religious chain emails

I think its important for someone to lose their religion in order to be able to fully understand their religion. Its not until you abandon your trained beliefs that you come to understand what and why you truly do believe. At that point you are no longer "religious" but faithful. You start to understand what faith is and how it applies to your journey in life. Today I received one of those utterly ridiculous religious chain emails which infuriate me. The premise of these emails has less to do with faith and more to do with fear. They often recount "a man" or "a woman" who lost their job or lost a loved oned after not forwarding the email. Sometimes another "man" or "woman" who did pass on the message found true love or came into great financial wealth. The point here is these emails are not religious at all. On the contrary they are sacreligious riddled with hocus-pocus type lingo and should be disregarded as the garbage they are.

disappointment

I'm currently utterly disappointed in the human race. I fail to see how when things don't go our way and life disappoints us that we look for someone to blame and often turn that blame into vicious hate. I also fail to see how making fun of others based on physical appearances is relevant or wise. Most of us lack the strength, will and determination to overcome obstacles in our life, especially those of a physical nature and when others do succeed, we make excuses for their success instead of applauding them. Its shameful, degrading and dehumanizing. The journey of life is hard enough without dragging each other down simply to make ourselves look better. 

False Reality

Is it a false reality if we don't know its fake?
this question, which seems ridiculous, is refereing to psuedo-events and hyper-reality. If we are unware of these falsities, are they really false. If we believe them to be real and believe in their validity then they are our reality. That being said, does this mean those of us tuned in to psuedo-events and hyper-reality, should condone the further creation of psuedo events or concentrate our efforts on reality and trying to bring that to the forefront.
Another point to ponder: at some point will reality be vanquished by hyper-reality?

Oh what a world.

In a world where shrugging off responsibility for our actions and finding someone or something to blame for any unpleasantness that comes our way is in vogue, its a good thing the world has George W. Bush. Otherwise we might actually look at the housing market, the automobile industry, the financial institutions and any other industry looking for a bailout and figure out what went wrong. We might develop long-term solutions instead of quick fixes. We might have corporations with enough corporate, social and human responsibility to try to right the wrongs and build a better system instead of shifting the blame elsewhere and allowing someone else to assume the authority for fixing the problem. 

Home Sweet Home

After 4.5 months of living like a traveling gypsy minus the arm bracelets and jewel-toned attire, I've finally moved back home in to the house I once disliked, then out right despised but now love dearly. Absence and an uncountable amount of laborious hours truly does make the heart grow fonder.  

Casserole

I've come to think politics are a lot like casseroles, as long as you put a lot of delicious cheese on top, we dont' care what is on the inside, we'll digest it anyway and be happy we ate it. We'll never know it was stuffed with things we don't like.

Boot-Leggin'

After training hard and getting in the best shape of my life I've been derailed by the diagnosis of tendonititis and a 3 week prescription of boot-leggin. While this is minor in the grand ole scheme of things, in my life its sort of "big doings". While boot-leggin, I can not run, swim, bike, or do any of my usual activities which means several of the races in which I was to participate, ranging from the moderately easy pre-season duatahlons to the quasi die-hard nature of a half ironman, have all been wiped from my calendar. While ruining my training and racing schedule, said boot-let is also providing new bothersome pains in my hip, backs, shins and opposite ankle. So for the next few weeks I'll be subsisting on self-pity, my usual dose of sarcasm and a generous helping of anti-inflammatories. 

Irony

Irony is defined as a feminist working for an institution named MANship.

 

26.2

In life there are the day-to-day moments that collectively make up our lives and every so often we have one of those big moments of singular significance that help define who we are. Training for and running my first marathon was one of the later. Running, while always something I've enjoyed, became theraputic and somewhat spiritual post-hurricane. One pretty big tree through the roof derailed my hopes of doing a half-ironman triathalon in November, so I decided to take that training and all the stress and frustration of post hurricane living and put that into running with my sights set on finally training for that marathon that's been on the "to-do" list for numerous years. Last week, I competed and completed in my first marathon.  It was every bit as mentally and physically tough as I expected it to be, thus every bit as rewarding to cross the finish line. It was quite possibly the hardest thing I've done in my life thus far. Running alone for 26.2 miles, half of which your brain and body are saying "stop running - you're not going to make it" - the other half of which your brain and body are saying "you're going to make it - don't quit running", is quite an adventure, one that is a true test of strength and determination. It was a long, and often painful journey but worth every step. Will I do another??? All signs point to YES. 

branding or bullshit

In a world where the brand dictates the buy - where do we draw the line between branding and bullshit? We all have favorite brands that we identify with and show our approval of by making purchases. However, is there a point where the brand overcomes the product and thus crumbles, becomes less believable, less desirable to the audience? How much is too much? and are we only attracted to the pretty shiny things? Does substance have a say? all points to ponder....

