tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59744798648978926932024-02-23T02:43:38.346-05:00Confessions of a Coal Miner's GranddaughterRandom thoughts, pictures, and goings-on of a coal miner's granddaughter.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.comBlogger739125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-84168390148312527262014-09-13T21:27:00.000-04:002014-09-13T21:29:41.648-04:00Here. Hold My Earrings.For some reason, you think I'm an awful person. I don't know why. I have no clue what I have done to either of you to warrant such vitriol. I don't know what in the world I did to deserve those nasty words and emotions from you. You wrongly accused me of censorship, of being like a "godfather," of taking away your ability to communicate with your family, of going behind my husband's back to tear your family apart.<br />
<br />
It's like the last nineteen years never even happened, that I was never a member of this family, and that I'm an interloper who doesn't deserve to be here. That May, 1995, wedding for which one of you helped excitedly organize? I guess that never happened. All those shared laughs at Christmas? Thanksgiving? Nada.<br />
<br />
I helped with your son's wedding. I went to your children's high school band performances. I came to graduations, engagement parties, wedding showers, baby showers. I hugged and kissed you and supported you and loved on your children and grandchildren. I have given your step-daughter an ear to bend because we get each other and I love your husband because I see my husband in him and know that's where he gets his gentleness, his kindness. I have never asked for anything in return, just expecting your support when, and if, it is ever needed. I have loved all of you, unconditionally, because you're all my family.<br />
<br />
But, I guess none of that matters to you. It certainly has to me. You must think me such a silly little rabbit.<br />
<br />
Since yesterday morning, I've sat. And stewed. And cried. And stared, unbelieving, at the computer screen, wondering where all this cattiness came from. I sat in the passenger seat of my minivan, on a nine-hour road trip to Florida today, feigning sleep, but really just going over everything in my mind. My eyes were closed, yet I quietly cried on my pillow. You both hurt me that much.<br />
<br />
You made sure to apologize to my husband for spamming the entire family with that offensive, prejudiced, fear-mongering email. But, let's remember, you apologized for sending the email, not apologized for actually believing that nasty tripe that helps perpetuate fear of Muslim-Americans. You also made sure to apologize to another family member only after they apologized to you for calling you out on it. Wow. Really? You forgave her for being a stand-up person and letting you know when you've overstepped that line? How gracious and generous of you. But, here's the thing. You didn't apologize to me for those hateful, unjustified words you casually threw at me.<br />
<br />
It is because of both my husband and I that all of you enjoyed an on-line web site for eleven years, an on-line group that made it easy for you to communicate with your family, an on-line email that one of you abused, constantly, and the other allowed said abuse to pass with nary a whisper. So, I guess me standing up against the uneducated, spammy crap you continued to send is what got me in trouble. OK. As Winston Churchill once said, "You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life." But, what gets me, is that my husband and I had both previously stated, "Keep up this abuse of the on-line group, and we'll delete it. That's not what this is for." And you kept on. And then, when we made good on our promise, you lost your shit. I NEVER censored you. Do you know the meaning of the word "censorship?" Let's pull out the dictionary, shall we, and correct your uninformed vocabulary:<br />
<br />
<i>Censorship is defined as the suppression of speech, public communication or other information
which may be considered objectionable, harmful, sensitive, politically
incorrect or inconvenient as determined by governments, media outlets,
authorities or other such entities.</i><br />
<br />
I NEVER censored you. I gave you multiple chances to come to your senses and use self-control when sending out offensive emails. But, you never did. I'm not taking away your email, I'm not shutting off your phone, I'm not taking away your access to any form of communication. I'm just giving everyone in the family the option to block you and your spam without having to block the rest of the family. I'm making it more difficult for you to do what you've been doing. This isn't censorship, it's self-preservation of my damned sanity. <br />
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But the worst? The absolute worst part of all of this? Was when the other one of you sent my husband a Facebook message, speaking of his warm heart (Which implies that mine is cold?) and how he would have never allowed this closing of the family's on-line web group to happen, how he needed to stop me, and that what I had done was horribly wrong.<br />
<br />
Really? Really. This was done after 48 hours of BOTH of us agonizing over this. And you? Sending that Facebook message? Was essentially you trying to come between us, to drive a wedge in our 19-year marriage, whisper in the ear of one to put a black mark against the other. My husband and I have known each other since 1988. Twenty-six years. We've lived through infertility, my clinical depression from the death of my father and uncle, postpartum anxiety, downturns in the family business, serious illness, all of it. I'm going to say this once and you need to remember it.<br />
<br />
TYLER. AND. I. ARE. AN. INCREDIBLE. TEAM.<br />
<br />
And only death will end that team. Not you or anyone else. When you sent that Facebook message, you actually caused the complete opposite to happen. It made us stronger and allowed us to truly see who you are.<br />
<br />
Rather than remain quiet, I decided to defend myself here, in my little section of the Blogverse. I'm going to continue to call attention to the crap you think is acceptable and I won't allow you to insinuate yourself in my marriage ever again. Don't expect me to come to your rescue or welcome you with open arms. Instead, you should expect suspicion, chilly cordiality, and a smile that never reaches my eyes. I forgive YOU because I have to move on, but I will certainly never forget.<br />
<br />
I've blocked you both on social media. That will never change. I've blocked both your email addresses. If there's important news you need to get to me then I suggest you try AirMail. I hear it's pretty speedy. Will you actually see this post? I have no idea. But it has served it's purpose. It has allowed me to put out to the world that I will no longer tolerate further bullshit from either of you.<br />
<br />
Good-bye. Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-16151753723900566962014-05-31T22:07:00.001-04:002014-05-31T22:07:47.833-04:00Suck on this, Pioneer Woman<span style="font-size: large;">OR</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I Actually Can Cook One Thing Well</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">OR</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This is My Mac-n-Cheese Recipe for the Ladies at <a href="http://fathermuskrat.com/" target="_blank">Muskrat's</a> Birthday Party</span><br />
<br />
I once documented, on this very blog, my <a href="http://coalminersgd.blogspot.com/2010/07/particular-sadness-of-my-kitchen.html" target="_blank">frustration over cooking</a>. Go ahead. Read it. I'll be here when you get back.<br />
<br />
I've also railed to the gods above, on Facebook, how much I hate cooking. I despise the whole process. I don't like choosing the recipe, then having to slog to the grocery store, coming home and putting it all away. Then there's the whole "trash your kitchen" thing and the entire "grease up your stove" bit and let's not forget the "dripping in the oven" nonsense. And when I'm all finished and the dishes are set before my diners (read: husband and/or mother and/or kids), I typically get a <i>Meh</i> response.<br />
<br />
I'm not a <i>cook</i>. I can't taste a gravy or a sauce or a meat or a something and tell you <i>Needs more this</i>. Nope. And I don't enjoy the process at all. I guess you could say I'm more of a chemist repeating someone else's experiment. As far as I'm concerned, if a recipe book has gone through the trouble of being, oh, I don't know, published, then that means the recipes have gone through a test kitchen, have been tasted, and are good to go (translation: no one in the test kitchen barfed or made funny faces and everyone gave it a thumbs-up).<br />
<br />
Somehow, though, when those well-thought-out recipes get to my humble kitchen, the chemistry has gone pear-shaped and that teaspoon of cumin should have probably only been a half teaspoon. It's magic, people, dark magic, that's afoot.<br />
<br />
People share their recipes with me and, don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, I'm just terrified to fix them because they'll turn out awful. I even visited the Pioneer Woman's web site for a pot roast recipe because people rave about her cooking prowess. For some reason, I've been searching for the perfect pot roast. It's my recipe holy grail to find the one pot roast recipe that delivers juicy red meat that is flavorful and not tough.<br />
<br />
I fixed Ree's pot roast and was horribly depressed over the whole affair.<br />
<br />
At any rate, there is ONE thing I can cook that is rather smashing. Macaroni and cheese. And it isn't even my recipe. It's from a cookbook. But not just any cookbook. Allow me to further bore you.<br />
<br />
One of my favorite authors is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lilian_Jackson_Braun" target="_blank">Lilian Jackson Braun</a>. She wrote a series of 29 books known as "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/quot-Mysteries-Lilian-Jackson-Braun/lm/R2QWV28NFSV8RY" target="_blank">The Cat Who...</a>" mysteries and in said books, she described the most wonderful meals. Each time I would read one of her books, in addition to trying to solve the mystery before the main character, Jim Qwilleran, I wished desperately to step into his world and have a slice of Mrs. Cobb's coconut cake (Sidenote: Mrs. Cobb is Qwilleran's housekeeper) or to sit down with the protagonist and his cats for a plate of Polly's tuna sandwiches. Everything always sounded so mouth-watering.<br />
<br />
And then, one day, browsing the cooking section, there it was. A cookbook based on the food in <i>The Cat Who...</i> books. A couple of crazy Lilian Jackson Braun superfans had come up with recipes for nearly every dish she ever mentioned in her books. I snagged the cookbook and raced home and immediately thumbed to the page titled "Mrs. Cobb's Macaroni and Cheese." This was the stuff of Cat Who legend. Whispered through the hallowed pages was Mrs. Cobb's mac-n-cheese recipe, how she made it taste just so, what was her secret ingredient that made this dish so very special. Here was the mac-n-cheese she made for Qwilleran that he would delight in eating and then freeze leftovers of it for rainy days in with his Siamese cats Koko and Yum-Yum. I HAD to make it.<br />
<br />
And I did. And it was glorious. And it's the one page this book automatically falls open to each time I retrieve it. I make it for special occasions and a few of my friends have taken to calling it "Der's Mac-n-Cheese." Muskrat's 39th birthday party yesterday was just such an occasion to dust off the measuring spoons and bowls, and I'm proud to say that Mrs. Cobb and I came through once again. I challenge all of you to whip it up this next week and give me a verdict. Like? Love? Meh?<br />
<br />
And if you love it, make sure you share it. Goodness knows there are other "chemists" like me who are out there, fighting the good fight, and feeling like cooking failures. Give them this recipe, pat them on the shoulder, and tell them there is hope.<br />
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<b>Mrs. Cobb's Macaroni and Cheese</b><br />
6 cups water<br />
1 ¾ cups elbow macaroni<br />
⅓ cup chopped onion<br />
1 tbsp + 4 tbsp butter, melted<br />
1 tsp dry mustard<br />
1 tsp salt<br />
⅛ tsp black pepper<br />
⅛ tsp red pepper<br />
2 cups + 1 cup shredded extra sharp cheddar cheese<br />
1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese<br />
