Author: bifocalsandbarbells

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

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Nosiness on Break

I’m nosy. There’s no two ways about it. It’s an asset with my work, and the curiosity it brings adds flavor to life overall. You know, like when I get curious about what it might be like to take a walk in Spain.

But also, being nosy comes with costs. I just spent sometime chilling in the lobby of Nakatomi Towers here in Madrid.That’s not really what it’s called but every building with glass elevators IS Nakatomi Towers to a Cottonwoodian like myself.

Even though it’s pre 5 am local time, there were a handful of conversations happening in my proximity. None were in English, and see, the thing about my Spanish is I don’t have any. At all. (Sorry poor clerk at the store who was just trying to ask me if I needed a bag).

It occurred to me that a nice consequence of not knowing the language is that I can’t get caught up in the stories of others. By contrast, yesterday the shuttle to Nakatomi had other Americans on it (ew.).

They were loudly discussing what foods to order for their small auxiliary sized dog who’s probably lived greater adventures than I ever will. Emphasis on “loudly.” Aunt Mary is right, Americans are the loudest tourists.

According to Loud Lady, the American Pup likes ham, but would probably tolerate chicken breast better. “I don’t want her tummy to get upset” says the woman next to the woman who has thus far fueled international travel with Dollar Tree pork rinds and over-priced airport Diet Coke.

Today we get to try out things like high-speed trains and whatnot. I’m guessing that a little Espanol would be beneficial, however I’m okay giving my nosy self the day off.

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I Confess

“Wow. You’re going on a Jubilee year” said a co-worker whose words did not register with me at all. He was excited for us. I had no idea what he was talking about.

To plagarise information about religious events straight reverend google:

A jubilee is a special year of remission of sins, debts and universal pardon. In the Book of Leviticus, a jubilee year is mentioned as occurring every 50th year during which slaves and prisoners would be freed, debts would be forgiven and the mercies of God would be particularly manifest.

That’s right, there’s 49 other years we could’ve chosen with less religious significance. But by accident we chose a jubilee year.

Random peer’s elation about our totally randomly chosen time for this event was probably the precise moment I thought that I probably need to make sure I’m not behaving in a way that would get me struck by lightning.

As you know, I decided to do The Camino because it sounded cool. 499,000 people made this official pilgrimage last year. Google also taught me that this pilgrimage has been ongoing since medieval days as an act of atonement, devotion, purification, or penance. Me,…picked it because IT SOUNDED COOL.

The last thing I want to do is to make light of anyone’s religious journey regardless of the ways they’re working on it. It occurred to me that just walking to walk could do that. I’ve been intentional in trying to avoid over-researching what we’re in for, but have seen enough to know that lots of mental expansion or spiritual growth even for those trying to avoid it. Nonetheless, you know,…wanting to avoid the lightning got me looking at some things.

I was baptized Catholic at 4. In 1994 I did the Catholic protocol to become fully fledged. Brian wanted to get married in a church and I was Catholic-ish so I represented us on that front. Kind of like when your friend has a Costco Card but you don’t.

The ritual of mass and dedicated weekly focus on trying to be a good person set well with me, but not enough that I stuck with it. I took the kids for a while when they were little, but knew I was missing the mark in giving them a church foundation when pre-schooler Daniel asked “who’s the naked guy?” referring to the crucifix in the front of the sanctuary.

Getting ready for this trip got me looking at the end point, the Cathedral at Santiago de Compostela. They have beautiful services there and out of nowhere, it occurred to me, I should probably go through mass like a proper pilgrim when we get there.

This led to me calling the church where they just give you an appointment with a priest who references Star Wars in regular speech and in his fancy Mass chat. He let me know my proverbial card only required one punch to be able to fully participate, confession.

So we’re clear, I haven’t been to confession in 30 years. To say I was excited about the thought would be a lie. Which, if you didn’t know is something you’re supposed to confess when you do. Regularly.

I won’t pretend I’m a theologian or fully understand any of it, but if you’re thinking any ill about confession it bears noting that Team Catholic doesn’t corner the market on the benefits of making sure people don’t try to resolve things in isolation.

