Arrggh, meet Anne Bonney

Halloween was the night all hell broke loose. Literally. That was when the call came from my mom that Papa had just gone into cardiac arrest and been taken to the ICU. Half and hour later we were on the road.

Two weeks later and weaker but recovered Papa is back at home and doing OK for the moment. And I am finally home pulling the pieces of my life back into place. With a lot of effort, a child that won't sleep, and a calm but crazed husband who is defending his master's thesis this Friday.

And in classic pagan tradition, before all hell broke loose there was much celebration!!

But first some background. Halloween has always been a holiday that I have held close to my heart. I feel sometimes like it is part of my identity. Not because I am evil (though some will argue here), and not because I like to dress up or pretend to be someone else (I don't), but because my birthday falls just two days before All Hallow's eve. And because more than 50% of my birthday parties since puberty have been Halloween costume parties.

This year was no exception! The exception in this case was the sheer number of people I shared the party with. You see, between my softball team and Mike's department there are 7, count them, 7 birthdays between Oct. 13 and Oct. 29. Granted Mike and I are two of them, but still. Several people within this group thought it would be fun (and efficient) if we just threw one party to celebrate the overwhelming number of birthdays, Halloween, and the end of the softball season. I agreed, and in a moment of sheer insanity, offered to have it at our house. I guess an inner part of me figured I should end our two softball seasons the way I began them - by shooting off my big mouth. What this provided was an opportunity for the Bean to show off what she is made of.

(The only thing missing is her parrot puppet, which she carried around religiously at times)

We decided awhile ago, based on various coincidences, that Bean should be a pirate for Halloween. In honor of Talk Like a Pirate Day I had stumbled on a quiz that tells you your true pirate name. Prior to Halloween I revisited the quiz and entered what I thought would have been Luci's responses to the questions (the questions that involved Muppets were easy.) Come to find out her pirate name is none other than Anne Bonney. Fearsome, independent, and blood-thirsty - that's my girl! (I'm intentionally excluding the sexually promiscuous, violent, and law-breaking tendencies here for obvious reasons).

Anne Bonney and her pirate love, John Rackham.

In spite of her fierce reputation, Pirate Bean still had time to enjoy a pony ride

Now if only we could get her to take the costume off!!!

Superman Reflexes

A friend sent this to me. Superman is not necessarily my favorite, but the game does satisfy the inner part of me that has always longed to be a photographer.

http://hk.promo.yahoo.com/movie/superman/Stop_Press_Game/

Keep Writing

Keep writing, keep writing, keep writing. As a writing student, and as a writing teacher I have both heard and recited these words more times than I can count. So why does it never seem to sink in when I sit down to write?


Good question.


Writer's block is very egalitarian. It sees no race, class, religion, or intellectual barriers. It effects us all. People all over the world are affected by it, and with literacy rates increasing so is its prevalence. It's not quite like birth and death, which we all expereince regardless of how our lives are lived. But it is more deeply rooted than the globalization/Americanization of the world. I mean people choose to go to McDonald's or drink a Coke. No one chooses writer's block.


You see I'm trying to write up some materials for the Japan Exchange and Teaching Program, a last ditch effort for us to live abroad for awhile. Mike and I gave up on that dream a few months ago for financial and logistical reasons. And then last week Mike got an informational email.

What can I say? When things like that drop into your mailbox you figure maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's the one more chance we needed and have been looking for. But maybe it's another piece of propaganda that has surfaced to use up more of my already non-existent free time.

I'll never know unless I try, right?


It fits all our requirements, and unlike previous attempts, this time I fulfill all the qualifications with no additional training or certification. But with all the chaos of the last couple weeks and the exhaustion looming over me like a pregnant stormcloud I am stumped. I can't think of a thing to say that doesn't sound like it came from an 8th grader's pen.

I hate writer's block. I hate that I feel ineloquent, incompetant, and unfocused. So I am reduced to the old mantra: keep writing, keep writing, keep writing, the initial effort is the hardest, revision will be easier, keep writing, keep writing, keep writing.

Every Other Friday

Papa was an electrician. He worked nine 9s, as they like to call it. Or nine 9-hour days every two weeks. Every other Friday Papa would pick me up at my Mom's work. This was our day. First we went to breakfast, then we would go to the Sacramento Zoo and/or Fairytale Town.

Afterward we would go to the Bank of Alex Brown, pick up Nana from work, and take her to lunch. Afterward we might do some errands for Mom and Nana, if we weren't too tired.

I still remember sitting in Papa's arms in the parking lot, ready for our day of fun.

Being an only grandchild has it's perks.

Monster on my back

A Brief Running Update

The one nice thing about times of stress is that I run a lot, and with 15 days left until the 5K race for Run to Feed the Hungry I need to be training more anyway. Since I'm pulling all-nighters at the hospital I'm trying not to overdo it. So far I can consistently run 1.6 miles and still feel strong at the end.


But the asthma monster still has his claws in my back and is hanging on with a vengance.

Memories of Home

I was sifting through some old writing and I found this poem that I published in 2000. There are a lot of memories packed into it - raw, rough, and liberating memories. It makes me proud of where I come from, but extremely glad I've moved on and created something new.

At the same time it also makes me miss all the unplanned, spur-of-the-moment camping trips we took so frequently in high school and college.


Union Valley Reservoir, Peavine Ridge

The sun rises, my sister and I strip off late night layers
and dive into home. Lake water glasses bare bodies.

I am molting,
shedding the covering the world has given me.
Cerulean surrounds my new flesh

as I sun on the rocks, scratching dead skin from
my senseful limbs.

