Drama Queen

Chris Needham needs a pair.

/ wvfurandroot / 18 Comments

Buzzardbilly (my separated-at-birth-and several-years-younger twin whom I’ve never met) has been blogging here, here and here about Chris Needham’s bashing of West Virginia and NBC’s publishing of said article.

The story broke about a week before Christmas, but I’ve been lost in my own little world and didn’t hear tell of any of it until just a couple of days ago. The governor is furious and lots of people, rightly, are asking for a retraction, an apology, and a follow-up news story.

Upon hearing the news, I was disgusted and my ire rose, but not enough to drag me into the fray. I was just too tired. (And I call myself an Appalachian Activist. Shame on me.) Well, after a few days of round-the-clock sleep, I’m about as mad as a body can get. My panties are twisted and knotted big time.

What an ass! (I’m referring to Chris and not that part of my body where the twisted panties are.)

Now Buzzardbilly has a way with words and, really, she’s the best person to read to fully understand why the original news article was so offensive as well as why Needham’s and NBC’s response to the criticism was so woefully inadequate. NBC pulled the article from its website and the people of West Virginia (and only the people of West Virginia) got a sorry if you were offended type of statement issued only to a West Virginia news outlet.

Now, personally, I’ve never thought an apology you had to ask for was worth a shit in an outhouse, but if you do ask for one and you get a “Gee willikers, I’m sorry you were offended,” well that’s just an additional insult. Neither Needham nor NBC is owning the problem, much less making restitution.

No worries - the misspelling of Nebraska was corrected before mailing.

As much as it bothers me, I’m a Drama Queen. As such, I can’t bear the thought of being just another irate email, just another West Virginia blogger shooting volleys of words, or, worse, just another Appalachian sitting around saying, “Well, what can you do? People have been saying this stuff for years.” It is not because I don’t think the written word is powerful, but because chiming in at this late date means there’s nothing I can say that hasn’t been said. (Drama Queens just hate that.) Our point has been made (and re-made) and I’m pretty sure Chris and NBC stopped reading a couple hundred emails ago.

Now don’t misconstrue that last paragraph. I think it’s vitally important to send email and letters. Vital. Important. They may not read them, but they’ll note they’re coming in. It is also important to blog about it and talk about it. Inundating both Needham and NBC with our complaints will have an effect even if they don’t read our words.

But. I’m a Drama Queen in Good Standing. I have to work to retain my tiara. (It’s not all rhinestones, sequins and boas.)

So. I put my tiara on and sat to thinking. I came up with what I think is a pretty good idea, but I needed NBC Washington’s mailing address. Shouldn’t have been that hard to come up with, but it was. I don’t think NBC really wants snail mail, because the address is nowhere on their website. I was all over the web before I could find anything at all. I called 202-885-4200 and verified the *mailing* address. So, unless that woman lied, I mailed two bouncy balls to this address:

Chris Needham
NBC Washington
4001 Nebraska Ave NW
Washington, DC 20016

 

Bouncy balls? Yes, bouncy balls – ones the size of volleyballs. Pink ones, as a matter of fact. Two of them. And if it is true that NBC doesn’t want snail mail, I figure two, bright pink, bouncy balls will get their attention.

I know for a fact that if you take two bouncy balls down to the post office with the address written on the balls with a Sharpie and hand them to the clerk, the clerk will slap postage on those suckers and mail them off. No packaging (talk about environmentally friendly!) – nothing but bouncy balls in the mail sack to get dumped on some poor person in the mail room. (Take a moment to savor that image.)

On the side of the ball opposite the address, I wrote:

Dear Chris and NBC-Washington,

Since y’all don’t have the balls to issue a proper apology to the people of West Virginia or a proper retraction to your readership, I thought I’d help you out. Sincerely, Connie

And the second reads:

Dear Chris and NBC-Washington,

Here’s the second ball. I wanted to make sure you had a pair. Sincerely, Connie

I have hopes of provoking a smile on the face of that mailroom person. With any luck, said person will not like Chris Needham or be from West Virginia, or both. Now if it was me in that mailroom and a postal person handed me two bouncy balls, I’d be flying down the hallways to hand deliver those suckers. But it could be that’s just me.

