Author: bifocalsandbarbells

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

Categories
Blogolicious

Too Many Feels to Make Good Title

For years I have been in one of my gyms many days a week. I typically go in, work, and leave. There’s not a whole lot of communicating with others. Sometimes there’s the head nod of acknowledgement, or the non- verbal conversation of “you using this?” “naw brah, go ahead” etc.

I see lots of the same people there for multiple years and have zero idea what their names are. There’s the tall sock duo, the 49er guy, “Ashley”, and more. I’m sure I may pop up on their lists as something like “the ancient chick who sometimes dances between sets” or something.

It’s an interesting thing to feel a little bit like you know people you absolutely don’t know at all. I could tell when the angry man was injured but kept working out. I notice when the “whuuuuuHHHH!!!!!” grunting guy isn’t there. (Don’t miss that guy’s noise, but I do hope he’s okay). I can tell the dark haired hat girl is working by the gainz she’s making.

One of the definitive gym personalities is a guy whose name I didn’t know before today even though I’ve seen him there for years. The first thing you see about him is that he’s ALWAYS smiling and AWLAYS saying positive things to any number of people in the gym. Encouraging them, and what not. When you see him walk, you notice there’s something about his gait that makes you wonder if he’s had some previous injury or some chronic condition. His words sometimes take me more than once to hear what he’s said. Despite how positive his words are, they seem difficult to form and get out. I had no reason to wonder about what his history was.

Today he was there, hyping people up as usual. He complimented my Bulgarian split squats for which I was very grateful because I didn’t want to do them at all. We chatted briefly. My hearing’s bad enough that I resorted to some of the smile and nod of folks who aren’t catching every word. But I did hear him clearly when he asked me if I’d seen his documentary. No sir. I have not.

He told me how to find it and it was my cardio accompaniment today.

“Chaz Baldwin One Last Ride” is a 10 minute film on YouTube. It was 10 minutes I’m grateful for.

It starts with Chaz riding wheelies on his street motorcycle and chronicles how his life changed dramatically in an instant. By all accounts, the dude shouldn’t be alive. He certainly shouldn’t be able to walk, let alone go to the gym.

I still don’t know the guy, but I’ve seen enough to know that his spirit is very strong. He seems to have such a passion for life, and you have to wonder if that’s what got him through such adversity; or if overcoming the adversity like he has created the joy for existence.

I don’t know why today he told me about the video, but I’m very thankful he did. It made me have a LOT more appreciation for how positive he is. It also made me take a long pause and reflect. This guy has been through so much and just refuses to be beat down. On the other hand; yesterday I had a small tantrum because nowhere in Redding had bamboo sushi mats in stock. I mean, I did end up making one out of duct tape and bamboo skewers, but for a nanosecond I thought of it as an obstacle. My life is so blessed, I don’t even know what a problem is.

Thank you Chaz for the reset about what kinds of things are real challenges and what people with incredible strength can do to overcome.

Thank you guys for reading; and if you have 10 minutes, maybe hop on over to Youtube and learn about Chaz.

Categories
Social Worky

Help Wanted

I was a banker for 12 years. It was my starter career, and I enjoyed it a lot. I began just being a minimally scheduled teller, but by the time I left I’d had some really cool assignments such as managing a branch and the epic training gig. I got to ride the company plane to exotic ports of call like Modesto and Crescent City. Unfortunately, the plane didn’t go to Covelo so that was just sketchy winter driving with Corey. Corey was really bright. And funny, so he could joke about how he got the tattoo in college of his initials in Chinese, but then later learned that there’s not a Chinese Kanji alphabet. I didn’t feel like Corey and I were well-suited to winter wilderness survival, so I’m glad we made the drive okay.

As great as the bank was, I didn’t see it being my forever career. The social worker in me was already brewing.

I “felt bad” when tasked with trying to get people to get loans that maybe they shouldn’t get. I felt really bad when people would come in after a weekend and wonder what happened to all their money only to learn that their partner had spent it all gambling. Or even worse, they themselves had spent it all and didn’t know.

There’s better people than me who can fill the needed roles of bankers and I’m thankful for them. I just am not “them.”

But it’s not like I’d set out to launch into behavioral health work.

A fun trip down memory road for me is to look at my Shasta College transcripts. They’re lengthy and read so clearly of a person who didn’t take it seriously or know what on earth they wanted to do. Multiple dropped classes, more than one academic probation. It was clear there was no focus. Maybe I was going to be a lawyer, maybe work in business, maybe teach; regardless of where I was going to land, I started to set the hopefully attainable goal of finishing a “2 year program” in less time than it would take to raise children to adulthood.

For a while, it was questionable if I’d hit that mark.

I took a psychology class and focus became clear. “Wait a second…! I can observe behavior and use tools to try to help it modify!? AND get paid?!?!?”

