Author: bifocalsandbarbells

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

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Growing up Stories about my fam

Things That Go Vroom

It’s Nor Cal spring. The season of sticky eyes and runny noses for which the perfect antidote is the smell of race gas and burnt rubber. This is the time for cars and other things that go vroom to come out and play. And the time for those in love with all the things that are the internal combustion engine to bask in the splendor of it.

This season can make me legitimately useless. Countless times at my desk yesterday I had to blurt out across the hall, “Do you guys hear the motorcycles?” They did, but somehow they didn’t feel a need to yell about it. Weird.

Hearing the low throaty sound of fuel, compression, and spark and the lope of an engine stirs something in my chest. There’s a beautiful duality that exists when you can pair a soothing engine rhythm with the knowledge that with a little flex of an ankle, raw power is unleashed. It’s downright intoxicating.

The first vehicle I remember loving was my Dad’s 1976 Chevy Cheyenne 4X4 pickup. It had those white steel wheels outlined with a single thin red pinstripe and a twinning blue stripe. The metal flakes in her medium gold poly coat glimmered and sucked me in. It went fast and made noise,  and I was hooked. I remember being in it on some adventure. Dad goosed it. In my head we may as well have been in extreme peril on something like the Rubicon trail. But I was wee thing, so for all I know we may have actually been in a parking lot. Mom squealed. I squealed. And in that moment, any hope for me not loving loud and fast things in my life was gone.

Some of the other early car loves I had included my Grammy’s 1965 fast back Mustang. She didn’t drive, but she had that muscled beauty. I remember exactly what it looked like out the louvered window of that back seat. No need for driving-less Grammy to stop there though. One morning, my family was chilling in the Amen Lane house. A house with a big dining room window overlooking my dad’s beloved and manicured lawn. Out of nowhere, a 1979 Camaro drove up right on that lawn. This could have been a crime punishable by death, but a pardon was issued (at least out loud) for the infraction. It was my grandparents in their rootbeer brown Z28 fire-breather. In all her glory. She had stickers in all the right places to show off her lines. Hood scoop, seats that you more wore than sat in, all the things. My young brain knew she was  close enough to the Firebird of Smokey and the Bandit that she was perfect. They had driven all night to bring her from Norwalk to Cottonwood to show her off. As they should. Eventually Grammy got her license, and once accidentally drove that car as far as Anderson, much to her fear.

Patina describes something that’s grown beautiful with age. It’s a fancy way to say that something’s lived an interesting life and is better off for it. New cars are cool, make no mistake. But those chariots of yore that have stories to tell are where it’s at. So many adventures happen in our cars. We live in a disposable world, so to see an old car that’s able to be flaunted means that car has been loved over and over again. People have taken steps to make sure her story continues. They’ve bridged the gaps so that the beauty that once paraded the chain-smoking beehive-wearing happy woman of the 60’s, can now become the majestic livingroom on wheels tourer of 2021. Each of these cars has so many stories to tell, and I wish I could know them all.

My poor car is broken. I’m dealing with that as best I can. And by “dealing” I mean I’m a seething cauldron of rage about it. But that’s okay. She’ll get back on track someday. In the meantime, I’ll continue to genuinely appreciate the work and care that others have put in to keeping their cars around to gather more tales.

Thank you car people for keeping histories alive and letting us  appreciate your work. I’ll try not to drool on what I see, but I certainly will be still quietly coming to conclusions that y’all are rock stars for what you’ve done!

Thanks for reading!

(“Editor’s” note: I called my mom to confirm the year of the vehicles. She said that my Grammy didn’t have a Mustang. My dad got her corrected. It’s okay. She’s my mom. I love her and forgive her for not being a car nerd. Sheesh. 😊)

Categories
Blogolicious Personal Growth (or not) Social Worky

Take It

The list of things I’m bad at is pretty robust. But before you fling your sympathy my way for today’s topic, know there’s a good chance you’re bad at it too. Often we all are really bad at accepting compliments.