½ cup sour cream<br />
¼ cup half-and-half<br />
3 eggs, beaten slightly<br />
3 tbsp dry white wine (Mrs. Cobb's secret ingredient)<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 350-degrees. Bring water to a boil. Add macaroni, stirring occasionally to separate elbows. Bring to a boil again; reduce heat to medium. Cook, uncovered, until tender - about 10 minutes. Drain. Sauté onion in 1 tbsp of the butter. Stir onion while adding the mustard, salt, and peppers. Set aside. In another bowl, combine 2 cups cheddar cheese, mozzarella cheese, 4 tbsp melted butter, sour cream, half-and-half, and eggs. Combine macaroni, onion mixture, cheese mixture, and wine. Place in greased dish. Sprinkle top with 1 cup cheddar cheese. Bake 35 minutes.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-9000502684316110432014-05-13T08:17:00.000-04:002014-05-13T08:39:17.211-04:00Little Shoes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX30i4h_vHKqqii0CH3lJHEO5ttJLzbgKWX6fbSmCp93LaR6S-hg0oDQZoHCwz1H1d9h7Cz922h0Y2wePx7Goa9u1F4QGkuUlFdQjj3dxsUHxfeizDIIyFprAxm7Ssd339EeWN1qObMG4/s1600/photo(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX30i4h_vHKqqii0CH3lJHEO5ttJLzbgKWX6fbSmCp93LaR6S-hg0oDQZoHCwz1H1d9h7Cz922h0Y2wePx7Goa9u1F4QGkuUlFdQjj3dxsUHxfeizDIIyFprAxm7Ssd339EeWN1qObMG4/s1600/photo(1).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
For many years they sat in a cedar chest in the garage. I didn't even know of their existence. Later, my father, in a fit of nostalgia, placed them, along with a few other tchotchkes, on the kitchen shelves near the back door. Along with an old can of Prince Albert tobacco, my grandfather's coal miner helmet lamp, and a few other flea market finds, they sat. Wilted. Dry. Forlorn.<br />
<br />
One day, teenage me finally asked where they came from and my father answered, "Those were your Aunt Gladys' shoes."<br />
<br />
Aunt Gladys. Aunt Gladys. I wracked my brain for an Aunt Gladys. I knew about Aunts Clorine and Violet from the Scarbro side. And I knew about Aunts Joy, Elizabeth, Myrrel, Barbara, Lottie, and a plethora of others from the Berkley half. There was no Aunt Gladys.<br />
<br />
"She was my older sister. She was born before your Uncle Curtis. 1917, I think. She died when she was little. Our mother was washing clothes and Gladys grabbed the edge of the tub to pull herself up and look inside and the tub tipped over and poured the scalding hot water all over her. She died."<br />
<br />
My brain froze. At that age, I couldn't imagine being burned, all over my body, from head to toe, with scalding hot water. I thought about all the things that physically happen to you when you are burned. Sure, I had burned a few fingers by this age. "Don't touch that pan! It's hot!" my mother would yell. And I would ignore her and touch it with a finger. Or, in my haste to get ready for school, the curling iron would barely graze my scalp and I would yelp in pain. Those burns, I knew. I tried to imagine those burns <i>all over</i> and I couldn't. Couldn't grasp it. I focused on the injury itself and applied it to myself, as all teens do, and since I couldn't conceptualize it, I shrugged and moved on.<br />
<br />
Those shoes stayed on the back shelf even after my father died. When my mother moved to Georgia, they disappeared and I had forgotten of their existence.<br />
<br />
My first cousin Tom came to visit over this past Easter and we spend most of the weekend sifting through several boxes of old Scarbro photographs and there, in a white bakery bag, sat Aunt Gladys' shoes. And I remembered the event that caused her death. And I saw it from a different perspective. I watched it through the eyes of my grandmother Sally, a woman who was living a hardscrabble life in a little coal mining town, two decades after the turn of the 20th century, with minimal medical care and miles from the nearest hospital. A woman who watched her only daughter slowly die from a full-body scalding. And I knew her sorrow.<br />
<br />
In the 1920s, when Aunt Gladys died, the norm was not what it is now. Now, when a child or baby dies, the parents are allowed to mourn. They are allowed to hold the body as long as they need, they are encouraged to keep their child's belongings for as long as they want. They are encouraged to fully mourn the loss of their child and do what they must to heal.<br />
<br />
I don't think my grandmother had that luxury. Back then, society felt that discarding all the reminders of the child's existence was best. Forget and move on. But she didn't. My cousins tell of a tense woman who was extremely over-protective of her remaining three boys. She wouldn't let them eat sweets, she hovered. She was a 1920s/30s helicopter mom. The surviving pictures I have of Grandmother Sally show a tiny, thin woman who didn't smile. And I wonder if that sadness of watching her daughter die did that to her.<br />
<br />
There are no pictures of Aunt Gladys. Just her little, worn, dried leather shoes. I know, without a doubt, that if the worst happened to any of my children, I would gather their belongings into a pile and protect them with my life, allowing no one to take them or discard them. And I wonder if these shoes are all my grandmother had. Maybe, after everyone convinced her to let go of the dresses, the toys, the ribbons, these shoes were the only connection she had to her sweet, overly-curious daughter.<br />
<br />
Someday, when I am gone, my children will probably throw these little shoes away. And that's OK. But as a fellow mother, I just can't. My grandmother became a kindred spirit last month when I opened that white bag and I decided I would keep them for her, for every mother who has suffered the ultimate loss.<br />
<br />
And I hug my children a bit more tightly and a bit more often.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-66798694295661143602014-05-11T12:04:00.000-04:002014-05-11T12:04:04.751-04:00Mother's Birth DaySeven years ago today, I became a mother for the third time, which was amazing because just three short years before, I was convinced I would NEVER be a mother. Here, I tell J-man about the day he was born. Thanks, <a href="http://inpursuitofhappiness.net/" target="_blank">Britt</a>!<br />
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Happy birthday to my sweet, crazy boy! I love you and I love that every few years we share a special day.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-57624575844729123662014-03-23T12:35:00.002-04:002014-03-23T16:29:44.799-04:00Coming Out Of The ClosetI am an atheist.<br />
<br />
I guess maybe I should clarify. I use atheist, because it is more recognizable than "humanist" or "anti-theist," and calling myself a "scientist" when people ask what faith I am may imply that I'm a Christian Scientist, which I'm not.<br />
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Do I believe there is something akin to a "supreme being" in the universe? Possibly. There are many types of life forms just on our planet alone and our universe is so amazingly big and since we may be one of many, infinite "multi-verses" then, yeah, there probably is some sort of life form like the "Q" of <i>Star Trek</i> who are omnipotent and omnipresent and powerful beyond our wildest imaginings, something like a "supreme being." Does this all-knowing, all-seeing God really care about humanity on Earth. I'm guessing not. Earthquakes in California because "He" hates gay marriage laws? Really? Thirty-eight million people on a small section of a small continent on a small planet in the outer rim of a small spiral galaxy in the Virgo Supercluster of the Known Universe is really going to matter to an all-knowing, all-powerful, multi-universal being? Personally, I think no. I guess you could say that in this sense, I'm "agnostic."<br />
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Do I believe that science can answer all of our questions about the universe and life? Yes. Right now, we don't have all the answers, but that's the great thing about science. Scientists know they don't have all the answers, and if an answer changes, they grasp that change, they don't fear it. Someday though, not in my lifetime, not in my children's lifetimes, not in 100 lifetimes, I believe scientists will have figured out "life" and answer the unanswerable. That is, if humanity lasts long enough to advance our knowledge that far. So yeah, the identifying answer here is "scientist."<br />
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Do I believe there's a place for religion in humanity? No. I feel that overall, religion has caused more harm than good. I think many times that religion causes prejudices, hate, fear, and stagnation. Not all of the people I know who are religious are hateful, prejudiced, fearful, or stagnant, but religious extremes do cause those things. People who kill in the name of religion. Young-Earth Creationists trying to stop science from being taught in science classrooms. Hate for other religions/colors/sexual orientations. Fear of people who are different, who aren't of the same faith. Religion may teach some morality, but it can also teach all those other negative things. My answer here is that I'm "anti-theist."<br />
<br />
All together, I describe myself as "Humanist," because I have more faith in my fellow human beings and our potential than I have faith in some unseen power that may or may not care about us. Does that mean that I look down on those people who call themselves Christian or Muslim or Hindu or Jewish or Buddhist, etc.? No, because we all need some kind of "faith" to get us through life. Mine is faith in my fellow people. Your faith may be in God. Should people who identify themselves with a particular religion look down on me? No. But I know they will.<br />
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I know atheists/humanists are some of the most least trusted people on this planet. There are some states and countries that have <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Discrimination_against_atheists" target="_blank">laws on their books</a> that don't allow atheists to hold public office, among other things. Many people fear or hate atheists. I know that once I hit publish on this blog post, some of you who read this will think I'm a Godless, immoral, horrible person. That's fine. Think of me what you will. Cut me out of your life because of this. But know this. I'm the same person whom you've always known. I just kept my questioning of religion, of God, secret from all of you and it is just now, at this stage of my life, that I feel comfortable enough in my own skin to "come out" finally, and announce who I am.<br />
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Please realize that I won't cut you out of my life. I won't try to convince you that everyone should be atheists. I won't make your religion, or my lack thereof, the main topic of any of our future conversations. I am still the same Heather I've always been and will be the same until I die. I will always question, always wonder, always explore. I just want to love, be loved, celebrate, be celebrated, and experience everything life has to offer, and that includes fellowship with family and friends.<br />
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I'm a humanist/atheist. I love, I laugh, I rejoice, I cry, I feel, I rage, I wonder. I gasp at the beauty of an early-morning sunrise that bathes the land in oranges, pinks, and reds. I giggle in amazement and joy at watching my children become incredible people. I am soothed and calmed when I jump into the ocean on a scuba dive and am constantly surprised by the diversity and beauty of the life just under the surface. My mind is blown over the incredible wonder of this planet of ours and the life teeming on it. I can still feel all the things those who are faithful feel.<br />
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So turn away from me if you feel that you have to. It's OK. I get it. Just remember that we're all spinning on this tiny rock together. We need each other. It's how we're going to make it through this incredible journey through space and time.<br />
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Love and peace to each and every one of you.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-72061767382275933192014-03-16T16:19:00.001-04:002014-03-19T21:36:20.297-04:00The Best Defense is a Good Offense<i>Sometimes, you defend people because it's right, because they're your friend, and you would do anything for them because you love them. And you would give up something for them, in defense of them, because it's the right thing to do.</i><br />
