Crunchy ‘Nanas

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.

Ho. Ho. Ho. Happy holidays everyone!

I’ve never been less proud to have been a Junior Ranger than I am today.

On the radio this morning, they were briefly criticizing Tony Blair’s bit in this year’s White House Christmas video, so I had to take a look. I kind of just don’t know what to say. I don’t go in for cutsie, anyway. So the dogs? Not cool. But, this just disturbs me on so many levels.

I have to go un-decorate for Christmas now, so I won’t go into it. Plus, I’d like to be jolly on my last day in England before Christmas. Lucky for me, I’ve been promised Mark Ramprakash on Breakfast TV.

We were driving last week, and the BBC Radio 1 dj was rambling about this and that, and then he caught my attention. He started talking about National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. An ultimate Christmas classic, in my opinion. So he’s just chit-chatting away describing the movie, and then he starts describing Chevy Chase. “He’s kind of like Will Ferrell…” I was incredulous. I couldn’t believe it. Not about the comparison, because I think it’s a pretty good one, but who doesn’t know who Chevy Chase is? I turned slightly to Crunchy husband: “WHO doesn’t know who Chevy Chase is?”"Um, well, you know. Kids.”

Oh my god, I’m old now. (Is it possible to feel old AND look forward to your 30s at the same time? Because I do. And I do. My 30s man, they are going to rock. I’m sure of it!)

“Billy Pilgrim says that the Universe does not look like a lot of bright little dots to the creatures from Tralfamadore. The creatures can see where each star has been and where it is going, so that the heavens are filled with rarefied, luminous spaghetti.”
–Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Slaughterhouse Five

I am coming back into focus. Don’t ask where I’ve been because, seriously, I couldn’t tell you. But, I’m coming back. I’m nearly here. Only be warned, I’ll be starting it all over again on Friday.

Ever since I returned from California, I’ve been in a strange haze. I can’t really say I’ve come “unstuck in time”. I’m not shell-shocked or dealing with any kind of tragedy. And yet, I can’t find words to describe exactly how I’ve felt. I mean, we got our Christmas tree and it took me FIVE nights to decorate the thing. It’s felt a bit surreal.

For a while, I attributed it to the evil jet-lag kicking my ass. And kick it did. I fought back, but night sleep was elusive, even though I didn’t let myself nap during non-sleeping hours. I am now sleeping (most) of the hours between midnight and 7 am, but I’d love to get completely back to normal sometime soon.

After about a week of the ‘lag, I started feeling under the weather. I was sick, maybe but not quite. During this time, everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, from taco salad to candy bars, tasted like fish. I’m not a big fan of fish. My head and sense of time was really fuzzy throughout this. I finally re-gained my appetite and started eating normally, so now I have more energy and more control over my thoughts and senses.

That said, all wasn’t completely lost during this period. The tree is big and tall and beautiful. It glows and makes me feel happy. We had a turbo session at Bluewater and did all of our England Christmas shopping in one go. The Christmas cards are (nearly) written. We had a big winter feast, and so far have received no accounts of poisoning anyone with my cooking. I made it into London to volunteer at Kew for an afternoon, and to take in bits of the Henry Moore installation. And somehow, I had it together enough to speak briefly about Seashore Safaris in front of a room full of people. I think it was coherent, anyway. Who knows?

So, I think I’ve made it back to the planet and out of my time warp. Only time will tell.

Or, will it?