As with any rule, there are exceptions. We all know that guy who’s pretty sure he or she is the shit. Or the misguided person who’s pretty convinced that everyone they meet wants to make babies with them. But in my experience, those folks are rare. Thankfully! Because they are super annoying and frankly a menace.

For the most part, folks just suck at hearing positive things. I’m sure there’s deep seeded reasons for it. Maybe it’s the conditioning about how it’s not okay to be a braggart. Maybe it’s that we’ve spent too much time living the “everyone gets a trophy” life and now we shirk away from recognition. And maybe sometimes it’s that we can’t genuinely believe the compliment.

Whatever the reason, it’s fucked up and we need to stop.

A classic way to ruin a compliment is to offer some reason to dismiss the kind words just said. When we do this, we can accidently be insulting to the kind-word-giver. Say someone tells you they like your hair, and you respond with “It looks bad.”

A takeaway for the giver could be, “okay, guess I’ll just keep my opinion to myself next time.” Is that what we want? No. But what’s the motivation for the person to share kind words if in your attempts to be humble, you essentially tell them they’re wrong? You should say “thank you,” period.

I’m unsure how we can get better at taking compliments. Perhaps a nice support group in is order. We can journal about why we suck at hearing positivity. Or maybe we just all need to give each other the following permission; if I dismiss your compliment, you can deliver a crisp slap to my face or throat punch(because sometimes violence is the answer).

Flatterer: “You’re really good at drawing”

Recipient: “I’m not really that good”

Flatterer: “I SAID, you’re GOOD at DRAWING!” *promptly delivers serpent’s head strike to the throat

Recipient: (after clutching throat and recovering coughs out), “Thank you.”

Change would happen quickly, I’m sure.

We need to do less compliment dodging. Humility has it’s place, but so does confidence. In instances such as job interviews and general daily living; it’s okay to know that you’re good at things and say that out loud. And while it’s important to have our own internal locus of control in our positive opinions, it’s also important to for us see those opinions reflected in others.

Doubt? Okay, have you ever heard or said “do these jeans make my butt look big?”

It’s one of history’s most classic baits used in the practice that is compliment fishing.

Despite how much we need to improve on just fucking taking it, a compliment disclaimer may be still needed. Sometimes accolades really are used as a means of manipulation. Luckily there’s a couple easy responses to that too. If you’re worried that the person giving the positivity isn’t being genuine, you can still just say “thank you” and move on. You aren’t beholden to anyone who says nice things and the “thank you” covers you in case maybe they’re being sincere. You may encounter a creeper driving the van with  “free candy” spray painted where the back windows don’t exist. If he (or she, to be gender neutral) gives you a compliment, you do not owe him (or her) anything. Do not get in the van.

In summary; compliment, good. Creeper in van giving out candy with compliments, bad. So move foraes knowing your hair probably looks great today, and it’s okay to know it.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Stories about my fam

Catholic-Ish

“I was raised Catholic.” It’s a common expression with a variety of meanings. For some they were full tilt wearing uniforms to school. For others, it meant church every Sunday and hitting the developmental milestones of holy communion and such. For me, it meant Catholic values were paramount. Jesus is watching, make good choices for more than just yourself (but God forgives), there are forces controlling the universe that are bigger than humans, and of course the patented Catholic guilt. The primary church experiences I had a as kid were when we would visit my Grammie and go see some dude speaking Latin, or when I’d be swept up in some vacation bible school by a neighbor.

Even though I wasn’t a church goer, I knew the practices and prayers and such. And it really did have an impact. It was like a touchstone responsible for a moral compass. A fucked up moral compass, but one nonetheless. It didn’t mean I didn’t do wrong things, it means I know they’re wrong. I make bad informed decisions. Catholocism also provided me with senses of security and safety. I metaphorically clung to my rosary beads like they provided me invincibility. They were a tangible connection to a spiritual existence.   

The word Catholic means universal. It’s a pretty cool religion in that there are prescribed practices that are consistent whether you’re attending mass in Anderson, California or Cartagena, Columbia. You know what to expect, and there is comfort in consistency.