<br />
<i>But that doesn't mean they will do the same for you.</i><br />
<br />
I said this to my mother last week, over dinner. She was teaching me how to make beef stew and we were catching up, reminiscing, and doing what human beings do over a bowl of food; we were exchanging information.<br />
<br />
When I said the above, we were going over something that had happened long in our past, something that doesn't come up very often, but as most of us do, the subject had wandered into this far-afield spot we rarely ever visit. And I said what I said because it was a lesson I finally learned just before my 41st birthday.<br />
<br />
There are many milestones that occur in our lives that mark the transition from childhood into adulthood. A good many cultures celebrate these transitions in ceremonies: the quinceañera, a bar mitvah, the Satere-Mawe tribe's manhood initiation of wearing Bullet Ant gloves. But I don't think a specific ceremony cuts it. It's many little moments that happen over the course of a life that add to one's knowledge base of understanding humanity. And when one of these moments happen you think to yourself <i>Oh. So that's how this works. OK. Understood, Universe.</i> You mature, most times against your will, and little bit sad that some of that naivete is now gone. Our world, our reality, is a lot easier to live in when you imagine that the monsters are black-furred, yellow-eyed, and living underneath your bed, much easier when you believe everyone has your best interests at heart, far easier when you feel it in your bones that everyone wants to work toward a greater good, and definitely easier when you imagine that everyone you meet can be your friend.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, humanity doesn't operate like that and those are some hard lessons to learn, far more difficult than calculus. The School of Life has a rather cruel Headmistress and she doesn't really care if a lesson stings.<br />
<br />
The lesson I'm speaking of in this blog post started when I was 18. I was lucky in that I was 18 before I learned an adult will just as soon turn on you as nurture you and they will do it for their own ends. When it happened, I was utterly shattered. I was there, I had passed that American cusp of becoming a legal, voting adult, ready to become an adult who would nurture and lead and guide when one of those nurturing, leading guides gave it to me but good. I remember curling up between the wall of my bedroom and my dresser, making myself as small as physically possible, to emulate the size my emotional self felt at that moment, and crying great heaving gulps of tears. I think my mother worried for my sanity.<br />
<br />
I eventually got over it, but filed it away as a Lesson titled "Adults Can Totally Break a Kid's Heart." Little did I know that this lesson wasn't over. It wasn't until seven years later that part two was presented on a silver platter by the Universe. This Lesson was titled "Adults Can Totally Break Another Adult's Heart For No Other Reason Than They Are Bitter And Want To Make Everyone Around Them Unhappy As Well." When this lesson was presented to me, I did the only thing I could do, that I knew how to do. I defended the person who was being hurt. I stood up for this person, even giving up something I loved in the process. I spread my feet, hands on hips, and shouted at the top of my lungs, "YOU WILL NOT DO THIS BECAUSE IT IS WRONG! BUT IF YOU CONTINUE ON THIS PATH, YOU WILL DO IT WITHOUT ME AND I WILL TELL EVERYONE EVERYWHERE HOW WRONG YOU ARE!"<br />
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And I did it, too. I stepped back from this thing I cherished, loved, adored, all in the name of friendship. I did it knowing deep down that this friend would always have my back as well.<br />
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I was wrong.<br />
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The third and final part of this Lesson, titled "Adults Who You Have Defended Will Not Always Defend You In Return" was presented in my life class 15 years later, a full 22 years after the first part of the lesson. When it happened, it wasn't explosive or in my face. It was actually rather quiet. No one really noticed it but me. When it happened, when I realized that this person, who I considered to be family, who I stood up for, had never even thought to protect or shield me, I was devastated. I remember again crying as the hurt of 18-year-old me, 22 years prior, welled up to the surface, and I thought...<br />
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<i>Life sucks. These lessons suck. I hate this shit. I hate this School of Life. I'm done.</i><br />
<br />
Except I wasn't done. Being truly "done" meant shuffling off this mortal coil and I certainly wasn't going to hasten that. I decided after having my cry that "done" in this context meant turning off my phone and computer, eating chocolate, and watching as much <i>Top Gear</i> as humanly possible.<br />
<br />
And when I finally stepped back, I realized that all things happen for a reason. They are all learning moments, teaching moments, moments that get us through this ridiculous traffic jam of life and give us example moments for our kids so they're at least prepared for their moment when an adult breaks their heart during their childhood, during their adulthood, and when a friend stops being a friend and becomes just another person in humanity's crowd.<br />
<br />
When I uttered those words, at the top of this post, to my mother, it was the culmination of a lesson I never wanted to learn, but ultimately had to. I had to learn this so that when it happens again, and oh yes it will happen, maybe my heart won't break. Because I'll expect it.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-16657669732358480492014-03-04T11:22:00.000-05:002014-03-04T11:24:39.435-05:00Grit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqUkshmTawLsg7HHBSQc9BSvboxGw1dtaJDzOzzZFk6Tdvp0xPdyrjg-7AgJ6k4oVWN3AnmxfuncjrnoZw7_55L8tkzKrxnFUwFCflgK564rBRx8IwzuB__ZAijfp8DeKMLmJYjDEWPo/s1600/MeBoysSkating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqUkshmTawLsg7HHBSQc9BSvboxGw1dtaJDzOzzZFk6Tdvp0xPdyrjg-7AgJ6k4oVWN3AnmxfuncjrnoZw7_55L8tkzKrxnFUwFCflgK564rBRx8IwzuB__ZAijfp8DeKMLmJYjDEWPo/s1600/MeBoysSkating.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
I was a roller skating fiend when I was a kid. Skateland in Kanawha City was my favored hang out. They had a beautiful, large wooden rink with handrails around one side. The rental skates had just the right amount of stinky-foot aroma and Queen's <i>Another One Bites The Dust</i> along with The Village People's <i>YMCA</i> were on constant rotation. During the halfway mark of my almost-weekly visits, I would hit the concession stand for a Whatchamacallit candy bar and an Around-the-World drink (made especially tasty because of the grape soda). I would skate forwards, backwards, shoot the duck, fall, spin, everything. I loved it.<br />
<br />
When my kids were invited to their first roller skating party, I was all over it. I lugged my white 1970s ice skates/turned roller skates out of the bottom of the closet. They're scuffed and old, but they have purple wheels, white stoppers, and sparkly purple laces. I showed up, got the kids in their skates, and was ready to follow them around, picking them up off the floor, and helping them learn how to skate.<br />
<br />
But wait, what's this? Walkers?!? WHA? Supposedly, the new thing, are these PVC pipe-walker-looking things. They're on wheels and the kids hold onto them and skate around. When you watch little kids skate in the 21st century, the rink looks full of a bunch of 4-foot-tall senior citizens. On wheels. SCARY! So, OK. Here are your skate-walkers. And... GO! My three sped around the rink, having fun, but not really learning how to balance on their own. J-man just runs on his stoppers while Bubba and Miss-Miss are legs-akimbo, constant motion from the waist-down. I put on my own skates (the only adult to do so - sad) and zipped around, re-gaining my skate legs.<br />
<br />
We've done this several times, during summer break and for different birthday parties, all with the same results. The kids use the skate-walkers, zip around, and I follow.<br />
<br />
Until this past Saturday. I did the usual skate/walker rental, put on my own skates, and followed. It was chaos. There were about five different birthday parties happening and kids were everywhere (as were the spectator adults). My daughter walked onto the carpeted area, left her skate-walker near our table, got a drink of water, went back, and her skate-walker was gone.<br />
<br />
My three kids are all very different. When J-Man has hurt some part of his body or his feelings get hurt, you know it. Instantly. He wails as if he's been run over. Every time. Bubba will cry if his feelings get hurt or if he hurts a part of his body badly. So, he doesn't cry as often, but he will still wail.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighKiBa9oVcy3NumEtAOo0xac3fxdJmKbJwOpyo6RZFteEzB3jHBDGTwC58PPPHVPD2GjaZJghn537QMOR2DZcUdAvQ5s2IC327Xc3wrRcG6GOcei4pbYRaaE2o1A1KqD9VZb-jGF29n4/s1600/MissMissSkating.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighKiBa9oVcy3NumEtAOo0xac3fxdJmKbJwOpyo6RZFteEzB3jHBDGTwC58PPPHVPD2GjaZJghn537QMOR2DZcUdAvQ5s2IC327Xc3wrRcG6GOcei4pbYRaaE2o1A1KqD9VZb-jGF29n4/s1600/MissMissSkating.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>Miss-Miss on the other hand, doesn't cry all that much. She's a bit more stoic. Is it the oldest child thing? Or the only daughter thing? Or chromosomal? I don't know. But even when she's really hurt (physically or emotionally) she keeps that stiff upper lip and loudly proclaims, "I'm OK, Mama! I'm not hurt! I'm fine!"<br />
<br />
When she discovered her skate walker was missing, she slid/stumbled over to me and said, "It's OK, Mama. I'll just skate without one."<br />
<br />
And she did. She fell, slid, stumbled, wobbled, all of it. She would hold my hand for a few minutes and then say, "I'm OK, Mama. I can do this." And she did.<br />
<br />
J-man lost his skate walker and cried and demanded a new one. Bubba refused to let his go. Meanwhile Miss-Miss was balancing and learning and adapting.<br />
<br />
It's just a little thing, just roller skating, but I can already see the future. I can see a smart, independent, thoughtful young woman, full of grit, doing whatever she needs to do to, even if it means falling and failing, to get where she wants to be.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-65625029398821353072014-02-27T09:11:00.001-05:002014-02-27T09:17:23.605-05:00The Inner BitchShe's a nasty one, my inner voice. She squats inside my sub-conscious and nags. I picture her as a heavy-set Jewish/Italian/Eastern European mother-type, Aqua-Net keeps her helmet hair frozen in place. She has long, red fingernails and she chain smokes, a bottle of Scotch on the end table beside her. Her voice is deep and scratchy and she sits in a haze of smoke on an old, dirty, "Harvest Gold" La-Z-Boy. She has a thick New York accent and she's not very nice.<br />
<br />
"You're only a stay-at-home mutha? What a lazy girl! Look at this lazy girl! She stays at home! WHY AREN'T YOU WORKING?!?"<br />
<br />
"You're gonna clean the toilets like that?!? Who cleans toilets like that?! NOT ME!"<br />
<br />
"REALLY?!?! That shirt? You gotta be kiddin' me. IN PUBLIC?!? Change. NOW!"<br />
<br />
"You can't write this manual. What a joke. They hired a fake. YOU'RE A FAKE! You're not a writer. GIVE UP!"<br />
<br />
"I can't believe it. You misspelled 'judging'! You left out the 'g'! AND OVER 200 PEOPLE HAVE SEEN THIS!!! And you call yourself a writer?!?"<br />
<br />
This bitch nags and hassles and ridicules me every day. And I let her.<br />
<br />
She's been living in my head ever since I can remember. Her appearance has changed over the years. She used to be a blonde, perky, beautiful, snotty cheerleader. When I suffered through fertility treatments, she was a pregnant, hippie, Earth-mother type who could have children with no effort. Now? She's a nasty, old woman.<br />
<br />
