nerve that controls my eyebrow runs right in front of where the hemangioma was removed. That poor nerve had its butt kicked and because of that my right eyebrow won't go up as far as it should.

Turns out the freak show isn't too far gone after all. Oh, well. Maybe I can work that whole Spock thing at DragonCon more easily this year.

Dialog, Part 32

2011-07-01T10:17:00.005-04:00

OR

NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE SWELLING!?!?

OR

MY PLASTIC SURGEON IS SUCH A SMART-ASS

OR

HOLY CRAP!? I HAVE A PLASTIC SURGEON! I'M SO BEVERLY HILLS RIGHT NOW!

Me (in email to my doctor): Your assistant recommended that I email pictures to you of my post-surgery swelling since my surgery on Monday. I’ve never had this type of surgery before and I don’t want to be a Nervous Nelly, but I want to make sure nothing is going wrong. I’ve attached three pictures of my face, one of the incision. There is no redness, drainage, heat, or fever associated with the incision. Just excessive swelling. Is this normal and at what point will it subside? Thanks for your help! Heather

Dr. Smart-Ass: Heather, the lesion I removed was a lot deeper than I anticipated. Therefore, I'm not surprised you have the swelling you are experiencing. Rest assured, you should be fine and the swelling should get better soon. Keep your head elevated when you can and it should get better.

Me: Thanks so very much for your response. I'll hang in there and just wanted to make sure everything was fine. I'll just tell everyone I'm trying out for a remake of The Elephant Man. :)

Dr. Smart-Ass: You're a shoe in for the part. ;)

Seriously? My doctor ROCKS!

Hole in My Head

2011-06-29T00:00:00.001-04:00

Yep! I'm back! Lord, help us all!

(PS If you can't see the above video, click here to watch it on YouTube. AND GET OFF THE CRACKBOOK!)

Wide Open Spaces

2011-05-20T00:00:00.002-04:00

When we first married, the Ty-man and I lived in a small apartment in Kennesaw. After listening to our neighbor pee in his toilet every morning, we decided we were finished with close quarters and we bought our first home in Cumming. Four months after saying I do we moved into the freedom of our land, our garage, our grass, our kitchen, our day lillies, our home.

We knew it wasn't permanent. That first house was to be our learning curve. We would figure out how to deal with busted pipes and a backyard full of kudzu and then, we would be ready for the big league. That first house was just that, it was a house, but it wasn't a home. We never painted the walls and we only hung up a few pictures and curtains in one room. We treated that house as our way station.

This house where I'm sitting right now is our home. We've lived here for almost 11 years and it's all ours. It's got paint, wallpaper, pictures, tchotchkes, and the laughter of children. It's all here and it's the reason why, when we moved here, we said This is ours.

And if I had an offer on the table and a pile of money in front of me, I'd leave it all in a heartbeat.

Four years ago, we transformed our ugly, down-hill, hard-packed-Georgia-clay backyard into a grassy oasis. In one corner of our newly-fenced and level, grassy yard, we created a play area that, two months later, housed a little plastic sandbox, picnic table, slide, and play house for our toddler kids. During the construction of this backyard, I was a new mom again. I had just given birth to J-man one month before construction began and trying to nap through all the noise was impossible. But, I was happy because we would finally have a safe place to play.

But our neighbor wasn't happy. I'm not talking about Jodi, I'm talking about the lady on the other side of us. We'll call her B (for bitter). She scowled, she grumbled, and she made our lives hell. When the Bobcat accidentally cut off her cable TV, Ty-man immediately scoured the neighborhood for a Comcast truck, found one, bribed the guy to fix the cable NOW, and gave B five movie gift cards for her entire family as recompense.

And for these last four years, B has refused to speak to us, wave, say "Hello" or communicate in any way. Oh, she'll complain about our imagined infractions to Jodi all day long, but she won't ring our doorbell to let us know about her problems with us. It's been four years of textbook passive-aggressive behavior and I can tell you unequivocally, honestly, and forthrightly that we've done nothing, NOTHING to her or hers.

