Bork! Bork!

Remembering Family

2011-02-13T18:51:00.002-08:00

May 16, 1983
"Another full Monday. The grass was too wet to cut this morning, so I baked bread, sewed, washed. Keith and Bryce for dinner. Then I cut grass as fast as I could push it. My shoulder likes aspirin tonight, but the lawn got cut. Then we had an impromptu birthday party for Jay, at Bryce and Mary's. It was good to be inside. Our family parties are so important. I wonder how these kids growing up will remember them. Also wrote some letters this a.m."

My grandmother wrote that small paragraph in her journal. We have two dozen or so journals that cover eight to twelve months each of her life. In between writing about weeding the garden, the price of milk, cutting the lawn, and so on, she also wrote some amazing, insightful truths about our world, about her belief in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and about her family. "Our family parties are so important. I wonder how these kids growing up will remember them."

Grandma, those parties are some of the best memories of my childhood.

Almost every Sunday when I was little, all of the cousins that lived nearby would go to Grandma's and Grandpa's house. From my early childhood, I can count only three friends with whom I played regularly who weren't my cousins. We used to play "Run, Sheepie, Run" in grandma's backyard. We played house underneath the giant pine trees. We sneaked into the big yard to play on the derelict farm equipment. We used to swing so high on the swing set that we could catch the branches of the trees with our feet. When it got dark, we sat in a circle to play "Murder in the Dark" or we played "No Bears are Out Tonight." Inside, Grandpa popped popcorn and made grilled cheese sandwiches while we watched the "Wonderful World of Disney." Grandma kept an old cookie tin full of dominoes in a cupboard in the kitchen. I was twenty years old and living in Brazil before I learned that playing dominoes meant more than weaving a trail of upright, unstable dominoes around the kitchen table. Grandma also kept a cookie jar in the kitchen, and it was nearly always full of cookies.

When I was a teenager, my grandmother suffered a stroke. Overnight, she went from gardening, baking bread, and taking care of her neighbors every day, to being locked in a wheelchair and unable to make herself understood most of the time. But we still went to Grandma's house. During college, I would frequently go home to Idaho for the weekend. Before I could leave to go back to school, I always stopped at Grandma and Grandpa's place to say goodbye. Most of the time, I wasn't the only one there visiting.

Today, the tradition of family parties continues, even though my grandmother passed away over ten years ago, and my grandfather only a few years later. On the first Sunday evening of each month, the family gets together for an extended family home evening. Sometimes it's at someone's home. Sometimes it's at a family park. Someone teaches a gospel lesson. Little second cousins run around the house playing tag. There's usually dessert. And its usually a three- or four-hour event when its all said and done.

When I was young, my grandfather promised me that, if I lived right, I could have a home where my children would want to bring their children to come visit. Of all the promises, wishes, and hopes I have ever had, that one is my favorite. I do hope that my children and my grandchildren will want to visit. I want them to play games and run around with their cousins. I hope that as we raise our children our home can be a place of safety, of fun, of teaching, and that it can be a place of many happy reunions.

Proposition 8

2009-01-07T00:12:00.002-08:00

In California, Proposition 8 passed in the November 2008 general election: 7,001,084 votes for to 6,401,482 votes against. That same day, opponents of the proposition filed lawsuits in the California Supreme Court asking the Court to first stay implementation of the amendment, and then to invalidate the amendment because it was an "improper revision" to the constitution.

Amendment or Revision?
The entire case turns on whether Proposition 8 was actually an amendment or a revision. The California constitution can be amended or changed in one of the following ways:

An amendment may be proposed by anyone and, once it has gained enough signatures to qualify, presented to the people during the next election. A simple majority is required to pass the amendment. Absent any instruction otherwise, it takes effect the day after the election, actually prior to certification by the Secretary of State.
A revision must be originated either by the legislature (with a 2/3 majority vote) or a constitutional convention, and then submitted to the people for a vote where it passes with a simple majority of votes.

The difference between an amendment and a revision is not part of the constitution, but according to California Supreme Court precedents, a revision to the constitution consists of quantitatively signifcant and/or qualitatively broad and significant changes to the fundamental plan of government. A proposition with changes to dozens of sections would be called a revision, even if the fundamental branches of government and their function were relatively unchanged, would probably be classified as a revision. A proposition with few words, but which vested significant judicial power in the legislature, would also be a revision to the constitution.

For example, one proposition would have stated that a defendant's rights could not be construed more broadly that in the U.S. constitution (the constituion is a kind of minimum standard--state laws and state constitutions must comply with the U.S. constitution, but they provide additional rights and protections). This doesn't seem extraordinary, and certainly wasn't a large amendment since it consisted of only a few sentences. However, the California Supreme Court ruled that it was an improper revision of the constitution since it effectively substituted the U.S. Supreme Court's judgement for that of the California Judiciary.

In another relevant example, the supreme court once ruled that the death penalty was cruel and unusual, effectively banning all death sentences in California. An initiative amendment was later passed which stated that nothing in the constitution could be used to determine that the death penalty were cruel and unusual. When challenged as an improper revision, it was upheld.

In the case of Proposition 8, the opposition argues that it is an improper revision to the constitution. They contend that Proposition 8 fundamentally alters the effect of the Equal Protection clause of the California constitution, which is an "elevated" principle at the center of the entire constitution, rather than a simple right.

Suspect Classification
According to the opposition, "[t]he electorate may not use the initiative-amendment process to strip a minority defined by a suspect classification of a fundamental right." What is a suspect classification? It is how the courts determine the level of scrutiny that a potentially discriminatory measure must meet. In effect, a law which impacts a group with suspect classification (based on race, religion, and other attributes) must face strict scrutiny and show an extremely compelling governing interest. Under Federal law, the suspect classification derives from the 14th ammendment which guarantees equal protection under the laws for all. The California constitution also contains an equal protection clause in its first Article.