In the many years I’ve worked in Child Welfare, the families that consistently do best are the ones who stop trying to pretend they can hide their problems and reach out for support. Since the dawn of time, people have done well to get out of their heads and share their woes out loud. Friends, therapists, bartenders, sober sponsors, dogs, hairdressers, and much more have also heard a lot of confession.

The trip is soon, and I was running out of time to do the dang thing. My increasingly ridiculous reasons why I “couldn’t” get there told me I was procrastinating. I missed one opportunity because I wanted to repaint the garage door but Brian used all the paint. No, that certainly does not make sense, but it was an excuse I used nonetheless.

Yesterday, I dragged my sinning ass down there filled with terror. I got there in time to see the priest walking in to the church across the parking lot. My internal utterances were worthy of a separate confession of their own.

I didn’t know there was a line. When people entered behind me and figured out that I was a noob they offered to let me go ahead. I politely waved them off whilst thinking “it’s been 30 years, another couple minutes will be okay.”

Having other transgressors patiently waiting there was comforting. I was a great reminder that we all fuck up in our own ways and it’s frankly self-centered to think otherwise. That whole “everyone is fighting a battle that you know nothing about” mantra is real.

I leaned against the cool of the church walls taking it all in. The stained glass windows at Sacred Heart in Anderson are really fricking cool. There was enough break in the cloudy day for the sun to be caught in every angle giving each vibrant color a chance to show off. The sanctuary was filled with a repeating song that stirred the soul with its beauty. I didn’t consider where the repeating hallelujah came from, but the social worker/manager in me recognizes white noise machine tactics when she sees them. My office has a need to buffer noise. I turn on the ocean at least once a day to cover some conversation.

I was glad to know there was a sound buffer because 30 year confession gaps was about to hit like a napalm air strike.

My turn was getting increasingly closer when suddenly the angelic singing voices stopped. Sacred Heart church was built in 1956. I’m not sure the current rules of acoustics for privacy applied at that time. From my spot waiting to get into the confessional, I could hear murmurs. The priest came out, took a Bluetooth speaker off a shelf, fiddled with it, then declared mostly to himself that the battery died.

My eyes immediately went upward to the sunshine illuminated stained glass Jesus at the top of room. I’m not sure the degrees of mysticism I believe in, but I instantly thought the dying speaker was an act of humor. I giggled in my head and may have said another curse worthy of it’s own confession.

My time came and it really was painless. I’m sure he’s heard it all and again, it would be offensive on my part to think my wrongdoings or myself are special. There was no bell that rang loudly proclaiming me as the sinner of the week or anything.

I’m not sure what happens next for me in any of this, but I’m glad that I did it and I’m glad that it was a random side quest that popped up out of nowhere on what I was just taking a cool walk.

If you’re in the market for some confessing, I highly recommend it. You may just want to bring along a battery pack to support that speaker.

Thanks for reading!      

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I’m Going for a Walk

There I was. Having burgers and chat in the beauty of a July night in Rio Dell last summer.

There’s truly something magical about leaving the 100 plus degree heat of the valley of home to do car show things (even with a still smashed Camaro) with old friends in the backyard of their childhood home on the fiercely steep banks of the Eel River.

The friend is Big A. His uncle was there and with very little fanfare, he mentioned he’d taken some walk in France and Spain called “The Way.”

Now, it bears mentioning that it’s not been my forever life that I have to try and do new things. But certainly in the last decade, it’s been a mission of mine. Our time on this rock is too short to not try things. Some of these past things have been marathons, hiking Mt. Shasta, PADDLE triathalons (I swim like a rock), 100 mile bike races, body building competitions, etc. Each one of my little experiments has been really great. But at some point, ye olde body isn’t going to tolerate learning new aggressive activities. So, a walk in a place I’ve never been caught my ear.

“Uncle Mike” took a long walk on his trip. Turns out, there’s a lot of “ways” that are The Way. They all lead to Santiago de Compostela in northwest Spain and go by the general name of The Camino. This cathedral was built in 1211 and is allegedly the final resting place of St. James the Great. Of course, I knew none of this 8 months ago, but it sounded like a cool thing to do.