Now I get the giggles thinking about what might happen if a few people sent Chris bouncy balls. Or more than a few. In that part of my imagination where grandiose dreams live, I think about hundreds of bouncy balls landing in the offices of NBC Washington. (Now savor that image.)

There are two reasons I like this idea: 1) it’s visual, spatial, colorful, and, well, bouncy (kinesthetic, if you will); and 2) it is permeated with a sense of humor. These reasons sum up West Virginia rather nicely, I think. Besides it’s just the kind of a thing a Hillbilly Diva Drama Queen with twisted panties would do. It’s not like I had a choice.

So, if you’re of a mind to, feel free to send a bouncy ball or two to Chris Needham.

Note: I had to do a fair amount of talking at the post office to convince the clerk that yes, indeedy, I could send bouncy balls sans box through the mail. She finally agreed.  They cost me $1.73 apiece in postage. If you do decide to send Chris a pair and your postal person balks, you might mention this company.  All told, I’ve got less than$8 invested.

A Not So Fun Silly Shoe Season

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments

Talk about your silly shoe season.

The last couple of months have just been crazy. Oh sure, I can hear you saying, So what else is new?” It’s true that my life is a tragicomedy that would provide good ratings to some television channel should they decide I’m worthy of a reality show. But I’m opposed to reality TV. In fact, after living without for a couple of years, I’m pretty much opposed to the boob tube, in general.

So. What’s new?

I had foot surgery again. Oh, yes, again.

A few years ago, I developed a soft tissue mass” following a car accident. (Got my feet tangled up in the pedals.) The more precise term is inclusion cyst. As near as I can figure, this damn thing is a giant zit trapped deep in my foot resulting from skin cells that got trapped in joint fluid. Parts of one’s body is allergic to skin cells in the wrong place.  Go figure.

The original lump - May 2007

A couple of days after the accident, my foot started screaming in pain – loud enough to deafen the caterwauling of my back and hip. I trundled off to the emergency room where they first told me it was broken and then that it wasn’t. After rounds of doctors and weeks of pain, I finally got the correct diagnosis.

My surgeon, who can’t possibly be old enough to slice and dice people, assured me that it was a simple outpatient procedure that would fix me up for good. He was astonished when I walked into his office a few weeks after the first surgery with another good sized lump in the same place. He muttered something like, “In all my years, I’ve never seen one of these come back.” [All what years? He can’t be more than 16.]

No yoga for me.

So, he sliced and diced again. A couple of months later, I limped back into his office and told him I thought the damn thing was back. He looked horror stricken. He did this and he did that (I think the term is palpitated) and determined it was just a lot of scar tissue. He shot me full of steroids and sent me on my merry way. My foot felt fine for a week or so.

Determined to quit nagging the youngun’, I learned to accommodate a foot that always hurt. A few months ago, the pain started ramping up.

I was far too busy for such inconveniences.

Then the lump got big enough that I couldn’t sleep in my preferred position.

Well. When you start messing with my sleep, I get serious.

I hobbled back into his office. Suddenly, his story has changed. From inconceivable (I don’t think that word means what you think it means – name that reference), he now tells me these things can be lifelong nuisances. So we scheduled surgery.

Loratab and lounging - hey, they said to elevate it. So I am. With all the style and grace I can muster. I am I am.

In terms of surgery, this procedure is a No Big Deal. In-and-out outpatient, a few days whacked out on controlled substances, and a sexy shoe for a couple of weeks. That’s how they describe it.

The pain is significant. Walking around in the damn surgical shoe makes my back unhappy. Trying to negotiate life living alone while under the influence of pain pills is daunting.

And, of course, the timing couldn’t be worse. (HMOKeefe is acting up again.) I couldn’t put the surgery off because I had reached the distressing point where the lump was pressing on nerves – apropos of nothing, my foot would go to sleep – while driving, while walking, while negotiating stairs. It also hurt like hell. The lump also got big enough that finding a shoe that would fit on my foot turned into a search for the lost grail. There’s also the monetary consideration of having to start the HUGE DEDUCTIBLE all over again in January.  (Health care reform, anyone?)

While I have time for sinfully long, baths, it's not all I could hope for.

So instead of preparing for the holidays and nursing HMOKeefe, I’m elevating my foot, learning the art of trashbag duct-taping to prevent wet bandages, and enjoying, so to speak, the soft puffy pink cloud that my brain turns into on Loratab.