If people use accessories like purses and shoes as a form of self expression - is it because they have nothing of substance to express. 

When we vote - what is it we vote for?

Are we electing a man or a message? Are we voting based on policy or popularity?

Candidates themselves are commodities that have gone through a long line of production that spruces them up, tacks on a mantra complete with sound-bites, photo ops, and ready made answers to any number of possible questions. We get the party line towed all the way to the podium. We get great speeches crafted by the best and brightest word smiths of the day presented by the best technology has to offer in packages we think are digestable.

Hurricane

Having lived in louisiana most of my life hurricanes are a fact of life. Having lived in Baton Rouge during that time, hurricanes used to mean a few days off of school, a few hours without electricity and listening to older generations talk about the big ones like Betsy and Camille. 

I was in high school when Andrew came through and things at my house were mild. We sat around the house, read books and watched it rain steadily for numerous days. We even had a slumber party at my grandmother's house at some point as she was the first person to have her electricity restored. 

Fall of '02 brought another big storm bearing down on Louisiana but I was in Texas at the time and far removed from the situation as long as I knew my family was ok. It was a pretty ferocious storm. Stories from the menfolk in the clan tell how the hunting camp was moved back off its piers about 50 yards into the marsh and how they had to roll it back in place, how the landscape had completely rearranged itself and small ponds were now big lakes and what was once water was now land, not to mention that the duck hunting went south permanently. 

In 05, my fiance and I moved back to LA and were looking at houses, planning our wedding and focusing on starting our new life here. The day of our "Engagement Announcement" party Hurricane Katrina was the topic of discussion. Several family members stayed too late at the party and as a result were in traffic for hours on their way home to Houston. None of us had a clue what was in store. Even as we were in the midst of the storm, with all communication out with the exception of radio, we were clueless as to what was happening one hour south in New Orleans. 

Three years have passed without incident and we now have Gustav bearing down on us. The horror of Katrina and Rita coupled with the fact that we are now homeowners with property to lose, makes me realize how naive I was about hurricanes. This is the first time I've been truly afraid and the first time I've done storm preparations. With giant trees on all sides of our home, I've already assimilated the insurance papers and house documents to take to a safe place as well as the backup hard drive for my computer. I'm hoping and praying this old house can live through another hurricane. 

What happens when you cross a three day holiday weekend, with LSU's first home game of the season, which is also the first home game since LSU won National Championship, with the incoming of a hurricane?

CHAOS - pure and simple. 

Athletic heroism

Amazing feats of athletic ability have never failed to captivate our attention causing a sense of wonderment. We've marveled at Michael Jordan's dominance on the basketball court, were dumbfounded by Bo Jackson's ability to excel at two sports, were taken-aback when Tiger Woods revolutionized the game of golf and cheered when the Manning brothers won back-2-back Super Bowls, making it a family affair. In short we love winners, and we idolize champions. Yet something that underlies the idol worship of super-human athletes, at least for some, is a mandatory approval of personal behavior both on and off the field. Our most revered athletes are often our most beloved because in addition to their unmatched talent, they also display good sportsmanship both on and off the playing field. 

Michael Phelps is now among that crowd and while his 8th gold medal sealed the deal for him, in the hearts of many fans, he was worthy of the above mentioned crowd with or without the record-breaking gold medal. The media cast an international spotlight on Phelps in both the 04 and 08 olympics when they set the bar at 8 gold medals and the dethroning of Mark Spitz. And Phelps met the challenge head-on in 04 and while failing to meet the mark, was impressive across the board in both his races and his sportsmanship. In 08, he rose to the occasion, taking our breaths away with some crushing wins as well as the closest calls ever witnessed, proving himself a superb athlete and a respectable hero. He isn't cocky, he doesn't run his mouth and he respects not only his teammates but also his competitors. He also represents a sport that is still under the radar but from what I've seen is a very tough yet supportive sport. Each race tests your personal endurance, speed, and metal toughness. While you are racing your competitors in the lanes next to you, you're also racing yourself. What never ceases to amaze me is the way after each race the winners and losers congratulate each other. While being overjoyed by their own wins or crushed by their loses they never fail to reach over a lane or two and share words of support that demonstrates the level of respect they hold for the sport as well as for one another. In my mind that makes the sport and those who excel at it all the more rewarding and worthy of our respect. Watching Michael Phelps win 8 gold medals and show his exuberance for each win without prancing around or trash-talking, never forgetting to congratulate his teammates, continuously giving credit to his coach and his mother, makes him an ideal super-hero. 