And she's the reason I don't take criticism well. I have been accused in the past of taking constructive criticism very poorly and I admit that I HATE it when I make a mistake and I DESPISE it when someone corrects me or tries to offer advice or help. Probably because my inner bitch has been advising me and criticizing me and hassling me for almost my entire life. When someone tries to offer me advice, I don't want to hear it, because I've already been hearing it, for months, and in the most negative way possible. When I hear the criticism externally, I expect it to be the worst, to be offered to me in the same way I give it to myself, and why are you telling me I'm wrong when this bitch has already been screaming at me? Can't you see I'm suffering?<br />
<br />
I'm trying. I'm really trying to understand that all of you can't see or hear this awful woman, the inner me, who is so very critical. And I'm learning that you just want to help me see and correct any mistakes I make, because you care.<br />
<br />
In addition to this daily censure making me feel inadequate, it also makes me feel like a failure and a fraud. When I hear that my father-in-law is proud to have me be part of the family company's team (as a tech writer) and that he feels I'll do a great job, the quiet, meek inner me shakes her head and thinks, "He doesn't know. I'm a fake. I just muddle through and barely squeak by. I'm a fraud." When someone commends me on a job well done? I don't believe it. And it makes me feel uncomfortable. I've heard this is actually a psychological condition known as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impostor_syndrome" target="_blank">Imposter Syndrome</a>. Believe me, when I say, I've got Imposter Syndrome in spades.<br />
<br />
I'm telling you all of this because when you compliment me and I shake my head and mumble excuses, you'll understand. And if you offer help or constructive criticism and I snap at you, you'll understand. That inner bitch, who never allows me a second's rest, makes me feel less than worthy of anything.<br />
<br />
Maybe, someday, I'll find the duct tape and shut her the hell up.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-4573102853968485692013-09-16T16:41:00.001-04:002013-09-16T16:41:26.810-04:00EightEight years ago, I was a bewildered, scared brand-new mother. My family had lurched from two individuals to a family of four. In math terms, that's two-squared. In psychological terms that's too-scared.<br />
<br />
I briefly held my twins, just a few scant minutes, and then they were taken to the NICU. Weighing in at just 4 lbs. 6 oz. (Amelia) and 4 lbs. 10 oz (Heath), my sweet twins were tiny and not yet ready to go home. It took them 20 days to gain weight and learn how to take in eight bottles a day. Even then, when given the OK to come home, they were still wearing preemie clothes and diapers.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9HqJ8KL-0UUSbbz6zDGy8uQ6yUCut6klzz3kGg72ggiG9YEz6L_o15BAjv-wCjKrClsMuhzjoKXwBWe_T-4OveZkshU9izqgmFecDxNhP8GdAK5uz9c_R_D5L8VtANhaat2jCEkYyxQ/s1600/Amelia+21hrs+Old+-+01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9HqJ8KL-0UUSbbz6zDGy8uQ6yUCut6klzz3kGg72ggiG9YEz6L_o15BAjv-wCjKrClsMuhzjoKXwBWe_T-4OveZkshU9izqgmFecDxNhP8GdAK5uz9c_R_D5L8VtANhaat2jCEkYyxQ/s400/Amelia+21hrs+Old+-+01.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amelia at just 21 hours old.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aU0x8D14-jQ9LJhyVsFert9e-Jaqqjd6avh705npOgqFnClfeWde5XDgbpqXFlYEBGKgV9uFP-23qduUH6Et7XPrRM7iHhXQiRnjiDa7XSfr92vI1RGzw1x3XlHLW9MuHgbbWDF4zXA/s1600/Heath+21hrs+old+-+01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aU0x8D14-jQ9LJhyVsFert9e-Jaqqjd6avh705npOgqFnClfeWde5XDgbpqXFlYEBGKgV9uFP-23qduUH6Et7XPrRM7iHhXQiRnjiDa7XSfr92vI1RGzw1x3XlHLW9MuHgbbWDF4zXA/s400/Heath+21hrs+old+-+01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet Heath, also 21 hours old.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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During those 20 days, I was panicked that I wasn't spending enough time with them. I had convinced myself that just a two-hour daily visit wasn't enough and I knew that they wouldn't recognize me, my voice, or my scent. I had brainwashed myself into thinking that these precious twins would come home and not want me. <br />
<br />
OK, seriously? Somebody should have knocked me over the head and told my inner drama queen to shut the hell up. Because these are the sweetest, most loveable kids and those 20 days? Smaller than a blip in the grand scheme of their lives.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwBUT5XIeKC6GY31iWDvnUCPhqKHY4i_789T7iBXW1FP3KfXHg31r2gk-48QkPDOtY2X55bx5dI-1R2S2EEynK2J12Y_r7UIsR6azsPzsOU6u3s7PyFK25iuYwbSFaK_zC1pTg1eZmkA/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwBUT5XIeKC6GY31iWDvnUCPhqKHY4i_789T7iBXW1FP3KfXHg31r2gk-48QkPDOtY2X55bx5dI-1R2S2EEynK2J12Y_r7UIsR6azsPzsOU6u3s7PyFK25iuYwbSFaK_zC1pTg1eZmkA/s400/photo-1.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heath, P., Amelia, B., and Jarrod. PARTY TIME!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
They play hard, love fully, laugh loudly, and drive us crazy. But we wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
<br />
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<br />
We love you, Heath and Amelia! And, no, I'm not at all freaking out how fast these eight years have flown by and that it's only another eight years until you're both driving. Nope, I'm cool.<br />
<br />
(Please? Someone? Get me a drink!)Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-70124686482388673152013-09-13T16:41:00.001-04:002013-09-13T16:41:20.647-04:00Old Fart<b>Presbyopia</b> - <span class="main-fl"><i>noun</i></span> <span class="pr">\<span class="unicode">ˌ</span>prez-bē-<span class="unicode">ˈ</span>ō-pē-ə, <span class="unicode">ˌ</span>pres-\ - </span><span class="ssens">a visual condition which becomes
apparent especially in middle age and in which loss of elasticity of
the lens of the eye causes defective accommodation and inability to
focus sharply for near vision. </span><br />
<br />
I remember first hearing that word as a child and thinking,<i> But <b>I'm</b> Presbyterian. Why would anyone have a phobia of Presbyterians? We're boring! We eat casseroles!</i> When I finally looked up the meaning of the word, the lightbulb went off in my head and I realized, yeah so not having anything to do with Presbyterians, but everything to do with old people looking at their menus at either arm's length or with glasses they couldn't find because said glasses were perched on top of their bald heads.<br />
<br />
A few years ago, I discussed with my eye doctor the possibility of surgery to correct my extreme myopia (near-sightedness), present since age seven. I already was a bit squirrely about letting someone poke around my cornea WHILE I'M AWAKE AND REMEMBERING THE WHOLE THING and when Dr. G said, "Well, we can correct the myopia and the astigmatism, but you'll need glasses again in a few years when you hit 40 and need reading glasses." that was all the excuse I needed to back away from mental images of a maniacal eye doctor coming at my eyeballs with a really large scalpel.<br />
<br />
(Yeah, I know, the surgery isn't like that. I KNOW! Just let me have my horror show fantasies, m'kay?)<br />
<br />
One of my favorite hobbies is cross-stitching and <a href="http://www.spanishblackwork.com.au/" target="_blank">blackwork</a> embroidery and since age 10, I have thoroughly enjoyed finding a quiet corner and stitching anything and everything possible. The more skilled I became, the smaller the weave on my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aida_cloth" target="_blank">aida cloth</a> became. The smaller the weave, the neater and tighter the embroidery becomes. And the harder it is to see the holes. That's never been a problem in the past but in the last couple of years I find that I'm squinting more and more and getting really pissed about it.<br />
<br />
After my doctor appointment, and to kill time before picking the kids up from school, I stopped off into my favorite mall store and roamed around, touching the clothing fabrics, admiring the teapots, and wincing at the price tags. As I tried on a pair of sunglasses I didn't need, I saw reading glasses of all shapes and colors. And there, on the top, was a purple pair, magnification +1.50.<br />
<br />
<i>What the hell</i>, I thought, <i>I might as well give this try and do it in style with a pair of glasses that matches my hair.</i><br />
<br />
And so now, I am the proud, but annoyed, owner of a pair of reading glasses. Yes, I am 41. Yes, technically, according to American life span charts, I am middle-aged. But, dammit, if I'm going to be afraid of Presbyterians, then I'm going to do it with a bit of sass.<br />
<br />
If you happen to stop by Casa de CMG, and you come up to my office/craft room/hang out, you will find me thus:<br />
<br />
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Just call me "Ms. Cross-Bitch" if you're nasty!</div>
<br />Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-64093754460883784102013-09-11T00:00:00.000-04:002013-09-11T06:16:54.089-04:00Lighting a Candle for Mohammed Shajahan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Twelve years ago, American Airlines flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 AM. When this happened, it took out the 93rd and 99th floors and all those in between. Marsh & McLennan occupied the 93rd through the 100th floors of the North Tower.<br />
<br />
On that morning, all 295 employees and 63 contractors of Marsh & McLennan Companies, an insurance brokerage and risk management firm, lost their lives. <br />
<br />
In a matter of milliseconds, a group of cowards murdered those wives, husbands, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, and cherished ones. Mohammed Shajahan was one of them.<br />
<br />
I first heard about <a href="http://project2996.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Project 2,996</a> three years ago. This project is a way to help memorialize those who died on September 11, 2001, and for us to learn about those people who lost their lives. <a href="http://coalminersgd.blogspot.com/2010/09/project-2996-mohammed-shajahan.html" target="_blank">I wrote about Mohammed</a> during a time of social upset in our country. The news media was working everyone up into a frenzy over a mosque near the site of the World Trade Center attacks and some idiot pastor in Florida was threatening to burn a pile of Qur'ans. So I chose to memorialize Mohammed Shajahan as a way of showing people that it wasn't nearly 3,000 white, American Christians who were murdered that day. The people murdered were of many backgrounds, including Muslim.<br />
<br />
And here we are, three years later, TWELVE years later, still beating our chests in hysterical fear of anything having to do with Islam (Syria, the Million Muslim March, Iran, hijabs, and on and on). And so it will go until our generation, the generation who lived through these attacks or who watched these horrible acts played out on our TV screens, is dead and turned to dust.<br />
<br />
From the few bits I've gleaned on line, I've learned that Mohammed, who was a computer administrator for Marsh & McLennan, was also very much a family man. The <a href="http://memorial.mmc.com/pgBio.php?ID=249" target="_blank">comments</a> left on the memorial written by his company are heartbreaking. There, you see what his children and friends had to say about him and I cry each time I read them.<br />
<br />
<i>im one of his daughter's best friend and they always seem so myserable
thinking about thier dad. i feel really bad for them and im always
trying to comfort them by anyway. </i><br />
<br />
<i>I am an ex-employee of Marsh. It is a great company to work for. I
used to meet Mr Shahjahan quiet often. I always remember his words. He
used offer prayers in his office. May god bless him. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I know he was well-loved and was a wonderful father, husband, and friend. His children looked up to him and still miss him terribly. I'm sure today will be difficult for them.<br />
<i><br /></i>
Since first writing about Mohammed, I have remembered him every year by lighting a candle. I wait to see his name scroll across the bottom of the morning news shows every September 11th and I cry for his loved ones still left here on Earth. I vow to someday visit the World Trade Center Memorial and place a flower on his name. I think about that awful September day and hope that during my children's lifetimes, those of the Muslim faith will again be embraced with open arms by our countrymen.<br />
<br />
