Author: bifocalsandbarbells

Somebody said I should blog. I'm easily influenced. Here's the proof!

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Social Work Dreams

No. No, I don’t have time to write this morning. But since it is about social work and
“not enough time” is a something social workers are used to, it seemed like the right thing to do.

I had a social work dream last night. That’s new for me. There’s a few reasons it may have happened. I’m missing an important event today, our Social Work Appreciation Costco Pizza Extravaganza. I also had some work calls were my lullaby into sleepy time. Also yesterday included a conversation full of sage wisdom about desires to help and the limitations around it.

Since it was new for me, now y’all got to hear it.

I was in my backyard. A woman stranger was wandering in it. She was carrying a newborn baby. I asked her what she was doing and she said she was “losing her shit.”

The baby was hard to hold because it was so new and fragile.

The mom was detached and said “what am I supposed to do? Check myself into the hospital and detox?” I of course supported this decision and then thought about how to get her into detox immediately.

Then I was hit with the reality that I didn’t actually know how to do this. I was counting down to office opening time so I could check with our experts on drug addiction treatment. It felt like a very important window of opportunity was closing quickly.

At some point the mom wandered off. She said she’d be back so I continued to stare at the clock and consider alternatives. I also realized I didn’t know who she was so I looked in a backpack belonging to another child of hers to try to find a name. In doing so, I saw that “junior” carries a copy of custody orders in his backpack which made me long for a different normal for the family conjured by my subconscious. I made a note to find that child and check in with him.

The dream ended before I was able to help problem solve. But not before the baby also morphed back and forth from the dog from Deadpool (dreams are weird).

This situation is completely fabricated from my REM sleep but is also not unrealistic right down to the part where I feel like I let the family down.

Yesterday I was reminded that it’s really easy to “Monday morning quarterback” a lot of the things that happen in social work. All we can do is our best with the information we have at the time and learn from what happened. We also need to remember my very favorite principal in the Social Work Code of Ethics; client right to self-determination.

By nature, social workers are helpers and will continue to pour of themselves to be there for others. I’m very thankful to be a part of something like this and very proud of the people I’ve been lucky enough to work alongside. There’s no amount of pizza that can express that gratitude, but enjoy nonetheless. Sincere thanks for all that you give to help others.

Thanks for reading!

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Bunker Movie Night

I enjoy doing random things. This sometimes leads me to scour social media “coming events” pages.

My little town doesn’t generally have too many items on the calendar, so when I saw that a slasher movie was being presented at the militia clubhouse, I was all-in before I even knew the international director of said film would be present.

I don’t typically go out of my way to see gore, but it was Halloween week, on a school night, and the event simply checked too many boxes for me to pass on.

The event did not disappoint in the slightest.

It was off to a great start just seeing inside the clubhouse. I would say that I will go there in the event of the zombie apacolypse, but much like techno clubs in Berlin, I’m not sure I’d be accepted. However I am 100% sure that anyone who tries to get in there without express invite has not considered their decision well.

The ambiance continued with the greeters; teens with hockey masks and weapons, “bloody” faces and ninja garb. The group was not large, 11 people. Turns out the event was a late entrant to the Facebook schedule which is suspected to have impacted the turnout.

There was a horror film trivia game that I honestly should not have played. I felt an unmeasurable degree of asshole-ery when I vehemently blurted out answers. I assure you, I tried very hard to 1) not be that guy and 2) when I was that guy, not take all the major awards. But c’mon, man….! Who can sit quietly when the question is “what is the name of the daughter of the actress in the shower scene in Psycho?”?!

Before the movie started there was small talk including some other folks who decided their Wednesday night plans based on Facebook. They were curious about the clubhouse’s activities on other nights. Thanks to the host and my eavesdropping, I learned that there are a lot of classes that happen there such as natural uses for dandelion, medical training, survival skills. There were a lot of others but I probably couldn’t hear them over the crunching of my buffet of tootsie pops.

“Do they do any gun classes here too?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Can you come if you don’ t have a gun?”
“Everyone else does sooooo….”

There was an announcement before the movie started. The director is about to begin work on another film and a portion of the proceeds will go to the Cottonwood Education Foundation. There was a brief exchange in which an attendee asked what the film will be about. The director declined to reveal trade secrets and instead vaguely stated what it’s not about.

“It’s no woke shit.”

And with that, the lights went down and the TV volume went up. Literally, TV.