So yadda yadda yadda, next week we go to Spain and will be walking 72 miles to see an old church. Uncle Mike, and many MANY other “pilgrims” walk much farther than that. Many people take as much as six weeks to walk hundreds of miles. We’re going a shorter but albeit still official pilgrimage distance from Sarria to Santiago. Our chosen route is walked by around 200,000 people each year. Which I predict means it will feel a little bit like walking through Costco for about 6 hours a day.

If you know anything about me, my routines are rigid to say the least. I’ve never been to Europe. I’ve never stayed in a hostel, I’ve never planned on being gone that long and certainly never not known where I’ll stay. I mean, I’m the person who will google a restaurant in town before going so I can look at the menu and plan my meal.

The Camino is intended to be the exact opposite of that. Going with the flow, relying on the kindness of others, and experiencing life on it’s terms instead of on the terms that give the illusion of control are the objectives. Essentially, everything I’m not.

Only time will tell how this will go, but even prep for it has been a series of unexpected gifts.

For example, I didn’t know what rucking is, but because of prep for this adventure it’s now my new identity.

This trip will require that we carry everything we need for 2 weeks on us. Between my food and clothes, I carry more to work on a gym day than I’m planning to carry on this trip. Even though I’m planning for a light pack, I don’t want to be the person who slows Brian and I down by being unaccustomed to backpacking. This led me to walking with my pack on with weight in it (rucking). Since 2/16 I have walked 190 miles with 25 pounds on my back. To use the professional terminology, rucking is “the shit.” It was very hard at first, then with practice became meditative and (if you can believe this) replaced 3 days of gym going/week for me. Just walking around has me feeling stronger than I could have guessed possible. Who knew? I mean aside from the militaries who’ve used it for training for centuries. And I guess outdoorsmen and whatnot. I know I looked like an absolute psychopath wandering around my hood, parking structures, downtown, neighborhoods near the grocery story, County Administration (!) and the like with a pack on, but feeling ready was worth it.

As for some of the other unanticipated side benefits, I’ll save those for later. It’s time to get in one of the last couple rucks before the adventure.

Thanks for reading!  

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Pick Your Poison

If you’ve ever read a warning label and thought “what idiot prompted the need for this?!,” it may have been me.

As fate would have it, I have accidentally poisoned myself not just once, but twice.

The first time was eons ago and a little less dramatic. I was at work at ye olde bank in Red Bluff and noticed I was feeling very off. In talking to my coworker, whose husband is an ag chemical expert we established that fertilizing one’s lawn while barefoot can lead to transdermal exposure to harmful substances. I’m sure the fertilizer people didn’t think to add that as a warning, because who would fertilize their lawn barefoot?!

Me.

I was in a hurry that morning and classically just trying to get one more thing done before I headed out to work. I was probably trying to avoid marring my Payless Shoe Source pumps and well,… got a little poisoned as a result.

The second time I poisoned myself was in 2022, a time when I should have possessed a level of maturity and knowledge to prevent such actions.

In the bodybuilding things, it’s common to be gifted swag. Free shirts, supplements, shaker bottles, etc. are common. I’d had one such swag bag in my clutches. There were some great scores, vitamin C, taurine, BCAA’s, and a bag of zinc oxide powder.

You may already see where this is going, but I didn’t.

I looked up the zinc. Mostly, anyways.

Zinc is good for you. It supports your immune system, lowers inflammation, keeps your brain healthy. That’s all good stuff.

So, in the free shaker it went. I had my first sip before my car got out of my neighborhood. It tasted off, but,….gains! So I continued consumption until I got to the gym about 15 minutes later.

I was only in my second set of exercise before alarm bells screamed in my head, “MAYDAY! MAYDAY”

I ran to the bathroom barely making it in time to violently vomit in the bathroom trash. I’m not a barfer. This does not happen to me.

There was an immediate and reacherous drive home included stops that would have helped people fill out their commuter bingo card of things to see.