Two days ago, we had a playset from this company delivered and constructed in the backyard. It is NOT visible from the road. It IS visible from B's front stoop. This means that when she goes into her house, she sees it. It's not in her yard. It's within our property boundaries, inside the fence of our backyard. And B has complained to our property management company. I also have it on very good faith that she is attempting to get the HOA Bully (who is still on the board) involved. She specifically asked for his involvement, knowing what I went through with him two years ago.

When I found out that last tidbit, I had a full-on panic/anxiety attack. On top of taking pot-shots at my kids (which, let's face it, that's what she's doing when she complains about a playset), she's attempting to make our lives hell FOR NOTHING. For absolutely nothing, for no reason whatsoever, simply because we exist, occupy the space next to her, have followed the rules, and have bent over backwards to be quiet, unobtrusive, nice neighbors, she wants to stir up old anxieties.

I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. I'm pacing the house absolutely terrified that THAT MAN will be within feet of me and mine. I had to call the sheriff on his ass the last time I was near him and then I was worried the moment would end in violence. I don't go anywhere near his part of the neighborhood. There is this barrier of 1/4 mile of streets between our homes and that gives me solace. But to have this woman GIVE HIM PERMISSION to re-enter our lives has me in a panic.

I was never bullied as a child. I didn't experience my first bully until two years ago, at 37. It was, I think, as bad as if I had been bullied as a child. I don't want my children to see me reacting like this, but I can't help it.

Thank God for the Ty-man. He's handling this in a way I couldn't even fathom right now. All I want to do is curl up in bed with back issues of National Geographic and emerge when the smoke clears. He? Is taking care of business.

I'll be OK. This whole situation will be OK. It just has to be. But, seriously? Why? Why is she doing this? Because this playset is all about childhood laughter

wonder

and fond memories,

not anxiety, upset, and tears.

Seriously, if she pushes my buttons any further, I may just join a nudist/swinger group, install a jacuzzi where the playset currently resides, and REALLY piss her off with Thursday night orgies.

Glimmers

2011-04-29T00:00:00.001-04:00

(Image courtesy of me and the Tiny Planet app.)

Wednesday night was a bad night.

Understatement, I know.

You all know about my anxiety issues. Death, am I a good enough mother/wife/friend/yadda-yadda, EVERYTHING. Wednesday night, I had a triple-play going on. I was convinced that our deaths were imminent because of the horrifying radar images I couldn't turn away from. Top that off with my impending dulcimer performance this coming Sunday and my four-hour drive to Albany, Georgia Thursday morning, and I was in full-on Give me a hug, now, Ty-man or I'm gonna find me a 24-hour Xanax drive-thru.

We were damned lucky that we sustained absolutely no damage during the night. It was eerie. Even as the sirens went off (FOUR TIMES!), there was barely any wind, no rain, and minimal lightning. Our only loss was sleep. And so it was, with four hours of sleep, dulcimer loaded into the Corvette, that I headed four hours south to Albany, Georgia, home of the Westover Comprehensive High School Patriots.

Westover High's Academic Decathlon team took home the medium-sized school champion trophy for the Georgia state competition, which qualified them to participate in the National Decathlon on-line competition yesterday and today. And that means I was arrowing south to make sure their testing occurred by the rules, smoothly, with no hiccups.

I was not happy. I was still on edge from the night before, reeling from the images I had seen, upon waking up, of Tuscaloosa and Ringgold. I wondered what I would see on my trip south, if I would encounter any debris. Thirty-five miles north of Macon, I found it. A swath of trees on both sides of I-75 had been chewed by the storms. I could smell the pine sap even through the car's air vents. I was not pleased.

The further I traveled, the darker the skies while severe storm warnings played out on the radio.

Several times, I thought about turning around. But that wouldn't have been fair to those nine students at Westover who had been studying so very hard since August to have this chance to compete on a national level.