I’m also catching up on sleep, reading and laundry. The problem is that Chapter 3 makes no sense because I can’t remember Chapter 2. The other problem is I get so caught up in the wonder of fabric textures that my clothes wrinkle before I can get them folded. So, I’m trying to stretch out the Loratab fix as long as I can so that I have a couple of productive hours now and again.

But as inconvenient and unpleasant as it all is, I’m getting some badly needed downtime. This working 70 hours a week crimps my lifestyle. The puppies are delirious with joy that I have time for them – they’ve been even more neglected than this blog.

So, fa la la, people. I’m back – at least for a few days while I enjoy Loratab la la land.

Lies

/ wvfurandroot / 6 Comments
imagine

Used under a creative commons license. Pareerica's http://www.flickr.com/photos/8078381@N03/2894159255/

I did a search on Flickr using the term imagine – I was delighted to find the very kind of image I set out to find on the very first screen of results. It’s a good day to be me.

I wanted an image that was a little edgy – one’s imagination can be a fearful place as well as a hopeful place. It’s most powerful when those two mix – hope rising out of fear.

One of our features as Homo sapiens sapiens is that we possess the ability to think beyond the here and now – to both hope and fear, for these are components of imagination. We can see possibilities. We can anticipate barriers.

Most of us lead comfortable little lives only barely tinged with the quiet desperation of Thoreau’s imagination. We go through rough spells. Some of us will throw up our hands and say, “I can’t do this.” But we can. We do.

Our lives sometimes feel like an endless stream of I-can’t-do-these-things-I’m-doing. Perhaps that’s the core of Thoreau – the desperation of self-imposed limits.

What-if is often seen as a brain-storming, motivational force. My what-ifs are worst case scenarios. I don’t think I’m a fearful person, but then again, I’ve had a right awful couple of years. There’s that old chestnut about 99% of what we fear never happens. If that’s an accurate statistic, my 1% has been powerful enough to cause lengthy analyses of dark what-if scenarios before I can move forward.

I discovered I was stronger than I thought I was. I’ve moved forward when I didn’t think I could even stand.

I-can’t-do-this is a lie.  

Still, I wasn’t impressed with myself.

I’ve whispered I-can’t-do-this and I’ve shouted I-CAN’T-DO-THIS. But I did it and I’ll do it. The doing can be worrisome, terrifying, humbling. It can also be strengthening. A large part of the downside is the fear of what will people think.  That fear is that we’ll be alone.

Another salient feature of Homo sapiens sapiens is that we’re pack animals. We need one another at the primal level. And yet we pride ourselves on our independence. We’re quirky creatures.

Pride is not an integral part of dignity. Dignity is imbued by the creator, pride is manmade. Pride can be squashed, but a loss of dignity is self-imposed. Independence is a chimera; and quirkiness, well, quirky is dignity in faded jeans and a clever t-shirt.

I’m not that strong. Every I-can’t-do-this that I’ve done has relied on help from someone. It’s always easier to accept help when you haven’t asked for it, but the I-can’t-do-this when the this is asking for help is a lie too. I can do this. I can ask for help. I’ve proved it.  And when I’ve been asked for help, I’ve always been happy to.  We’re pack animals, we’re cooperative – we’ve had to be to survive.

I-can’t-do-this is a lie.  

We-can-do-this is more accurate.

The Land of Bad Dreams

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments
The giant kitty that decorates my uncle's yard.

bad dreams live in Michigan

Way back when, Chef Boy ‘R Mine had a nightmare. I slept through his screaming (I’m a sound sleeper), but  Ex O’Mine ran in at the very first of the blood-curdling scream. Soothing the child (he was and is a very good father), he told the boy that he’d chased the bad dream away back to the Land of Bad Dreams. The child asked where that was. Groggy and put on the spot, the ex said the first thing that popped into his head – “Michigan. Michigan is where bad dreams live.”

[Now. The boy was confused because I always told him the bad dreams were caused by using the wrong side of the pillow. We then made quite a to-do of turning the pillow over, smoothing it, and peeking under it to check for certain that we had the right side down.]