I don’t want to spoil this 3rd in the 4 film series Playing with Dolls for anyone hoping to start their journey, so stop reading now if that’s you.
“Playing with Dolls: Havoc” is something like the 38th out of 42 ish films by the writer, director, cinematographer and possible Cottonwood-ian.
The movie entertained as expected. Having the creator sitting at the Costco folding table next to you in the bunker really made me think about all that goes into making movies. Writing, choosing people, choosing body parts for the Asset to lob off or tear out, knowing when to have the first topless scene to develop plot (within the first 4 minutes), creating the right pace so people (me) will squeal at the jump scares. There’s a lot to it. I’m sure the scale is exponentially more challenging than my productions from my own “15 Second Films” studio.

The production quality was solid and nostalgic. It reminded me of Fall Saturday afternoons in my kid-dom when the landscape of limited viewing choices wildly expanded with the Friday the 13th series started on whichever of the 3 channels we had. I also felt reminders of the soap operas of all the grandmas I ever knew when the melodic piano established mood one singular key at a time. The acting was certainly better than I could ever do, though I’m working on my impression of “Mia’s” encounter with The Asset. I doubt I could replicate her eastern block sounding accent though. Based on their level of expertise, I’d be willing to bet that Mia and the other female lead have been on a casting couch or two.

The script entertained me. The Asset escaped from captivity to cause mayhem. But he kind of seems like sometimes he doesn’t want to kill. At one point, his handlers catch up to him. A damsel in distress calls out, “He’s killing people!” The handler replies along the lines of “That’s what he does. That’s why the boss paid big money to have him released from the insane asylum.” The Asset has barbed wire wrapped around his face, a very interestingly shaped weapon that looks cool, but doesn’t seem like it’d be a very efficient killing device IRL.

I was curious about him. I wondered if I could see an earlier chapter in the series to explain why he wheezes like he does or what is the genesis for his proclivity for pulling out veins.

Rarely do you get to see a movie with the writer present so upon conclusion I asked him, “Does the Asset have a back story?” “Not really. The boss paid big money to have him released from the insane asylum.”
Yup. That’s what he’d said in the script. Silly me for thinking I’d get info to write Asset’s biopsychosocial assessment.

And with that, a Wednesday night adventure was over.

It was super fun and I’m very thankful for people who create things and make opportunities for interesting experiences. What you got next, Facebook?

Thanks for reading!

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Dying to Watch It

Video stores were a primary source of my institutional learning.

In the VHS heyday, Cottonwood had a total of two (count them, TWO) video stores.

The emotions of visiting these places was palpable. The highs and lows of seeing what movies there were and what was actually available was a veritable roller coaster. These weren’t your fancy Blockbusters that had rows of the newest releases. There were a few shelves that held the portals to new worlds. Your fate was decided by whether or not there was a poker chip hanging by a finishing nail in front of the movie box. And much like with restaurants in Redding today, everybody competed for the newest product, neglecting what was new just a few weeks before. Those poker chips determined if your family Saturday night would be filled with the hilarity of Stripes, or all the drama of On Golden Pond. No child wanted to see multi-generational Fondas emoting, but it was movie! In your HOUSE! You’d sidle up with the giant yellow Tupperware bowl full of air popped popcorn and live your best life Fondas or not.

If you’re of the vintage of VHS glory days, you may also recall that there were some films that didn’t show on the general population shelves. It wasn’t just naked people movies that lived beyond that chain with the sign “must be 18 to enter!” though. It was also things that were determined to be too dark for children.

I’m not sure how I got my hands of a copy of Faces of Death. It could be that another friend rented it and maybe it had the distinction of being a multi-day rental where we could “stick it to the man” by all sharing the video that only one of us paid for. Or maybe the merchant knew that it was okay to just let me have the video because she knew us. Or since this was a time when 10 year olds were sent into stores to get their mother’s Merit Ultra Light 100’s with nary an eyebrow being raised, maybe no shits were given.

Watching Faces of Death was a much a rite of passage as piercing your own ears, first kisses and crank calls to random people out of the phone book. No one was sure how it would be to watch it though. It was of the level of saying bloody Mary 3 times in the mirror. We didn’t believe we’d be visited by the dead, but no point in risking it by trying.

Knowing my extensive bravery, I’m moderately certain I watched it in daylight. Probably though hands held up to my eyes and the corded “remote” at the immediate ready to do the only job it can; pause and un-pause. I can almost smell the perm solution when I think of it all.