I got there an hour early and took a deep, cleansing breath. Everything was set up for me, I didn't have to stress, I had avoided the worst of the early-morning storms, and there was no need for my anxiety. The kids did beautifully, the Internet stayed up, and testing went like clockwork. Compared to the night before, Thursday was a dream. As I sat in my chair, watching the Westover decathletes, I smiled. These nine decathletes had made me laugh several times with their wry humor and teenage angst. It made me wish for one day back at South Charleston High School, to smell the halls and hear the familiar voices of friends and acquaintances. It's these fleeting moments, found each year with Georgia decathletes, that I see that glimmer of hope for the future. They DO have purpose, hopes, dreams, and ambitions, just like all of us at that age. They aren't those pesky teenagers, they're people, and being around them reminds me of this. Being around youth is keeping me young and it was a panacea in the face of Wednesday night's destruction and death.

I took those warm, fuzzy happys back to my hotel and played my dulcimer like nobody's business. Only one more hurdle this week and it's seeming less and less intimidating. I'll make it yet. Won't we all?

Easter Sexeh

2011-04-26T00:00:00.001-04:00

I inherited my interest in photography from my Uncle Curtis. Sadly, I'm nowhere near the photographer he was, but I have fun with it. In particular, I love taking close-ups of flowers. If you dropped me off at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, with a camera, I would probably never come out.

My in-laws have a beautiful piece of property in the north Georgia mountains and they have worked hard for the last eight years to turn that property into their mountain paradise. This time of year there are a plethora of flowers and whenever I'm there with my camera, I go crazy with the flower pictures.

After the kids' egg hunt, I took off for the driveway where I saw some beautiful, pink clematis blooming. (Aside: A former friend of mine always called it flowering clitoris. Now, whenever I see a clematis, I have to stop myself, put the proper word in my head, and not just sputter out WOW! That's a beautiful clitoris! I didn't know they came in blue?!)

Pretty ~~clitoris~~ clematis. Anyhoo, the Ty-man followed me, snagged the camera, and said OK. Get up against that wall and do the sexeh!

Me. Being sexy. It is for to laugh. So, I tried really hard. Can't you tell by the expression on my face that I'm trying to hold back the laughter?

Then? I lost it.

Serious belly-laughter ensued. I cannot be sexy without cracking my own shit up.

I managed to get in one more pose. A very skeptical, Am I bringing teh sexeh? pose.

It's hard to be sexy in Crocs and a skort, but hey, you do what you gotta do.

Thank God I found a rhododendron...

Happy Earth Day!

2011-04-22T09:29:00.004-04:00

This is the nest of baby birds located in a flower pot just outside the kids' Montessori school. I hope they, and you, have a great Earth Day (Easter, too)!

Coal Miner's Granddaughter, Copyright

2011-04-21T00:00:00.004-04:00

Dear Kate Middleton,

Quit hornin' in on my action!

Have I knocked on your door, demanding wear-time on that sapphire ring? NO!

Have I asked to kissy-face with your Prince? NO!

Then quit thinking you can be a Coal Miner's Granddaughter. You're actually a coal miner's great-granddaughter. How do I know this? Because I'm a nosy little shit and I like to know when people are Googling my boring-ass life. And lately? When people Google "Coal Miner's Granddaughter"? They come up with newspaper articles about you and your grandma. Your grandma who was a coal miner's daughter.

I mean, HELLO?, I'm not trying to bust in on your princess-to-be-someday-queen action. You don't see me walking around, posing with guys named William Wales, changing my name to Kate, professing a love of big blue rings and afternoon tea, so don't even go there. Do you think you can handle the awesomeness of being me? No, you can't. Case in point:

(Yes, Exposay.com, this is a photo of yours, pasted onto mine. Apologies.)

I am Coal Miner's Granddaughter. Not you. Got it?

Besides. You know if William even gets glimpse of this, he'll be all "Kate, who?":

(Sorry, Alastair Grant - WPA Pool/Getty, for making your awesome picture a nightmare.)