After watching Phelps and his teammates capture gold last night, the gold that permanently put Phelps name in the history books, the Olympic broadcast re-aired the men's 100 meter sprint finals. While the shear speed was mind-blowing what was even more mind-blowing was the display of ego on display even during warm-ups. While I admire the speed with which these men run, their love of themselves and obvious high levels of confidence fail to register in the athletic hero category. Not an ounce of humility on the track. The winning runner who set a new world-record and crushed the competition, was celebrating even before he crossed the finish line. After such a sportsman-like finish in the water cube, this display of ego-maniacism on the track was disheartening and proved that sheer athleticism does not a hero make. 

The Girl with 2 Last Names

Recently I've taken up triathlons as a hobby. While said activities are much more than a hobby as you have to be in excellent shape to compete in one, I still like to refer to them as a hobby, an after work activity if you will. Thus far I've done 3 races with a few more in the works. At the first triathlon, which took place very early on a Sunday morning after a full day of wake boarding, I faired well and placed third in my age group. I was elated and quite surprised, thinking this hobby is going well so far - much better than scrap booking. 

As they announced my name during the awards, they got the first name right then bungled the last names, they said one, then another with an "um - uh" in between. As I arrived at the center of the group to receive my medal, the announcer asked what my last name was. I replied, "its Macha Hebert". He said, "you have two last names?" I said, "yes I have two last names." He then announced into the microphone my full name and finished by saying, "this girl has two last names." There was a lot of commotion in the crowd, some cheered, some leered and many just laughed. I walked out of the center of attention as quickly as possible. 

So about a month goes by and its the morning of my second race. I'm very nervous as there is an open-water swim involved as well as the pressure to finish in good standings. I walk up to the registration table and tell the lady my name and she looks up, smiles and says, "I remember you from the previous race. You're the girl with two last names." 

And thus in the small triathlon circuit of South Louisiana, I became "The Girl With Two Last Names."  

If only super human powers came with such a moniker.

Boating

We want a boat..

We don't want a boat...

We want a boat...

We don't want a boat...

We want a boat...

We bought a boat...

After years of back and forth on the buying a boat issue, we finally made the leap today. We found a used wakeboard boat we thought was perfect for our needs, tested it out, both driving and riding, liked it, and did the deal. While the purchase feels someone indulgent it rounds out our toybox of fun and places the control of when, where and how often we have fun in our hands. Its a good day. 

Overcoming Spandex

Those people who say looking good is the most important thing, never wore spandex. Yes, Spandex, the preferred article of clothing for serious athletes and super heros alike. The act of wearing it as well as being subjected to other people parading around in it is enough to make anyone cringe and unless you're wearing a cape or near a gym, wearing it is typically unacceptable. Its more akin to body paint than actual clothing; yet, is very common among the physically active and surprisingly necessary in some situations. Today I took a very liberating step in my relationship with spandex - I went for a run in it. We're not talking a stylish spandex top. We're talking, butt squeezing, thigh constricting, tummy tucking shorts. And we're talking a 3-mile run through a well traveled neighborhood. We're talking strange looks, catcalls, and a very scary shadow chasing me. While there's a bit of a backside 'bounce' in my stride, and a slight circulation issue, I actually felt comfortable - comfortable enough to finish the run with an impressive time and then walk the dog. I think the trick to pulling off spandex is to own it. You know you look silly in it, you might as well embrace it and make the most of a bad situation. Afterall if its good enough for superheros and crazy cyclists, its good enough for me.

 

Half way down

 That is how far Bermuda or walking shorts extend down one's leg. They seem to be fairly trendy these days and are a cross between pants which makes ones legs sweat profusely and short shorts which infringe a bit on one's dignity.  While walking shorts are nothing new and have been worn by generations of women - they are new to me in that I've never really attempted to pull of this look, and own several pairs of short shorts. However, since temperatures, like my age, seem to be on a steady incline I decide its time to trade down literally for a nice pair of walking shorts. With high hopes I pick up roughly 15 different types, try them all on with disappointing results all the way around; yet, there is one plaid pair I'm thinking is doable. So I buy them, take them home and try them on again just to be sure before I detag. Much to my dismay, as I look in the mirror I realize I'm one bad haircut away from batting for the other team. The only thing that is going to be walking is the shorts back to the store. 

