Happy to be here
Blog Yeah, kitt finished writing this at 01:45 on 26 February 2005Here's a picture of me and Kris. In this picture, I am very, very happy to be here:
Here? What does "here" mean?
Well, at that moment, here meant at my house, sitting with Kris, dogs at the feet, television on, doing not much on a Wednesday night. The heat was on in the house, laundry running in the garage, computers humming in the office, tivo recording who knows what, Alias playing on the DVD player.
And why was I so happy?
Because 10 minutes before that, I was choking and unable to breathe.
A piece of ginger that I was eating with my sushi, unfolded the wrong way and covered the top of my windpipe as I was chewing away. I tried to inhale, and realized I couldn't.
And then, I forgot how to breathe.
It was a very surreal moment. My thought were something along the lines of "Breathe. How? Just inhale. Um, okay. Uh, it's not working. Yeah, I noticed. Hmmmmm."
I stood up after a couple seconds, Kris stood up next to me. "Are you okay?" I shook my head no, as I tried to figure out how to get air into my lungs. Through the nose? No. Through the mouth? No, that's still not working. Exhale? What's that again? Exhale.
Just as I turned to present my back to Kris, who was reaching around my sides, the ginger in my throat shifted, and I managed to inhale.
Whoo! Air! And a glorious, wow, I'm happy to be here feeling.
Can't say I was particularly hungry after that, though.
Almos pau, try wait
Blog Yeah, kitt finished writing this at 19:43 on 25 February 2005
We played at the Kaimana Klassik last weekend. It was a great time. I played on the Dirty Dozen Dames, which consisted of rockin' women, most of whom normally play on mixed teams.
Kris played on Almos Pau, Try Wait, a team formed by Protik Mia. Almos Pau made quarter finals, playing the eventual tournament winners on Monday morning to 15-12. They kept up very well, but two would-be-easy-scores from Mark to Kyle failed when the disc didn't curve properly (Mark's hands were damp), and the disc went flying out the side of the field.
Almos pau, try wait is one of Pro's favorite sayings. Hawaiian pidgin, Almos pau, try wait means "I'm almost done, try waiting a moment." I have to agree, it's a great saying.
At some point during the weekend, Mark and crowd were at a restaurant. The waitress comes up to him and asks if he's ready to order. He replied, "Almos pau, try wait." She laughed and walked away. Eventually she came back, and asked if they were ready to order. Mark jokingly asked, "Like beef?"
which means, "you wanna fight?"
She laughed again, and asked, "What have you been doing? Reading t-shirts?"
More than one way to cry, I guess
Blog Instead of being asleep at 12:19 on 25 February 2005, kitt created this:Had a bad dream last night. Bad enough to remember, anyway.
I was arriving at some tourist point with my in-the-dream-husband, who was definitely NOT Kris, and a friend who might have been my in-the-dream-husband's sister, not sure. The tourist point was some urban castle-like place, with a cobblestone courtyard and park/treed surroundings. The courtyard was being used as a parking lot for the castle/building. We drove through the arched gates and parked to the right, close to the edge of the courtyard.
The courtyard ended with a ~3 foot dropoff, leading down into a large, lightly wooded, well shaded park. The courtyard was also slanted down to the dropoff, presumably to direct water off the courtyard.
My in-the-dream-husband (whose name was something like Barack, which I think was influenced by recent reading of various things by Barack Obama), was driving. He parked the car, got out and helped our friend out of the back seat. I exited the passenger seat just as B was walking around the front of the car. As I closed the door, I noticed the car was moving forward. B had forgotten to set the parking brake.
I called out his name in warning, but he hadn't noticed the car was moving. He turned to face the car, put his hands down on the hood, and strangely tried to push back. At this point, the momentum was too much: the car rolled off the courtyard, pushing B with it. B fell off the edge. When the car hit the edge, it tilted, and also fell, pinning B beneath the car.
As in dreams, things just happen, and poof my friend and I were hovering over B, who was now on the courtyard cobblestones, unable to breathe, having been crushed by the car. My friend is calling out B's name, telling him to hold on, I'm crying hysterically as I grab my cell phone and call 911. I guess we were in the U.S., though I didn't get an impression about location.