Someday, there will be no fear. No sadness. No hatred. No generalizations. Someday, Mohammed's grandchildren and great-grandchildren will practice their faith in America without worry or trepidation.<br />
<br />
I wish today was that day.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-39678906847653365732013-08-21T19:34:00.000-04:002013-08-21T19:34:57.275-04:00The Master of DisasterBeing that I like order - strive, live, breathe, and need it like I need air, chocolate, and Richard Chamberlain (not necessarily in that order) - to say that I have, in the past, hated disorder is an understatement.<br />
<br />
In the past, if I planned something, I <i>knew</i> it would happen. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, if I had it in my calendar, it was goin' down, ya'll.<br />
<br />
I'm fairly certain that if the apocalypse had occurred 12 hours before a hair appointment, past-me would have been pissed, not because the world was ending, but because my plan wasn't going according to plan.<br />
<br />
The immature, irresponsible, kidless me of 1972 through 2005 got really pissed if we planned to have dinner and your kid was sick and you backed out. <i>How dare they?!?!</i> I would mentally screech, unbelieving that someone was messing with <i>my</i> plan and <i>my</i> calendar and <i>my </i>expectations. And, usually, I was angry with the kid, not the parent. Yep, I was even that college student who was irritated if the professor didn't show up to class and <i>NOW WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR TWO HOURS?!?</i><br />
<br />
(Go figure those bits of messed-up logic.)<br />
<br />
I am such a routine girl. I mentioned that in my last post, but I'm not kidding when I say that if all I had to wear were purple t-shirts and flare jeans from Old Navy <i>I would work that shit 'til the cows came home</i>. Nothing but fried baloney and mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch? Forever? <i>Bring it</i>. I embrace routine like Kanye West embraces Taylor Swift's microphone.<br />
<br />
But I'm learning that change will not kill me.<br />
<br />
Figuring this out came slowly. When the twins were born in 2005, I still held on to a very regimented routine. <i>Wake up babies. Change their diapers. Feed them. Burp them. Put on their clothes. Entertain them for 30 to 60 minutes until they fall asleep. Rinse. Repeat.</i> And then, <i>then</i>, the little buggars went and grew up and developed Free Will and decided to blow my routine paradise all to Hell.<br />
<br />
<i>Mo-om! I don't feel so good!</i><br />
Well, looks like we're not going to your grandmother's birthday party.<br />
<br />
<i>Mo-om! I just fell and hurt myself and I'm bleeding EVERY-WHERE!!!!!!</i><br />
OK. Guess we're not going to the cook-out. ER, here we come!<br />
<br />
<i>Mo-om! I don't want to wear my hair in a braid! I want it DOOOWWWWN!!!!!</i><br />
Well, there goes 20 minutes of work.<br />
<br />
I take a lot of deep, cleansing breaths. And sometimes, I'm not proud to admit, I stomp off in a huff and take a few minutes in my closet, cursing at my purple shirts. But, I'm getting there. I've slowly become the woman who can accept change and not fear it.<br />
<br />
For example, I always assumed I would be the mom who stayed at home and did nothing but kids/homework/housework. I planned on that being the norm. I planned on a graduate degree and career <i>after</i> I escorted the kids out the door to their futures. But last year felt so empty and meaningless. I didn't blog, didn't write, didn't create. That was a routine I didn't enjoy. This year, I'm still momming and kidding and cleaning and houseworking and -inging a lot. Add <i>technical writing</i> and that's a change I've been quite happy to suck up and deal with.<br />
<br />
Leo Tolstoy once wrote, "Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." I am here to tell you that I will never change the world. I am one woman who prefers the comfort of her routine and her home and her family. To change the world is <i>too</i> <i>much</i> change for me.<br />
<br />
But changing me so that I can accept when the world around me changes? Yeah, that I can do just fine. <br />
<br />
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<br />Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-21401050599261823952013-03-05T10:45:00.001-05:002013-03-05T10:45:49.057-05:00Dialog, Part 34<b>J-man:</b> Bubba and Lolli! Sittin' in a tree! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!<br />
<br />
(Writer's note: Lolli is a little girl, in Bubba's class, on whom Bubba is crushing. He says he's going to marry her. I say I'm going to have to go talk to this little girl's mother.<i><b> </b></i>And have me a stiff drink.)<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> No, that's K-*I*-S-S-I-N-G.<br />
<br />
<b>J-man:</b> I SAID THAT! K-S-S-S-I-N-G.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>No. Sweetie. K-*I*-S-S...<br />
<br />
<b>J-man:</b> <i>Extremely frustrated.</i> I. SAID. <b>THAT</b>!<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>No, you didn't. Ksssing isn't a word. You spell kissing with an *i*.<br />
<br />
<b>J-man:</b> I know that, Mama! I said *i*! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>Did you just hear yourself? There aren't three s's in kissing! Just two! And two i's!<br />
<br />
<b>J-man:</b> <i>Shaking his head in a condescending manner, much the way Neil deGrasse Tyson does to all the evolution haters. </i>Mama. I spelled it with two i's. You didn't hear me right.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> I REALIZE YOU ALL THINK I'M A DAFT COW, BUT I KNOW YOU JUST SPELLED KSSSING! AND THAT DRIVES ME BATTY!<br />
<br />
Ya'll, I'm dead serious. If you'd like to get in touch with me, I'll be in the local psych ward, trying to convince myself that ksssing spells kissing and that 2 + 2 really does equal 5.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-43025049048311304002013-03-01T10:56:00.001-05:002013-03-01T11:21:27.357-05:00Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't take compliments well. I don't know why this is, but they just make me uncomfortable because I never know what to say.<i> Thank you</i> always seems, so, not enough. Usually, I'll reply with an awkward pause and then say "Thank you" with a self-deprecating explanation of why the person shouldn't have complimented me because I'm not worth it.<br />
<br />
<b>Nice Person:</b> Heather! I love that necklace!<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Oh! <i>insert awkward pause</i> Thanks! <i>insert grimace</i> I found it on Etsy for $13. It's just plastic and gold-toned metal. From China. Nothing special.<br />
<br />
And even though I know that was horrible, I can't help myself. I do this all the time. The other thing I do is forget to give out compliments. It's not that I don't notice your new haircut or weight loss or new dress on purpose, but I tend to live in my head. So while you are really excited about your new hair color and are hoping I'll say something about it, I'm about a million miles away, probably thinking about a book I just read or wondering if the Pope is picking his eye boogers.<br />
<br />
<i>Yes. I think about crap like this all the time. I wish my brain had a <b>Pause</b> button.</i><br />
<br />
This is me. This is where I live. And I never expect compliments. Ever. When I get them, they always surprise me.<br />
<br />
It was last Friday night at the <a href="http://www.pagefoundation.org/displaycommon.cfm?an=3" target="_blank">Georgia Academic Decathlon</a> and after running around for the fourth time, collecting score sheets and putting out little fires, I sat down to double-check that the score sheets in my hands had been completely filled out. Two high school volunteers from Berkmar High School were sitting on either side of me, waiting for the next round of decathletes to enter the holding area.<br />
<br />
As I was engrossed in my checklist, the high school-aged girl to my left said, <i>You have the most beautiful blue eyes. They're so blue!</i><br />
<br />
I froze. I don't ever notice my eyes because they've been mine for 41 years and you don't really see something you've seen all your life. You no longer notice anything special or beautiful about something that has become a part of your existence. We humans are kind of messed up that way. Not only that, but I couldn't think of something apologetic to use in response. I sometimes feel like the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rainbow-Fish-Board-Book/dp/1558585362" target="_blank"><i>Rainbow Fish</i></a> and that whenever I receive a nice comment, I should share my attribute about which I've been complimented. Since I couldn't pop my eyes out of their sockets and offer one to her (Honestly, how freaky would THAT have been? Plus? She probably would have screamed.) and since apologizing for my parents' combined genetics that gave me these eyes would have made me sound like such an awful person, I said the only thing I could say after such a long, silent pause.<br />
<br />
<i>Thank you!</i><br />
<br />
That was it. For the first time, in, EVER, I responded with just a simple thanks and a smile. I didn't apologize or ruin the compliment with my need to tear myself down. I just thanked her.<br />
<br />
And because of her, I've noticed my eyes and how blue they really and truly are all week long. Thank you, nameless Berkmar student. You? Have made me appreciate myself just a bit more.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-46567110159669072132013-02-06T00:00:00.000-05:002013-02-06T00:00:13.923-05:00Niobium*I've been listening to a lot of <a href="http://www.shawnmullins.com/main.html" target="_blank">Shawn Mullins</a> lately. To many of you, Shawn Mullins was a one-hit-wonder, spawned in the North Georgia mountains and chasing the tails of the Indigo Girls and R.E.M. But for me, he was more than that. He was the voice of my college and 20-something years. When I was a freshman at North Georgia College, he was a senior and playing gigs at the bar across the street from our campus. I bought his cassette tape, "Everchanging World" in the college bookstore and played it until it wore out (my fellow Lewis Hall dorm mates were probably tired of listening to it). During my sophomore year, he released his first CD, "Better Days" and I still dust it off and listen to it when the mood strikes.<br />
<br />
For the past month, Shawn's many albums have been on repeat in my car, my iPod, and in my head when I'm trying to fall asleep. I don't think it's that I'm trying to recapture 20-years-ago but rather trying to understand me 20 years ago. How 20-year-old me slowly morphed into 41-year-old me.<br />
<br />
(I have to make an admission here. A quick aside. We all talk about our lives being "short" and "blink of an eye" is thrown around. Sometimes, though, I feel like these 41 years have taken <i>forever</i> to pass by.)<br />
<br />
This song, from Shawn's album that included the one-hit "Lullaby", is one of my favorites. It's called "Twin Rocks, Oregon." Just take five minutes and listen. It's totally SFW:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/bVCqIOciXlc" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
The message of this song, about finding yourself, has been at the forefront of my mind for the last month. I've been aware of my mortality for longer than I can remember, but it's only since having kids (and last month's health scare) that I'm now <i>hyper</i> aware of my eventual end. Will my children be OK without me? Will they mourn me and be at my wake? Will they take the lessons I've taught them and teach their own children? Will the world still turn and the sun still rise and set?<br />
<br />
Yes. Of course... I hope.<br />
<br />
I don't know the definite answers. I'm never meant to know. But, I do know this. When I finally leave this earthly plane, my children will know that I was comfortable in my own skin. They will know that after all those years, I finally understand who I am and that I really like me. All of my experiences have led me to this point, this dot on my timeline, and I'm happy here. Loving Tyler Dobson, loving three amazing little kids that came from me, being a band nerd, standing up to an adult bully, studying physics, leaving West Virginia, wanting to write erotic fiction, chasing ghosts, all of it. I. Am. Content. And that frees me to no end.<br />
<br />
There's a line in the song, "ain't it a blessin' to do what you want to do" that resonates, except I'm going to change it up a bit.<br />
<br />