Now that we've got that cleared up... where's my damned invite?!?

Tell Harry to give me a call, 'kay?

Toodles!
Heather

And Then, I Farted.

2011-04-20T00:00:00.003-04:00

Twice a week, I become this insane, possessed person. I throw on my gym clothes, fill up my water bottle, and snarl at anyone who gets in my way.

I'm going to Zumba, dammit.

I LOVE Zumba. For me, it's not just about the sweat or the exercise, it's mainly about the music and the dance.

Ah, the dance.

I love to dance. I danced in my bedroom as a kid, radio turned up as loud as it would go, my father banging on the door and yelling Turn that jungle music down! I danced in my dorm room all through college. I danced at sorority and frat parties. I danced like a maniac at Bell Bottoms, a popular Atlanta nightclub from the 1990s. I still dance in my kitchen. Zumba gives me the opportunity to release my inner ballet/hip hop/belly dancer.

Until this morning, Zumba has been free and awesome. I don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks I look like. I shake my shimmy, have a great time, and let it all hang loose.

And then, I farted.

It happened in the middle of the class, at the height of our aerobic activity. My hips were hopping, belly was dancing, and my butt cheeks were squeezed tighter than the gates of Ft. Knox.

One of the more unpleasant side-effects of metformin (an insulin-controlling drug) is gas. Lots and lots of gas. Like, I sometimes feel that in a past life I was a hot air balloon. Normally, I try to hold it until I can walk away and cut loose in another part of the house/restaurant/grocery store/wherever where there is no one around. Not today. Oh, no. My gas was out of control

I cut loose right at the end of a song. And I'm pretty sure that the lady behind me crossed herself.

And Zumba in Woodstock will never again be the same.

Disney Madness

2011-04-19T00:00:00.004-04:00

Two weeks ago today, we were in Orlando and recovering from our first day at Magic Kingdom. We hadn't originally planned to spend the kids' spring break at Disney, but our previous plans fell through. So, we decided to brave the Florida heat and spring break crowds for a piece of the mouse action.

Wow.

I have never, NEVER, seen so many strollers in all my life. Never. Not even from past trips to Disney with just me and the Ty-man do I remember so many strollers. They could have changed Disney World's name to Stroller World and it would have been entirely appropriate. The heat was bearable and I only melted down twice that first day (once on the Small World ride which, I thought, was called for) and the kids melted down five, carry the two, divide by six... about twice each. So, all in all, it was pretty decent.

My most intense memory of the week, though, was the day we trekked over to Epcot. We happened upon Pixie Hollow and while the Ty-man held a place in line FOR AN HOUR (the man is a trooper) to meet Tinkerbell, I took the kids over to meet Vidia and Rosetta. I figured I would usher the kids over, step away, and take some gorgeous pictures of my sweet babies and the cute fairies.

Um, not so much.

J-man instead tried to re-insert himself into the womb (Shy, much?) and refused to even show his face to the two gracious ladies standing in the heat in ridiculous get-ups. I stood there, uncomfortably, trying to allow my other two kids to have a Disney experience without Mama in the middle. Meanwhile Vidia and Rosetta (probably named Prudence and Bunny IRL) were carrying on the most interesting of conversations about flying and fairy races while my youngest attempted to reverse the birthing process.

Let's just all say Thank God for Disney PhotoPass!

That's as far away from my girlie bits as the J-man got. Meanwhile, that look on my face? It says (between clenched teeth) O.M.G. Get me outta this frakking picture. NOW!

Thankfully, after being completely intimidated by Vidia and Rosetta, J-man figured it out with Tinkerbell. I mean, HELLO!, who wouldn't smile like that when confronted with the cutest fairy in all of Pixie Hollow?

Damn skippy.

Um... So, Yeah

2011-04-18T10:18:00.003-04:00

It's been over a month.

Wow.

For the last month, I've mainly sat here at my computer, scared shitless. For some reason, blogging has become hard. Reading, writing, commenting, all of it has become the most difficult part of my life. Hanging with my kids? Easy. Rolling my eyes at the Real Housewives franchise? Easy. Playing my dulcimer? Easy.