A very scrappy day

Scrap yards - a place where cars smell like lawn mowers and an old refrigerator is a decent commodity, a place where most of the patrons are men of all ages but only a select-income level, a place where the regulars to whom this is a job, know the routine, and the new-comers are constantly looking around, reading signs and asking questions, a place where the insistent beeping, the scrapping of metal and the sound of straining motors running, blend in well with the odorous scent that is part exhaust, part sweat and has a touch of garbage topped off by a hint of cigarette smoke, a place women shouldn't go.  A place where a good pair of dark sunglasses can save you from having to make eye-contact with anyone and thus avoid the realization of the place you've unsuspectingly entered.

          I drive up just before noon and proceed right on up to the entry, thinking, piece-of-cake I'll be out of here in 10 minutes tops and on my way to the more important things awaiting a hard-working, no relaxation needed, several jobs at a time holding, college-instructor turned design whore whose finally taking some time off. However, the guard at the gate informs me that this is the lunch part of the day when the scrappers go away and the recyclers go to lunch. I'm sorry - did he say Lunch. Having not had a "lunch-break" in years and frankly loathing the idea of breaking for a meal, I plead with him, "sir, can you just unload this junk and I'll be on my way". He responds, "ma'am, its lunch time come back in 30 minutes." Well since I'm in a location not on any maps of town I've ever used, I decide rather than wait it out in a very itchy local, I'll head home - check some emails and then come back. A short drive home and a saddening lack of email later, I realize that it is indeed summer vacation and for once time is on my side, and I head back to scrap metal heaven or hell depending on who you ask and mentally make afternoon plans to pick up two new swimsuits, one for boarding and one for swimming workouts ala Mark Phelps. 

As I near the place, I come face to face with my biggest fear, bigger than my fear of snakes, cockroaches and serial killers combined, a very very long, exhaust-filled line of disenchanted scrap metal savants.  I think to myself "you have to be kidding - who the hell waits in lines to recycle scrap metal." Well as it turns out I do. So I get in line and wait. Had I known I'd spend the next three hours going from this long but fairly quickly moving line, to the dead-end line, to the get out of your car and hope the man behind you isn't a convict line, I'd have bailed then, but like I said I was a scrap metal virgin and the line seemed doable - like all those lines at amusements parks that only suck when you realize you stood in line for 2 hours to ride a 45-second ride that upset your sinus cavities and has you feeling like you're going to either puke or pass out. 

          Line number one moved at a decent clip, still a stop-and-go, but nothing too painful especially since I was operating under the misconception this was the only line. I move through ok and make it to the scale where I get my "haul" weighed and the guy directs me to some junk pile “straight back” in scrap-metal hell. I was wondering at what point the junk fairies were going to come and unload my scrap. The weigher bursts my delusional bubble with a quick - "we don't unload ma'am - you have to do that yourself." I flabbergastidly exclaimed, "sir I can't possibly lift this stuff on my own."  He gave me a twice-over, exhaled loudly and said he'd send someone my way. I put the truck in gear and moved ahead and quickly realized I had no idea where to go or what to do. There was a giant pile of scrap ahead which the man in front of me was backing into to unload his haul and off to the right, a "semi" was trying to squeeze in between two large piles to have its bed lifted clean. While I was caught up watching one man direct traffic as the semi's back end was briefly lifted up by a giant forklift, a truck bypassed me and took my scrap spot. I was a little peeved about this, but I now knew the answer about whether two trucks could unload at once or whether I was supposed to wait my turn. The traffic-director deep in the belly of heap hell told me to "go ahead and back her on in." I tried and there was no space, another semi kept angrily waving at me and the speedy scrapper who took my place was flagging me down from the rear. On the verge of panic, I rolled down the window to see what he wanted. Speedy scrapper said he'd overheard the scrap weigher saying some lady needed help unhauling, he offered to help me - no fee needed - cause I was a lady. While at first he made me a little nervous, he was indeed the savior of my dreadful day. He helped me back my load up to the pile, unloaded it and even retained the profitable recyclable pieces, which could earn me close to $100.