When the California Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage, the court struck down the original same-sex marriage ban, Proposition 22, by determining that sexual orientation is a suspect classification (See the opinion from In Re Marriage Cases [links to a PDF]) and therefore the same-sex marriage ban in Proposition 22 must be examined with strict scrutiny. The arguments presented by proponents of Proposition 22 were insufficient to convince the court of a compelling government interest in banning same-sex marriages.

The Problem with the Argument
One problem with the opposition's argument is that it relies on a concept, suspect classification, that derives from the very clause being limited by the Proposition. Further, it introduces a new test for revision status in requiring that the court consider a suspect classification.

But how can the affected clause be used to inhibit its own amendment without specific wording to that effect?

The opposition argument places nearly any change to the equal protection clause above amendment, and questions whether the clause is even subject to revision.

It is clear that the Proposition does not quantitatively qualify as a revision, and it is also clear that it does not effect a change in the balance of powers or the basic governmental plan of the constitution. Absent either of those conditions, it is a valid amendment.

The opposition is free to mount a challenge on the basis of the 14th amendment to the U.S. constitution, but that is not part of the current case.

Wedding Bells

2008-06-16T22:01:00.003-07:00

So, just thought I'd let you all know...I'm married now. Yes, it's true. Definitely married.

Just thought I'd let you know.

But since this isn't really a news-y blog, you should check out Kim's blog (that's my wife) at http://rkfielding.typepad.com. It's full of juicey details like how happy she is to have found me, and how we're meant for each other, and how she wishes that I had less stuff so there'd be more room for her stuff.

that's all.
Just thought you'd like to know.

Connections and Soulmates and Such

2007-07-01T22:24:00.000-07:00

We looked up and it was two o'clock in the morning. We had been talking already for three or four hours, and had hardly noticed. Of course, the normal aches of sitting for hours still applied--but we didn't know where they had come from. Could it really be that late? or early? or whatever? What had we been talking about? How could we lose track of time so thoroughly?

But it wasn't true--We knew what time it was. In fact, we had commented at one o'clock that it was getting late and how could we still be visiting? What was it we were talking about that got us here? Oh yes, it was... And then it was two o'clock. What were we talking about? Anything: politics, family, church, the annoying guy in the next office over, the sleeper down the pew at church. Does it really matter? We could have spent the entire time discussing the migration patterns of extinct birds and likely would have been there for the same hours upon hours.

We connect with everyone on some level: co-workers hear our words; subordinates carry out instructions; our children learn from us. But there are some with whom we connect on some more fundamental level. The words become a medium across which emotions and meaning are conveyed, like a telephone wire carries our voices. With these people, communication is joyous in the most true sense of the word. It is knowing that the other person has listened and cared and comprehended, not our words, but our hearts and souls. It is the most rewarding kind of communication that can exist.

Why do we connect with so few in this way? And who are they? Here, they could be mothers or fathers, friends, spouses, boyfriends and girlfriends. They could be anyone, but what if these were our close friends before we came to Earth and the veil was drawn? The connection might be our spirits recognizing each other and catching up after an Earthly lifetime of separation. Maybe they can't recognize each other, but can find joy in the familiarity of the other soul. In mythology, the idea of a soulmate is someone whose spirit was split into two beings. Each half's only real desire is to be reunited, reconnected, with the other.

Whatever it is. I'm glad. And I thank God that he's given it to me so many more times than I could possibly deserve.

Forgetting

2007-06-17T01:51:00.000-07:00

There are people we forget easily. They come into our lives for minutes or hours or days, weeks, months, even years, and, when gone, still are forgotten as easily as the things at the grocery store that we constantly forget to pick up. Just because these people are forgettable, it doesn't mean that they were never close to us. And perhaps 'forget' is too strong--they aren't forgotten in the way that one forgets a fact. In truth, they simply slip our minds. Our lives move through phases. Friendships, even strong ones, wax, wane, ebb, and flow.

Of course, there are also people we cannot forget. For whatever reason--be it some love or some hurt, some deeply felt moment that was shared--they are constantly at the back of our minds. Images, sounds, touches of memory return at the slightest provocation: a street sign, the old house, another little brown car, old emails, old jokes. It doesn't seem to matter how much we try to put them away or marginalize their absence, they will not be forgotten. These people who will not leave our minds are always associated with our deepest emotions so that the street sign or that sound, though innocent of any intention, might call up fears and hopes that resonate with our hearts and souls.

It is this deep emotion that makes them so hard to forget. To ignore or forget the person is to ignore or forget, to marginalize, emotions that are the core of our present being. Those emotions represent the moments that we felt most alive. They are often also the moments in which we least wanted to live. But whatever emotions belong to those moments, they are the context in which we feel and live today--they are the moments by which all others are measured.

I said, "I love you."

2007-04-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

A little more than a year ago, I was emailing and phone-calling and chatting online with the woman that I would later ask to marry me. A little more than a month ago, we finished a breakup that started a little more than a month after I asked her to marry me. I asked in June, she gave the ring back in July, we broke up in September with a commitment to talk again in December. We talked. We went out. We talked again. And then in February, we had our last conversation.

The week before, she had said she had things to talk about, but that she didn't want to do anything rash. It was the same thing she had said just before she gave the ring back. I promised I would support whatever decision she made.

I asked, "So, you don't want to keep going?"

"I just don't think it's a good idea."

"So, now what? I don't want to not be friends, but I'm not sure I could keep talking or emailing you without falling, or staying, in love with you."

"I know."

"I don't know if I'll be able to stay in touch at all. I don't know how to stay friends."

"I don't know either."

I asked her if she wanted to stay in touch, if she wanted to email or talk anymore.

She answered, "I don't know what the point would be."

I told her that I would need some time, that if she wanted to talk later, she could email me, but I might respond by saying I wasn't ready. I'm not sure now that I'll ever be ready, but I'm not sure what hurts worse: talking with her, knowing that it hasn't worked out and won't; or never talking with her again, and trying my best to erase her from my past. I have deleted any photos that she was in from my computer. I gave away the mini chess set she had given me -- "playing a game of chess" was our euphemism for making out. All I have left is the engagement ring and a file where I kept the letters she sent me and letters that I wrote but never sent while we weren't talking last year. None of it has helped. I'm not saying I think about her 24/7, but she's certainly still there in my head.

