Crunchy ‘Nanas

One of the advantages of living right across the road from Manston airport is you get a free airshow in your backyard without any warning. It’s like finding the $20 you hid in your Christmas stocking last year when you have no recollection of ever planting it in the first place: an exciting surprise. Last weekend, we got two shows, one on Saturday and one on Sunday. Now they’re short, mind you, a loop or two, but exciting all the same. And so loud, you can feel the energy in the air.

On Saturday, I was driving back from Margate along the back road behind Manston when all of a sudden I saw a formation come out of nowhere and drop colored smoke. By the time I reached the airport perimeter, the planes were landing right over me. I flustered for a moment- there’s nowhere to pull over! That was until I realized that everyone was just stopping in the middle of the road, anyway. So that was cool. I got to watch a red arrow land right over my car. Nice!

As exciting as that was, the photographer in me was a little disappointed because I didn’t have my camera in the car (what? I know, strange, though actually I could have busted out my fancy new camera phone, but I don’t do phones in cars- it’s not safe, but then again neither was the positioning of cars in the road at this moment either), and by the time I got home they were done. However, I was sitting upstairs on Sunday, as you do, and I thought a spaceship was landing on our house. I ripped down the stairs, grabbed the camera, and ran outside. Obviously, I didn’t get the lens cap off in time for the red arrows’ low flight over the roof (according to Crunchy husband it was cool), but I did get these shots. I also learned something very important. Crunchy husband has never seen “Top Gun”. I married an alien.

Yes, I know airshows are bad for the environment, and believe me, I think we need to conserve all the fuel we can. I read an article in New Scientist last week that had me picturing world travel reverting back to the seas, me and the honey rowing home for Christmas. This article discussed how it’s really hard to find a green solution for jet fuel because it needs to be energy dense, remain fluid at -50 degrees C, and found all over the world. But, it brings up the idea that algae could be an alternative. It’s pretty far off, has lots of issues to get through and may never be a viable solution, but man, it had me ready to run down to the beach and start tossing all the stinky seaweed I could smell into buckets for fuel rations. It could just be the solution to the stench on some of the beaches around here this summer. (I love seaweed, I really do, I just don’t like the smell…and we’ve had a particularly smelly summer.) So yes, I know it wastes precious energy. But, you can’t help but enjoy it when it’s happening anyway, right over your head.

“And don’t forget: Elvendork. It’s unisex!”

Awesome. I love it. I stood like an idiot in front of Waterstone’s this morning reading the excerpt “from the prequel I’m not writing,” when in fact I could have read it all here. But that’s all right. It was worth it. JK Rowling. Gotta love her.

I think it’s time to begin re-(re-re-re?) reading the series again!

I am a little uncertain where May went. At times, each minute seemed to move very slowly, each anxious second drawn out in slow motion. And then, in a blink of an eye, it was two weeks, then three weeks later. Time moves strangely when encased in anxiety and worry.

I left off on blogging as my family and I set off on a trip down to the West Country. My parents had never been to Bath, Stonehenge or Cornwall and I’ve only been a couple times, so we figured it was a good chance to go explore the South West. Unfortunately, somewhere along our route, my dad picked up a strong and stubborn bacterial infection in a broken blister on the bottom of his foot. The bacteria were quite content and just didn’t want to go. By the time my birthday came around, my mom, Crunchy husband and I stood together and informed my dad in no uncertain terms that he was going to the emergency room. It was apparent the oral antibiotics were doing nothing to end the infection.

The rest of the month was spent trying to make my dad as comfortable as possible in the hospital so he wouldn’t rip out the IV leads and catch a cab to the plane, making multiple phone calls to the airlines and Kaiser back in California and above all, hoping and trusting the doctors and surgeons to bring my dad back to good health.

Now June is here and relief has started to bring everything back in focus. I feel my stomach muscles releasing tension little by little, like letting a rope out to lower a person down the face of a rock, easy does it. My dad was released last Thursday and my parents are now home safely. The doctor in California who re-wrapped my dad’s foot said it still looked really good. He might not be walking as quickly as usual, but he has turned that corner with all limbs intact and he is on the mend.

Thank goodness.

Contrary to what it may seem, this blog is not dead. It is, however, taking an unexpected late spring/early summer period of hibernation (which, as it happens, seems to be in keeping with the stormy weather we’ve been having in England). I hope to awaken it shortly with nibbles and sustenance to bring it back to life.