But you guys? All of you? Putting my boring-ass life out here for you to read and for me to share? Da-umn. It has become really hard for me. Why? It's a combination of being tired (working out and trying to keep this body healthy is kicking my ass, people!), being busy (driving to the kids' school three times a day for drop-offs and pick-ups, plus swim lessons, plus making sure the kids don't kill themselves while they play outside, plus Mama! Can I have a drink of water/my Barbie? Mama! Where's my Hot Wheels/gray kitty/crayons?), and wondering if anyone out here really gives two shits about my little life.

I'm not trying to say that IRL is more important than this blog because truly, this blog is part of my IRL. It's all the same thing. This place, this purple slice of blog heaven is my corner of the blogverse and the place where I can cut loose. I talked about this with dear, sweet, wonderful Becky and she reminded me that yes, you guys do want to read my boring-ass shit. For the last month, it's been a table for one. Previously, it's been a table reserved for me and all of you, but I've closed it off. Too busy snarfing down all the bread and butter, I suppose. But I'm opening it back up, dang it. I'm pulling up some more chairs and rolling out the ~~fancy china~~ Chinet. I'm determined to get back into the swing of things. I used to blog here every. damned. day. I don't think I'm ready for that again, but I'll get there.

Because this blog is all about my life and me sharing it with you. So, let's share, OK?

Weiners vs. Clams*

2011-03-15T00:00:00.003-04:00

As all of you, my dear readers know, I have three kids. Irish triplets, if you will. This means they're practically the same age (and two of them are). Of course, the other thing you may remember about my kids is that I have one girl and two boys.

When you have three children of practically the same age with a mix of boys and girls, then you've also got a mix of toys. Thomas the Tank Engine is racing alongside a Strawberry Shortcake RC car. Meanwhile, Barbie and CPT Kirk are discussing warp engines and tutus next to Dora riding atop a Hot Wheels Battle Force 5 Buster. Seriously. This house is a gender-bender of gigantic proportions.

Bubba has spent many days wearing his sister's headband. Miss-Miss has been known to tear up the front yard with a toy bulldozer. And J-man? Well, that boy has run around this place dressed up as Tinker Bell more times than I can count. But? At the same time, they will pop back into their "proper" gender spaces just as quickly.

What's the point of all this rambling? I'm getting there. Simmer down, people. Typically, when a woman is pregnant with her first baby(ies), she receives gender-specific clothes and toys. Girls get pink and princesses while boys are the recipients of blue and baseballs. Why are we doing this to our kids? Why are we limiting our children's toy/clothes/life choices based on what's in between their legs? Now, before some of you get your panties in a wad about You're raising your boys to be drag queens!/Your daughter's going to be a butch construction worker! just wait a minute. I have no idea of my children's futures. I don't know who they will love, what they're favorite clothing will be, or where they'll work. And you know what? I don't care. What I do care about is that they will be happy, loved, and satisfied in their lives.

The great thing about mixing up gender-specific toys for your all-girl/all-boy house is that your children, I think, will end up a bit more well-rounded. When Miss-Miss is confronted with a Thomas the Tank Engine table at Barnes & Noble, she knows the score. She can identify all the trains by name and go on adventures with the little boys playing at the table with her. She's socializing and the little girls standing around not knowing what to do are wondering where their Cinderella dolls are. And when Bubba and J-man arrive at the Livingston home (Mom+Dad+2 little girls) for April spring break in a couple of weeks and find themselves surrounded by a plethora of pink and princesses, then they'll have a blast and even be able to relate to the Livingston daughters when talking about the pain associated with wearing Cinderella's glass slippers (read: clear plastic shoes with light-up heels).

My advice for new parents out there? Just raise your kids. Don't worry that one Matchbox car or that one Barbie doll will mess up your child for life. If your son shows an interest in a pink tutu, let him wear it around the house. If your daughter wants a firetruck, then splurge. Look at it as a way of broadening their horizons and giving them a good dose of empathy and understanding for the opposite sex.