"So," I asked, "do you want to just hang up now?"

"No."

"Neither do I. What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know."

We talked for two more hours. And suddenly, we could talk, like when she and I used to talk. It was laying on the couch and settling in to the pillows with the phone propped up against my ear. Her cell phone dropped the call three or four times and each time we called back. Just before this, she had emailed me asking if I thought it was right that we should have to work so hard just to "keep our heads above the water." That was exactly what it felt like when we weren't talking, or when things were going badly--Like I was treading water. You know, how you never get a full breath? But this time, it was like I was lying on the beach, taking my first full breaths after weeks of treading water.

It seems so unfair, that the connection that I had been looking to have back, that deep breath, only came when it was already too late. And that was what we talked about. About how unfair it was, and how she laughed so much more easily, and how neither of us could stand to hang up the phone.

But we did. Eventually. I had changed into my pajamas and ran down the batteries on my cell phone. And on the cordless. I was laying on my bed with the phone propped up against a pillow when she said she thought it was probably time to hang up. I said, "ok." But it wasn't ok.

Then I said, "I love you," and I meant it.

"I love you too." Did she mean it?

And then we both said goodbye and hung up.

The Minute

2006-12-23T22:53:00.000-08:00

Anxious minutes,
slow minutes,
watched minutes,
minutes that fall through time
like drops of cold molasses.

Nervous minutes,
excited minutes,
eager minutes,
minutes that await and hope
like children wait for sweets.

The minute,
a long minute,
a minute in which hangs every hope
a minute to undo
the staring, worried minutes.

The minute,
a violently felt minute,
a minute of falling,
a minute of breaking,
a minute for changing forever.

The minute,
the last minute,
a minute to leave,
a minute to forget,
a minute that will do neither.

Not Minutes

2006-10-30T21:43:00.000-08:00

Not minutes.

Whole hours
whose purpose
not missing
not longing
not wishing
not hoping
not dreaming
not regretting

Relentless pain and emotion
Lived
Dulled
Crushed
by mintues
that flowed unheeding
like a river
refusing to turn back
leaving only
thoughtful hours
wondering
searching
praying for

a new heart

a clean soul

Minutes

2006-10-25T04:21:00.000-07:00

Once, a minute meant

A laugh.
A Confession.
A too long goodbye.
A kiss.
A look.

Now, ten thousands of minutes between us

Each minute an eternity.
Each minute full of memory.
Each minute an ocean of longing.
Each drop of time a torrent
of sorrow
and of doubt
and of fear.
Each one closer to the only minute that matters.

Each minute's grains of sand fall in a pile of
moments spent in anger
wasted moments of regret
bitter tasted moments of despair

I want to throw the hourglass against a wall.

I do not want these minutes that stare
full of regret

these minutes wasted
on thoughts—on worries—on fears
that bear no fruit.

I'm Pregnant, the Second Trimester

2006-10-10T20:56:00.000-07:00

So, I have a piece in the middle, called "The Big Day" which was supposed to be Alicia telling Matt that she's pregnant. But I got stumped. Instead, I have decided to try writing some later scenes and see how it goes after that...

Alicia walked out of the bathroom and stopped at the chair where she had set her prosthetic belly the night before. Matt watched, and when she was finished asked "why do you keep putting that thing on, Alicia?"

She turned toward him, naked except for the "Empathy Belly" they had bought two weeks previous, and answered, "Honey, I'm pregnant! Don't be silly. Now get out of bed and get ready, I need you drop me off at work. It's hard to drive with all this extra tummy." With that, she turned to the closet and rifled through the small wardrobe of maternity clothes that they had bought in the same two-weeks-ago shopping trip. Matt stared, as he had stared for the last two weeks when she dressed, when she undressed, whenever she told their neighbors about the baby, and whenever she wasn't looking. There was a glimmer of hope in his that this was some kind of test or a that it was a joke they were playing on their neighbors, on everyone at work. And on their friends. And on their family. And on him.

"Get up, Matt! You cannot lay there in bed all morning watching me dress. Look! I'm almost finshed and you haven't even showered." Matt threw off the covers, walked to the bathroom, and started the water running. It wasn't like the whole thing was all bad. She had been cooking breakfast now for almost two and a half months straight--a couple of pancakes and some sausage usually hit the spot in the morning. She still took long showers, but she was through with that whole morning sickness thing. Had she really been sick then? He had nearly forgotten those mornings when she would hold her stomach and lurch to the bathroom.

Matt was just turning off the water when Alicia poked her head through the door: "Almost ready? I made oatmeal." She poked his stomach as she added, teasing, "I think you're putting on the pounds after all." Alicia popped back out of the bathroom, but not before Matt gave himself the once over in the mirror--Were those love handles? Or a spare tire?

At breakfast, sitting across from her, Matt concentrated on his oatmeal as he tried to bring up the subject of her pregnancy for the third time. "Honey, I know you've been ready to have kids for a while, and I think if you just gave me a little time, I could be ready too. I'm not sure all this is necessary."

Alicia smiled and reached across the table to hold his hand, "Sweetie, I know you'll be a great father. You don't need to be worried. When I have the baby I'm sure you'll be ready...Which reminds me, we have an ultrasound appointment in a week. You better put in for sick leave so you can be there."

This was not going as Matt had planned, and it was not going as had his other two attempts, it was actually, suddenly, going much worse, "An ultrasound?"

"Aren't you excited? I can't wait to find out whether we're having a boy or a girl."

Matt stared, which he seemed to be doing a lot of recently, and asked his wife how exactly that was going to work, he couldn't bring himself to add, "since you strap on your pregnancy every morning?"