Michigan may have popped into the ex’s head because my parents were setting out in a couple of days to visit the extended family. When Child O’Mine heard later, he was appalled – he decidedly did not want his cherished grandparents near the Land of Bad Dreams. My father had to do a lot of fancy talking to ease the child’s mind.

Michigan has, forever since, been re-dubbed the Land of Bad Dreams notwithstanding the fact that almost all of my extended family live there.

The whole thing was doubly poignant (and kind of funny) because both parents had some horrendous childhood experiences in Michigan. The sweetness of my son’s concerns softened their bad dreams a bit.

Neither my son nor I have nightmares often. I do, however, have a recurring dream that’s eerie. I don’t wake scared – more puzzled. I’ve been having this dream since I was about 13. If memory serves, the first time was during my first menstrual period. [The women amongst us (and some of the men) know that menses can provoke all sorts of psycho-drama.]

Moody Blues

Moody Blues

I don’t have it often, but once a year or so, I will dream of the white house. In my dream, I’m wearing a long flowing nightgown – white- suitable for the cover of a romance novel. I’m in a shabby cottage. Everything is white. The linoleum is white, the walls, the appliances, the curtains, the doors, the woodwork and the fireplace mantle. The only thing not white is a poster hanging above the fireplace. The poster changes through the years. At 13, I think it was a Moody Blues album cover – In Search of the Lost Chord. Later, it was Mary Lou Retton. Most recently, it was Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

The dream never lasts long. I’m in the house. I waft from room to room. I always have a sense of puzzlement – of what I don’t know. The lack of furniture? The unrelenting white? The poster? The cracked and scarred linoleum?

The Pier

The Pier

After exploring the house, I open the front door to find that it leads directly to a pier – a very long pier.   There’s no porch or walkway to the pier.  The pier is the porch.  It’s gray and foggy outside. The sky and water are so gray it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other. The fog has settled in and the beige of the sand is completely obscured. I walk to the end of the pier for what seems miles. During the walk, I watch my bare feet carefully negotiate the pier.  The pier is ancient and splintering. 

At the end, I look into the water and notice sunlight dapples. I look up to find the fog has lifted and the sun has come out. I look to the left and I look to the right and for miles and miles all I see are identical houses with identical piers.

The dream always ends there.

I have analyzed this dream from every angle. Not a clue. If my psyche is trying to tell me something, it needs to start speaking a language I can understand.

I went to Michigan this week to attend my grandmother’s funeral.

rocks, sand, autumn leaves

rocks, sand, autumn leaves

We stayed in a charming motel on a lake – a delightful mom & pop place. I scoped out the scenery as soon as we checked in, but the purpose of the trip precluded my itch to grab the camera and go play.

This morning I woke up at dawn. Quickly slipping into jeans and a sweatshirt while grabbing the camera, I quietly opened the sliding glass doors and walked through the early morning drizzle and fog to the lake.

There was the pier.

the white pier

the white pier

In my dream, the pier had always been weathered, gray wood. I now know that was wrong.

The pier is white – in keeping with the house. I think my psyche didn’t know there were white piers.

I shivered.

I hurried to the pier. My sleepy self was convinced if I stood on that pier, I would understand.

I stood on the pier. I sat on the pier. I took off my shoes and put my feet in the freezing water. I let the rain sluice over my head. I watched the wind ripple on the water and enjoyed the scent of early morning pines.

beach rocks

beach rocks

I took photos. Dozens. I sat in a chair and stared at the pier, the lake, the trees, the falling leaves. I fell a little bit in love with Michigan.

I still don’t have a flippin’ clue what the dream is about. But I expect to have it tonight.

I still think the dream takes place on the Atlantic ocean, but a Land of Bad Dreams pier is going to change the tableau. Lord only knows what the poster will be tonight – I was admiring a Georgia O’Keefe at a bookstore today.

And all of this reminds me of one of my all-time favorite quotes: If little else, the brain is an educational toy. (Tom Robbins).

I need more time at this pier.  I think the red hammock will entice HMOkeefe.  (He likes hammocks.) 

red hammock at dawn

red hammock at dawn

And I did fall a tiny bit in love with Michigan – the Land of Bad Dreams – the memories of my childhood and the beauty of this morning’s scenery contributing. And that motel was just too charming.  Yes, I need to go back and spend more time on that pier. 

I have got to unlock this dream which I just know I will have tonight.