Author: bifocalsandbarbells

I know that I need to grow up. Maybe if I started to dress a bit more like dedicated fictitious public servant Leslie Knope a dose of self-respect would head my way.  However, It’s coming up on dress season and Instagram knows just who to throw an ad at.

I’m by no means a fashion person, if it’s black, I’ll probably buy it and live in it. One of my favorite overused jokes around here is “have you seen my black shirt?”

But I do like my quirky dresses.

I think when my co-workers give me a hard time about things that it comes from a loving place. If not, this is a good time to let me know that I’m even more self-unaware than I realized. They do politely sass me about some of my unconventional dresses. I get called Ms. Frizzle from the children’s books “Magic School Bus.” I’ve also been told that some of my dresses look like the mom from the Bates Motel series. But they’re fun. I’ve got one with tattooed swimming ladies, one with Swedish fish, an atomic print one and more. I also have one with Ouija board designed that I only wear when I feel like I won’t have childhood flashbacks to a time when Ouija board and chanting “bloody mary” in a mirror made you nearly pee. And don’t forget the one I have specifically for shark week. (“We’re going to need a bigger boat.”)

Today’s times are generally far more casual. I’m thankful we don’t feel we need to don stockings and petticoats on the regular, but I also have something along the lines of envious appreciation for a time when everyone was just more fancy (I guess).

I’ll be travelling this week. I’m happy that I don’t have to worry about my fancy travel stilettos poking holes in the aircraft as was a genuine issue in the day. I’ll keep my stilettos see-through and for the body-building stage only, thank you very much. I will be comfortable when I travel. But I’ll also put in some effort. I want to look like I tried enough that I’m worth rescuing in the event of an emergency. “This one put on real clothes. She probably has something to live for. Get her to the choppa!!” I also feel bad when the TSA lady got for-real dressed to yell at me about my electronics before she pats me down while most of her patrons are all basically pajama-ing.

I won’t pack any dresses for my adventure. It’s not that kind of trip. And honestly, I think my dress phase may have outlived it’s purpose. I do enjoy not having to pick out a top AND a bottom when getting dressed, but wind and stuff. Plus the fact that for my lizard blood self the summer frozen tundra of the office landscape means whatever dress I have is often blanket covered.

Most of my clothes are either used or some cheap thing from Amazon. Today’s dress was still cheap because of who I am as a person, but as I looked at it I realized that dress size charts aren’t made for the gym girls. The chart is clear how big or small I need to be in the areas of bust, waist and hips, but paid literally no attention to the truly important measurements like delt cap to delt cap (shoulders) or biceps. Not that either of mine are huge, but they can make me look like I’m a lot out of place in a dress.

Even though my toddler sized muscles still make me run the risk that I’ll look like Chris Farley sized in his Gap girl sketch, and even though I’m not sure if I’ll feel like wearing dresses anymore, I ordered the dang thing. In black.

Thanks for reading!

This week has me going to Sacramento twice. I really enjoy Sacramento, but I don’t necessarily enjoy multiple trips through those W towns, or as Daniel called it in his frequent trips back from Stockton, “pre-Corning.”

This led me to decide it was a fun idea to ride the Amtrak.

I giggled when I booked the trip and had the internet ask me, “Are you sure you don’t want to protect your $36 trip?”

I’m sure. I’ll risk it.

Of course me running my mouth about how funny this led directly to me learning that I’d messed up my return trip date and now was, indeed, out $18 extra.

There’s only one train in and out of Redding daily. It heads south at 2:30 am and leaves back from Sac at midnight. The technical term for this is “a long ass day.”  

Me and my “long ass day” backpack worth of belongings headed to the heart Redding in the dark of the night only to have several delays. I hung out in downtown, met some characters, and learned a valuable tidbit about trains, they share the track.

Sooooo, when the northbound train had to stop and address a medical crisis, the ride to Sac had to wait. The medical crisis included 2 Amtrak employees in adorable hats talking to a man who’d been kicked off the same train a week and a half ago for the same circumstances; being unconscious to the point of unable to be woken.

There do not seem to be confidentiality rules for train behavior. As one cute hat guy met with the dude and paramedics, the other cute hat dude told us all there is to know about him. No one asked, but we got it anyway. Eventually they put the dude-less stretcher back in the ambulance and got the train moving.

Choosing a seat on the train is way worse than getting a seat at the middle school cafeteria or on a plane. Trains being as reasonably priced as they are invite a cast of characters. Those characters sleep (or fake sleep) over several seats at a time. As I found myself wandering seatless, I decided I should probably not get myself incarcerated because I wasn’t particularly interested in rousing someone and demanding they share their spot.

To the observation lounge I went.  

At 3 am, there’s nothing to observe outside but lots to try not to observe inside.

It was terribly cold. I had considered bringing a blanket, but didn’t want to carry one around all day in Sac. Rember that episode of Friends when Joey wears all of Chandler’s clothes? That’s what I looked like when I was cold enough I put my work clothes on over my workout clothes for warmth. I looked legitimately unhoused, which didn’t exactly make me stand out in downtown Sac.