Alicia returned his stare and wondered at his lack of knowledge--"It doesn't hurt, Matt, for either one of us. In fact, you don't have to do anything. They just put this thing on my belly and they can see the baby. You must know what an ultrasound is, don't you?"

"Of course I do, but," and he didn't know how to finish so he just tried to get out of it instead, "Look, I've got this presentation next week and it's a big deal, I don't think I'll be able to go. Why don't you take one of your friends with you, I'm sure they'd love to go." Maybe they'd even talk her out of all this crazy pregnancy crap.

Alicia looked at him, and he knew before her eyes even began to be wet, that there were going to be tears. He also knew that he would be going to the appointment, and that he would be excited to know whether they were going to have a boy or a girl.

So, if you have ideas about the story, or ideas for scenes that should be included...feel free to leave a comment. Sorry about the comment moderation, just trying to keep the wackos of the world from posting garbage.

My trip to San Diego...

2006-09-30T23:04:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry. This isn't the next installment of "I'm Pregnant," but I wanted to share some of these pictures that I got from a walk on the beach in San Diego earlier this week. It was gorgeous, but I was about ready to flop over dead at the end...

Before we get into my amazing pictures, Let's have a little look at the trail we took to see the Torrey Pines beach:
The loop was a little over six miles. We had a 430 foot descent at the beginning and a 430 foot climb at the end. Notice, however, that the climb was much steeper than the descent (That's the little blue bit at the bottom of the picture). The website that makes the pictures here is pretty cool. It's www.gmap-pedometer.com . You may not think much of the walk, but just remember that there's almost 290 Lbs. of me to haul up that 430 ft. climb.

Now, on to the amazing pictures. We were there in the evening, just before and during sunset. It was very nice. This first picture is overlooking the edge of our trail looking at one of the first wide views of the ocean:

This is the bottom of the trail to the beach. We had already been through several switchbacks. Do you see the top of a sign in the bottom of the picture? The trail was actually closed. But after nearly two miles of walking around, we weren't about to be turned back.

When we first got to the beach we saw an osprey in her nest. She was really pretty and never moved the whole time we were there. I wasn't all that close, but I had a 12x zoom...

I call this picture "Beach Rock," because it is a picture of a big Rock at the beach. While it seems out of place, just think: In a few thousand bajillion years, the water will have eroded away the entire rock and turned it into the more familiar sand we generally think of as inhabiting the beach.

This, my friends, is a picture called "Water on the Beach." Of course, there's water in the ocean too, and that's in this picture, but what if I had called it "Water in the ocean" or "Ocean next to the beach" or something like that? that would just be stating the obvious. Everyone knows there is water in the ocean and that oceans are next to beaches. However, water ON the beach is something novel. sort of.

The next three pictures are my sunset pictures. Since I don't want to interrupt your viewing, I'll tell you all about them here. First, they turned out much more spectacular-looking than they were in person. You can thank low light levels and sunset effects for the nice look. Second, it was really nice. Third, there may have been some better ones, but toward the end of our walk, which was right at the end of sunset, two things happened: 1) The sun went behind some serious clouds and was almost completely blocked, which is sad, because when you can see it drop into the ocean, since they are both blue (the sky and the ocean, I mean) it kind of looks like the sun is just disappearing in the middle of the sky; 2) Naked men started walking around. I'm serious. We're just walking around, minding our own business, and WHAM-O! There he is, in all his glory, walking along the water. My appetite for taking pictures was severely lessened.

This is probably my favorite, although I don't think the web-posting programs did a good job with the colors....

There you have it. Stay tuned. I'm getting in the mood to write again. There are musings to publish, news to share, things to be pondered upon, and stories to finish. If I get really ambitious, I'll find a couple of stories from my fiction-writing class and get them on here. Cheers all.

Oh great tunnel-spirit-guide....

2006-04-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

Thin and Gnarly, Burro Schmidt was not your everyday joe. He could have been your everyday california miner, except for one thing: his tunnel. Over the course of thirty-two years this small man dug a 2000 ft. tunnel through a mountain. The tunnel is a testament to an obsession. This, according to our tunnel-spirit-guide, is how you get there.

It is, apparently, very important to know where you're going on the way to the tunnel, because the whole trail is almost littered with signs. "Of course there are many signs to guide you to the tunnel," intones the tunnel-spirit-guide.
Do you see the little arrow? That's the direction to go. I don't recall how far it is after that, but you should be sure to settle in for a long ride: it's not close. I wish I could take credit for this shot, but I was driving and had a photography-major friend taking the pictures.

The sign on the right is not where you want to go. "No Motor Vehicles" means Baby is not allowed on that trail. "It is tempting to venture into closed areas and precarious roads, but the true way of the tunnel lies always within reach of the motorized vehicle," intones the tunnel-spirit-guide.

After a long while driving around, there is apparently somewhere you're not supposed to go. Or at least, there is somewhere that many intrepid tunnel-seekers have gone that did not lead to their goal. I believe that one of these adventureres, a pioneer in his own right, left a mark to guide the rest of us on our way. What became clear over the rest of the trail was that we had ventured into a land where paper-plates guide your way (see first image) and where fallen-tower-thingies are an acceptable medium for spray. "The land you have entered is the domain of The Tunnel! Do not belittle those who have left their mark to guide you on the path to the tunnel!"

"I'm sorry, oh wise tunnel-spirit-guide."

Two more signs....At least we're all still pointing in the same direction. "Do not be lulled into complacency my child. Tunnel seeking is full of danger and misdirection, though these signs will truly lead you to the tunnel you seek."

Of course, just like the rocky road of life, all tunnel seekers will encounter temptations along the way. Bickle Camp is actually visible from this sign (If I recall correctly). "Should I go see Bickle Camp? I've been driving forever. I don't think there really is a tunnel. I think it's just a myth."

"No my child," intones the tunnel-spirit guide, "you mush continue your quesht for the tunnel of burro schmidt! Do not be Desheived!