Ain't it a blessin' to be who you want to be?<br />
<br />
It is. It truly is.<br />
<br />
Today, I'm 41. When I look in the mirror, I see a tired yet beautiful woman who is ready to rock this planet for <i>at least</i> another half-century. And when that day comes, I'm sure I will listen to more Shawn Mullins, the voice of my youth, think of how I got there, and remember that being me is pretty fucking amazing. Ain't that a blessin'?<br />
<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*For those of you who wish to know, niobium is a chemical element, symbol Nb. It's a metal that can <span style="font-size: x-small;">be found in the superconducting magne<span style="font-size: x-small;">ts of</span> MRI scanners</span>. And? It's atomic weight is 41. <i>Insert nerd smiley face here. </i></span>Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-75506709721747126892013-02-04T00:00:00.000-05:002013-02-04T00:00:01.790-05:00I'm Married To An Older ManFor two whole days, I'll be married to an older man.<br />
<br />
I have always taken this yearly, 48-hour opportunity to make jokes like, "Hey, sweetie! Where's your cane?" and "It's so nice to be the trophy wife!" as well as, "Ah, yes, stealing the kids' trust funds one birthday at a time!"<br />
<br />
The Ty-man doesn't much appreciate this. But, that's OK. He gets back at me starting at hour 49 when I finally join him in old age and he makes jokes about "Trading you in for two twenty-year-olds."<br />
<br />
Ahem.<br />
<br />
Maybe this year I'll keep my mouth shut.<br />
<br />
Happy 41st birthday to the most incredible man I've ever known! I love you and always will.<br />
<br />
Even when you DO finally need that cane.<br />
<br />
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<br />Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-2386164755021443772013-01-30T00:00:00.000-05:002013-01-30T06:22:21.423-05:00Dad<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgX9fD9u4oiCkjSsxC2Ia5qwF0Ep_rIrAVY50UsIM7YL_oZOuV2M9XaQrzM1Ep8cgMQlTGGZmJKGMGtvz1rH4gSCWYeye5d2-OsIHQmLehceCp8v1FjTaBSoJqbeTM1GesWZa6yfP4Co/s1600/Dad_Christmas_1995+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgX9fD9u4oiCkjSsxC2Ia5qwF0Ep_rIrAVY50UsIM7YL_oZOuV2M9XaQrzM1Ep8cgMQlTGGZmJKGMGtvz1rH4gSCWYeye5d2-OsIHQmLehceCp8v1FjTaBSoJqbeTM1GesWZa6yfP4Co/s320/Dad_Christmas_1995+1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, Christmas 1995, laughing because he was in on the <br />
"Let's have fun with Tom during Yankee Swap" joke.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Fifteen years ago today, my father died.<br />
<br />
It's been over 5,479 days since I heard his voice, saw his animated, moving, three-dimensional face, or felt his arms around me in a bear hug.<br />
<br />
The pain I feel has certainly lessened in these 15 years. I mean, I don't cry at the drop of a hat like I did the first couple of years, but milestones get me all choked up. My birthday, his birthday, Father's Day, you name it, I don't enjoy it. The births of my children, his grandchildren, were upsetting when I realized my father would never meet them. Any time the kids talk about "Paw-paw Tom" I get teary-eyed because they can only imagine what he was like and only have pictures to see him. It's my recollections and stories that give him substance.<br />
<br />
At best, he's a two-dimensional figure they'll never get to fully understand.<br />
<br />
What's worse for me, 15 years on, is that I've nearly forgotten the sound of my father's voice. If he were to suddenly reappear on this earthly plane and call out my name, I would have no idea who it could be trying to get my attention. I finally understand why people save the voice mail accounts of their loved ones. Even if it's just a couple of sentences, it's still a voice you want to hear over and over. That's why I may change my voice mail and instead of telling people to leave messages, I'll profess my undying love to each member of my family. Because knowing that these ears will never again hear my father cheer me on in life breaks my heart.<br />
<br />
(And there I go. Crying. All over again. Like the 15 years just disappeared and he died five minutes ago. I swear, it never goes away, it's just that life gets in your face and makes you live.) <br />
<br />
My dad was a sweet, caring, emotional, man. At the end of his life, he was a retired policeman, a 32nd-degree Mason, and veteran of the Korean War. He was kind to every person he met, very giving, quiet, and inquisitive. He was of average intelligence, not a great reader, and if you handed him a puzzle, he could solve it like nobody's business. He was a bit prescient in that he would suddenly look at you and pronounce, "I wonder how John Smith is doing? I haven't seen him in a while" and, within 24 hours, Dad would either see John Smith or see John Smith's obituary in the paper. Mom and I would get weirded out whenever this happened. Anytime he would start to ask a similar question, we would hit the deck. Which is probably why I called my parents so often while in college and after graduation. Didn't want my dad wondering what had happened to me!<br />
<br />
My father loved science fiction and would always start conversations with, "Heather! Why do you think there are UFOs? Do you really think there's intelligent life out there? Because there's none here!" I could talk to him about almost anything and he was fond of ending our phone calls with the phrase, "May The Force be with you!" He loved dirty jokes and was convinced that "pro" wrestling was a high art form.<br />
<br />
I have many wonderful memories of my father and I will cling to those today as I endeavor to remember him as best as my aging memory will allow. I will wear his Masonic ring, attempt to stomach some WWE, and maybe take a crack at that short story (Based on one of his out-there ideas - what if the Moon was a giant egg, laid by a huge galactic-sized bird, that hatched and the progeny proceeded to poo in our orbit? God bless the man.) he wanted me to write.<br />
<br />
Love you, Dad! Miss you! And may The Force be with you, too!Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-14784133387875470882013-01-27T00:59:00.001-05:002013-01-29T12:34:25.192-05:00PitfallsOne day, you invite me into your life. You tell me all your secrets, your pain, your prejudices, and fears. You show me your joy, your loves, your passion, and laughter. We realize, together, that we share a lot.<br />
<br />
Harmony.<br />
<br />
We share air, giggles, tears, dinners, experiences, and gripes.<br />
<br />
Your home is my home. Mine is yours.<br />
<br />
One day, you tell me, "Heather! The kids are at their grandparents' house! Bring Tyler! Come on over for some wine and cheese!"<br />
<br />
And I arrive, expecting an evening of friendship, cutting loose.<br />
<br />
Of being me.<br />
<br />
Me is a complicated person with simple pleasures. Certain wines, stinky cheeses, no sadness, only comedy, and lots of foul language.<br />
<br />
You greet me at the door and I enter, knowing that I can be me because it's only my friends here, friends and loved ones who get me and know me better than I can sometimes know myself.<br />
<br />
The conversation progresses, back and forth, ebb and flow. We are all communicating. Catching up. Sharing little details.<br />
<br />
And then, it happens.<br />
<br />
I. Drop. The f-bomb.<br />
<br />
It happens. I do it a lot when I'm by myself or in the company of other adults who know me and aren't bothered by it. But I never do it in front of children. Elders. Bosses. Popes.<br />
<br />
And you. You look at me. As if I've just shot you. And you say, "HEATHER! Take that back! Shut your mouth! There's a child in the next room!"<br />
<br />
A child, you say? But I thought your children were gone for the weekend, to their grandparents' house.<br />
<br />
"NO!" you respond, "It's the neighbor's daughter whom we're babysitting."<br />
<br />
You never told me there was a stranger listening in. A stranger who is also a minor. Knowing there was a child in the next room would have changed my demeanor. My stance. My <i>language</i>.<br />
<br />
But you never bothered to tell me.<br />
<br />
In the real world, this (hopefully) never happens.<br />
<br />
In social media? It's every. fucking. day.<br />
<br />
And this is why I unfriended someone on Facebook. Someone I love and adore. Someone who chastised me for an f-bomb I unleashed that their friends could see. Their friends that include customers and children.<br />
<br />
Children.<br />
<br />
The lesson I have learned in the last few days is that if ANY of you have children lurking amongst your social media life, children who could possibly see my horribly offensive f-bombs, s-bombs, mf-bombs, etc. you need to tell me. And then I will probably unfriend you, too.<br />
<br />
Because those children and their parents aren't as social media savvy as me or you.<br />
<br />
I can search through the rooms of your house, looking for that elusive child or elder or boss or customer for whom I need to tiptoe around.<br />
<br />
I can't search through the friendship connections of your Facebook or Twitter or Tumblr or Blogger. That's not MY responsibility. It's YOURS.<br />
<br />
Please learn that before you make me feel like the biggest embarrassment of your online life.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-79700038725342241072012-12-20T06:49:00.000-05:002012-12-20T06:55:30.984-05:00Personal Apocalypse<span style="font-size: large;">OR</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">PSA #382: WHY OUR CHILDREN SHOULD WEAR HAZ-MAT SUITS UNTIL THEY'RE 34</span><br />
<br />
For the last week, I have been in some righteous pain. I woke up a week ago and nearly ploughed into my dresser because my ankles and knees forgot that they're supposed to help my feet with this whole walking business. I toddered into the kids' rooms to wake them up, trying to walk like a 40-year-old rather than a 140-year-old. It's hard to act nonchalant when a whole part of your body is rebelling against you.<br />
<br />
So, for two days, my feet and knees checked out on me. Pain, swelling, numbness, it was ridiculous. In addition to that, my elbows felt creaky, my shoulder blades felt cranky, and my hands were just revving up. I gave in and went to my doctor who promptly threw prednisone at me and demanded blood as payment in return.<br />
<br />
By Monday, my feet and ankles were OK, but it was my right hand that had decided to form a labor union and call a strike. Have you ever tried making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a hand that won't grip the knife? Because when you guide your hand toward said knife, the pain receptors start yammering and won't shut it? Yeah, it was tons of awesome and tons of painful. Several hours later, my doctor called, told me my inflammation levels were off the charts, and threw around words like <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/lupus/DS00115" target="_blank"><i>lupus</i></a>, <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/sjogrens-syndrome/DS00147" target="_blank"><i>sjogren's syndrome</i></a>, <i>autoimmune</i>, and <i>rheumatologist</i>.<br />
<br />
I cried for the rest of that day and resisted calling 911 to report a short-of-breath panic attack at Wellesley Crest Drive.<br />
<br />
By Tuesday, I had my appointment secured with a local rheumatologist and I had accepted my fate as one of the autoimmune masses. I kept telling myself that it would be OK. I would be OK. <i>No one dies from lupus</i>, my sweet, upbeat brain whispered to itself, <i>You're going to be fine.</i> But then that little negative bitch brain would whisper back <i>Oh yeah? Well, plenty of people die from pneumonia and that's what's going to happen when you start suppressing that cunt of an immune system we got down there!</i> Which is what was going on when I picked J-man up from school on Tuesday. I started talking to his teacher about what was going on with me and she looked at me with shocked eyes and rounded mouth and said...<br />
<br />
OH MY GOD, HEATHER! YOU HAVE <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/parvovirus-infection/DS00437" target="_blank">FIFTHS DISEASE</a>!<br />
<br />
She explained fifths to me as I hustled J-man to the car and on the way to the twins' school, I furiously Googled fifths disease during stop light pauses and called up <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=fifths+disease&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=pof&tbo=d&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=E_nSUMW0Bo3M9ASF-YGIAQ&ved=0CAoQ_AUoAA&biw=1920&bih=859" target="_blank">images</a> and started to do the math.<br />