Sitting as long as I did, I was compelled to walk a lot. 9 miles worth.

I learned a lot about prostitution pricing as I waited in line at the 7-11 to buy a banana. I also learned from a man walking to work about Joe Biden smoking crack. (And that’s why work man shouldn’t have to pay taxes.) I decided he probably couldn’t tell I was a government worker and there was no need to tell him I was on my way to a cookie laden symposium on policies. I also learned that I have resting “ask me directions” face. I don’t know why I was asked for directions a bunch. Clearly they couldn’t tell I’d just gotten lost on a muthafuck’n train when I tried to get back to my seat.

I enjoyed my time at the event and after. I like walking around, trying new restaurants, visiting gyms in new towns. Shout out to the gym worker who was super nice and didn’t charge me the day pass fee.

Then it was back to the Sacramento Valley Station to wait for my midnight train back.

Here’s the thing about train travel; the only requisite is that at some point the passenger had $18. This leaves a LOT of room for interesting folks to be sharing your space.

Not to make light of mental health challenges at all, but if you’ve wondered what real MH struggle looks like, go to the train station. Several folks were really going through it. One lady kept yelling a lot of random things. At one point she was yelling at me accusing me of murder. Nobody (including myself) cared. Train station things, I guess.

Eventually we’re lined up and assigned cars in which to sit. Train guy told us to put our tickets above our seats so he can make sure we get off at the right place in case we fall asleep.

I didn’t. Because I’m tough? No.

Because the only spot available when I got on was next to my accuser.

I mean, I maybe could have fought another crazy person and made them move their service dog. Or woke up the dude who smelled strongly of piss who was yelling out in his sleep. But since we’ve already established I’m not pod boss material, I chose to sit next to Maybe Marjy.

Train seats aren’t spacious. So for the duration I heard her every word to Marjy, Doty, Satan, and the rest of the ensemble. She would gag every couple minutes and loudly proclaim that demons were cast out of her. She used her cane like a sword to defend herself from things I didn’t see and I just hoped I didn’t get in her way or look demonic in any way. She talked of hidden bodies and “he’ll never do that again.” I’m assuming she was 67 by the way she kept yelling about a 67 year old woman. Non stop yelling.

What do cute train hat staff members do about all the yelling from her and the others in the rolling psych ward? Nothing.

The whole thing felt surreal, like it was on the verge of horrific catastrophe just waiting for one little thing to go just wrong enough to blow up the whole unit/train car in a domino effect of psychosis. I kept hoping she’d tire out and fall asleep. She was working hard fighting those things that weren’t there, but somehow she didn’t need sleep.

I felt for her and for the rest of them and their loved ones. I was relieved to get home and for the first time in years, I slept beyond sunrise.

The train was totally worth it and I’m thankful I got to go on the adventure. But ain’t no fucking way I’m taking it again this week. (Bwah!)

Thanks for reading!  

My office is in downtown. A walk to the library is bound to encounter some sights. There’s enough activity, that it generally doesn’t catch an eye anymore. As I walked past a restaurant I saw medical emergency services and thought nothing of it.

After I’d navigated my way to the library where I DID in fact judge a book by it’s cover, I started back up the hill near that restaurant known for not judging morning consumption of distilled spirits.

Now the cops were there and the situation definitely had my attention.

More than once I’ve felt compelled to apologize to police officers I’ve stared at as they’ve driven by. If they’re in the right color car and it’s time when mommy’s little law enforcer is on shift, Imma leer with my poor vision into their car for the entire distance that I can to see if it’s young Dirty.

Curious to see if the boy was there, I carried on my merry way.

3 cop cars were parked around the truck that I’d noted earlier with the ambulances by it. As I neared, I saw that one officer was a young woman whose family comprises some of my very favorite people in the entire world. She began to chat and as I got closer, I could see the man who appeared absolutely trashed in the driver’s seat of the vehicle. Not that alcoholism keeps a time clock, but it’s worth noting that it wasn’t noon yet.

The male officer at the window of the vehicle stepped back from the vehicle window and turned to look at me. “Are you Hazel?” The man in the driver’s seat’s head swayed as he looked like he was trying to focus in on me. He then stared intently at me.

“This is Adams’ mom,” stated the other cop.

“Oh this man said you’re his wife, Hazel, here to drive him home.”

“I’m not. I’m really not.”

Never did the driver’s seat man let on that perhaps he’d made a mistake and that indeed I wasn’t his wife. To him, I was Hazel. The end.

Next, the man cop asked me why I’m walking in downtown and stated that I shouldn’t have to walk to the library when I’ve got a perfectly good son who can give me a ride. He talked into his little radio and called out to my young’n saying there was a citizen at the scene who needed a ride and advised him to come assist.