Oh NO!!! What have we done?!?!?! The signs are pointing the other direction. "Calm yourself little traveler," intones the tunnel-spirit-guide, "we have only turned a corner on the long road to tunnel nirvanah. There is yet much driving to do."

Apparently, the intrepid adventure seekers were not the only ones frustrated by the elusive tunnel and it's ever-mocking signage. "It is truly sad to see the way to the tunnel treated with such violence," intones the tunnel-spirit-guide.

The tunnel-spirit-guide says, "do not be fooled by the false signs my young tunnel-seeker. Follow the way of the true signs and you will not be led astray..."

"You see, my child," intones the tunnel-spirit-guide, "the way of the tunnel is no easy path. The road to the tunnel is full of turns and ruts and holes. You will only recognize the true signs of the tunnel by their visage." Ah, now that's more like it...

"Do you understand now the way of the sign of the tunnel? Will you believe that the tunnel exists and that these signs were left here by others? Will you not open your eyes and see the tunnel before you?!? Is there no Spam to eat in this truck?!?!?!

And so it was that the adventure-seekers and their tunnel-spirit-guide arrived at the tunnel after having followed the signs of it's hiding in the hills. We thank every spray-can-wielding barrell-dumping tunnel-seeker before us for the clues and signs of the tunnel that led us to our ultimate adventure.

THE END
(of the tunnel seeking adventure)

(what!?!?! you wanted pictures in the tunnel? It's over a mile long for heck's sake. It's pitch black in there. How did you think I was going to take pictures?)

I'm Pregnant, Breakfast

2006-02-08T06:56:00.000-08:00

Authors note: This is the second post in a series on the "I'm Pregnant" story. I'm not guaranteeing that the story will move forward by equal amounts each post. Don't expect this one to move a lot. Before reading this, you should read the previous post...

After emptying her stomach, and when she was sure there was no more, she took a hot shower and let the water run over her back and especially her abdomen, which was still sore from so many days in a row of vomiting. By the time she was out of shower and dried off, she felt much better. And by the time she was out of the bathroom, she felt like she hadn't eaten for days. More truthfully, the net effect of throwing up in the morning but still eating regular meals was more like she had only skipped dinner.

Matt was sitting on the bed, towel in hand, waiting to take a shower. "You sure do take your time."

"Sorry, baby. I'll go make some breakfast. Eggs? Toast? Pop Tarts? What do you want?" She had attacked with her sweet, almost southern voice, and then offered food. Two of Matt's biggest weaknesses.

"Mmmm....pop tarts....no. Toast. No. yes. Toast and eggs." Matt was not known for being decisive.

"Well you go take your shower and get ready and I'll have something ready." Alicia finished dressing and went to the kitchen. They had been living in their two bedroom apartment for a couple of years, just since both of them had finished school. They used the second bedroom as an office, but Alicia already had plans for the room. The rest of the apartment consisted of the master bedroom and bath, a hallway bathroom, and a combined kitchen/dining/living room. By no means was it a big place, but it had room for the computer, Alicia's grandmother's table, Matt's guitars, and other regular household clutter. And it was that--cluttered. Both of them seemed to have a lot of unimportant little things--ticket stubs, concert programs, door prizes, old boquets--and neither one of them could bear to throw something away if it had even the smallest nostalgic value.

Alicia decided that toast and eggs sounded good, so she beat a few eggs and dropped four slices of toast into the toaster. Ever since she had realized she was pregnant, meat of almost any kind became impossible to handle. She stared at the eggs as she crushed the yolks and thought how they would have been cute yellow chicks on a little farm somewhere...

Matt yelled from the bathroom, "how's breakfast coming?"

"Almost ready," Alicia yelled back, as she tossed the beaten eggs into the frying pan.

I'm Pregnant

2006-02-06T11:16:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: I'm going to start posting fragments of a story I'm writing, and if you start at this post, and then work toward the most recent, you should eventually get the whole story. When it's done, I'll post it all together as a big story. The story comes from a joke that never happened, and probably shouldn't have.
Alicia had been pregnant for almost two weeks, but had only just realized it after two or three mornings in a row of retching into the toilet. Well, to be honest, she was gagging herself to the point of throwing up. She was actually waking up sick to her stomach and thought she might as well get it over with. Alicia hadn't told her husband yet, and since his birthday was only a few days off, she decided to wait and surprise him.

This morning was no different than the others, and she had almost settled into a routine. It was 6:30 when the alarm first went off. Without opening her eyes, she rolled over; her arm snaked out from under the covers and her hand found the snooze button in the same place it had been every morning for years. She checked every minute or so to see how long she had left before the alarm went off again; each time, burying her head under the covers, avoiding the sun and the morning that would inevitably make her sick. As it was, something was twisting her stomach like someone wringing out a sponge. Her husband, Matt, shook her from his side of the bed, "Honey...Honey...You've gotta get up."

"No."

"Yes, you do," he said, a little more firmly. "You are going to be late."

She thought about it, albeit not deeply, and replied, "I'll take a short shower. I can stay for one more snooze."

Her husband shook her again and propped his head up on his elbow, "You and I both know that's not true. Especially this week--You've been taking a lot longer to get ready."

Alicia, sensing the direction the conversation was going, started to roll out of bed and let her knees hit the ground. "All right. All right. But if I have to get up, you should too. " And then she picked up the alarm clock from the desk and put it on the floor, several feet from the bed. On the way to the bathroom her stomach jumped and churned, as per the routine. She decided, again, as she walked to the bathroom, that women had definitely gotten the raw end of the deal when it came to reproduction. As her stomach gave a particularly hard lurch, she ran the last three steps, sank to her knees in front of the toilet, slammed the door, and turned on the fan. She flipped up the lid and seat, and stared at the water in the bowl.