Sign. Me. UP!

Before Shasta was wrapped up, I was trying to get in to grad school. They have some silly rule about needing a bachelor’s before that happens so whatever; but I concurrently enrolled in Shasta and Simpson. I wanted to make up for time I lost not knowing what the fuck I wanted to do.

I’m happy to have had all the employment experiences I have since that time, but I’m most happy to be where I’ve been the last 14 years; County child welfare social work.

Before landing here, I really was a fan girl of the county workers. I remember waiting in the halls of court and seeing them walk up the stairs. Their lanyards swinging with their signifying awesomeness. They were able to work directly with a family on amazing goals and to talk directly to the court about what they felt was in family’s best interest. They didn’t know it, but they had walk up music playing for them in my head. They were cool AF.

I continue learn (every single day) that the job is complex, often fake, and sometimes soul crushing. But when it hits right, there’s nothing better.

We’re in a spot of perpetual hiring right now. It’s hard for the people carrying the extra weight while we have less social workers. Blame it on COVID, millennials, Trump, Biden whatever….the truth of the matter is there’s been a dramatic shift in employment culture. From my agency through to Popeye’s chicken there’s a hiring crisis.

But I take comfort knowing that there’s other bankers, food servers, stay-at-home parents etc who could quite possibly be coming to the conclusion that they too may have a career in behavioral health.

I’m lucky to work every day with people who’ve also felt called to this work. We’re a kindred group with diverse stories that have all led us to the common goal of wanting to serve our community. They’re all at different parts of their journey. Some are ready to stay there until those sweet retirement benefits kick in. Some are just trying it on for size. It’s absolutely not a job for everyone, and that’s okay. (See aforementioned “soul crushing”) But for those of us that it is a fit, it’s hard to imagine doing anything else.

This should be the part where I tie up all my random career thoughts in a nice closing statement, but I’m not an author or a banker. Damn it Jim, I’m social worker. So, I guess I’ll close with I hope this makes workers feel good and that maybe it makes someone else feel like they may want to give this a try.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

C’mon, Sandman!

I’ve slept like a log the last 2 nights. A log with a hyperactive subconscious, but a log nonetheless.

The night before last; as I was deep in sleep, part of the ol’ gray matter was super busy trying to make sure I remembered to cancel my flight to LA as soon as I woke up. I needed to cancel it because the trip was no longer needed and I didn’t want to lose money. Every neuron that fired made sure I remembered to get this done. “Don’t forget! Do it first thing so you don’t have to worry about it all day. Get it done!”Cool, except for….I don’t have a flight to LA that I need to cancel. It was an annoying waste of sleep energy. I was relieved that I didn’t have to risk losing money, and amused to see that I’m so cheap in my dreams too.

As a result of so much “dreaming” I thought last night that the brain would take a break during sleepy-time. It did not.

Last night I dreamt that I went to the home of a co-worker’s parents. In my dream, I’d been to this home before, but I wanted to go back to get a closer look at (wait for it) the home made sasquatch sculpture in the den (?).  As everybody knows (eyeroll) the den of this house is on the bottom of the split level design. I’d been so impressed with this art when I’d seen it before. I went in for a closer look. It was primarily made of spray foam (I blame this on a reel sent to me with cool Halloween art). As I was nose deep in the art, the homeowner decided to investigate happenings in her home. It was at that point that I realized I was breaking and entering a home. You know, risking life and embarrassment for a closer look at Squatch. I called out “Sorry! I shouldn’t have let myself in.” After tense moments, I added “thank you for not shooting me.”

She continued to show me around the house. Notable features where the galley kitchen, the workshop, and the other project, a C-3PO statute. She told me something that every Star Wars fan would know, that the droid’s legs aren’t supposed to be the same color. Duh.

As we toured, I thought how embarrassing it will be to have to explain at work that I broke in to the home of coworker’s family. A very real sense of mortification consumed me.

Dreams that seem real are sneaky. They add elements that are on brand with things you do in awake time. As I was leaving the home, I stood and watched a yellow lab swim in an irrigation ditch. I was impressed that he would swim underwater for a spell. Since that’s 100% something I would do when I was awake, I knew this had to be a real experience and not a dream.

More dread, followed by really poor coping skills. Can I lie about breaking in to the house? Would the homeowner tell on me? Would she know who I was to tell on me? Can I put a positive spin on why I was breaking in to a house? I’m not sure if it was slow-moving integrity, or the realization that none of my immature cover-up efforts would work; but I decided I would just have to own up to it. Work is going to suck as I admit to this.

The relief I felt when my alarm started to chirp was immeasurable. I hadn’t committed a felony. I didn’t have to worry about saving face at work (at least for this).