I could hear Dirty said something cop-y back to the man. He replied that the citizen needing a ride was “Same last name. First name spelling Mary-Ocean-Mary.” A lengthy pause. then I heard my certainly confused son flatly advise he’d call the cop.

Young Dirty would prefer to think that I don’t exist in his professional world. I tell him that I’m cool or funny or that typically people aren’t embarrassed at my existence. He doesn’t believe me and I seem to periodically do things to reinforce his repulsion at any cross point our worlds may have. For example, he REALLY didn’t think it was funny when I made a fat head of him to take to his swearing in ceremony at the Sheriff’s office when he started at the jail. ‘Twas 3 years ago, and he’s still mad about it. (wince).

Since that time, I’ve tried hard to maintain a balance of “excited mom” and “give him his space.” So when drunk man’s cop was pranking Dirty I immediately texted him this was a joke that this time was unsolicited on my part.

The depth of his separation efforts go so far as to he doesn’t tell me the names of his new cop friends. As it turns out, the officer in this story is in fact “the guy whose boat we go out on.” Not to be confused with “the guy who wants someone to run with him while he trains for a marathon.” Sure, these are far longer statements than, say,…NAMES; but I get it. He doesn’t need my gregarious self trying to crash in to his ecosystem.

I chuckled at the events in the parking lot, and continued on my walk. Only to then overthink. Do I pass for a person who has to go rescue an inebriated elderly man on a Thursday morning?! What does Hazel look like?! Is Hazel okay? Does this happen often? Does he need help? Has she had enough? Do I need to up my skin care game?! I asked follow-up questions of the family friend officer. Apparently Hazel didn’t look like a miscreant. Whew! But I bought new moisturizer just in case.

I’m thankful for cops and for whomever called them before the man got on the road. I wish the best for the person I fakely named Hazel (her real name was just as glorious though) and her partner. And, hopefully I’ll get better about trying to crash Dirty’s adulthood. Time will tell…

Thanks for reading!

I had this unlikely comment come my way the other day. They’re powerful words that I wish I used more often.

Trust comes in lots of iterations. A small sampling of the things I trust include that my car will start, that people will mostly not cross the yellow lines, and that my parents love me no matter what.  

The person who thanked me for my trust the other day was a rather giant man with illustrated skin including but not limited to face tattoos wearing a sick Carhartt apron. I’m not sure why he felt the need to thank me. Maybe it was because I rolled in to the tattoo shop on whim dressed as what a co-worker calls my “senator’s wife” aesthetic.

“What are you thinking about getting?”
“Just a word on my wrist. Is that something you’d be able to do? Or would it kill your tattooist soul?”

Sure it was an awkward thing to ask, but my entire life is awkward. I needed to know if it’s something he’d hate to do.

“Naw. The tattoos are for the person getting them. If it has meaning for you, that’s all that matters.” Fair enough. Also, maybe kinda like our old attorney that simply did not rile. So much to be learned from his mantra, “It all pays the same.”

I told him I wanted the word “Telos” which I understand to be Greek for “purpose.” I don’t speak Greek, sooooooo….I hope it means what I think it means.

The plan was set in motion.

I’m sure tattoo people spend a lot of time talking to people who are thinking about getting tattoos, but who bail for one reason or another. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t committed my tattoo to his memory. When we getting ready, he asked “It was ‘fearless,’ right?”

I belly laughed. “Yah. I am that basic, but no ‘purpose’.”

He didn’t laugh. I went back to imaginarily sipping a pumpkin spice latte, scrolling Pinterest, telling myself I’m different than the other basic chicks.

We stole the font straight off the internet. I should probably have a small trademark symbol tattooed next to it so as to avoid copyright infringements.

He told me that tattooing on the wrist can get “kind of spicy.” Maybe he has a light touch or maybe it was a generalized numbness, but it really didn’t hurt at all.

It was quick enough that I made it back in time for the office potluck where as it turns out, I was the only one with a saran wrapped wrist.

Most often when I get a tattoo, I really like the art, but I also go through this fabricated emotional drama of “this is probably one tattoo too many.” That’s not happening with this one. I really like it. I also really like that I now have a tattoo that’s in the open. All the rest of my ink is wardrobe dependent.

I messaged @tattoobiggin to express my appreciation. I told him that I’ve been trying to get my wrist in people’s line of sight so they’ll see it. (Attention seek much?)

And that’s when he said the “Thank you for trusting me.”

I’ve had fair amount of tattoos over my time from a variety of artists. Of course I trusted them all and have great respect for their work, but this is the first time I’ve been thanked for trusting the inker.

We put our trust in people and things every day. In ways both big and small and out of intention or by default. I think about the families we work with. They’ve had lost of reasons to distrust systems and then they’re thrust into situations in which they’re forced to trust us. I’ve never thanked one of them for trusting our work. I also think about our peers who we all have to depend on whom I’ve never thanked for their trust.

In this season of being thankful, I have gratitude for the random comment of the illustrated man to remind me that trust is a gift to be cherished. If there’s been something you’ve trusted me with, thank you.