I don’t remember much of the film aside from the monkey brains. I do remember the chatter about it all. “It’s totally real” and maybe “Tubular” or something. I also recall remember what essentially equates to quizzing, kids asking each other about certain parts of the movie basically to see if they had been tough enough to watch the whole thing.

Pity the kids that said they watched it, but couldn’t tell you what happened. Posers.

Those that did watch obtained street cred. It was tough to determine if it was worth it. It was a big ask. This was real death! And the faces of it!

This movie came along at time when docu-fiction wasn’t even heard of. We had no reason to suspect that the alligator attack wasn’t real. We just wrangled with the weight of life lessons about mortality delivered by somber (and I’m sure completely legitimate) presenter, Dr. Francis B. Gross.

That movie changed lives. Ultimately it gets credit for why I drove more safely and why I never ordered monkey brains as a meal.

Thanks for modern algorithms for sending me the trip down dysfunctional memory lane today with the YouTube gem, “Beyond Belief: The Story of the Most Infamous Film Franchise of All Time.” I gave you 15 minutes, you gave me a window into why I’m who I am.

You also solved a decades old mystery; as it turns out, a lot of this movie isn’t real.

We live in a time where there are many more tools to trick us and so much access to real horror. It’s also a time when anyone can be a filmmaker, take for example my own imaginary studio, 15 Second Films. But this celluloid gem took effort to earn it’s way into being a cannon moment for a generation. And for that, and for the whomever the person was that connected me to the film, I’m grateful.

Thanks for reading!

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Hungry Like the Wolf

They say the post achievement depression for Neil Armstrong after his moon walk was nearly unbearable. I’m hopeful that’s not how I’ll feel next Saturday. Though my highest of highs won’t be space travel. It’ll be far more astronomical. Or at least as astronomical as things can possibly get at a casino events center in Lincoln.

As a child, I was obsessed with a little musical group called Duran Duran. This was in the 80’s when a guy really had to work at being obsessed with something. Instead of internet searches and tik toks, middle school me had to beg friends to record MTV and shark around Front Street Cottonwood counting down until the latest issue of Bop was placed on the shelves of Holiday Market. Thanks Bruce!

The magazine had tear out posters that lined the walls of my room all the way up to the glitter infused popcorn ceiling. Not everyone made the wall though. There was a very strong middle school celebrity crush set of rules. Shondell liked Duran’s John Taylor. He was only to adorn my wall in group photos. My crush was Simon LeBon, the front man who crooned his way into establishing my lasting fixation on good chins. Some others got to be on the wall, the classic Rob Lowe in the ribbed white tank and the black and white Soloflex man also in a ribbed white tank. Sort of. Both are worth a google. They were both only supporting characters in the DD shrine.

If there was something Duran Duran to be had, I had it. T-shirt? Yep. Scarf printed with the band’s picture? Also yes. Facsimile to the best I could pre-amazon of Simon’s hat from the Hungry Like the Wolf video? Absolutely. Shondell and I would also scour the button collections at Mt. Shasta Mall making sure we had as many as we could in our respective stocks.

I dreamed of being able to see them live, but it was a different time. Concert tickets were not to be had by everyone. At the time, getting them meant hundreds of thousands of people waiting in lines for the bell to ring at the local ticket master vendor and hope that the odds were in their favor. It was too elusive to even try.

But that did not stop my fan loyalty. I waited eagerly for the new album, and am still so thankful my poor father who had to take me to Sierra Sound in all my Duran regalia to procure a copy of VINYL Seven and the Ragged Tiger as soon as it released. If there was to be any coverage of Duran Duran discussed by John Tesh and Mary Hart on Entertainment tonight, I was transfixed, making VHS recordings of the “news.” I remember feeling an unworthy amount of pride when the news was about my band making the theme song to a Bond movie. I concentrated harder on that coverage than I currently do on presidential elections.

Shondell and I had gone in halves on purchasing “Duran Duran-A collection of Duran Duran’s first 11 music videos” in stereo and unrated. We’d ordered the video from Bowman Video and counted the days until it was in. Our funding was largely sandwich bags of coins gathered in part from bottle recycle fees. Division of property resulted in her keeping custody of the actual tape after making me a copy and me keeping the official box. Some of the 11 videos were played more than others. Planet Earth was a little too much eyeliner for me. The Chauffer and Girls on Film really had no business being in our possession so they were played less (also worth a google). Save a Prayer moved whatever soul my 12 year old self thought it had. I wanted to move to Sri Lanka and London.

As is still who I am, I was all in on Duran Duran. Full send, or no send.