This speedy scrapper saved my rear as my initial mission was to not only unload the junk but the get money for it - something I had long forgotten. Seems that navigating scrap metal yards is not in the curriculum taught at girl-camp and thus this was my first and hopefully only rodeo.  Had I come home empty handed I'm sure I would have been lectured to on some level for not doing it right and thus the saying goes, "if you want something done.... " my point exactly. Anyway, speedy scrapper helped me unload, save the valuable goods, get out of the scrapyard, and tells me what to do with the valuable goods. As I proceed to the exit gate I ask tubby scrapper, who appears to run the front gate, for more instruction on the valuable goods. He tells me much to my disappointment that I need to get in the aluminum line, which can easily be spotted by its lack of movement and its patrons who are all hanging out of the doors or windows gasping for air with the blank-stare associated with total misery on their faces. I hit the panic button, I'm not good in lines and tend to get panicky in situations where there is no immediate exit.  So I called the husband - gave him a run down and asked what to do, offering up the fact that I could come back tomorrow. He points out that I'm already there and asks what else do I have to do today. Seeing the point he can clearly make from clean-across town behind a desk in a well air-conditioned office where the risk of cancer surely is not imminent, I think maybe he's right and head to the back of line number two. Line number two just so happens to be located between line number 1 and a big fence with no possible exit once you enter. UGH!!! 

I pull into place thinking this will be good for me, I can learn to sit still, be patient and not panic - it'll be like therapy. This non-panicky theraputic mindset lasted about two minutes up until I decided that praying the rosary would be an excellent use of my time for various reasons. About three decades later I notice that the two trucks in front of me must know each other because everytime we stopped - they get out and chat it up like good ole boys at a construction site. Must be nice to have friends in hell. In the first truck is a father-son duo, of which the father continuously picked and scratched his rear end with no regard to the fact that others could see him. I found this both disturbing and entertaining. While I'm waiting in line number two and watching the man in front of me scratch away, I noticed tubby scrapper making a round through the lines checking on things. He saw me, gave me a grin and a "so I see you decide to wait it out." Seeing an opportune moment of clarity awaiting me I asked him what do I do once I recycle my valuables. He then tells me about line number 3 which I was previously unaware of - a line so long they had a sheriff doing traffic detail. YIKES!!! So I keep waiting and burning through rosary beads, sweating profusely as I refused to roll the windows all the way down as a safety precaution, low and behold it’s my turn at the recycle area. They take out what little valuables I have, put them on a scale and make me stand by it so they could take my photo for security reasons. I'm thinking Great now there is documented, identifiable proof that I've spent the greater part of an afternoon at this fine establishment.

 Finally I get my yellow tag, hop in the truck and drive round to line number three where the coveted cashier's office is. Que the heavenly rays of sun and the angelic choir - I'm almost done. Until I realize this last line is one in which you have to physically stand shoulder to shoulder with your fellow scrappers. I park, slowly descend out of the truck and proceed with caution making sure to lower my secretive sun shades that allow me to survey my surroundings without anyone sensing my apprehension. The line wasn't too long, as I was about 8th from the front. I stood there as more and more people piled in the line, one young white man wearing a shirt with a rebel flag on it. I thought this might be a bit concerning to the other line-standers but alas no one seemed to care as we were all nearing the end of what can only be referred to as an ordeal and cash was at hand - literally. I stood there looking around constantly aware of my surroundings thinking I have two degrees, am gainfully employed at a university and I'm standing in line with men who are discussing gunshot wounds. Turns out the young boy in front of me, roughly 18, had been shot numerous times in his backside and seems to be ok. A guy a little further back had a buddy that got shot "all up in the chest back in 78" and survived. Come to find out the young boy's father who is very very old knew a lady that got shot in the head and survived. What a tale. 

          The moral of my story besides the sarcastic humor derived from such an event is that you can learn a lot by standing in line at the scrap yard. You can learn that it gets less scary the longer you stay. You can learn that the workers are actually nice and helpful. You can learn that they sell praulines at the cashier window. You can learn that your life is incredibly easy and virtually pain-free. You can learn the value of your education and upbringing. You can learn the degree of pain and suffering in the lives of those around you - those you refused to make eye-contact with - those who for them this is their only source of income.  You can also learn that we don't need to go to third world countries to save the world, we can start right here in our scrap yards. If I ever find myself back at the scrap yard standing behind the very very old man and his young son I will try one of those praulines they seem to love so much that they sacrifice two of their hard earned dollars to enjoy and pass on my scrap yard capitol in a small effort to help them in their daily fight to simply survive. My scrap yard hell is their scrap yard heaven where everyone knows them and chats with them and where they can sell the stuff they work hard collecting, five sometimes six days a week, in their attempt to make a honest living. Afterall, one man's trash is another's treasure.