As an adult, I wanted to get more connected. I did however many months of classes to unlock the levels of confirmation and first holy communion. I got to have my first confession. I was pleased to see that I hadn’t caused Father to have a heart attack as I dumped over 20 years of chaos on his ears. It really was a great experience, aside from the time that one dude’s truck got stolen outside Sacred Heart while we were all inside learning about Jesus.

I got married at Sacred Heart. It’s the church where my Grammie’s funeral mass had been and where my in-laws had been married 25 years before. And then for a period of time I (please be seated for this) was part of the team teaching Children’s Liturgy of the Word. That’s right, this bitch was teaching Sunday school. I was not struck by lightning, and I trust that’s all the evidence you need that forgiveness is thing.

Over time and added involvements in other things, church stopped being as big a part of my life. I gave it a run again when the kids were little. It was a challenge for just the three of us when ever one of my babies started to get squirrely. However, when those moments happened right before collection was coming and I “had” to leave; I was okay with that.

Despite my bailouts from organized religion, I’d hoped to raise my kids with some of the values passed on to me. But one day as the three of us tried to sit quietly, my preschooler Daniel instantly proved that I was missing the mark.

In the Catholic church you will find a life sized statue of Jesus on the crucifix near the alter. It’s that center piece reminder of suffering for the benefit of others. It’s a tragically beautiful piece of art. The man in just his Galilean underwear, looking towards heaven with pain, compassion, and understanding prominent on his face. My Danny looked at that and blurted, “Who’s the naked guy?”

Though I have capitalized on Rona times to watch some mass from home, I’ve not been in years. Back in the classes, we’d heard the expression CEO “Christmas and Easter Only.” I haven’t even hit those. Since then it’s been more like “Hey boys, before you search for your baskets…you remember this day is about Jesus dying and coming back, right?” They nod in affirmation and know they’ll be subjected to the same question next year.

I don’t know what God and spirituality is to them. But I do know that when Dirty recently had thing that could’ve turned out badly but didn’t; I wanted to pray out loud. Dirty was on board, AND he knew to say “amen” at the end. And I guess I’ll call that a win.

Happy Easter, and thank you for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

One Trek Mind

As a young’n, I used to come home from school and fry up some grated potato, slather it in secret sauce, and settle in for some TV time. There was no cable and no satellite TV. Choices were limited to whatever the 3 networks had to give. I wasn’t down for the guy who wore the train conductor suit who introduced some olden goldies. I also wasn’t that excited about a 20 year old sci-fi show with low budget special effects and a pointy-eared main character.

I had no use for Star Trek. My nerd die had been cast in Star Wars. In my head I was a potato eating Princess Leia; full of strength, beauty and sass and destined to live in love with the handsome, perfectly imperfect Han Solo. Consequently, I could’ve cared less about the adventures of James T. Kirk.

I watched just enough of the Next Generation to be able to think it’s funny to say “Make it so, Number One” and to be moderately impressed when I saw Will Wheaton at Medieval Times.

I didn’t understand the show’s following, but I could appreciate it.

For reasons unknown to me, original Star Trek is my current treadmill treasure. And, ermagherd! Where has this been my whole life?!

There will be still-relevant life lessons that are sincerely acted (or overacted) interlaced with a dog with a furry costume with a unicorn horn. Their 1967 selves just hold the dog and straight faced proclaim that they have found an alien life form that is “a good specimen.”

Makes me whip my head around from my stationary walking position to see if anyone else saw it. Searching for someone who won’t think I’m too crazy if I blurt out, “You guys! They have a DOG in a COSTUME and they’re pretending it’s an ALIEN!!!”

And just when I think I’m lost to the campiness of things such as the filter used on Captain Kirk, gaudy painted backdrops, or how Spock’s eyeshadow is better than mine, I get sucked back in with some other truly poignant moment.