It’s more than a little cringy to look back on, though I didn’t know it at the time. Back then I was just a fan who would likely someday meet them and be asked to join the band on tour and whatnot.

Not terribly long ago though, I was given a glimpse into how I came across outside my head. I was talking to someone who I had gone to elementary school with at little old Evergreen. I’m pretty sure we were together there for years.  Granted, I’m a look a bit different than I did at 13, but still…she simply could not place me no matter what context clues I threw down. Then, a dawning of knowledge slowly and fully spread across her face. “Duran Duran?” Yup. That was me. Not Crystal Palmer. Duran freaking Duran.

In the 1985 Evergreen annal, The Mirage, there is a picture of me in my DD vestments. The aesthetic is rounded out with my mullet perm and ear cuff. “Play it again, Duran” is the quote. The quote that as the editor gave me the opportunity to say “I’ll allow it.” Power like that shouldn’t go unchecked, but here we are.

Somewhere between 13 and now I grew up somewhat but that doesn’t take away the nostalgia from a far simpler time.

It’s been a minute since the biggest concern on my agenda was making sure that Shondell and I didn’t get the same buttons. But time changes also brought algorithms, the Bop magazine for the modern era. And the algorithms know that behind aged gym go-er is kid who loved D2.

There was nary a hesitative second between my phone showing me there was a concert coming and my debit card smoking with use. It’s not going to be 1984 for the performers or the fans. It’s not going to be the site of the Arena Live album; Oakland Colosseum. But Sally and I will see the band in all their glory. And even though I wish the show was earlier in the day because we all old, I can not wait! I’ll hold off on forwarding my mail to London, but if you don’t see me at work you’ll know why.

Thanks for reading!

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Möchtegern Musings

“Are you German?,” asks the incidental guide.

“Not yet” my internal voice declares.

My most important hobby right now is “walking around and looking at things.” And while doing this in Cologne, Germany, a random citizen, Uli, directed to something really cool too look at around a corner. Spoiler alert, this doesn’t end with me waking in an ice bath down one kidney.

Instead, when the corner rounded, the modern building revealed pristinely preserved Roman ruins. A passerby would have never known it was there so I was instantly appreciative (albeit suspicious) of Uli.

My default setting leans towards conspiracy, so I assumed Uli may be like people who try to sell you thing or emotionally terrorize you into supporting a side hustle of bottled water sales. ‘Twas not the case though. However, if anyone IS looking to swindle me in the future, know that  Uli’s tactic of “my kids would be so embarrassed if they knew I was talking this much to strangers” works well to convince me of trueness of character.

Uli’s daughter was on her honeymoon, by the way. Allegedly.

Anyways, I know it’s unfair to try to categorize a county based on a week of tourist activities, but the people and county that I did see, fit my little hamster wheel spirit like a glove.

Stereotypes I’d heard of Germany were that it’s efficient, orderly, and no nonsense. Aside from Instagram dirndl photo shoots at opening day of Oktoberfest by other tourists, I saw nothing to evaporate the Deutschland typecasts.

For example, the tour of Neuschwanstein Castle. In a very orderly fashion the English speaking tour headed in exactly at our appointed time and rounded the corner to see our guide in his Alfred Pennyworth aesthetic and pin straight posture unemotionally waiting for his group.

The whole tour  spoke to my soul with the baritone tour guide in his accented precise English quickly moving us from room to room. “In this next room, you’ll see a chandelier made to replicate a Byzantine crown. There’s not a lot space, move quickly.” And everyone did. And we still saw everything there was to see. Go. Do. Move on. Almost makes me tear up to remember it.

There seemed to be a flow and vibe in all I visited that was devoid of things that are unnecessary. Be it colors other than black and gray, or greeting those you pass on a walking trail. It’s not to say that people weren’t nice, there just seemed to be a refreshing level of authenticity in their interactions. Whether it was the man with the standard poodle was asking me if I needed help finding my train, or the post surgical retired steel worker lady who called us Hollywood, if seemed like it was all more genuine than what happens here.

My experience could be unique. And for all I know, I could have been invisible or violating all the cultural norms, but I liked it.

Grocery store clerks sit down behind the registers and they don’t tell you to have a nice day. My take on Germany is that you’re responsible for yourself. All my days were nice and it was also really nice to know that I didn’t need someone to tell me they needed to be. There seems to be a greater emphasis on autonomy. The trains are “honor system” and still everyone pays. Everything I saw was clean, everywhere I went I felt safe.