The 911 operator answered, and asked what the emergency is. I tell her my husband has been crushed by a car, that we need an ambulence. She asked my location. I told her where we were: at the castle/courtyard/monument/whatever, and she replied, "I'm sorry, I'll need an exact address. Can you be more specific?"
What?
So, I told my friend to stay with B, stood up and sprinted out the gates with phone to my ear. I didn't know what the street was. It was a freaking tourist attraction, how can they not know where I am?
Just outside the gates was some street vendor like store front. The building was a permanent fixture, so (heavenly lights shining down on this store), I ran to get the address. I repeated the address from the vendor to the 911 operator, and she replied, "According to this address, you're in a smoke and wine shop on whatever-the-street-was." "No, no, no," I explained, "we're at the monument next door. You! Can't! Miss! It!"
But no, the operator needed more information. So I sprinted to the next sign I see. It had to have the cross street somewhere on it, right? The sign was a big next-to-the-street business sign, whose business name was Beadaroq. Kid you not. Pretty close to beadaroo, eh? Which was what I originally thought the name was, which added to my confusion of the moment.
Nope, not enough. The 911 operator refused to help. She wouldn't send an ambulence out to help us.
I ran back to B and our friend at this point. I was completely hysterical. No one would help. No one saw this injured man lying on the cobblestones with two hysterical women over him.
He died in my arms.
I cried. I cried so hard my head started bleeding. And I couldn't stop crying. The heart-wrenching sobs of a lost soul. No one would help us. My in-my-dream-husband just died and no one would help. A fucking stupid death, and I couldn't stop crying.
And then I woke up.
No longer crying. Lying next to Kris, with a dog on the bed at our feet. I lay awake for a long while, wondering about the dream. Wondering why no one would help. Feeling the tenderness of my soul at the overwhelming loss.
And thought, well, that's one way to cry.
The courtyard ended with a ~3 foot dropoff, leading down into a large, lightly wooded, well shaded park. The courtyard was also slanted down to the dropoff, presumably to direct water off the courtyard.
My in-the-dream-husband (whose name was something like Barack, which I think was influenced by recent reading of various things by Barack Obama), was driving. He parked the car, got out and helped our friend out of the back seat. I exited the passenger seat just as B was walking around the front of the car. As I closed the door, I noticed the car was moving forward. B had forgotten to set the parking brake.
I called out his name in warning, but he hadn't noticed the car was moving. He turned to face the car, put his hands down on the hood, and strangely tried to push back. At this point, the momentum was too much: the car rolled off the courtyard, pushing B with it. B fell off the edge. When the car hit the edge, it tilted, and also fell, pinning B beneath the car.
As in dreams, things just happen, and poof my friend and I were hovering over B, who was now on the courtyard cobblestones, unable to breathe, having been crushed by the car. My friend is calling out B's name, telling him to hold on, I'm crying hysterically as I grab my cell phone and call 911. I guess we were in the U.S., though I didn't get an impression about location.
The 911 operator answered, and asked what the emergency is. I tell her my husband has been crushed by a car, that we need an ambulence. She asked my location. I told her where we were: at the castle/courtyard/monument/whatever, and she replied, "I'm sorry, I'll need an exact address. Can you be more specific?"
What?
So, I told my friend to stay with B, stood up and sprinted out the gates with phone to my ear. I didn't know what the street was. It was a freaking tourist attraction, how can they not know where I am?
Just outside the gates was some street vendor like store front. The building was a permanent fixture, so (heavenly lights shining down on this store), I ran to get the address. I repeated the address from the vendor to the 911 operator, and she replied, "According to this address, you're in a smoke and wine shop on whatever-the-street-was." "No, no, no," I explained, "we're at the monument next door. You! Can't! Miss! It!"
But no, the operator needed more information. So I sprinted to the next sign I see. It had to have the cross street somewhere on it, right? The sign was a big next-to-the-street business sign, whose business name was Beadaroq. Kid you not. Pretty close to beadaroo, eh? Which was what I originally thought the name was, which added to my confusion of the moment.
Nope, not enough. The 911 operator refused to help. She wouldn't send an ambulence out to help us.