Today, after they figured out what was going on with the “alien,” Spock spelled out the necessity of duality in humans in a way that made me take pause.

“We see indications that it’s his negative side which makes him strong, that his evil side, if you will, properly controlled and disciplined, is vital to his strength. Your negative side removed from you, the power of command begins to elude you”

There’s been a lot moments where I set out to mock the “planetary landscapes” of studio whatever and then found myself thinking, “that f’kr Spock is right!”

It’s fascinating to me that someone was creative enough to imagine all the ridiculous wildness that is Star Trek, but still have some truly deep insights into humanity and such progressive positions and ideas for 1967. I recently watched the Black Mirror series. It too had a lot of “whoa” moments. (and of course some “I need to take a brain shower” moments). I wonder if watching Star Trek when it was new was a similar experience. Maybe not. Maybe the people of the time were just watching it for mini skirts with beehive hair and shirtless men.

The past-me potato princess would have never properly appreciated this show. We need life experiences to help us mold who we are and what we’re capable of taking in. I probably would have missed at least 2/3 of the gloriousness that is this show back in the day. I needed a brain old AF to be able to let it all sink in.

Though I’m captivated, there’s not a risk of joining the Church of Trek (it’s really a thing). My fascination will probably stay at the level of trying to suck other people into my delighted wonder, and continuing to work on my Captain Kirk rolls. Man rolls in a lot of fights. I fully intend to exit a room that way someday. Maybe the meeting has done the classic social work thing where it’s gone on longer than needed, likely because someone is too worried about feelings to be direct. I’m just going to get up, and roll the fuck out. That should move the meeting aptly to a close.

It could be that I’m the only person left who’d never watched it. If not, dude…it’s a great way to spend time.

But even if you have seen it, maybe hit it again. Take some comfort in knowing that if you’re in an existential crisis, it’s not unique to your time and space. As it turns out, 1967 writing about the struggles of 2260’s humans are still applicable to 2021. Kirk figured a solution to the salt vampire, you can figure out how to overcome your thing too.  

Or just watch it to see dogs in costumes.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Stories about my fam

Dan the Pioneer Man

“I just put it in the golf bag.” Obviously. I mean, where else would the amazing Daniel Adams put a tattoo gun on a flight for a weekend trip to California? Duh.

That’s Daniel. Layers of interesting. I don’t know how many aspiring tattooists also golf, but my kid does.

I know it’s normal for us parents to each think our offspring is pretty darn cool. But Daniel’s a guy I would think is cool even if he wasn’t mine.

He’s been living in Kansas again. He’s at Pitt State working on his Bachelor’s in some advanced tractoring. I couldn’t tell you what the degree is actually called. He may not even know. He’s in it because he’s pretty sure it’s the right thing for him, and all evidence suggests he’s absolutely right; once again.

He recently interviewed for an internship with a fortune 500 construction company. When offered a position, he was asked about if he had a place in mind, “Somewhere in the West Coast region, preferably.” That’s all the weigh-in Dan needs to give.

He’ll find out next month where he’s headed, and the following month he’ll be wherever “there” is. I’d need to plan out for a decade how to pull that off, but Danny will just roll with it.

I don’t know how he does it. There’s a lot to be said for the whole nature versus nurture argument when discussing the level of absolute chill that kid brings. I mean, I can have times of doing well under pressure. However sometimes I also feel straight resentful when I’m the first person at a stop light. I don’t want the pressure of having to pay attention to know when it’s time to go.

His brother is another amazing human, but he’ll likely stress about Dan’s upcoming endeavors more than Dan will. Daniel was thinking about how tough it must have been for Dirty to decide what truck to buy. “I’ve seen him spin out buying lunch, ‘Should I go with the $3.99 wrap, or the sandwich that’s $4.15?’” remarked a very knowing older brother.

Maybe he got it from his dad, or maybe he was just born with it; but whatever the reason, Daniel is completely unflappable.