I was mercilessly ill the next several hours. So ill I couldn’t even look up web md (bwah!) My body has never before so forcibly expelled anything. It was more barbaric that an exorcism. I was glued to the bathroom floor and later learned that my guts were so impacted that I got petechiae bruising on my c-section scar from so much pressure from the spasms.

But then just as instantly as it came on, it stopped. I ate (!!!)  and went straight to the Dr. Google to see what way in which I was dying now.

Some clicky-clicky and yada yada yada; zinc OXIDE is NOT good for ingestion. Zinc oxide is used to make sunscreen. Sunscreen is not for drinking.

You may be like me, asking yourself why a company would give a bag of powder for making sunscreen to bodybuilding competitors. Maybe they were thinking this would be like the sourdough starter trend or something. I don’t really know. But I do know that in looking up the company and the product, there had been a rather significant change in packaging from what I was given as to what was sold presently: “For External Use Only.” Thanks Supplement Company. Little too late for me, but thanks nonetheless.

So in short, don’t drink sunscreen. I’m thankful that our bodies are programmed to immediately thrust out things that aren’t supposed to be in them. I’m also thankful that I have other data points in my life to let me know that I’m not a complete moron for poisoning myself. Twice.

Thanks for reading!

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Always Be Yourself, Unless You Can Be a Unicorn

I listened to a good book last week; Be the Unicorn. I’m not trying to go full book report mode here; but it seems part of my “’25: Year to Thrive” plan is to check out more of these kind of books and since it turns out there’s some cool and useful info in some, I just wanted to share it.

The book states the traits to be a Unicorn are:

  • Fast: Do what you need to do quickly. Unicorns don’t lollygag
  • Authentic: Unicorns don’t pretend to be something they aren’t. They also admit wrongdoing as a trait of their humility.
  • Agile: It’s important to be flexible and adaptable
  • Solver: Unicorns don’t discuss a problems without having ideas for solutions
  • Anticpator: Being able to have enough power of prediction to be prepared for potential metaphorical landmines is important.
  • Prepared: You know, because there are metaphorical landmines
  • Self-aware: You have to be able to see yourself the way you are, not the way you think you are
  • Curious: Unicorns like to continue to learn
  • Connected: Unicorns share resources and want to make sure everyone gets what they need
  • Likable: Unicorns win people over and it can go farther than, say, actual knowledge
  • Productive: What good is being magical if you’re not showing it by making whatever it is your unicorn self does?
  • Purpose driven: Unicorns have a strong “why” to the “what” they do

It all made sense. There’s nothing on the list that shouldn’t be there.

And  yet there’s one thing on the list that if it’s not in place, the rest of the list is useless.

Self-awareness.

Without it, you may be cruising through life thinking you’re well on your way to unicorn-ness only to have no idea about your blind spots. Or in the words of Metallica, without self-awareness “nothing else matters.” (I’m pretty sure Metallica was singing precisely about unicorns)

An example of this that comes to mind is Lois on Malcolm in the Middle. Lois went to dance class. The episode showed her gliding with elegance and finesse; being grace personified. Not to spoil a 25 year old tv show for you, but at the end Lois gets a chance to see video of her dancing only to see the actual hot mess of a disaster it looked like from the outside leaving a wake of injury and destruction. Don’t worry about Lois too much. Perception gave her another win in that Hal/Walter White/her TV husband perceived her has the beautiful graceful gazelle she’d seen herself as. (Serio

The Unicorn traits listed above depend a lot on subjective measures. There’s not a blood test to objectively quantify if you are or are not likable, productive, authentic, etc. While self-awareness is important, cross checking self-perceptions with the outside world is also important.

I’ve seen and done both sides of the equation that is underestimating self or overestimating self.  Consideration needs to be paid to the balance between not depending too much on either measure; you can’t rely on just yourself to assume how you’re doing, and you can’t rely too much on others. Because guess what? Both sets of opinions can be wrong. But asking the questions and doing some work can really help someone become a little more unicorn-y and do a better job at protecting their emotional peace.