I ran back to B and our friend at this point. I was completely hysterical. No one would help. No one saw this injured man lying on the cobblestones with two hysterical women over him.
He died in my arms.
I cried. I cried so hard my head started bleeding. And I couldn't stop crying. The heart-wrenching sobs of a lost soul. No one would help us. My in-my-dream-husband just died and no one would help. A fucking stupid death, and I couldn't stop crying.
And then I woke up.
No longer crying. Lying next to Kris, with a dog on the bed at our feet. I lay awake for a long while, wondering about the dream. Wondering why no one would help. Feeling the tenderness of my soul at the overwhelming loss.
And thought, well, that's one way to cry.
Be careful what you wish for
Blog kitt decided around 22:59 on 23 February 2005 to publish this:Everyone over the age of 8 has heard the saying, "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it." When you want something badly enough, and your mind and your body decide to follow, mountains can be moved. Even when just your mind decides to help, you can get your wish.
A while ago, like last November, after Regionals were over and my toenails were all black and bloodied from ultimate abuse, I pondered having my toenails surgerically removed. I couldn't decide if I truly wanted to have them removed, might I regret it later? How long do I expect to play ultimate anyway? Things like that. Not two months later, I started to lose a different toenail than I was contemplating removing. Voila! Gross things, but soon I'll see a nail-less toe and can use that in my decision.
Or how about learning to scan the ultimate field better? Higher level atheletes are very good at scanning a field before deciding what to do. Cameras that watch the eyes of professional athletes show they are more aware of movements on the fields than amateur athletes. A series of migraines back in November caused a reduction of peripheral acuity, forcing me to scan the field in order to see what I would have normally seen 4 months ago. I know something's there, I just can't see it, so I scan my field of view far more than I used to. Out of necessity more than anything else. Rough way to get there, but I actually see more of the field than I used to.
Or how about fewer emotions? Now that's a battle I've had my entire life. Did you look at me funny? When I was younger, I'd probably bawl my head off. Or when I became frustrated, my nose would turn bright red and the sting of tears would start. Funny thing is that since that same said series of migraines I haven't cried once except in the case of extreme physical pain (and damn it hurt!). I keep thinking, huh, I feel like I should cry right now: I'm frustrated, I'm tired, blah, blah, blah. But I don't. Maybe because I'm getting older and my hormones are shifting. Maybe because I'm actually somewhat happy in life. Maybe because those migraines shifted something. Maybe because John Schmidt's saying, "Nothing to be done about it? Then don't worry about it." finally sunk in. Maybe I just realized what it was going to take to finally get to where I know I want to be.
And sitting on my ass just wishing isn't going to cut it.
A while ago, like last November, after Regionals were over and my toenails were all black and bloodied from ultimate abuse, I pondered having my toenails surgerically removed. I couldn't decide if I truly wanted to have them removed, might I regret it later? How long do I expect to play ultimate anyway? Things like that. Not two months later, I started to lose a different toenail than I was contemplating removing. Voila! Gross things, but soon I'll see a nail-less toe and can use that in my decision.
Or how about learning to scan the ultimate field better? Higher level atheletes are very good at scanning a field before deciding what to do. Cameras that watch the eyes of professional athletes show they are more aware of movements on the fields than amateur athletes. A series of migraines back in November caused a reduction of peripheral acuity, forcing me to scan the field in order to see what I would have normally seen 4 months ago. I know something's there, I just can't see it, so I scan my field of view far more than I used to. Out of necessity more than anything else. Rough way to get there, but I actually see more of the field than I used to.
Or how about fewer emotions? Now that's a battle I've had my entire life. Did you look at me funny? When I was younger, I'd probably bawl my head off. Or when I became frustrated, my nose would turn bright red and the sting of tears would start. Funny thing is that since that same said series of migraines I haven't cried once except in the case of extreme physical pain (and damn it hurt!). I keep thinking, huh, I feel like I should cry right now: I'm frustrated, I'm tired, blah, blah, blah. But I don't. Maybe because I'm getting older and my hormones are shifting. Maybe because I'm actually somewhat happy in life. Maybe because those migraines shifted something. Maybe because John Schmidt's saying, "Nothing to be done about it? Then don't worry about it." finally sunk in. Maybe I just realized what it was going to take to finally get to where I know I want to be.