He’s the guy who can take a weekend and turn it into an adventure. His Kansas roommate has now been on his first flight and seen his first ocean (“I just can’t believe that it’s water as far as you can see!”). He  watched Dan give his first tattoo, they golfed in Daniel’s junior college town, Stockton; and they met up with other buddies Daniel picked up in his last college program. They can cram so much into so little because he’s just impossible to rattle. Even though I very much want to accomplish all that he does, I couldn’t take on 1/3 of it.

As I stood there with Dan, the girls, and 2 of Dan’s college buddies he’s picked up from far off places, I was struck with awe about all he’s able to do. The youngn’s he brought are really good people too. And I’m not just saying that because the girls laughed at my jokes. They’re solid, hard working, young people who ooze ethics and integrity. I am proud of all that he’s accomplished and am pleased that he’s stacked cool experiences on other adventures to build his portfolio of living.

It’s been great to see him and to vicariously experience his latest endeavors. He’ll be off again soon. Back to his Kansas life where he’s crowd pleased his way into more great circumstances. Him, his degree, his progress towards his other degree, his tattoo gun, his banjo, and his fishing poles, his mechanical genius, and most of all his chill; living his life to it’s fullest.

I’m not sure when he’ll be back, but I know it won’t be soon enough for me. I’m also not sure what things he’ll add to his experiential passport. Maybe next time there’ll be a tattoo gun in the golf clubs, maybe the clubs will be in a hand-tooled leather bag he’s made. With his skills and varied interests, nothing would surprise me.

#LuckiestMom

Categories
Blogolicious Stories about my fam Things I Think are Funny

Absorbent Heirloom

The year is 2061. A handsome, yet humble, young man sits at a table across from the show star. A well-heeled gentleman, sporting round tortoise shell glasses and a bow tie. He’s hoping to look “different” (just like everybody else). He carefully adds pristine white gloves to complete his quirky outfit. He takes out his official “Antiques Road Show” pointer and leans in to my great grandson as he grandly gestures to the item carefully hung above the table, “Let’s talk about your great grandma’s robe.”

Roughly a million years ago, my robe and I became entwined. It’s been so long that I don’t even recall how the robe came in to my possession. I may have bought it myself. It may have been the classic husband Christmas gift. I could’ve stolen it from my neighbor’s clothes line for all I know. Carbon dating would likely be required to determine it’s actual age, but I know that I can remember exactly how it fit during my pregnancies; the long broad belt barely connected in front of my distended belly. As a reminder, my BABY is 19. That means that every day I don a garment that is at least old enough buy alcohol.

It should probably be replaced, but we’ve been through so much together, it’s hard to consider letting go. It’s the robe I’ve worn to the Christmas morning “Santa came!” chaos. The robe I threw on when someone threw up. “Mommy, my stomach h….” you know the rest.

It’s been a part of my morning routine every single work day. Jobs changed, robe didn’t. It weighs roughly 15 pounds making it feel like the special apron the dentist makes you wear to get your teeth x-rayed. Is it way heavier than I need on hot Nor-Cal mornings. But I don’t care. I wear it and just accept the fact that my nose will sweat as I’m getting ready.

It hardly makes me a terry cloth temptress, but I’ll be still trying to justify my ownership of it.

“You can see this is by the maker ‘Delicates’ out of China,” the appraiser continues. “The tag is frayed, but you can still make out ‘mediano.’”

“GGMA was svelte but mighty” answers the boy (it’s my fake story. I’ll tell it how I want…Bwah!)

“It’s minty color maintains a lot of lot original luster. When she procured it, mint was a popular color. And then for a couple decades it wasn’t. And then it was again. She must have been very willful to hang on to it through all those significant robe fashion changes.”

Appraiser man furrows his brow, “However, we do have some condition issues. Here you can see that some of the terry cloth loops seem to have been ripped out.”

Handsome boy interjects, “I’ve been told that my great grandma spilled hot eyebrow wax on it.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Some of the people of those days were indeed too cheap and lazy to get their eyebrows done professionally.”

“Also, did she use to put out a fire? It’s difficult to determine the cause of these marks.”