Some people, when they feel sick, can stare at a toilet bowl, smell the lysol spray you use to clean up later, and vomit almost on command. Others, however, and Alicia was one of these, cannot; these have to wait for their stomachs to work up to vomiting. Alicia stared at the water wishing she could just throw up and feel better and move on with the day. After a minute or two and a few half-heaves she gave up waiting. She held her long, dark hair with her left hand and reached an index finger back as far in her mouth as it would go, and pressed up against her soft palettle. She coughed once; gagged once; gagged again, and then felt her stomach heave. Alicia caught the rim of the toilet with her hand and stedied herself while emptying the contents of her stomach.

After emptying her stomach, and when she was sure there was no more, she took a hot shower and let the water run over her back and especially her abdomen, which was still sore from so many days in a row of vomiting.

--stay tuned--

Welcome to Sunny California

2005-07-29T00:40:00.000-07:00

I have been living in California now since the middle of June. My car and bike just don't look right with those awful white California plates. Marked, branded, the same as those people that moved to and ruined Idaho. I take solace only in the fact that I can now drive any way I like and the people in the other cars will be cursing those danged californians! Not me, though. I am an Idahoan.

Ridgecrest is nice. It's certainly not beachfront property, actually being in the middle of the Mojave desert, but, as the recruiters like to say, "We're not in the middle of nowhere, we're two and a half hours from everything!" I never would have just decided to move here, but I like my new job--about which I will not be blogging since it seems to be bad for one's employability--and it's a nice place. I am in continual search for others of my own kind: youngish single people for whom conversations about potty training and poop are out-of-bounds. In Ridgecrest we are a rare breed. This means that those of us who have put off marriage are now faced with a shrinking gene pool in which to swim.

For years now I have refused to give in to online dating. Of course, in a world where porn and gambling have invaded the internet, it's hard to imagine another pernicious evil, dating, not making it's place too. So, with much trepidation, and not a little encouragement from my unnamed support team, I joined eHarmony.com and LDSSingles.com. So to all of the others in Relationships Anonymous:

Hello, my name is Ricky, and I have a dating problem. I have been single all my life, and my mother thinks I have a problem with committment. All together now: "H-e-llo, Ri-ck-y."

In truth, I am wating for arranged marriages to come back into style in the Western hemisphere. And I don't mean being set up on blind dates, or having my email address handed out to perfect strangers by my relatives. No, in a perfect world we would all get married at 25. There would be a church job (a 'calling' in my church) whose sole ministry would be the assignment of eternal companions. Presumably this person would be open to inspiration and revelation in making the assignment, so that it would be more like, "I'm marrying so-and so? Hmmm. Now I see. I never would have found so-and-so on my own. Thank you so much!" etc., etc. How could you divorce someone that God, through his annointed matchmaker, had chosen just for you? It would take a lot of faith, but then again, so does dating.

He can't be serious--can he?

2005-04-01T10:20:00.000-08:00

I have never declared myself as belonging to either of the major parties, though I am definitely a republican leaning voter. The Terri Schaivo case has reinforced my disgust with politics in general. I cannot believe how much mileage the republicans are getting out of this, and, since I usually dislike the Democratic rhetoric, I am surprised and admire the silence of the Democratic party on this.

Tom DeLay had this to say:

"Mrs. Schiavo's death is a moral poverty and a legal tragedy. This loss happened because our legal system did not protect the people who need protection most, and that will change. The time will come for the men responsible for this to answer for their behavior, but not today. Today we grieve, we pray, and we hope to God this fate never befalls another." [reported on CNN]

We hope to God this fate never befalls another? This fate befalls hundreds every single day. Familes are called upon to make the hardest decisions they ever have to make. But wait! If Tom and the president get their way, we won't have to make this decision.

Congress will.

This is a decision to be made by families. When there is an argument, the decision should be mediated by the courts. Not the President. Not his governor brother. Not the Congress.

To Tom -- Why don't you pay attention to your own ethics. Moral Poverty? Have you ever heard the the phrase "avoid the very appearance of evil?" I don't know about the allegations against you, but perhaps you should pay more attention to them. And avoiding situations which provoke these attacks.

To Bill Frist, who watched a video of Terri Schiavo and declared her diagnosis a mis-diagnosis -- Physician, heal thyself. You are a heart surgeon. Not a neurologist. And your use of the title M.D. is shameful in this context.

To President Bush -- What if it were your wife? Would you have still signed the bill? Would you have then let congress move the decision from you to the federal courts?

To Gov. Bush, who said "The beginning of life and the end of life, I think, is something we need to learn to do better." -- Just because it sounds cool, doesn't mean the two go together. Your attempts to overrule judicial decisions were --saying it nicely -- very bad government.

To America -- Sign your living will, for all the good it will do, and then move on with life. Our obsession with Terri Schiavo (I should take my own advice since this is my third post about this) is another manifestation of our ugly fascination with celebrity.

Build a culture of life--

2005-03-31T09:33:00.000-08:00

Terri Schiavo isn't even cold yet--and the president is further politicizing an issue of which he should not have been part.

President Bush sent condolences to Schiavo's families. "I urge all those who honor Terri Schiavo to continue to work to build a culture of life where all Americans are welcomed and valued and protected." The president and, obviously, the republican part will be casting this as another front for the fight agains abortion.

CNN has asked for comments--asking whether "this case [has] affected [me] personally?"

Terri Schiavo's case should not have touched me personally--it happened thousands of miles away in a place I have only seen from airplanes. What affected me personally was when my family had to make the same decision for my grandmother. I can only imagine how much harder the decision would have been for them if congress had decided to intervene. And why did they not? Was my grandmother worth less that Terri Schiavo? No, Terri schiavo has become politcal carrion. In truth, the President's and Congress' actions are NOT about Terri Schiavo.

Will they be doing this often? Will the next highly publicized child-custody case also be moved to Federal Court? There are thousands of people in the U.S. alone in a persistent vegetative state, awake, but unaware of their surroundings. Hundereds of decisions concerning their care are made every single day. How will Congress pick and choose which decisions should be reviewed in federal courts? Their place is to make Law to govern us all--not just Terri Shciavo.