To further define the orderliness, think of the Shasta District Fair. Stay there any length of time and you are guaranteed to see a fight of some fashion. Estimates for daily attendance at Munich’s Oktoberfest are 300,000 people. IN A DAY! Not only did I see zero fights at this free event, I had no waits in line to get my sausage (and then later my pretzel) and my coke zeros. Also, I ditched my beer superfan there and he too showed back up still with 2 kidneys.

So no, Random Citizen, Uli. According to 23 and Me, I’m only 7.6% German. I’m pretty sure that an assessment of my whole biology. However, yesterday I was in a meeting that started with “would you like to talk about…” and without permission my German heart made be blurt “No.” before I even heard what the proposed subject was.  

However, when I see how many words I’ve typed to say just the following “Germany was truly great” I realize I’m maybe not so German after all.

Thanks for reading, and go see some cool shit in Germany.

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Accidental Oktoberfest

Hello from the lobby of a Munich hotel from someone who would be the first one to call “bullshit” if they heard anyone say that they “accidentally went to Germany for Oktoberfest.”

But here we be.

You may recall that we learned a couple months ago that we can navigate our way around Europe. We also learned that getting here isn’t cheap, but being here is.

After the last trip, I toyed with the idea of coming back. The pace for return was set in part by the excitement of 2 (count them,…2!!!) weddings on the horizon and knowing that there’s going to be a lot of amazing things going on over the next few months. That coupled with the time off I’d already planned for just burning leave time, and some unsupervised time to fall down rabbit holes of planning imaginary trips, and yada yada yada, a few weeks ago I bought flights to Germany.

The itinerary was set primarily by cheap flight dates and getting picking planes that looked cool.

After flights, I started to book lodging in the way I choose most things, what’s cheapest. As I learned that there were not a lot of cheap options it occurred to me with an abrupt dawning of enlightenment, Oktoberfest is actually in September. Who. Fucking. Knew.

So here I sit in the lobby of a hotel around midnight, a time traveler unable to sleep more because it’s almost time to get up at home, watching people check in for the world’s largest frat party. I’d be willing to bet some expensive lederhosen that not one bro or one chick is here on accident.

The trip is “planned” much like the last in that there’s are start and end dates, a couple of “must do’s”, a week’s worth of clothes on my back, and that’s it.

A lot has happened since Wednesday at noon. Too much for capture for here already. And there’s a lot more to do if the stars of unplanned planning continue to align. Sleep would help, but there was a lot of activity yesterday that resulted in me, I don’t know, napping for 5 hours or maybe sleeping for a normal timeframe. But more sleep is needed to chase schnitzel, and to try to navigate ordering non-alcoholic beer at literally the world’s largest fair here in a few hours.

In the meantime, my initial thoughts on Deutschland are, it’s just so fucking cool.

Everything sings to my neurodivergent heart. There is so much order and grayscale. I keep looking for things that aren’t “on-point” and so far the most I’ve seen in that vein is me! My sincerest apologies to the Bavarians. I mean no disrespect but seeing sites of historical significance and modern relevance takes priority over combing my hair.

So anyways,…ja. Duetchsland. Thanks for reading, and stick around if you want to see how an old lady from Cottonwood sees this part of world.

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Quasi Granola Girl Meets Mt. Eddy

I didn’t plan to make this a granola girl summer, but I’ve done a lot more hiking than ever before. So much so that “I’m going to go walk around and eat peanuts” was an entire description of a plan.

Yesterday’s trail mix justifier was Mt. Eddy. It’s another one of those beautiful sites right here in our backyard that I’m ashamed I haven’t appreciated before now. It’s about an hour and a half north of Redding. Thankfully for my little non-subaru grocery getter, the road to is it nice and paved. It’s probably not a great road for people who don’t like to look straight down off a roadway to tree tops hundreds of feet below them, but if you’re good with that, the drive alone is stunning enough without any hike involved.

The trail from Deadfall Lake trailhead, was NOT hard to locate. Which foreshadowed my adventure when I initially couldn’t find it. There is a lot of babbling brook, falling water, cooling meadows, and serene lake front. Even before the alpine section of the trail, it became my favorite adventure of the summer.

The trail took me 2 and 10 minutes to get to the top. Roughly 2 hours and 9 minutes of that is completely west facing side of the mountain. The view captivates with layer after layer of rugged blue peaks. The backside of Castle Craggs was visible in the distance and all I could think of was the Disney Jungle Cruise joke “the back side of water.”

As noted. I was already impressed.