“She didn’t know. She doesn’t even know how she got the robe.”

The two nod at each other with reverence thinking about the olden days when things came from places they’ve heard of but never seen such as JC Penney.

The appraiser goes on discuss how rare “a piece” it is. He speculates at what it would bring at auction in today’s market.  Great grandson graciously thanks him for the information, but tells him he thinks they will just keep in in the family. Perhaps one day it can used to soak up an oil spill or as housing insulation.

My mom calls me a minimalist. That’s not as accurate as I’d like it to be, but I do try to limit the things I hang on to, making sure that those things that stick continue to add genuine value to my life. I do have a few clothing items that fall in this category; this robe definitely is one.

Thank you robe for your diligent service. You’ve brought me great happiness, be it on your best day or on the “whatever, I tried” days. My future generations and I are sincerely grateful.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious Growing up

“Herd” the Yard is Closing

Evolution. Bleh. Things evolve whether we want them to or not. Today will be the last sale at “the yard.” The closing of Shasta Livestock Auction Yard is a big deal Cottonwoodians.

My parents moved us here when I was 5. Essentially my whole life that smelly place has been a part of what I call home.

If you’ve not smelled my town, you may have the COVID. It’s pungent, especially going in to Fridays when the sale happens. A few years back a casino put an I5 billboard up near it that said, “Smells like money.” The distinct smell means that cattlemen were getting paid and steaks would be able to show up in your local grocery. It’s weird to say that the smell that may turn stomachs is the same that comforts others because its symbolic of a culture.

The restaurant there will also close. My parents moved from LA-ish to Cottonwood. I think they rather enjoyed taking their LA family and friends to the Branding Iron restaurant to highlight just how country they’d become. If the aroma that lingers outside the restaurant wasn’t enough proof, my mom would point out the dead flies in the window sills. Large mammals means flies. Lots of them.  The restaurant food was amazing though. The pies in that place may single-handedly be responsible for diabetic conditions of two generations. The only things stronger than the coffee there were the values and waitresses.

The regulars are a living history of the town I love. They know everyone, which means whenever someone enters the dining area, there can be one of those movie like moments when all noises instantly hush as cowboy hats tilt to see who has entered. Don’t let the weathered faces and predator eyes fool you. They aren’t judging, they’re just expecting that whoever’s walking in is someone they know. However, show up in your best “Vegans Rule” or “Gun Control is Awesome” shirt and they may not have a lot of need to get to know you.

Going to the restaurant as a kid was an exciting adventure. While your parents waited for food or visited after eating, you could roam the halls at the Yard. The walls are lined with black and white 8×10 photos of cattlemen from as early back as the 30’s to modernish times. There were great names to look at, mustaches to appreciate, changing cowboy attire trends to track. Family names were familiar. It’s a veritable who’s who of Cottonwood life. As a kid, you were also obligated by kid law to sit in the vintage phone booths. If those booths could talk they’d be a testament to the ebbs and flows of cow business life. I’m sure there were excited calls made from those booths about fortunes made, and other calls to the bank begging for just a little more time.

When growing up happened (meh!), the hall walls still held the attention of many. They were like vision boards (or whatever those things are called). “Man, I could really make a go of it if I just had a couple million dollars to buy that ranch.” Haven’t landed the couple million yet, but I have been lucky enough to calves I know chilling in the pens waiting for the Friday sale.

The Yard is a central hub for all things Cottonwood/cow. Countless young’ns have spent time there working,  cleaning with their FFA club, or meeting there on Sundays to weigh their steers. It’s been there long enough that Yard fashion has cycled back around. I distinctly remember the trucker hats of the  70’s with that sway-back intentionally pathetic-looking cow on them. The new youth has brought those hats back with a vengeance. If you have one, get it hermetically sealed and wait sell it for some serious coin in couple years.

It’s been such a part of so many lives for so long. It will be sad to see it go. I asked young Dirty what he thinks about it closing. Without zero intentional irony he said, “It’s bullshit.”