She sits unclothed beside me
gnawing at roots, trying to taste her past.

Ants slink over toenails
and rest in the crevices of my feet.

I have been naked in these woods for hundreds of years,
she says,

her bare flesh slipping through the space
between time's cupped fingers.

We were here before Gold Rush nights
when men would kill for minerals,

before Jack, Dick and McConnell named themselves
on the peaks of Crystal Range,

before Hangtown was a tourist attraction
and Moore's Overland Pony Express trail was Safe-
way lit.

She inhales pine and dry granite, exhales dawnlight
and looks across the lake

to the shedded skins we will crawl back into.

Name games

I've been looking at names a lot lately. I'm not sure why. History, meaning, and geneology always seem to become more interesting when thinking about birth or death.

In my random internet wanderings I found a lot of neat things. My married name means "son of Adam," though there's no one named Adam in my family tree that I know of. I've known for a long time that my first name means "brilliantly clear," which is a quality I strive for in my everyday communication but don't always achieve.

The one I enjoyed the most was finally finding my full name written in Japanese katakana:

Science & Sex: Or How to Seriously Confuse your Kid

Outdoor enthusiasts. Wildlife nuts. Environmentalists. However you want to put it Mike and I both get really excited about the natural world. We watched the entire 11-hour BBC series "Planet Earth" and I can't wait to see the encore presentation later this month. (How cool is the first-ever film footage of a snow leopard catching prey?! C'mon!) To put it another way, I bought the Handy Science Answer Book for fun.

When I say this it should come as no surprise that I've already explained to my 21-month-old daughter that all mammals have breasts.

I mean when a kid points at your breasts in the shower and says "Was dat?" what else are you supposed to say?
"Those are mama's boobies. You have boobies too."
She looks down at her chest. "Me?"
"Yes, you. See."

And so the conversation has continued, as all toddler conversations do.
"Mama?"
"Yes, Mama has boobies"
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Daddy has boobies."

"Me?"

"Yep, you have 'em too."

"Dogdog?"

"Yes, Dogdog has boobies too. That's 'cause she's a mammal. All mammals have boobies."

Enough repetitions and I thought we had this down. Until today.

My grandma had breast cancer and a double mastectomy by the time she was 50. She's had prosthesis almost my entire life and it's omething we're all very used to. There are tales of me putting on her bra (fakes and all) backward and wearing it like a backpack around the house. Stories abound. And today we added another one to the canon.

Luci was running around the living room and found herself at one point seated in Nana's lap. She looked down at Nana's chest and noticed that, for a change, the obligatory bumps were not where they should be.

"Boobies?" she asked, and then proceeded to lift up Nana's shirt and search for them. When she couldn't find them in the typical place she looked under her arms, around on her sides and even down under the waistband of her pants.

Thoroughly confused she got down, ran over to my mom and lifted up her shirt: "Boobies." She lifted up her shirt: "Boobies." She ran back over to my Nana: "Boobies?"

My mom had to leave the room she was laughing so hard.

Ok, kid. I give in. Science is not exact. I guess there is an exception to every rule.

Of course the one that will really screw her up is when she sees Star Wars and the singer in the cantina on Tatooine.

Seven Things I Like about the ICU

1. The food is significantly better than it is in the rest of the hospital. It even smells appetizing.

2. The nurses know me by name. They've talked to me about his meds, his disposition, his appetite. And I've learned enough at this point that they often ask me what's been going on if they can't get a hold of the doctor.

3. It's easy to get the help you need. My Papa has charmed so many of them that if we need anything, from a pudding cup to a crash cart, someone is there before I even have a chance to think about waiting. It also helps that each nurse has only two patients and there are a couple extra nurses whose only job is fill in where an extra hand is needed.

4. The room is really big. I suppose it has to be since when things go south they often need about 8 nurses and doctors in there to get his heart rate straightened out. But when things are going well, man is it spacious and comfy. Big window, and even your own tiny toilet.

5. The nursing staff is really considerate. Given the amount of stress and crisis in that small area, everyone is really aware of not treating these very serious patients like pieces of meat. No one ever forgets to give Papa his privacy. Each nurse who has to put in a new I.V. (and with all the blood thinners this happens pretty frequently) is really careful to not cause him any more pain than absolutely necessary, and actively expresses their desire not to make him into a pincushion.

6. Considering what's typically going on in the ICU, it's fairly quiet. You can see people moving around but the rooms themselves are fairly insulated from it all, which is a real blessing at times. One room and one failing family member is enough at times.

7. Being with my Papa and doing what I can to make him more comfortable and help him feel better.

A Sour November

I really hope this last week is not an indicator of how the month of November is going to be.

So far I've been in the emergency room with my friend and her 13-month-old baby, spent 3 days in ICU with my grandfather, and help my friend put her dog down. And that's just since Sunday.

I had a whole list of post ideas and things I wanted to write about this month, but at the moment I can't remember a damn one. A few had to do with food, but the last thing I an is hungry. Right now food is just sustenance, a way to keep going. I think another had to do with aging, since my birthday was Monday. But after watching my grandpa go through v-fib and get shocked back into consciousness, age is not a topic I think I'm ready to talk about with much clarity at the moment.

And I'm not looking forward to the meltdown I know will come when all this is over. I guess I'm one of those who's fine until everything and everyone are taken care of. Only then do I figure it's safe to collapse and let it all out.

Good topics require reflection, and I'm afraid I don't have time for much of that at the moment. But in the spirit of NaBloPoMo I need to keep writing, and in that maybe I find some catharsis and hopefully by the end I'll be able to find some good topics too.