We all can benefit from being self-aware by reducing blind spots. I’m not sure everyone wants to be a unicorn. I am, however, sure that no one needs a book report about being one though, but thanks for reading along!

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Nosferatu Didn’t Suck

Well, technically he did on account of the whole “he’s a vampire thing” but in my opinion the movie did not suck. And with that I give you the review of Nosferatu that nobody asked me for.

Vampires are cool and whatnot, but they’re really not my jam. Perhaps the blame goes to Twilight which I only read so I could have some understanding of what my work kids were so obsessed about.

But, celebrating the holidays with a horror film seemed like a good idea. When it wrapped up I declared to Brian (and anyone else within ear shot), “That was badass!” at roughly the exact same time Brian was saying, “That was lame.”

I read another negative review of it and started to wonder if perhaps I was popcorn drunk when I watched it and maybe it wasn’t as good as I thought.

As fate had it, one of my vacation days was spent dropping my car off for car things. Since I’d completed a lot of my vacay to-do list, I decided to do a first for me: go to the theater to see a movie for a second time.

It wasn’t the popcorn. I still think the movie is badass.

It’s very broody and dark. The imagery is stunning. The costumes alone are worth the watch. It was like watching a haunted house. “Shadows” could be listed as a main character in the film and the imagination of the individual watching it is a critical force.

It could be that the need for the viewer’s imagination to participate is the very thing that causes the variance in opinions of the film. I was able to conjure up all sorts of blackness in the shadow sequences. Maybe others just saw Count Orlock’s mustache and thought of “Da Bears” skits on SNL. The only thing scary about those mustachioed characters was thoughts of their hardened arteries.

I thought about how wild it some of the first scary movies must have been for the audiences. Certainly ghost stories and horror existed before film, but to have that creepy shit acted out on a screen for the first times must have been horrifying.

The only thing I noted in my second watching that was off-putting was screechy violins. But since I can only assume this was intended to grate on your nerves it wasn’t a deal breaker to me. If I was watching it at home, I would likely turn it down in some of the dramatic background noise spots. I would absolutely mute it during the scenes of blood drinking. It was graphic enough to curdle my stomach at the just the recollection of it. But I’m pretty sure that’s the point of scary movies. (shivering as I think of it again)

The great thing about art is that it’s subjective. I loved this movie, and I know others hate it. Maybe what I liked about it aligns with my whole “goth is not a phase” foundations. But the truth of my existence now is I’m not a person who courts with death and darkness. I don’t even flirt with high cholesterol.

And maybe that’s the appeal.

I watched some analysis of the movie that talked about it’s individualist themes in contrast with the moral oppression of the Victorian era in which the film takes place.

The film has a high level of naughtiness to it. There’s a lot of addiction to flesh if you will. It’s really not a movie to watch with family. There’s a lot of writhing. Like, a LOT!

There’s also homage given to the themes of the Victorian era in which women who are not falling in line with societal expectations are considered mad, hysterical, wrought with melancholy etc.

Ellen was simultaneously pulled toward extreme sinfulness and repulsed by it. I get it. I mean, just the other day I tried to override an intrusive thought to add to a conversation “…that’s what she said.” I failed and that impulse reminded the room that I have the comedic maturity of a 14 year old. I’m pretty much an oppressed creature too (this is sarcasm).

So did I see myself as a mistress of darkness on my walk back from the theater to Big O to get my sensible car from it’s sensible maintenance? A goddess so powerful evil itself can not resist me despite the threat to it’s own demise? No. It was quite rainy and I was still in gym clothes because I watched a horror movie at 8:15 am. My only hope was that I was not misidentified as indigent. But for me that’s the beauty of well crafted movies. You get to immerse yourself in something other than real life. It’s with good reason no one makes movies about social workers on vacation getting their car needs taken care of.

Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think of the movie if you see it.

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Steer Clear if Queasy

I contemplated buying a new bowl this weekend. A big one with a lid to take to parties full of whatever Pinterest recipe caught my attention.

