Author: bifocalsandbarbells

Loyal, handsome, good at catch.  These are the words used to describe Maximus. You know, focus on the strengths. I wouldn’t call him dumb, buuuuuut,…I also haven’t called him canine Mensa material. However, it’s important to continue to reassess situations as they evolve. I’m fairly certain he’s trying to maim me, and he’s pulling off to look like an accident every time. He may be a lot brighter than I give him credit for. 

He hasn’t always wished me harm. I think he knows how loved he is. I’m sure he knows that he’s the first of our dog history that I’ve got to name. I know he knows that I’m the one who takes him on fun adventures like surprise trips to San Luis Obispo to see one of his favorite wrestling adversaries. We go to the DIY dog spa just he and I. I’ve taught him all four of his tricks. (Three years old, four tricks…see?! Loyal, handsome, and good at catch!).  So much reason for him to be on my side. 

That is, until the incident. 

Max has his dog bed in Brian’s closet. This is jokingly referred to as his own studio apartment. This worked great for the first 2 1/2 years of his life. But for some reason, this fall he decided that he was going to take a run at sleeping on the bed. As a Labrador, he’s specifically bred for inclement weather. I’ve got the evidence in my vacuum to show that dude’s got plenty of hair. He’s even got that special Lab hair, the kind that is intended to protect him in cold waterfowl retrieval situations. Not like he’s ever gone hunting, but should his tennis ball fall in the pool in winter, he’s more than prepared. 

He does not need to sleep on the people bed. He also certainly does not need to spoon the people on the people bed. 

I drew a line in the sand; and since that time, he’s out to get me. 

He’s knocked my hip out of place. He’s conveniently laid where he’s invisible causing what was far and away my best fall of my adult life. What I wouldn’t give to see video of my cart-wheeling self somehow nailing both the coffee table AND the hardwood floor in the same glorious fall. His chocolate self just looks at me with an expression of feigned innocence.  As if to say, “I see you fell. What an unfortunate mishap.” 

During the middle of the night, he stands with his head at the exact height of mine next to the bed as I sleep. Staring. Intermittently placing his wet nose on my face. I’ll wake and tell him to get back to his apartment. Most the time he goes, but not until he stares at me first. “You may have won this battle, but I’m going to win the war.” 

Luckily, my attributes include being persistent/stubborn. I am prepared to flaunt my ability to walk upright and my opposable thumbs at him for as long as this takes. In the meantime, don’t have worry for my lovely green forearm bruise or the hitch in my giddyup. I’m okay. I’m not headed down the road like to be like one of those people in a domestic violence relationship with their cat. It’s just a period of recalibration as I learn that Maximus is a little more than just loyal, handsome, and good at catch. 

Bwah

I remember the first time I’d had a conversation with Dixie at work. “Are you the lady who was at my kids’ 4H meeting last night?” Dixie, indeed, was the one. She was there with her friend Tammy, flinging propaganda about the merits of joining the goat group. She was the in charge of the visual aid, a baby goat. I didn’t really know Dixie, but this was her in a nutshell “there’s a thing that I think is good, and I can be helpful at it.”

Dixie lived a life of service. Those of us lucky enough to have worked with her know how much she cared about us. Never did I hear her complain about all the work she had to do to keep a constant barrage of us on the right track. She was a woman on a mission.

Over and over, she’d selflessly help new crops of social workers figure shit out. You’d learn early that traveling with her will be easy because she’d take care of so much. But you’d also learn that your choices were to a)manage fluid intake or b)wear a diaper. To my knowledge, she never actually made anyone wear the diaper.

We’d taken a long trip. She was driving. While Dixie would give you anything you need, you also were keenly aware that were some decisions that weren’t really decisions at all. Things just were not up to debate. She would drive. You could tell people that she let you drive for a bit, but you were lying. You know it. I know it. The out-of-county travel requests have long since been processed, so it’s okay to come clean. Our trip was to Fresno and back to make a contact. On the way back, we stopped in Willows where she wanted to go to the Wal-Mart to check for something in the clearance section for her friend. She tells me that, by-the-by, she hasn’t been able to see the entire time. Her contact lens had migrated up into her gray matter. “Why the fuck you didn’t tell me? I could’ve drove.” My tantrum was dismissed. Dixie drove. Period.