Fielding passes grueling defense examination!

2005-03-29T16:03:00.000-08:00

In other news today Ricky Fielding successfully defended his Master's project titled "Satellite based Investigation of Mesospheric Infrared Emissions".

Ricky is reportedly very excited and glad to be one step closer to membership in that oft-elusive group, "The Workforce". He is currently accepting applications from employers, and hopes to make a decision soon.

More at 10.

Whose family is next on the congressional docket?

2005-03-24T16:08:00.000-08:00

An OpEd piece in my school newspaper praised Congress for passing the national version of "Terri's Law," saying that it showed how important the individual is amidst all our talk of programs and initiatives. I wrote this in response--

On Wednesday, Jon Cox wrote that "the most powerful political body in the world took a weekend to pass a bill just for [Terri Schiavo];" that he was "enthralled" by congress' focus on an individual, and that this sort of action shows just how much we care. Mr. Cox is wrong. In the U.S. alone, there are between 15,000 and 35,000 persons being sustained who have been diagnosed as being in a persistent vegetative state. Why were none of these mentioned in this national version of "Terri's Law?" Where is our concern for them?

There is no overpowering concern in this nation for Terri Schiavo. Terri's guardian, Michael, and her Parents, the Schindlers, are standing in front of a studio audience made up of the entire nation--we watch them call names; we are horrified at allegations of abuse; we blame the judicial system for abandoning Terri; we use bullhorns, pickets, and protests (look at the pictures) to speak out. Where is Jerry Springer when we need him? We are not concerned with Terri's life or death—We are enthralled by a family fight, the likes of which most of us can only imagine. After all, what is more alluring than another family's dirty laundry? Our concern is just another ugly fascination with celebrity.

Hundreds of people every day have to make this decision for a loved one—a decision between death and a life of mechanical breath and liquid food. Congress has made no law for them. The nation knows none of their names. And yet, just for Terri, we watch, we answer opinion polls, we protest, we cry. Where are our tears for the hundreds of tragedies that occur every day? Where is our pain for the dozens in our own communities who face the same circumstance?

What if this were your family or mine? Your Sister? My Mother? How many of us know the agony of that decision? It can only be worse to endure second guessing by an entire nation and its government. None of us beside her family and friends will truly mourn Terri. Of course we will be sad. Of course we will send flowers and TV cameras. But when she dies, which of us will remember how she was before her heart stopped? Which of us will cry to once more feel her touch or see her smile? Life will go on for each of us as it did the day before, absent no one.

I am not here to voice support for Michael Schiavo or the Schindlers'. I am here, however, to defend our system of law. The original court in this case determined in the year 2000 that it would be Terri's wish to have the feeding tube removed. The original court determined, on the basis of credible and distinguished expert testimony, that Terri is "awake but unaware", locked in a persistent vegetative state. Terri's parents appealed the rulings. For five years, court after court has found the original judge's decision to have merit. Indeed, the courts noted that "few, if any, similar cases have ever been afforded this heightened level of process." As congress intervened, they threw centuries of judicial practice out the window. Whose family will be next on the congressional docket?

Terri Schiavo has become the "Terri Schiavo case" and "Terri's Law". Terri Schiavo has become a symbol—a pawn—in a very political fight. Representatives who rightly recognized that Congress had no place in that hospice room will be vilified at their next election as the ones who voted to kill Terri. I am ashamed of our legislators and our president. We should all be ashamed of the circus we have made of a difficult situation. Terri Schiavo is a woman, a daughter, a wife, a patient, a friend. She should never have to be a sound bite in the next election.

Monsters in the closet

2004-12-11T13:19:00.000-08:00

--So, I have an interest in writing and I don't have time (or anything remotely interesting to report on) to do anything very original yet. This story was written originally for a class assignment. I have only reworked it a little since then. Enjoy...

Monsters in the Closet

“There are monsters in my closet.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, little girls still have to go to bed—monsters or not,” said the mother. “Come on, give me a hug, and I'll tuck you in.”

To tell the truth, it was getting dark outside. It really was time for the little girl to go to bed. The family lived in a trailer park—“Mr. Hobson's Neighborhood”—that was just on the outskirts of town. The walk from the kitchen to the little girl's bedroom was only a few steps down the hall. Worn, brown shag-carpet stretched from the living room down a narrow hall, past the bathroom and a small bedroom, stopping at the door of the master bedroom. Fake wood paneling covered the walls. The front door, broken, was jammed tight with a sock between the door and the jamb. The smell of past meals oozed from the paneling: spaghetti, curry, microwaved hot dogs, and deep fried fish all mingled, becoming a sweetish smell that clung to everything. The little girl was also clinging to her mother.

“Do you want me to check the closet for monsters?”

“No, they'll still be there even if you check.”

The mother stood next to a large bed that was meant for growing into. She had nearly sprained her ankle on this particular trip to the bedroom. Next to a pair of plastic skates on the floor there lay two naked Barbie dolls in the midst of clothes and other toys in haphazard disarray. Supported in the mother's arms, the little girl's arms were wrapped tightly around her mother's neck. Her legs were clamped tight reaching almost all the way around the mother's waist. To be honest, thought the mother, her little girl was getting too big for this—for all of this really. She didn't know why her daughter still believed in monsters.

Just to be sure, she walked toward the closet, meaning to make a show of checking for monsters. It was hardly big enough for a six-year-old's wardrobe, let alone a monster of any consequence. As she held her daughter on her right side, the mother reached out with her left to slide open the closet door. The little girl stiffened, pressed her face into her mother's neck, and let out a small whimper. The door slid bumpily open on warped tracks; it took some effort to open it all the way.

“See? There's nothing in there.”

Unwilling to even look, the little girl's arms just squeezed tighter around her mother's neck; her eyes shut just as fiercely.

“They don't come out till later, after you leave.”

“But I've looked and there's nothing to be afraid of. It's about time you grow up and learn that there's no such thing as monsters!”