Then, that very last minute.

Alone and weird, I literally gasped out loud when in the course of about 6 steps, the summit is crested and Mt. Shasta becomes visible smacking you in the face with its prominence and majesty. I knew it was over there the whole hike, but it seemingly appears out of nowhere with a suddenness that made my eyes leak. Granola girls.

I didn’t stay up top long. I had a grocery order to pick up. I stayed long enough to take some pictures. One of a ladybug I decided to call Olive. Allegedly the mountain is named after Olive Eddy. The first woman to summit. It’s not typical for me to get too angry about things like this, and no disrespect to Olive, but c’mon man. I walked up this in 2 hours. You can’t tell me there was no reason for any indigenous woman in the epochs of time to walk up there. Probably laden with children and perhaps a bear carcass. But okay Olive. Credit to you. Luckily the mountain was so beautiful it could be called poop pile and I still would have chosen this as my favorite hike of the year.

I headed down, still very excited about the view.

Things were going great. Until they weren’t.

At a saddle before the summit push, there was a group of 7 ish young men taking pictures with the lake behind them. I can’t tell age, but I’m thinking teens. Clean cut, well-mannered kids that made my boy mom heart smile. They asked me to take their picture. As I did, I noticed things like sheathed large knives, bear spray hanging from their backpacks in the ready position. All things that I didn’t have. I took trail mix and water. We parted and I thought about how I should probably better prepare for things like solo walkabouts.

And that’s when the wheels fell off.

I blame being in my head for the directional fail that happened at that point. I turned left. I should have gone right. When I hike, I listen to music and try not to focus too much on surroundings on the uphill. I don’t like to keep looking up and get discouraged at how much more there is to cover. This is a poor plan. I pressed on in the wrong direction not being sure if the trail was the same. The cell signal was non-existent so I had to rely on other means to know if I was actually lost. I knew that the whole loop was 7.9 miles. Accounting for goofing off walking around, I figured that if I hit nine miles and no Honda, I was certain I was lost.

I was.

The good news is, I’ve put some miles on the Pacific Crest Trail and am now wondering if that can be a goal for me. The bad news is, that 4 miles in the wrong direction was downhill. Which means to correct I had to go 4 miles uphill just to get back to the error point. In total yesterday

If I could have found a way to quit, I would have. I was out of peanuts. I was mad everytime the Garmin watch chirped that I’d gone over my elevation gain goal again. I was listening to nature because somewhere on the trail I lost my earbuds. Granola girls shouldn’t leave electronic waste on the PCT, but there was NO way I was going to walk the 4 miles again to reclaim them. Sorry planet and my grandkids grandkids!

In total I hiked 16 miles of a 7.9 mile hike. 2 hours and 10 minutes to the summit, 5 hours and 10 minutes from the top back to the car. I was tired and hungry and thankful to be back in the car. Maybe not surprisingly, there was an absence of matched sense of urgency from the staff at the McDonalds in WEED. Not making assumptions, but,…Weed.

This will probably be the last hike of the year. Even though I’m trashed today, I’m incredibly thankful I did it. 6 out of 5 stars, even with getting so lost.

Thanks for reading and please let me know if there are other wonders of the local world I’ve missed.

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Worth It

Yesterday I learned a valuable lesson, there are specific classifications for hiking trails that expand beyond the scope of “easy, moderate, challenging” ect. I’ve put some miles on my hikers this year. I’d hoped to have my feet be places they’d never been. Living where we do, there is a bounty of beautiful trails to find yourself in moving meditation. Sometimes I’m lucky to chill with some epic and like minded humans on these adventures, but also being out there alone has been an unexpected treat. Turns out I mind my own company a lot less when I’m doing things. Busy body, quiet mind (or whatever the guy said).

As my year progressed, the list of trails I visited has grown. Living in the golden internet age, it’s been great to plan ahead with trail maps and descriptions. I’ve found the information to be both very helpful and to be taken as a personal challenge. The National Park Service says Mt. Lassen summit is “strenuous” and takes 4-5 hours. They say Brokeoff Moutain is 6 hours and is “considered one of the toughest in the park.”

Since I handily made both of those hikes my proverbial bitch, I didn’t give a second thought to walking up Black Butte. Black Butte is 60 ish miles north of Redding and sits right along I-5 like a solitary geological sentinel. It’s an isolated hiccup in the landscape that has probably made more folks than me wonder what the view from the top is like.