Things change. We don’t have to like it, but we will have to accept it. The memories of it being a place of honor, virtue, and ethics will live on. In its closing, there’s still lessons to be learned. Cow people, yard owning people, regular people; can all have those times when even though they’ve done everything according to plan, the fickle finger of fate will fuck with them. We can just revel that we had it at all instead of regretting that it’s gone. Goodbye to a stinky place that symbolized hard work and dreams, and thanks for all the great things.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Stood Up Shark

We did this whole conflict styles test thing at work a while back. According to it, I’m a shark; goal oriented, competitive, and aggressive. So, clearly the test is wrong. Nevermind the fact that before I’d even taken the test, 15 ish of my peers were confidently declaring, “Oh, Crystal’s definitely a shark.” C’mon guys! Not one person thought maybe I was a turtle?! Whatever.

With glaringly obvious shark like tendencies, you may think that I was maybe scrappy as a young’n. Never have I ever been in spontaneous physical altercation. Yet.

One of the earliest times it did almost happen was nearly 3 decades ago, and I’m still confused about it. The almost fight brewed after this one time when I got stood up.

I did okay in dating stuff back a million years ago. I had the number of dates and boyfriends that I wanted. I managed my expectations, tried to proceed wisely, and just didn’t get stood up.

Except that one time.

It was after high school. A young man I’d dated for a year in high school wanted to go out again. There was no heavy meaning attached to it. No need to say no. So,….sure. We’d det a date for a few days out. He didn’t show. It really was fine. I REALLY didn’t care or get bruised ego about it.

The next day I was at the frosty in town. As I waited for my upside down banana split, one employee there said to another, “Did you hear about (insert boy name here)? He went to Reno last night and married (whatever the girl’s name was).”

I was awash with relief. At least there was a reasonable explanation for being ditched.

I thought nothing more of it. Until months later when I was trudging around the Red Bluff fair grounds parking lot. I heard threatening expletives being yelled from a car.

The realization journey between “what’s that noise?” to “oh bitches want to fight me” was a short one.

The journey between,  “why the fuck they want to fight me?” and “let’s go” was even shorter.

It was the girl who’d married the boy and two of her friends. I have NO idea why beef with me was a thing. I mean, you got the boy so that shouldn’t matter. I was a solo girl (with some other boy by this time) just chilling. Posing no threat to your newlywed self.

As a shark might, I began to hurl my own threatening expletives back. Making it clear that I was not intimated and strongly encouraging them to come visit me.

Their Ford Festiva got stopped in traffic. Me, on Justin Roper clad foot, gained on them.

As I got closer, they sat in the car, eyes forward acting like nothing had happened. I was confused at their agro display, and even more confused by their “don’t make eye contact” response. Me being one person, it’s not like there was a lot of risk of me breaking all 30 of their combined fingernails. Maybe somebody was on probation or maybe someone became the festiva voice of reason, “Guys, we’ve got no beef with her.” Whatever the reason, they skirt skirted out, pushing all 4 of the car’s cylinders in to maximum work.

The flex on their part didn’t make sense. It made even less sense that unconsciously decided I wasn’t going to back down. Shark things make great sense if the goal is to remind everyone you’re a shark, but beyond that, they can be kinda stupid responses to situations. I’d like to think that I’ve matured some since that day, but when a room of people declare your sharkness, it’s clear I still have room to grow.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Social Worky

Fostering

Child welfare is an interesting gig. Until about the 1900’s, there were far more rules protecting violence against animals than there were for the protection of human children. Child welfare in it’s modern sense came into being around the 1970’s when there was an increase in the role of government trying to ensure that children were safe in their own homes.

Since that time, nearly everyone has heard a story about a time that Child Welfare didn’t intervene enough. And nearly everyone has heard a story when we intervened too much.

It’s a very difficult balance that people who chose the field as their career take very seriously. Fortunately for the families we serve, they are entitled to privacy about the events that led to our intervention. However, this makes the work seem like we are transparent to those outside the field.