<br />
J-man - complained about headaches and tiredness two weeks ago - he wasn't finishing work at school because he said he was too tired<br />
<br />
Miss-Miss - had two days of fever the same time my pain started - just fever, nothing else<br />
<br />
Bubba - in the middle of my pain, his cheeks turned bright red in what we thought was an allergic reaction to some body crayons - redness remained despite repeated doses of Benadryl, making him look like the Google images of kids with fifths<br />
<br />
Me - had two days of fever, two days of calm, then extreme joint pain and swelling with a rash on my abdomen<br />
<br />
I added all of this up and discovered our house was most likely patient zero for a parvovirus outbreak.<br />
<br />
Where's a veterinarian when you need one?<br />
<br />
So, to sum up. I have gone to the rheumatologist, who agreed that it could be parvovirus, but she still took eight (ZOMG EIGHT!!!!!!) vials of blood in an effort to narrow down what's going on. My inflammation numbers were off-the-danged charts high and that concerned her. So, for right now, I'm taking pain killers and not much else. My joints are back to being stiff, swollen, tingly, and uncooperative, but so far, no major pain. I'm going to take this next week as the perfect opportunity to let the relatives raise my kids while I sleep.<br />
<br />
And just after the new year, I'll know if my immune system is doing its job and fighting off a childhood disease that makes adults suffer or if my immune system is being a dick and attacking me for no reason.<br />
<br />
I'll keep you all posted.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-31475225123295077302012-11-07T09:59:00.000-05:002013-01-29T12:35:57.317-05:00My Vote. Your Vote. Our Vote.As I sat in the polling place yesterday, I pondered this great nation of ours.<br />
<br />
Pondered <i>hard</i>.<br />
<br />
I watched an older gentleman, a veteran, feebly walk in with his cane and thick, bottle-bottom glasses. I surreptitiously magnified his ballot for him (you can do that with these really cool touch-screen voter machines - it's pretty bad-ass) so that he wouldn't have so much difficultly reading his choices. He fought for our country, for our right to stay free and choose our leaders. And here he was, participating in that most basic American right that we all take for granted that so many countries don't have, couldn't even conceive of having.<br />
<br />
We have a tradition at our precinct that we cheer, really loud, for the first-time voters. It's cute because the 18-year-old boys get completely freaked out and embarrassed when we do it, which makes us cheer all the louder. We also gave them each an American flag bandana. We must have passed out 35 bandanas, a record for us. One girl had her mother taking her picture she was so excited. They all smiled, took their ballot cards, and quietly asked how to work the machines. And I showed each one, proud as if I had given life to them myself, how to operate the touch screen and cast their vote. I congratulated them on coming out to their first-ever election day. And made sure to let them know that <i>every</i> election is as important, as meaningful, as their first. Hopefully, they'll show up for those boring, off-year, local bond elections. <br />
<br />
So many women voted yesterday. When I think that it was just in the last century that the gentler half of humanity received the right to vote in this country, I thank my lucky stars. When I think of the ten people who worked at our precinct yesterday, only one was a man. <i>One</i>. The rest of us are voting, empowered women. We nine ladies set up that precinct, made sure everyone who walked through those doors voted in peace, and then got those ballots to the elections office when it was all over. We ladies did that. Oh, and that one guy. Those suffragists had to go through beatings and jail and all sorts of obstacles to win us the vote and whenever I touch "Cast Your Ballot" on that touchscreen, I silently thank them. Because had they not fought, I would have been at home yesterday with no voice.<br />
<br />
In the late nineteenth, early twentieth centuries, many states enacted poll taxes to keep blacks and poor whites away from voting. Black men were beaten and intimidated and the majority of them would not vote. Nope. Wasn't worth their lives. Yesterday, African-Americans across the country voted. How awesome is that? No one beat them up for showing up at polling places. There was one family at our precinct yesterday that stopped me while I watched them. There was an African-American father who came in with his mother and daughter. It was his daughter's first election. She was so excited that when she got her American flag bandana, she asked her father to take her picture. While she voted, her father filled out his paperwork to vote and helped his mother. You see, his mother is completely blind. After his daughter finished, she sat with her grandmother while the father voted. And finally, the grandmother voted with assistance from her son. Three generations, determined to make sure their voices count. 150 years ago, none of those three would have been allowed to vote and yesterday, there they were. It brought tears to my eyes.<br />
<br />
We voted on November 6th. The polls opened on the east coast at 7AM (in general) and by midnight last night, we knew who our president will be for the next four years. Not two weeks from now, not two months from now, but <i>last. night.</i> None of us had to dodge bullets to get to our ballot boxes. We can yell and holler and scream and shake our fists about the opposing candidates and not worry about a visit from said candidate to shut us up. And once the candidate who we dislike wins, we can still sit there and bad mouth him or her because our Bill of Rights protects us.<br />
<br />
If Governor Romney had won last night, the transfer of power in January would have happened peacefully. The president-elect and his wife would have had brunch with President Obama and his family, they would have driven to the Capitol, and Romney would have taken the Oath of Office. Shortly thereafter, President Obama would have flown to his new home. There would have been no gunfire, no fighting, no armies forcing one form of government on a people over another. It would have been peaceful, as it was when Clinton won over Bush, as it was when Reagan defeated Carter, and on back as far as our country has existed. In four years, when a Democrat or Republican takes office in replacement of Obama, that <i>will</i> happen. And this coming January, President Obama will take the Oath of Office and continue his job, peacefully and without strife. Last night Governor Romney conceded the election to the victor and didn't threaten to beat down the doors of the White House. He didn't mobilize his voters to take over the government. He conceded to the victor. Peacefully.<br />
<br />
What you're all forgetting is that our country, regardless of who wins and who loses, is this incredible place where the people speak and the government listens. We choose our leaders and those leaders take their place while those who lost their elections go home to become regular citizens again. All without loss or threatening of life. This is what makes our country so great and so special. And if any of you comment that <i>None of our votes</i> count then realize that you are spouting a load of bullshit. <b><i>Every. Single. Vote. Matters.</i></b><br />
<br />
And when we vote, our voices speak. Finally, we are a country, a people, who has realized that the pen, the voice, is truly mightier than the sword. Be proud of that, embrace that, and keep voting. Keep speaking. And realize that that is what makes us great.<br />
<br />
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<br />Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-24023117337626838882012-10-31T00:00:00.000-04:002012-10-31T00:00:06.277-04:00Do Purples Have More Fun?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You know that old saying? <i>Blondes have more fun.</i> Yeah, you know that one. I was actually blonde once. It was 1999. I was suffering from clinical depression due to my father's death, kicking back Zoloft like it was Goobers, and I just decided I needed change. For me, that change came in the form of short, short, platinum blonde hair.<br />
<br />
I know. You can't believe it. And you're all going to comment <i>Pictures or that shit didn't happen</i>! Too. Damned. Bad. I am not digging through 13 years of pictures to find one, but I can assure you they do exist. Picture me younger, 20 pounds heavier, and WAY blonder. My friend Toni said I looked like a proper German girl. But I wanted to know if it was true. Do blondes have more fun?<br />
<br />
Not really. At least, I didn't notice any discernible difference in how I was treated by strangers or friends. I was still the nerdy, small-breasted, BRUNETTE I had always been. A brown-hair in blonde's clothing, so to speak. And, to mangle a Sean Connery-James Bond phrase, <i>The collars and cuffs did NOT match.</i><br />
<br />
From that point on, I decided if I couldn't get a tattoo (tattoo = Ty-man divorce = sad CMG with trashy Chinese characters on her back that probably translate to <i>Fortune Cookie Whore</i>) I would allow Wayne to play with my hair. My typical appointment with Wayne since the Blonde Incident of 1999 has tracked like this:<br />
<br />
Wayne: What do you want me to do?<br />
Me: I don't know. I'm bored.<br />
Wayne: How bored?<br />
Me: Wayne-can-have-fun bored.<br />
<br />
And I would walk out an auburn chick with blonde streaks, or a brunette with red streaks, or just a plain old <i>HIDE YO GRAY!</i> chestnut.<br />
<br />
But this fall was different. With the twins starting first grade and me being introduced to the species of human female known as <i>Towne-Lake-SAHM-Who-Has-Too-Much-Time/Money-and-No-Talent/Life-Who-Wants-To-Run-The-Lives-Of-The-Other-Moms</i> I freaked. out.<br />
<br />
Enter Wayne and his magic bottle of purple from stage left.<br />
<br />
Exit me, stage right, with the gnarliest hair I've ever had the privilege of wearing.<br />
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I could totally take the easy way out and admit that this was me screaming through a year-40 crisis. But it isn't. At 40, I finally feel comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am, what makes me tick, and you know what? <i>I love this bitch.</i> I'm pretty danged cool. No, this purple hair is me, announcing to the outside world that I'm different. I'm not your average room mom. I'm not your average suburbanite. I'm not every other mother you see in the grocery store. <i>This is my inner fireworks coming out to say FECKIN' A! Check this shit out!</i><br />
<br />
Now, to finally answer the question put forth by this post's title: Do Purples Have More Fun? Well, I certainly had more fun with it. I left the house with a spring in my step, knowing what was on top of my head. These purple stripes have been money well-spent and out-cooled that birthday tiara by MILES. What I can tell you is that purple hair certainly gets you noticed. As in <i>just about everyone in the Washington, D.C. and National Harbour area digs your wig</i>. And strange men came up to me, in Kentucky, with the Ty-man standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME, and started up random conversations. All because of the purple hair. The grocery baggers at Kroger think I'm the shiz. But guess what? I'm still the same, meek chestnut none of them would have bothered to know this past summer. Because of these purple streaks, I'm suddenly more interesting. I'm note-worthy. And that's sad. It's sad that it takes an unnatural hair color for someone to get noticed. For others to even <i>care</i>. <br />
<br />
Which is why when I return to Wayne in November, I have a decision to make. Do I ditch the purple or do I keep it? I can't decide.<br />
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Help?<br />
<br />
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<br />Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-11853655739006105592012-10-29T21:39:00.000-04:002013-01-29T12:35:38.390-05:00MemoriesThe fifth anniversary of this humble blog passed by with nary a whisper. All the way back in August. I hadn't noticed it until now. I sat down to write a post about my purple hair (forthcoming) and realized I had passed that <i>Holy shit, this bitch is five years old and I didn't get her a present!</i> moment a couple of months back.<br />