My buddy Google said that I would expect to take 3 hours to complete this “moderately difficult” walk. The distance is 5 miles. This was shorter than the last week’s hike of 7 at Brokeoff. The height of Black Butte is 6,300 ish feet. This is less than Brokeoff at 9,200 and Lassen at 10,400.

With confidence, I put in my Walmart grocery order for 11 am pick up, put some water in my backpack, and headed north.

When I’m getting ready to go somewhere new, I enjoy spending time listening to podcasts about my destination. I didn’t find any Black Butte specific pos casts and I chose not to listen to all that Spotify had to offer about Black Butte’s neighbor, Mt. Shasta. Titles such as “Mount Shasta” A History of High Strangeness” “Don’t Be Fooled…Mt. Shasta is EXTREMELY Dangerous”  and “These Missing People Cases on Mt. Shasta Don’t Make Sense” didn’t really seem like a good plan before a solo hike.

So with my trashy music instead, I plowed ahead. My Civic just begging me to trade it in for a stereotypical outdoorsy person car as it kicks up dust in to a road whose difficultly to locate does not at all match the ease with which you can see the odd mountain from the freeway.

For not the first time on one of these adventures, I had an “oh thank gawd!” when I found the signs and the other 2 vehicles at the “trailhead.” I blame Spotify for my fully held belief that these 2 vehicles were driven there by blood-thirsty ne’er-do-wells. Soon after I started the hike though, I learned that there’s far too much energy expelled to do much of anything, ne’er or otherwise.

I grossly underestimated the trail. I probably shouldn’t have been there. And probably shouldn’t have been alone.

As I contemplated turning around, insult was added to injury. A doggo met me from the uphill side. A voice called him doggo and said “he’s showing you how it’s done.” The kindly woman accompanying the dog appeared close to my vintage. I know she wasn’t wearing pajamas, but they could have been. She wasn’t cussing or panting. “But she was coming down hill.” Yah, well this trail sucked in both directions sooooo,….

I told her I was happy to see her dog and told her it picked up my spirits so that I may keep going on. “It’s worth it.” She chimed as she bounded past. Clearly she was a cyborg.

As it turned out. The trip took 2 hours 59 minutes and 18 seconds. I technically got it done in the time prescribed. But it pointed out that I am someone who clearly has only done hikes with inflated marketing about their difficulty.

When my beat down ass and my groceries got home (not at 11 at all), I promptly started to look up more about this hike. Turns out there are classifications for hikes similar to rapids; class one etc. They take into consideration things such as if a “climber” (which I am not) has to “scramble.” This hike was like my morning eggs, full of scramble. The hike overall is described as class 2 and 3. Mt. Shasta Summit is also 2-3.

Thanks to people who believe in me more than I believe in myself, Shasta is on my list of already done hikes. And gloriously, I was able to stare at Shasta’s majesty on yesterday’s hike. When I was able to look around instead of looking for the least treacherous steps, I was stunned with what I saw. Also luckily the trail was lightly traveled. That means there weren’t a lot of people to hear me loudly declare repeatedly “fuck you, rock!” Communing with nature isn’t always filled with spiritual fulfillment.

But like doggo owning pajama ladies often are, she was right; incredible experiences after putting in work are “worth it.”

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Graveyard Cake

“It’s getting harder to believe this isn’t personal” I scoffed as a came back in from an unsuccessful search for a CR1320 battery.

I’m not a person who erroneously believes the universe cares enough to be out to get them. I do however believe that moping begats moping and if you want to have the kind of day where your belt loop gets caught on the door handle, you can 100% generate that kind of negativity. So even though I try to spawn positive energy, the batteries tested me.

 How did I provoke the cosmos?

Well, it was a day just like today. I was in beautiful coastal Ferndale, California getting in some steps in the community cemetery. It’s not as weird as it sounds. Or maybe it and there’s just an increasingly large group of weirdos who do the same. This cemetery has great tales to share dating back to the1800’s. The hills are steep and the views are glorious. Paired with coastal weather of perfection, there was really nothing else needed to ice the day.

Then I saw the Hammils.

According to the front of their marble headstones engraved with sensible font, they are both still with us. They are also hilarious (BTW: anyone ever seen a comic sans serif font headstone?)

Mr. Hammil’s marker says “Oops, I should have listened to my wife,” hers, “Yeah. Look where we ended up.”

The fact that they did this was already chef’s kiss. Add to that the fact that they did it while still alive so they could know people’s reaction is priceless.