Caution was required when asking Dixie for help. She’s the self sacrificing person who if you asked her for an inch of help, she’d give you two hundred well-executed miles, artfully decorated with some little thing she’d whipped up on her cricut. Like the signs that she’d made for me to take to Cancun for my 20th wedding anniversary. Or the signs that she’d made for the youngster we traveled to Texas to bring home. Dixie held the young’n back whilst I ran ahead. Dixie and our friend came down the escalators to me holding “Welcome to California” signs. It was a momentous occasion. She wanted it honored, and she did. Then she drove us home. Because, Dixie drives. Period.

The love she had for Adawna and “Joshie” was infectious. She would count the days until she and Adawna could “share the same air.” You know those women that scream “mother”? The ones that just counted the days till they could be moms? That wasn’t Dixie. She’d come to the plan of mothering intentionally and later, when she could fully appreciate the gift that was her children. Moms love their kids, sure, but Dixie’s admiration for the Josh and Adawna was positively enchanting. It was the kind of momming that really made you question things. “I mean,… she REALLY loves her kids. Am I loving enough?! Can that level of love be maintained?” For Dixie, yes it could.

It wasn’t just those two who benefitted from her nurturing, she could make you feel like you were the most important person in the world with the way she worked to make your life easier. It didn’t matter if you were her peer, supervisor, client…she excelled in her purpose to serve.

I know that everyone who was fortunate enough to work with her and travel with her has a ton of great stories about how she was unflappable in the face of some crazy ass shit. Things would be headed sideways fast, and she’d get that twinkle in her eye that would help you know that it was going to be okay. You also knew that you were on the verge of some wild experience that you’d never be able to quite capture just how wonky is was.

As strong as she was, it seemed way more than a little unfair that she’d had the stroke. My heart broke for her and her family as things just weren’t quite the same.  “I can’t even order anything off Amazon anymore” she’d told me one Sunday when I ran into her at Wal-Mart. While online purchases aren’t the way by which quality of life it determined, it said a lot about how unjust her stroke was. Dixie had been one of the very most independent and capable women I’d ever met. And despite all that she did for others, there she was, stuck in brain that was no longer able to make complex functions seem easy.

I’d love to share the stories of shenanigans. Most are bound by the rules of confidentiality (lame.), but know that there were amazing times. I will say that she felt horrible for the lascivious fate that befell some chickens whose wings she’d clipped to be helpful. I can also say that you can know that she let nothing get in her way when it came to doing the right thing. Also know that she took such great care of us in ways that we didn’t deserve.

Dixie Purdie, you are missed. The world was a better place for you having been in it. Thank you for everything. Thanks to your family for sharing you with us. I know that you’ll get that heaven place all organized and ready for those headed your way.

The other morning in the o’dark thirty crossfit car pool, I was talking about my food. I don’t know why, other than I’m always talking about my food. I’d mentioned that I eat  8 eggs a day. Stefanie’s response, “I wouldn’t say that out loud”

I personally think we all need to either  a)have “that” friend, and/or b) be “that” friend. You know the one. That friend who will alert you to the broccoli in your teeth. The one who’ll tell you about the mascara booger on your face and who’ll answer honestly about the pants and how your butt looks. She/he stops you before you enter into an unhealthy amount of debt or tells you when it’s time to cut your losses in whatever battle you’re having.

Kindness can get confusing. You ever notice that we have a lot of euphemisms we have about indirect communication? “Beating around the bush,” “sugar coat,” “pussy foot,” “tiptoe,” to name a few. Whereas direct communication is generally described as just that, or maybe as being a bitch/dick. Everyone’s tolerance for directness varies, but  to me it is far more unkind to withhold truth.