<br />
Talk about your belated birthdays.<br />
<br />
As I age, my usual death and dismemberment anxieties get worse. Before my children, I had a list (written on purple legal pad paper, natch) of personal belongings that would be passed out among my family and friends. Now, of course, all those things would go to my children. But here's the thing.<br />
<br />
I don't want Miss-Miss to remember me via a necklace. Bubba won't care about my scuba gear if I'm not in it, diving with him, and I'm sure J-man would prefer me over some Anne Rice first editions. I know this because I miss my father. Terribly. And the one thing that has meaning for me was a letter he wrote to me before his death. His very presence, spirit is in that letter and I miss him so very much. He taught me how to tie my shoes, was there for every marching band performance, clapped the loudest and praised the highest whenever I did right and scowled the most when I did wrong. He would be such a balm for my soul right now as I struggle to raise these three kids. And granted, it's not a struggle in the traditional sense, because I am damned lucky to be where I am, to be a stay-at-home-mom, but I struggle because I'm a perfectionist and I expect to be perfect knowing I never can be. Dad would be there to tell me to calm down. He would be the base to the acid of my thoughts that whisper poison to me everyday when I, yet again, fail to reach the high standard I stupidly set out for myself. He is the voice I'm missing from my life. Sadly, I can't really remember the sound of his voice and his face is frozen, unmoving, in my mind because his multi-dimensional self has been replaced with old family photos and one measly letter.<br />
<br />
I want my three babies to remember me. ME. Not some random memory of me or another person's perception of me through their fuzzy memories. They need to remember me through my own words and actions. This is why I've decided to turn my blog into a book. I'm currently in the process of copying all 720 posts (now, 721) into a book that can sit on a shelf, a book full of words and pictures that will give my three bundles of joy and heartaches a full picture of who their mother is and was. I want them to truly see <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
In doing this, I'm reading posts that I haven't seen in several years. <i>Several</i>. Wow.<br />
<br />
I don't write as often as I used to. I've slowed down. But I still want to write here because this is who I am. A writer.<br />
<br />
<b>I am a writer.</b><br />
<br />
I'm finally admitting this fact in front of all of you. And it feels good.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-3807669097227608292012-09-16T10:44:00.000-04:002012-09-16T10:44:05.513-04:00Happy 7th Birthday Bubba and Miss-Miss!Today, my dear sweet twins turn seven. For a less-abbreviated story that is tl;dr, click <a href="http://coalminersgd.blogspot.com/2009/09/four-years-ago-today.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
If you would like to actually see the newly-minted 7-year-olds in action, with a special appearance by J-man and a photobomb courtesy of Ty-man, then look no further.<br />
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Happy Birthday, sweet twins! Love you both with all my heart!<br />
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<br />Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-80435236310812428312012-08-22T12:04:00.003-04:002012-08-22T12:07:57.469-04:00An Open Letter to, Well, EveryoneI've been stewing on this for a week.<br />
<br />
My blog has always been about me and my daily life and my weird sense of humor. Lately, this joint is more quiet than hopping, but it's nice to know I still have a place in The People's Republic of Blogistan where I can let loose.<br />
<br />
What has been stewing in my head is all this ruckus about Representative Todd Akin.<br />
<br />
I've never been raped. I hope to never go through that one thing that all (and, yes, I mean all) women fear. I hope and pray that my daughter will never have to heal from rape. We all fear many things, but rape is something all us girls think about, whether it's happened to us or not. It's the ultimate defilement of our freedom, our femininity, and our humanity. I walk through a parking lot, keys sticking out from in between my fingers like nasty little Wolverine claws, completely alert to my surroundings. I do this day and night. I check the back seat of my car before I get in, even if the car was locked. I look at every male stranger at the grocery store, every single one walking down the street, each man going past me as a potential rapist.<br />
<br />
Oh, wait, you're a man? And you don't like assumptions being made about you? Oh, well then, let me just say welcome to the party because I don't appreciate being treated like a second-class citizen who should be relegated to the kitchen and laundry room while supposedly possessing the powers of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bene_Gesserit" target="_blank">Bene Gesserit</a> witch.<br />
<br />
Thus far, I have enjoyed being an American woman in the latter 20th and early 21st centuries. I have the ability to go to the grocery store in my flip flops and shorts in the baking Georgia summer, I can wear a bathing suit on the beach and catch a few rays during a family vacation, I can talk to my husband about financial issues, political opinions, and child-rearing philosophies without getting backhanded, I can go out and find gainful employment (if I could ever write a decent resume), and heck, I can do anything except spontaneously grow a Y-chromosome.<br />
<br />
But, and this is a pretty big BUT, when people like Rep. Todd Akin come onto the scene and make statements about "legitimate rape" and that I have such power over my body that I can shut off ovulation at the flip of the switch, I feel all those personal freedoms melt away. I feel like I'm living in a Matrix where I'm being fooled into thinking that I have freedoms when, in fact, maybe I don't. Or I do and they're about to be snatched out from under me like a magician does a table cloth. Except this really nice china grouping is about to be shattered. Because, as we all know, douchebags are everywhere and where there's one Rep. Akin, there's more of him, waiting in line to express the same uneducated, narrow-minded opinion, ready to take away my choice in what I do to my body. Much like the rapist takes away a woman's choice with whom she will share her body.<br />
<br />
This isn't a blog post about "vote for The Other Side". This is a blog post about LEAVING ME THE FUCK ALONE. I don't ask for much. I don't ask for federal assistance or state welfare, lowering my taxes or bearing arms. This is a post about personal fucking responsibility.<br />
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If you want to make sure your children never have abortions, then teach them about safe sex, saving themselves for their spouses and that abortion will send them to Hell. But, don't presume to do the same for my children. Don't make that decision for me. Because, yes, if (God forbid) my daughter is ever raped, I will take her to the pharmacist for the morning-after pill. And if you take that choice away from me, then I will take her wherever I have to go to make sure she never has the child of someone who tried to take away her freedom. I don't intend to buy condoms for your kids, so don't you dare ever take away my freedom to know, deep down, that I, or even many of our daughters, mothers, wives, or sisters, could not mentally survive pregnancy due to rape.<br />
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I don't pass out guns on the street corner and I will only ever use a gun in the defense of me and my family. Don't you dare ever take away my ability to protect myself and my family.<br />
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I don't get up in your face with my American flag, waving it around like a cat toy, just to piss you off. Don't you dare ever take away my right to wear said flag on a t-shirt, pledge allegiance to it, or fly it proudly from my house.<br />
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I don't market my religious beliefs (or lack thereof) to anyone by knocking on doors or starting conversations about faith at inappropriate places or times. So, stop trying to convert me on my doorstep, while I'm working at a polling precinct, or when I'm trying to scrapbook and socialize at a friend's house.<br />
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I don't tell you to shut up when you're defending something that makes me physically ill or when you're showing something on TV that I disagree with. I simply change the channel or walk away. So, stop trying to shut down people when you disagree with them. <br />
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I will never tell you who to fall in love with or who you can spend the rest of your life with. Love equals happiness. Why shouldn't we want people to be happy? My sexual orientation is practiced in my bedroom with the blinds closed. Just because someone is gay doesn't mean they do the deed on public park benches or in grocery store aisles. Quit assuming that the sexual orientation of a stranger can destroy your marriage. Only you can do that.<br />
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I won't ask you, Rep. Akin, to stop running for re-election and I won't duct tape your mouth shut. I will, though, tell you that you're an asshat who needs to go back to high school-level anatomy and physiology classes and tell you that maybe, from now on, you'll think before you open your uneducated-about-the-female-body mouth. As a representative of the people of the 2nd congressional district of Missouri, you should know better. You should know that rape is something ALL women fear, viscerally, and that you don't get to trivialize it or the need for many victims of it to know they could never survive knowing a physical reminder of said rape exists in the world. Ever.<br />
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Let's take responsibility for ourselves and our children. Let's stop trying to control the lives of everyone outside the walls of our home. Let's instead take care of each other. Let's not trivialize a horrendous act in order to forward a political agenda. Instead of shouting at each other and spouting such nonsense as "MY SIDE IS BETTER THAN YOUR SIDE" why not realize that ALL sides are right, for the people defending them, and that we HAVE to compromise. Yes, COMPROMISE. It has to happen or we will fail as a society. You may not agree with what I have to say and I may dislike how you feel, but we have to meet in the middle and walk together or we're just going to stand there, butting heads, getting nowhere.<br />
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So, leave abortion alone. Leave rape victims and their subsequent choices alone. The woman who forgot to take her birth control pill and accidentally got pregnant and felt her only option was to have an abortion? Leave her alone, too. And leave alone the odd woman who may be using abortion as a form of birth control. The choices these women make don't affect you in any way. Leave all us gals alone. We can, surprisingly, take care of ourselves. We're a hardy bunch, believe it or not. If there truly is a God, It will judge us as It sees fit. That's not your job.Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5974479864897892693.post-71299405697346655822012-06-21T00:00:00.000-04:002012-06-21T00:00:03.767-04:00In Memoriam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicuSZ1vIL0v6sba9sk4UGVRZfwBwpAy2tlkedB21fOCZ7GkhW9EEfuPuc38DHnmEyAMuQ01ZoJ3uSiX0UtGny81DzxEuF5DGLQQV_kXE9WY1wXP06XJNNtGcOi9Gu6_xhXbZAELFRY568/s1600/PuppyMonster.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicuSZ1vIL0v6sba9sk4UGVRZfwBwpAy2tlkedB21fOCZ7GkhW9EEfuPuc38DHnmEyAMuQ01ZoJ3uSiX0UtGny81DzxEuF5DGLQQV_kXE9WY1wXP06XJNNtGcOi9Gu6_xhXbZAELFRY568/s320/PuppyMonster.png" width="266" /></a></div>
Hard to believe it's been five years. Always remembering you Puppy Monster. Much love for you, <a href="http://www.apileofdogbones.com/" target="_blank">Dawg</a>!<br />
<br />Coal Miner's Granddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14320077738770745217noreply@blogger.com0