“Mommy, please shut the door. Maybe then they'll stay away.”

Reluctant to spend much more time on this, the mother gave up. With a small heave she pulled the door shut and noticed that the paint on the door was peeling. Not that it was the only thing that looked like it was coming apart around there. The stove only worked most of the time. The inside of the microwave was covered in grease and hard bits of food that never seemed to come off. Carpets had holes; doors shut only half-way; vinyl countertops were separating from the wood underneath. No, the closet was probably the least of her worries.

With the child almost in tucked in, the mother kissed her little girl.

“What about Daddy?” asked the little girl.

“He can't kiss you goodnight tonight, maybe tomorrow night. Now, be a good girl and go right to sleep. I don't want you coming out asking for drinks or to go to the bathroom.”

“Can you get my Barbie?” the little girl asked.

“Which one?”

“The blonde one. She's the prettiest.”

“There you go, sweetie. How tight do you want your sheets?”

“All the way,” said the girl.

The mother tucked and pulled on the sheets till her little girl said “when.” She shut off the light and reached to turn on the nightlight. It clicked on, and dim yellow light flooded the room next to the bed. The little girl lay perfectly still with her eyes closed. Her hands were clenched around the still-naked Barbie lying just on top of the comforter. On her way out, the mother kicked the roller skate and the remaining immodest Barbie out of the way. She peered into the dark corner of the room and noticed that the light from the night light didn't quite reach to the closet. Was that why her daughter was so afraid of something in there?

The mother stepped into the hallway, leaving the bedroom door open a few inches. She reached for the hallway light switch and lingered for a moment while she looked toward the closed door to the master bedroom. The man that the litte girl called Father was honestly her father. He wasn't exactly the woman's husband, but somehow he counted as more than a live-in boyfriend. He had bought the trailer and they moved in just a few months before their girl was born. The woman always knew that he hadn't wanted to move in, but he had insisted:

“It's not right to just leave you both out to dry. Besides, she's my little girl too.”

Shaking her head, she switched off the light and moved into the kitchen. At the sink she scrubbed uselessly at the dried-on remains of what looked to have been spaghetti—at least she thought she could remember making spaghetti that week, or was it last week? No matter what she did, it just wouldn't come off. She threw the plate into the cold, soapy water that had been there since much earlier in the evening, and selected a fresher plate to clean. It just seemed so pointless. For a while now her husband had seemed to be growing more and more distant. No matter what she did, he just seemed to be locked away from her. Tonight she just couldn't deal with him.

After realizing that she had been scrubbing the same already-clean plate for several minutes, she dried her hands. With the first dry hand, she reached into the cupboard on her right, and pulled out a plastic cup. With the second, she opened the cupboard door above the sink and pulled down an unopened bottle of vodka. She decided that it was an “on the rocks” kind of night, and went to the freezer.

“Damn. No ice.”

She gave up and settled into the recliner that he had given her two years before, when they weren't so far apart. It was the only thing in the trailer that had held up at all. She poured herself nearly a full cup of the warm clear liquid, and watched a re-run of “I Love Lucy.” Two episodes and more than one cup later she had almost forgotten her problems, completely absorbed by the television.

In her room, the little girl was having nightmares again.

Hadn't mommy closed the closet door? How did the monster get in? She was running, hiding, trying to get away. No matter where she turned the monster was only steps away. It was big, and dark. It didn't want her to run, only to stop, and let it hold her. But it scared her, and she couldn't let herself stay near it. Suddenly she noticed that her Barbie was gone. When she went back to find her, the monster was holding it. The monster was telling the Barbie how she was a good girl, how it didn't want to hurt anyone, how pretty she . . .

The child's screams were muffled by the blanket that she had pulled up over her head.

The girl started awake from the sound of her own nightmare screams. She clawed at the blanket that suffocated her, pulling it down below her chin. Cold sweat dotted her forehead. The little girl took deep, gasping breaths. She was afraid to move, but her eyes darted to each corner of the room before settling on the closet. It was still closed, but the monster might have shut it before she could see. She stared at the closed closet door for several long moments before light from the hallway spilled onto the floor revealing toys and kid blankets scattered everywhere. A massive black figure stood in the doorway looking at her. The monster hadn't gone back into the closet, she thought. Then the figure entered the room and shut the door tightly behind itself.

The little girl shut her eyes, hoping that the monster might go away thinking she was asleep. The bed moved, and she felt someone shaking her. She began crying again, gasping for breath between sobs. Finally, she opened her eyes and recognized her father.

“Shhhhh. It’s only a nightmare, it can't hurt you.”

Tears of relief streamed down her cheeks. The little girl reached up with her empty hand, still holding the Barbie close.

“Daddy, there was a monster. It was here,” she said in between successively calmer sobs and long gulps of air, still only half awake.

He quieted her again and reached for the Barbie doll that she held clenched in her small fist. He took the Barbie and tossed her next to the other one on the floor as he picked the little girl up from under the covers. She held his hand and he stroked her cheek, trying to comfort her. She heard him tell her that she was a good girl and that no one wanted to hurt her. He told her how pretty she was and that there weren't any monsters for her to be afraid of. Quiet, and this time, scared, tears rolled down her face as he held her tight to his chest. She let her body go limp as she gave in to his soft voice. Only a small whimper escaped her mouth, as he laid her back down on the bed.

. . . how it didn't want to hurt her and how she was a good Barbie. The little girl was hiding from the monster but couldn't wait any longer. She had to help her Barbie. The monster sat down and was caressing and talking gently to the Barbie. When it set her down for a moment, the little girl bolted for her doll. She ran as fast as she could to grab the Barbie, intending to run away with her. But it heard her, and it was waiting. When she was close enough it grabbed her and held her so tight she couldn't even move. She felt like she couldn't breathe and could hardly make any noise at all. It told her not to be scared, that it didn't want to hurt her. It asked why she always ran. It touched her hair and then her cheek. She was so very scared, and it could tell in her eyes.