Is this carte blanche for us all to freestyle and spill our opinions on unwanted victims? No. The guy at the gas station’s day does not need my direct truthful words about how his choices will negatively impact him. But it is a reminder that we need those people in our lives who care enough to say things even if they may hurt. To be clear, I was not hurt by Stefanie letting me know that I sound like a freak for talking about how damn many eggs I eat. I also clearly didn’t head her warning. But, I know that she’s one of those people in my circle who I can trust to be straight with me.  And for that, and the other’s in my life who fill that role, I am thankful. For those that don’t have those people, HMU. Me or one of my associates will be happy to fill that function for you.

“Normal is a setting on the dryer” -Harley Quinn (and prolly like a million others)

What is normal? Normal gets defined by our own experiences and tolerances. Our brains have an incredible capacity to normalize events. What may be completely “normal” at my house may never be considered at your house. Don’t worry, I’m not going all dark on this, I’m just saying that what we each think is normal is completely up to the lenses from which we see it. 

I remember going to dinner at the house of friends when we were in our 20’s. It was a full-on sit down gig on a Sunday night. I said, “Can you believe that our parents’ generation would sit down like this for dinner every night!?” Three sets of eyes stared back at me in confusion. I stared confused back. Then it hit. They all had sat down to dinner every night in their homes as children. Whoa. There is not singular thing wrong with how I was raised, but sitting down to dinner was not normal at my house. 

My kids will have their own a-ha moments as they figure out what things they experienced that others of their time did not. “You’re saying that your mom DIDN’T hide creepy dolls around to scare you?” That’s okay. Some future therapist of theirs can thank me for great clients to work with. But deciding where our normal starts and stops does not end with childhood. 

Everyday we cruise through our existence categorizing events as to whether or not they are normal. Definitions for the boundaries that define normal are deeply personal; I got mine, you got yours. But they are also flexible. We pick and choose what’s normal. Sometimes, exposure to alternate experiences helps us say, “that normal is no longer acceptable for me. I choose a new normal.” That freedom is what allows us to continue to improve. 

Need proof? Ask an addict in recovery for something that used to seem normal, but now is unthinkable. Ask the person staving off health complications through their focus on diet and exercise. Ask the guy who fucking grew a mustache. What was normal for them has shifted. We can change our circumstances by deciding what we will and will not allow to consider normal. 

Years ago a wise friend told me that “indecision is a decision.” She’s so very right. Normal will define itself if you’re content to sit back and let it. 

I’m not saying that people are broken. Maybe normal is the exact right dryer setting for your needs. But if not, don’t be afraid to turn that knob and adjust what normal is. Know your worth, and settle for nothing less than the normal that you desire. 

I was too young the first time I fell in love.

But he was all that was man. He was imperfectly perfect, strong, witty, in possession of enough confidence that he didn’t need to show it off, mired in his values, and able to make the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs. 

That’s right. Han Solo is my first love. The bar was set high by this. Very high. 

As I fill some of my (way too much) free time watching Star Wars Empire of Dreams, I’m able to take a mature look about what that crush a million years ago was all about.

Was it the blue and red stripy pants? Maybe his relationship with a Wookiee? His “out of this world” (🙄) sideways half grin? 

Mature me thinks not. Mature me thinks more than liking him, it’s the relationship with his soulmate that was more the draw. 

Who didn’t want to be Leia? Also strong, confident, and witty. And her duality…! She can pull off forest moon of Endor battle ready wear just as well as she can freaking rock the slave girl bikini. 

She’s not strong for a girl. Just strong. But she she doesn’t need to take strength from others to get there. My kind of feminist. 

Her counterpart also needed strength. A relationship where each enhances and complements the other. Willing to sacrifice for one another: but not as martyrs, as a part of their shared vision for the future of the Rebel Alliance. 

Movies are great. They take us on idealistic emotional adventures. We lost a lot of time in the Leia/Han story. Who knows, there may have been moments that were less perfect. Maybe she got pissed at how much time he and Chewie spent together. Maybe her sassiness eventually lost its charm with him. And let’s not even start about their child rearing. But that’s not what matters.

What matters is when the rubber met the road, or in this case when the Han met the carbonite, they knew exactly where they stood with each other. 

“I love you.”

“I know.”

  Swoon!