And sitting on my ass just wishing isn't going to cut it.
So this is what confidence feels like.
Blog Yeah, kitt finished writing this at 13:57 on 15 February 2005Last Saturday, SFUC had a make-up day. Various teams that weren't able to play during the normal schedule because of rainouts were able to make up the missed games. My team had three makeup games on Saturday morning. Fortunately, Kris' team also had three makeup games and the two of us were able to carpool up to the City.
One of the reasons I've been playing SFUC all these years (I've been playing for I think four years now, might be three) is to become less intimidated by players I don't know. Growing up a non-athlete, I've been known to psych myself out before games even start. Ooooo, look at how well that woman throws! Wow, check out how fast she runs! Look, she carries herself like an athlete, she must be good! It's very easy to assume the other player is better, and give up right there.
Since I've been working out with G at ASA, I've become an athlete (I can say that now. I'm not a geek/nerd/brainiac pretending to be an athlete. I'm an athlete. And the recognition of such is a Good Thing™). And since I've been reading the Mental Game of Baseball, my mental game has also become much stronger. An even better thing.
Because of the workouts G has designed for Kris and I, my quickness has increased. I suspect my top speed as also increased. My core is stronger. I weigh more (also a good thing, actually). And, surprisingly, my endurance has increased. This one surprised me a bit, actually, because many of the exercises are explosive ones, giving more quickness, but at the expense of all day endurance.
But I digress.
I started Saturday morning off playing as hard as I could. My team's record was 2-6 going into the morning, having lost 2 of those games by 2 points, 3 of those games by 1 point. One point. Which means they could have gone either way. I figured, if I played hard and we lost by one point, then there is nothing more I could do. But if I played hard, maybe that would be enough for a win. I think other team members thought the same, because we left the day with 3 wins. Whoo!
The first point I played on Saturday set the tone for the day for me. I marked up against their top woman, but was open on every cut. The second game was against the only team to beat the top team in the league with an 8-1 record. I kept up with their top woman in all her cuts, I caught up whenever I was poaching and had to scramble back to mark up. I was terribly surprised when I was back 3+ yards when my woman went deep, yet still caught up to her after 30 yards.
I threw no turn overs that I recall (though I did have an turn over assist when a teammate dropped a catch that hit him in the wrist), but had two brilliant turn-and-fire throws to brilliant continue cuts by Liz and Nate. Knowing I could go in when I wanted to go in, and stay out when I needed to, and have the confidence to keep up with my players was so wonderful. There was no intimidation. There was no oh-my-god-this-woman-must-be-good. There were no head-cases.
Just run, catch, fake, pivot, throw, repeat. And that feeling made all the 3+ hour workouts worth every minute.
I think George Cooke may have had it right when he told me, "I think this will be your year."
One of the reasons I've been playing SFUC all these years (I've been playing for I think four years now, might be three) is to become less intimidated by players I don't know. Growing up a non-athlete, I've been known to psych myself out before games even start. Ooooo, look at how well that woman throws! Wow, check out how fast she runs! Look, she carries herself like an athlete, she must be good! It's very easy to assume the other player is better, and give up right there.
Since I've been working out with G at ASA, I've become an athlete (I can say that now. I'm not a geek/nerd/brainiac pretending to be an athlete. I'm an athlete. And the recognition of such is a Good Thing™). And since I've been reading the Mental Game of Baseball, my mental game has also become much stronger. An even better thing.
Because of the workouts G has designed for Kris and I, my quickness has increased. I suspect my top speed as also increased. My core is stronger. I weigh more (also a good thing, actually). And, surprisingly, my endurance has increased. This one surprised me a bit, actually, because many of the exercises are explosive ones, giving more quickness, but at the expense of all day endurance.
But I digress.
I started Saturday morning off playing as hard as I could. My team's record was 2-6 going into the morning, having lost 2 of those games by 2 points, 3 of those games by 1 point. One point. Which means they could have gone either way. I figured, if I played hard and we lost by one point, then there is nothing more I could do. But if I played hard, maybe that would be enough for a win. I think other team members thought the same, because we left the day with 3 wins. Whoo!