If you’re thinking that people don’t contemplate bowl buying, let me point out that I’ve been officially using my current bowl for 30 (!!) years. It was a wedding gift. I’ve hung on the to the bowl so long that it may be headed back in fashion. Cranberry pyrex could be on the verge of a major comeback. If so, call me Spongebob because I’m ready. I’ve got the whole damn cranberry family.

Ultimately I chose against a new bowl right now. But it made me think of the a standby heirloom bowl for folks around my vintage that quantifies changing beliefs and makes me realize that “normal” is not a fixed or permanent idea.

The bowl; the giant yellow lidded Tupperware classic.

The way it defined normal in the 80’s; not only was it the bowl from which air-popped popcorn was enjoyed on Saturdays while watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island, it was also the puke bucket.

Before you panic that I’m disclosing a deep seeded family secret, I’ll have you know that I’ve conducted extensive research over the years and MANY families have the same story. I think it crossed my mind in part because this is a time of year when sicknesses abound. I’m very much not a fan of that level of sickness and would rather have anything that that. I certainly don’t need to be graphic about any of this to make my point.

Buuuut, when that bug hit, letting the family popcorn bowl do the dirty work was normal. It was as normal of an experience as it was to be sent to the neighbor’s house when they got chicken pox so you could get yours. Or as normal as having a principal literally hit kids with boards when they misbehaved. Us Evergreen kids all learned about President Regan being shot because the one kid was in the office being paddled when the news broke. Paddled! With a board with holes in it to make it more memorable.

As is always the case, societies evolve. Change is the only thing that can truly be counted on. It’s easy to look back on things like paddling and think “Noy doy that needed to stop.”

But what’s equally wild is that none of what we do will ever be perfect. Ever.

There are things that occur right now in modern times that future people will look back at completely astonished that they ever occurred. I don’t know what those things are, maybe “everyone gets a trophy” culture or maybe we’ll learn vegetables were bad for us all along. Who knows.

We just kind of all move along forward doing the next normal seeming thing hoping for the best. Everyone trying to make the best decisions they can with the information they have at the time and with each generation hoping that things are even better for the next.

At any rate, my search for being a better human as well as my search for a new bowl identity will continue. I can assure though that my next bowl won’t be one of the vintage yellow Tupperware bowls for sale online. I know they’ve seen more than potato salad.

Thanks for reading, and Tupperware, don’t hesitate to hit me up as a brand ambassador (bwah!)

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Unfinished Business

You know the folks that say things like “this must be a sign” when they, say, see a crow and decide it’s the universe telling them that they should take up belly dancing? I’m not that guy.

Maybe I’d benefit from being a little more like “that guy.” My tendency is to overthink to the point near paralysis until I become the living embodiment of the adage “indecision is a decision.”

So in that vein, I’m wondering if the universe is trying to subtly kick me in the head afterall.

Let me ‘splain.

I did the Turkey Trot Thursday. I sincerely hate running, but moreover enjoy checking accomplishments off. The run was only 6 miles, so imagine my surprise when I ran under the colorful finish banner and stopped my GPS watch only to see that tracked me at 5.94 miles. Obviously, that’s not terribly far off of 6, so it was clear to me that I had just started to far forward or something. I ambled slowly on the Distelhorst, basking in sun and accomplishment as I stretched out my mad hamstrings.

It wasn’t until Brian ran past me saying “The finish line is down there,” that I had even a hint that I’d messed up. The banner I’d run under was the finish for the 2 mile run. I laughed the remainder of the .06 miles I had just completely failed to notice. The re-telling makes me laugh at myself still and I thought this being just a funny story was enough.

But nooooooo,…

For the last two semesters I have been taking classes at Shasta College. I feel like an absolute douche being that old student with the master’s degree chiming in on group discussion time, but I have genuinely enjoyed learning about biology, nutrition and now kinesiology. I wrapped up the last round of work on the kinesiology class, added my text book to the stack of Goodwill donations, and went on about my business. This weekend I hopped online to see how my grade turned out only to learn that the CLASS ISN’T OVER! There’s a handful of assignments left to do.