*With a nod to my friend Chip who comes up with the most interesting euphemisms for genitalia. He could write a thesaurus.

Nine Weeks

2011-03-07T00:00:00.003-05:00

I have a very healthy addiction to anything involving the Tudor dynasty. Said addiction began when I was on bed rest, pregnant with the twins, and my friend Jenny gave me her copy of The Other Boleyn Girl. From that moment, I was hooked. For the past five years, I have read anything and everything, fiction or non-fiction, involving the Tudor family. Recently, I have been entranced by Catherine of Aragon: The Spanish Queen of Henry VIII. Queen Catherine has always been, in my mind, the second-most tragic figure in the Tudor family (with Lady/Queen Jane Grey coming in first, but she's a whole other blog post). She grew up knowing, with every fiber of her being, that she would become and live out her life as Queen of England. In the end, though, that title was forcibly taken from her and she ended her life alone, away from a husband who had married another and unable to see or write to her beloved daughter Princess Mary.

To read this book is to experience a multitude of mountains and valleys, but where my mountains and valleys are relatively tame, hers were... Himalayan in nature. While she had love and joy and sadness and heartache, she also had one job to do. To put it simply, she was a womb, nothing more. Her whole purpose in life was to produce male heirs (yes, plural) to the English throne. Because the Tudor dynasty was young and born out of a bloody civil war, the Tudors needed to be fruitful and male. Catherine's mother-in-law, Elizabeth of York, had two sons who managed to live past infancy and yet she still lost the elder in his 15th year. Her response was not only to mourn, but to also "return to the bedchamber" with Henry VII and immediately, at the age of 36, become pregnant with what was hoped would be another male heir. Unfortunately, she had a daughter who didn't live a day and Henry VII's queen died 11 days later on her 37th birthday.

Tudor-era England (or the rest of the world, for that matter) had no clue that it was the male who determined the sex of the baby. No, the baby was born from the mother, therefore it was the mother's fault if the baby was female and it was the mother's fault if the baby died. So it was with hope and trepidation that Catherine began her duties as wife of Henry VIII. Six times she was pregnant and only one of her children lived to adulthood, her daughter Mary. But her second child was a boy who lived for nine weeks. For nine whole weeks, she was at the top of her game, at the peak of her life. She was Queen of England and had produced a male heir to the throne. For nine weeks, her life was stellar.

Nine weeks. Can you imagine looking back on your life and only being able to count nine weeks as your best? Even those people who supposedly peaked in high school can at least count one to three years as their best. I mean, I'm not incandescently happy all the time, but I'm luckily content and satisfied and I would have to say that I have more than nine weeks of my life during which I've been happy, comfortable, and pleased as punch about my station. I know there are probably people here in my neighborhood (and most definitely all over the world) who are probably living with mental illness and/or abuse who can maybe count nine weeks or even less as their happiest. And here, in the history books, is a queen, a woman of the highest stature, who can only count a little over two months during which she was absolutely fulfilled and secure in her position.

A friend of mine pointed out a quote from the movie Steel Magnolias, "I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special." But for me, I can't decide between a lifetime of contentment and calm happiness or nine weeks of ecstatic fulfillment and almost manic joy that is surrounded by heartache and sadness. Since I seem to be afflicted with a mild anxiety disorder, pain and upset really get to me. I hate those emotions and shy away from them at all costs. But for Catherine, to be a martyr, to suffer in the name of her faith, would have been an ultimate reward. For her, nine weeks of joy followed by 25 years of more downs than ups may have been her greatest prize.

What about you? Are you more like Catherine or more like me?

Have You Ever...

2011-02-18T00:00:00.001-05:00

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.

Wild, Wonderful West Virginians

2011-02-17T00:00:00.002-05:00

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.)

Fartlekker

2011-02-14T10:29:00.006-05:00

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.