Courtesy of Kym via baby Audrey. (Baby didn’t get to go to the game, but she was watching it on tivo at midnight last night when we called):

The long-running family joke is that I could have been a figure skater if only my mother had bought me the ice skates I needed to properly support my ankles. While we all know that this accusation is a far, far cry from reality as I can’t skate to save my life, it’s my one claim to “neglectful parenting” so I like to mention it once and a while to get a rise out of her. (You know that scene in Blades of Glory where Chazz Michael Michaels is skating from the evil Stranz Van Waldenberg? I would have been toast. Having said that, it doesn’t mean I don’t know where, in all my favorite songs, there’d be a triple axel or a layback spin. Yes, I have a habit of choreographing in my head while I wash dishes.)

In a recent attempt at home office organization, I came across my stash of figure skaters’ autographs. Among the lot: my ticket to the 1992 Worlds practice session in Oakland signed by Nancy Kerrigan and one of my first digital photography projects signed by Aren Nielsen at the 1996 Nationals in San Jose. (I was so enamored by him.) No Elvis Stojko though so there is still work to be done. (She rubs her palms together.) Elvis, where are ya man?

But, what still absolutely takes the cake is in the sealed ziploc baggie I hold in my hand right now. The baggie’s torn where the staple ripped through it, pinning it to my teenage girl’s wall, but the ticket’s still intact. I was walking up the stairs at the ‘tank on October 19, 1993, and lifted my gaze to read the jersey of the woman in front of me. It’s probably fair to say, I was not un-fazed. It’s probably more descriptive to say, in all of my 15 year-old excitement, I freaked out. I grabbed my mom and stuttered, “the jersey, look at what the jersey says! Oh my god!” After a moment of confusion when my mom was reading the jacket of the man in front of her, she caught on and proceeded to join me in the jittery frenzy of being among stars. We quietly argued (at least I think it was quietly, my father may have a different memory of the event) about who would do the talking, but finally my mom won out with “you’re the kid, she’ll give it to you.”

I don’t know whether the Sharks won or lost against the St. Louis Blues that night, but I do know that Kristi Yamaguchi graciously gave her autograph to a geeky, brace-faced fan and totally made her night. (Okay, she looked a little annoyed and uncomfortable, for which I feel a bit bad for now, but really what can you expect if you’re an extremely talented figure skater and you wear a jersey with your name on it to a hockey game in your home area?)

And, now either my mother is holding out on me, or she doesn’t know yet. I can’t hardly believe the latter, but I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell me either. If it weren’t 4 in the morning, she’d be getting a phone call. Kristi is going to be on Dancing with the Stars. Mom, you better make sure the VCR’s in working order starting Monday because this is what I want to watch when I come in July. Wait, what am I talking about? You’ll be in England in three weeks.

Oh my god, what are we going to do?!

Pretty soon the Brits are going to have to stop erecting buildings out of bricks. We had another earthquake last night. Unlike the last one, I didn’t see it coming. But, it was pretty strong. The epicenter (5.2 on the Richter scale) was located in Lincolnshire, but I felt it down here. (I was still awake though. I don’t think I would have felt it if I had gotten to sleep at a normal time last night.)

I woke to a text this morning: What, you miss California so much you gotta bring the earthquakes with you?

Perhaps. (They are my first “football” team, and they are coming home. Again. Or, again, again.)

All right. This is how it’s going to be. I’ve made a decision. I am Nora. Just Nora.

If I’ve ever commented on your blog, you’ll know I comment as norabarnacle. I know people choose aliases for many reasons, sometimes to keep what’s personal hidden, sometimes to have a bit of fun, sometimes to lay claim to something they feel defines them in some way. Sometimes it’s just something they picked up along the road.