In the course of just a couple days, I had two glaring examples of thinking that things were done when they very clearly weren’t.

I’m a person who likes to have things done. Clearly defined starts and stops are my friend. And when I say clearly, I mean “why in the actual fuck was there a finish banner at the not-finish?!” A list of check boxes next to tasks for me to do that is all complete warms my soul. I like to climb mountains because you know that you’re done when there’s no more “up” to go. Bikini competitions have a very clear end date and are the reason I can strictly adhere to a precise diet. Because of these tendencies, it’s unsettling that stopped short on 2 tasks.

I told gym folks about this and Troy in his metaphysical-self way told me that there’s a message for me to take from this. If that’s the case, I’m not really sure what it is.

Maybe it’s telling me that there’s crap I started that I need to circle back to (I mean, American Kenpo second degree brown belt is SOOOOO close to black belt).

Maybe it’s a humbling reminder that some things don’t have a finish. Whether I think I can put a check box next to them or not is irrelevant to their done-ness. They just are.

Or maybe it just means I’m eating so much sugar I can’t concentrate.

At any rate, I hope my unfinishing things is finished and I’ll start that trend immediately by finishing….

(see, it’s funny because it’s like I didn’t finish it)

Thanks for reading!

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Concert Tale

One of the problems I have with story telling is knowing where a story stops and starts. I think this story starts in the days of Napster and Grad School and ends on Thursday.

There I was, just a human navigating through new marriage, parenting, college, etc. Music mattered. Even if it was not what high brow would consider quality music. In between all the phishing Napster offerings of Bill Clinton calling out to his fellow Americans, I landed on a band called Slightly Stoopid. 100% of their songs are about the ganga. And though the ganga is not for me, the intensely chill vibe of their music was. Yadda, yadda, yadda, grad school Crystal (30’s) and her husband find themselves at the Senator in Chico watching the band.

“It’s great that people your age are here,” said some yung’n that clearly didn’t know 35 isn’t the same as “dead.”

The show included a mosh pit in which it’s great to have a 6’4” sidekick, as well as a call to encore. Most people held up their lighters. My date (Brian) held up a can of Copenhagen. Same, same.

I wanted more music of this genre. Luckily a child in our village parenting cohort let me know about Dirty Heads. Yes, this was a child who definitely had a phase that included him taking his guitar on dates and skipping the lake to praise the lord while we were out sinning, but he was on-point to let me know about the Dirty Heads. Again, “chill” that permeates the soul.

My first time to see Dirty Heads deserves it’s own separate story; but this week I was fortunate enough to head to see them for the 3rd time.

My heart was full. The company and weather were beyond perfect. I was not in a bikini prep so food was actually an option. I waited in lengthy line for a crepe that was advertised to be holy and carne asada fries. I didn’t mind that the wait was long. Some random (likely high) woman had complimented my hair, the music was on-point. It was good time.

So naturally, I landed on factory default settings that were bestowed upon me by my mom, and struck up conversations.

Chatting up with a man also clutching his pager for Holy Crepe food when I saw another man bend down to tie a woman’s shoe. I looked to my fellow crepe customer.

“Dude! I totally thought that guy was proposing to that girl!”

Random stranger: *pulls beautifully ornate box out of shorts pocket. “I haven’t told anyone else, but I’m going to propose to my girlfriend tonight!”

The box was a fancy as a Fabergé egg. My new friend looked like he was bursting at the seams to share his plot with someone. We both noted how weird it was that the universe gave the odd opening via a shoe tying man and a chatty old lady.

“Steven” or maybe “Stephen” planned to pop the question during the Dirty Heads song  “Cabin by the Sea.” Excellent choice. I know his name because he asked mine adding that the food truck line conversation will be a part of the story he’ll tell about the proposal.

“It’s her favorite song by them.” As well it should be. That song soothed my soul more than anyone can know during times that were less than awesome. I don’t know that future Mrs. Steven, but I agree with her song choice.

Steven said he had introduced his partner to the band. He said that previously she’d listened primary to Nordic Rock, which he described as “angry.” For a man that looked about as peaceful as one could be, I can see where angry Nordic metal could be something to steer someone from.