The first point I played on Saturday set the tone for the day for me. I marked up against their top woman, but was open on every cut. The second game was against the only team to beat the top team in the league with an 8-1 record. I kept up with their top woman in all her cuts, I caught up whenever I was poaching and had to scramble back to mark up. I was terribly surprised when I was back 3+ yards when my woman went deep, yet still caught up to her after 30 yards.
I threw no turn overs that I recall (though I did have an turn over assist when a teammate dropped a catch that hit him in the wrist), but had two brilliant turn-and-fire throws to brilliant continue cuts by Liz and Nate. Knowing I could go in when I wanted to go in, and stay out when I needed to, and have the confidence to keep up with my players was so wonderful. There was no intimidation. There was no oh-my-god-this-woman-must-be-good. There were no head-cases.
Just run, catch, fake, pivot, throw, repeat. And that feeling made all the 3+ hour workouts worth every minute.
I think George Cooke may have had it right when he told me, "I think this will be your year."What Makes a Good Blog?
Blog Posted by kitt at 22:49 on 13 February 2005My latest "hobby" of late has been the "Next Blog" feature of blogger.com. When I need a moment to unwind, I wander over to a blog I know about (Wook's is my usual starting point), and click the Next Blog link to see another, normally random, blog and see if it is anything interesting.
Some of the blogs I wander to are mildly interesting. But I have to say that 99.4% of the blogs I wander past are crap. With a capital C.
Now, wait a second here, what the hell? How do I get to say what's crap and what's not? I mean, hell, this site could be the king of crap (or maybe the McQueen of crap). Aside from the fact that I don't care if this site is crap or not (my site, my thoughts, for me, not you), I figure if I immediately want to click someplace else, the site is crap.
So, I was saying, "99.4% of the sites are crap."
After a while I started wondering what made me stop to look at certain blogs, but skip right over all the other ones. Because some I'd actually read a few entries, and click around to a few pages, but others I wouldn't even wait to load the first page. So rather than going ADD on the blogs, I came up with these suggestions for making a good blog:
- Engage the reader
One of the really nice things about blogging for oneself is that you can put down your thoughts without really caring who is going to read it. If you have permissions on the site to hide the entries/pages you really care about, even better. But if people other than you are going to read the site, it better be engaging.
Engagement can happen in several ways:
-
You could tell me a story. Those are usually good. Tell me an entertaining story about the day, your life, your struggles. When you do, however, for the love of whatever god you think exists, vary your sentence structure! When you tell me about your day, use it to illustrate a point. What moral, insight, example does this story tell me?
You can illustrate a point. Here's what happened to me, and all of this serves to illustrate this statement. Stories can work well as an introduction, but get to the point. "Bush is an idiot. Tree is a moron. Together, we've determined any plant with bark on its trunk is incapable of higher level thinking. Point made." Something like that.
You can teach me a lesson. What can you tell me about MySQL, jazz music, Infinity cars, early Christianity, second order partial differential equations, MacOS applications, Java, baseball or cold fusion that I can't figure out with five minutes with Google? Tell me, and make it interesting.
- Stick to the point When an article starts out about deer pellets and ends up proving the speed of light can vary and the theory of relativity is inaccurate, I get frustrated. Were you talking about deer shit or physics? Pick one and stick to the point.
- Don't use filler This works with the above one about sticking to the point. A story can be used to introduce a topic, that's fine. But don't make an entry longer than it needs to be. Similarly, include what you need.
- Skip the cute l33t-sp34k And the text speak. Then learn to spell close to correct. The occasional misspelling isn't a big deal (everyone misspells a word here and there), but multiple gross misspellings are annoying. Oh, and if you can't take the time for the extra Y and O in "you," you should take typing lessons.
- Write and post consistently Either use the tool or don't. Get hooked on it, or walk away. But posting once every two weeks, and apologizing for not posting? Don't do that. If every two weeks is your posting schedule, then it's your posting schedule. Very few people will read your post if it's not good. And fewer still will read if you're apologizing for not posting. Post like you mean it. (That's a good motto for life in general: "Live like you mean it.")
- Lose the annoying graphics If your page takes more than 5 seconds to load all the images and music crap on your first page, I'm not waiting around for it. Next Blog, please!