I was never really worried about the whole internet knowing my first name thing because well, it doesn’t take a genius to go from norabarnacle to wondering if this person’s name really is Nora. The nickname came about a few years ago, before I had a blog or even knew what a blog was. When I started dating Crunchy husband back in California, he (obviously) came home and told all his family and friends about the smokin’ hottie he landed himself in the States. (Okay, I totally made that up. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Crunchy husband describe anyone as a smokin’ hottie.) One of his friends, who then became my friend, Boogie friend I think I’ve called her here, is married to Crunchy husband’s best friend from college. And her father is a massive James Joyce fan. So as soon as he heard my name, he’s thinking “Nora? Nora Barnacle?” As the story goes, he got very excited about this. It became my “name” in that circle, even after we clarified that no, no I wasn’t really a Nora Barnacle. It just kind of stuck. [In a complete aside, but interesting view on how small the world really is, we learned last year that her father was acquainted with my Grandma's brother. Crazy!]

When I was little, I didn’t like my name. No one else had it. Why couldn’t I have been a Jennifer or a Sarah? Those were obviously the cool names because everyone had them. Now that I’m not seven, I am happy to say I really like my name, just for that reason. (Thanks mom and dad!) And the fact that it’s short and simple, even if people do want to put an “h” on the end and I sometimes have to say “Nora with an N” to keep it from becoming “Laura”.

I must have been working through a crisis of identity in my sleep last night. I woke up thinking about Zoolander— “who am I?”— and decided it was time to stick with Nora. I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that after years of filling out various visa forms and handing the UK government stacks of cash, I’ve been given my indefinite leave to remain in the UK. Maybe it’s the fact that pieces of my genetic history keep showing up on the sitemeter. (Within the last few weeks, I’ve had hits from Cork, Ireland; Porterville, California; and New Brunswick— all places that correspond to, or are very close to, the birthplaces of three of my grandparents. I don’t count the birthplace of the fourth grandparent in this fascination because my parents still live there, so of course I’m getting visits from San Jose.) Or, maybe I’m just lazy and tired of typing norabarnacle when I could just type Nora. Who knows. But, for whatever reason, this is how it’s going to be. Unless of course, I’m feeling feisty. If you see a Funkmaster Crunchy Crunch show up, yeah that’s probably me too, after way too much sugar.

You know that lurch in your stomach you can feel when landing, that seed of doubt in your mind, does this pilot* REALLY have control of this plane? You know, the one the mind tries to dismiss because a) there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it now, if the plane’s going down, you’re on it and b) statistics-wise, there’s nothing to really worry about.

Well, I’m going to try hard to keep this headline out of my head the next time I fly: BA plane crash lands at Heathrow.

Yikes! Wouldn’t have wanted to have been on THAT one! (Apparently no one was injured badly, thank goodness!) But, you know, the other day, I could have swore a plane was coming down on me as I drove along the road near Manston airport. It looked out of control in the wind and way too low, so I checked my mirrors and slowed way down, hoping if it did skid across the road, it’d do it in front of me rather than on me. I thought there was a good chance I might die. Like for real. Now, I don’t feel my fear was so unfounded.

So, hey mom, I was going to send you an email last night to let you know it looked like BA had good-ish prices right now. Maybe they’ll get even further reduced now!

*After reading more about this, I’d like to clarify and give props to the pilot of this one. I think he did an excellent job getting it down safely. He can be my pilot any day! Though I suspect he might want some time off after this.

I am in an unfamiliar house, but apparently, it is my own. A dripping shower in a strange place captures an odd amount of my attention. It is wet and grimey with mold. I stare intently and try to understand why I never knew it was here. It’s been wasting so much water. Someone must have turned it on at one time. Was it me? I concentrate. I must remember where I am so I can clean it. And turn it off. So much water down the drain.

I hear music, then chit-chat. The house dissolves and I pull myself through the dim, foggy area between dreams and wakeful alertness. I place myself back in recognizable territory. And I remember. I jump out of bed, pull the shade back, and then, disappointed, I sigh. They said it was coming. All of them. Each and every one. I never really expect their nightly promises to show true, but this time, I had hoped. The weather people had me anxious with anticipation.

Snow. It was supposed to snow. It didn’t. Not here. I know it must seem a strange contradiction for a warm weather enthusiast such as myself to complain about a lack of snowfall. And I shouldn’t complain because most of the time, living in this part of England, we have the best weather. And that is, by far, a great thing. But, I am disappointed. Snow is rare to me. So when it happens, it’s exciting. I was eager to see the land blanketed with white, soft flakes floating from the sky. But, all I see is dull, cold winter.

I climb back into bed and try to stay warm for just a little longer. It doesn’t look like there will be any snowmen, of any shape or size, today.