Steven shared more. He’s from Seattle. Due to divine circumstances of odd coincidence he and she now run a campground in Old Station. He has an octopi tattoo on his forearm. As the social butterfly that I am, I asked if the tattoo is because of Dirty Heads (their album cover from the 2016 offering is an Octopus) No. It’s because he’s into diving. “In Old Station?” I ask. He tells me, no.

I share my excitement with him about his pending nuptials.

He shares how she almost blew the surprise by rummaging through luggage looking for a bra and almost stumbling on the beautiful box that held his commitment to her.

His pager for fries went off and I wished him well.

As soon as my crepe and I were united, I practically ran to my group to tell them about it. There were way more children at the concert than expected doing children things like “running” and “playing” around my precariously balanced plates. (Balanced as in “weight distribution” certainly not balanced in nutrition). I promptly shared everything I knew with the friends I had at the concert. Friends which, by the way, are far too amazing for me to know. We were all invested in Stephen/Steven’s night.

Some of us danced to every song and sang every word. We wondered if each next offering would be “Cabin by the Sea.”

The show wrapped up at 10:41 pm (ON A SCHOOL NIGHT!!!!!) and at no time did those unclean heads play Steven’s song.

My high quality posse all expressed hopes that Steven/phen was able to find some other way to reach his objective. We want him to be able to plot course for a future full of tattoos, diving, and odd coincidence. We hate to think he’d have to try again at a violent Viking concert. If you know Steven/phen,… we’re dying to know what happened. Please let us know.

Anyways, enjoy music, random chats, and time with great friends; and thanks for reading!

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Sacrifice

A couple weeks ago was my 8th annual attendance of the Peace Officer’s Memorial. Well, possibly it  could be counted as my 9th if you count the time 9 years ago when I didn’t know there was a memorial and just heard shots near my office and walked towards them. I now know it was a 21 gun salute, but still….I heard shots, and I walked towards them. If I was moth, I’d have flown into the first flame I encountered.

Like a lot of people, I’ve always held in high esteem the folks that put themselves in harm’s way to protect others. But the more I came to know cops as real humans, it’s meant even more.

Obviously, they’re cut from a special cloth. They see a whole other world that we’d like to think doesn’t exist. But also, they’re people. Bona fide humans who are sworn to protect us (even if they haven’t grown up enough to know the importance of using a coaster.)

The keynote speaker focused on sacrifice as a theme and offered the following definition; sacrifice is the act of giving up something highly valued for the sake of something considered to have a greater value.

 I cried. Like instantly. I also promptly told the social workers around me that they couldn’t cry too. There are few things that would reinforce the stereotype about our jobs more than us all standing around crying.

I’m sure the rest of the speaker’s words were equally moving, but I was stuck.

Obviously, the speech was about loss of life to law enforcement, but the speech also made me think of the other sacrifices. The more quiet sacrifices that people make every single time they forgo something that is important to them for the greater good.

There’s a painful beauty to think of it.

Maybe I thought of the speech in a less fatal sense because I don’t want to think of anything bad ever happening to my baby boy who chose to be a cop because it would look cool. Or maybe I’m going through a phase.

It can be easy to give up things for reasons that are big or small. But the added note of it must be something “highly valued” changes everything.

People who make those decisions everyday far exceed goals of “being a good man or woman.” They’re honorable in their commitment to do the right thing. Those quiet decisions far more than compensate for the slips and falls that happen over the long haul. They’ll humbly think things like  “all I can do is try” which can discredit the fact that trying is everything.

As memorials should be, it was memorable. I’m thankful for so much about it but especially grateful for the reminders about sacrifice. Maybe even right now someone is making doing something that is hard or even dumb because it’s the right thing to do. There’s not going to be a ceremony with bagpipes for all the tough things that people do every day, but that doesn’t make them any less noble.

Thank you all for your quiet inspirations to others. And thanks for not having more 21 gun salutes that I’d just wander to (*eyeroll).

Thanks for reading!