I grinned from ear to ear, took a picture, and wandered on. Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Hammil’s headstone was like an infomercial baiting, “But, wait….! There’s more!” It wasn’t until exiting the cemetery that I saw the back of the headstone where the same sensible font caught my eye with a recipe for “A Good Carrot Cake.”

Fuck yeah, Christine! In one swoop call awareness to the temporariness of human existence and the permanence of legacy. Her essence will not stay forever on the earth, but her Good Carrot Cake will. In an age when most of my recipes are channeled to me in 15 second increments by the gods of algorithms, Mrs. Hammil made sure to etch her directions in stone for all to enjoy.  

Naturally, I was going to make that recipe. I was excited to do so and to share with my co-workers. How often does one get to eat something from a headstone recipe?!

Also, naturally, I had to channel my inner goth/Miss. Frizzle and wear something befitting a graveyard dessert. Luckily, I just happen to have a dress with Ouija board print perfect for the occasion.

And that’s where I believe I invited the universe to fuck with me.

The cupcakes were delicious. There was nothing wrong there. I mean, REALLY yummy. Like, to die for. *eyeroll

However, let me present a list of things that were jacked up that day.

  1. My FULL cup of coffee spilled in a place like my office (but not at all near my computer, thank Jeebuz!)
  2. My State computer port ceased working, completely hobbling my work progress (legitimately not at all related to the coffee)
  3. My Starlink/Internet fully died with no anticipated fix for 7-10 days (reminder: I have ZERO cell signal at my house no internet means no ANYTHING!)
    1. Trying to get this fixed caused it’s own level of frustration when The Almighty Elon’s phone service closed at 4 pm CST and redirected me to try to address the issue ON THE WEB!
  4. My car’s key fob battery died
  5. A small parchment paper related fire started in my air fryer
  6. A slightly less small bacon grease related fired started in my oven

In the midst of all this shenanigan, I was eager to have something get successfully completed in my adventures. This led me to 2 different stores in 2 separate towns to at least try to buy a battery. How hard could that be, right?

So anyways, after being skunked on even the most basic of tasks, even a non-believer has to wonder if they’ve angered the gods in some way. I really like that dress. It will get worn again to test any hypothesis of its unnatural power. I also really liked Christine’s recipe. And before I incinerate a cute outfit, I’ll have to retest making her deliciousness to see if something there was the cause of debauchery. Perhaps this time I’ll follow the direction of using 3 9-inch cake pans instead of making cupcakes. Maybe that will keep her from turning over in her grave (whilst still alive) and keep my mojo in check.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Tall, Darth, and Handsome

The other day I found myself chatting with a 4 year old and was reminded that keeping 4 year olds in your social circles is important. The conversation included super heroes. Because it should. I asked him who his favorite super heroes were and he responded as quickly as if the answer was a clear to him as knowing his own name, “Darth Vader. And Spiderman.”

As a superfan of Darth Vader, I couldn’t agree with him more even though some folks would say that characters whose story includes murdering young Jedis and cutting off your son’s hand aren’t exactly traditionally known as shall we say, “heroes.”

If you’re familiar with Vader’s story arc, you know he brings it back around to becoming a kinder, gentler bad guy, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what makes him cool.

It made me think about how neat it is that we’re drawn to different things.

Google says people are captivated (metaphorically) to Darth Vader in part because his status as a fashion icon. His glossy black outfit makes him a standout in a sea of white stormtroopers. It’s aesthetically pleasing. As a person who considers wearing gray stepping out into wearing “color,” I couldn’t agree more.

Apparently people are also pulled in by the (wait for it) power of the dark side. There can be intrigue associated with thinking about bad behavior. I’m sure most of us haven’t robbed a bank or throat punched an annoying person, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t thought about it. Ol’ Darth doesn’t worry about not giving into the intrusive thoughts. He just acts on them. The character triggers a thought line of wondering what you’d do if consequences were different or didn’t exist. Sure, we all want to be good people. But sometimes even good people think about doing bad things.  

The rabbit hole search of why Vader fandom exists stopped here. Partly because I don’t want to ruin his coolness by over thinking why he’s cool. But mostly because the search results included things such as “Why am I in love with Darth Vader” and I really don’t need whatever that would do to my algorithms. Like, really.

Unlike my conversation buddy/co Darth Vader fan, I’m not as likely to pick up sticks today and wield them like light sabers. Although it is possible. I’m also not going to sing the praises of Spiderman. He’s neat and all, but red and blue?! Garish!

Anyways, thanks for the reminder Mr. 4 and thanks for reading!