By the time the events take place in which children are removed from the care of their parents, things have happened. Things that those with the legal ability to remove children (cops and courts) have determined have made it so the children can not currently be safe in the care of their parents.

Whatever those things are, stacked up with the removal of kids, are a lot for families to endure.

Social workers constantly meet 6-year-olds who experienced more in their short lives than they themselves as adults have experienced. It can be hard, but the depth of the experiences our families have had also make them some of the strongest people ever.

Most often, things have just gotten a little out of hand for a minute, and they need an opportunity to reset. There’s tools in place for that. Tools that really do help. But in the meantime, kids need a place to rest their souls while parents work.

A great foster parent is one who will be there for those little ones in an unsettled time in their life, and be prepared to support them when it’s time to go home.

It’s a very big ask. Love them like they need, but don’t love them so much that you get in the way of them going home. And, if they can’t go home, go back to wanting to be their forever solution. Open your home to scrutiny, and your heart to potential breakage.

It doesn’t sound like a good sales pitch. But somewhere the night is putting a child into your care; a child who’s had a really bad day. And they need a foster parent who’s in it for the right reasons who can help them get through it.

The foster parents who are best at what they do are the ones who are able to balance the many many hard things with the rewards of knowing they helped a kid through some tough times or got to see kids go back to homes where they are loved and safe.

Unfortunately, there’s a constant need for folks who can fill the complex role of fostering. If it sounds like something you’d like to learn more about, or something you’ve heard someone else express interest in, please don’t hesitate to ask a social worker about it.

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Short Time

Young Dirty wrestled for 3 years. I learned that it’s probably the toughest sport there is. It requires strength, discipline, and vulnerability like no other. It’s one person against another. You can’t blame any shortcoming of the offense, or the pitcher, or anyone. I won’t pretend that I understood it. Literally one of the only things I recognized was when coaches or other parents would yell out “short time!”

That’s the call to the person in the fight that to hang in there because it’s almost time to stop. It can be to the person who’s in the dominant position, “You’re almost there, want to make something big happen? Now’s the time.” And it’s useful to the person who is, at that moment, out gunned by their opponent. You know, the person who could be on the verge of too soon of a surrender. To them short time means “Don’t give up. You’ve got a break coming very soon.” It’s a simple expression that infuses fight and energy into either opponent.

If you watch MMA, you probably can’t hear mommies yelling to their warriors “short time,” but maybe you’ve heard the slapping of sticks together when a round is nearing the end. In the middle of being pulverized, a fighter knows what that sound means. Time is running out so it’s either a) now or never to finish him or b) don’t pass out yet.

The structure of defined starts/stops and rules of engagement is very compelling. As it turns out, life is not so clear cut.

In the big picture, it’s hard to know when there’s short time. There’s no clock to say when the thing (whatever it is) is nearing the end. For folks who are just trying not to get pinned, I wish there was a clock that tipped them off to the idea that things will get better soon.  

I’m sure these kind of thoughts creep up more with age. Lately I’ve considered that there’s a finite number of dogs left for me to own or cars left for me to drive. And, that can be heavy to contemplate. But truly, the thought of knowing time ends is not despairing.

Any time is a gift to be cherished. We don’t know when some fucker’s going start slapping sticks together to tell us our time is almost done.

I really fall short of this goal, but it’s my wish to not take time for granted. This doesn’t mean I’ll burden myself with debt to buy diamond encrusted crossfit shoes or overdose on deep fried oreos. It’s less about wanting to live like there’s no tomorrow, and more about wanting to live like I got the most out of every today.

We’ve all lived in a weird co-existence with a pandemic for a long time. Hopefully there’s some positive take away’s. Maybe we can be more purposeful in the time that we do have, be authentic and make sure our people walk through their days knowing they’re cared about. Maybe we will buy the tickets, take the trip, or eat the Oreos. Whatever is your version of making the best use of our short time, do it.

Thanks for reading!