I enjoy sleeping. A lot. I guess my subconscious also enjoys overthinking just as much as my awake brain does. Today I’ll try to overthink every darn thing in hopes that the noggin will just be too tired tonight to try to fire up. But if it does decide to be busy, hopefully I’ll do something cooler.

Thanks for reading!  

Categories
Blogolicious

Smell You Later

I imagine our sense of smell needed to be fiercely powerful back in our cave man days. We probably needed it to sniff berries to see if the smelled like the ones Grog ate last week that killed him. We also probably needed to sniff out cave babies to know which one was ours.

I’m thankful for language and social development. It’s one of those things that separates us from our canine friends for example. I don’t need to sniff your butt as a form of greeting and to determine if we’ve me before.

That’s cool. Because that dang highly evolved sense of smell Cave Crystal needed still exists. I’d like it to power down. I don’t want to smell a lot of things I smell.

In the morning, I ruin the smell of my office via my reheated scrambled eggs. I feel compelled to announce to anyone in proximity that I’ve ruined the smell of my office with my eggs because I don’t want other super sniffers to think I just smell rotten. I typically try to repair this smell situation with a room spray. This enhances my office to encompass the smell of scrambled eggs and “sheer leather.” Not the best combo.

I know I’m not alone in the land of smell ability. The annual heater fire up that happens every fall results in numerous folks speculating that the building is burning down as all of our cave noses sense danger. We also pretty regularly think there’s a gas leak somewhere. And boy howdy, if you want to test noses put some fish in the microwave or burn some popcorn. It results in utter chaos.

Parenting gives the opportunity to watch the development of smell capacity in humans. At least it should anyways.

Before I had kids, I worked with a woman who had 2 boys. When we got ready to start our family, she said to wish for girls because boys smell awful. I thought she was a monster for her assessment. Then,…my boys hit those “say hello to a brand new you” years and I understood what she meant.

(Disclaimer: I do not wish I had girls. God knew what he was doing when he made me a boy mom. I can’t comb hair. I laugh at potty humor. I have nary a feminine bone in my body. I wouldn’t change boy mom life for anything)

A common question I’d ask in my little car during middle schooler transport was, “Did someone just shit themselves? Or is this just our baseline smell?” Luckily, it was most often flatulence related smells. But sometimes it was cleats that needed to be burned or just general “musk.”

As they grew, they wanted to impress girls which led to them noticing smells too. This led to me inventing a word “Axe-phyxiation,” being deprived oxygen due to an overuse of body spray. Forever burned in my memory is the Axe body spray ad campaign during those years; “double pits to chesty.” It “comically” outlined how to apply body spray. The kids I knew took that shit to heart and sprayed the ever loving hell out of themselves.

Thankfully they outgrew it, but still want to smell decent. I don’t think they quite have the mom smell sense though. I guess it’s a part of my super powers. Much like I’m the only one who can see that the empty box in the pantry needs to be thrown out, I’m the only one who can smell the garbage. I try to ensure that these powers of mine are used only for good.

The good for which I’ll use them this morning is to take out that trash since no one else’s nose seems to care if it’s full of Grog killing poisonous berries. And since I’m going to get my burpee stench on, I’ll also double pits to chesty something to make me smell like vanilla and body funk.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Personal Growth (or not)

Enthusiasm

Sometimes a little quote will get stuck in my head, kinda rolling around like a marble in labyrinth. The quote may pop up when it’s helpful, like when I’m on the stupid stairmaster and have nothing to do for 30 minutes but step and think. Or; the quote may come up at unhelpful times, like resulting in me having walked to the kitchen and with zero recollection as to why.

The most recent of these quotes was from some olden days radio man’s show. Some 1950’s dude hurls quick insights and quotes at listeners in one of those baritone voices that soothes the soul.

The thing I listened to had a quote that the word “enthusiasm” is from the Greek and means “the God within.” When he said it, I braced for some ongoing words about spirituality that may threaten my core beliefs about the universe. I worried that I was on the precipice of being encouraged to join some new age cult.

Luckily for me, the golden voice moved on quickly. What I’d listened to seemed to be a compilation of the man’s inspirational tidbits. You could almost hear the ads for Simonize in the midst of all Mr. Nightingale’s personal development snippets.

That quote has inspired thought though. Surely the Greek didn’t mean we got God stuff going on internally. At least I hope they didn’t. I can barely manage myself, I really don’t need any extra responsibility like that.

I hope what they were aiming for is that enthusiasm (passion) drives people in the way nothing else can. And that this enthusiasm comes from within.

I want to never take for granted how special it is to see someone do what they do with passion and purpose. It doesn’t have to be the gifted surgeon who travels to 3rd world countries to save lives. I mean; that’s cool and all, but enthusiasm for what someone does can show in countless ways. If you make a kick ass cup of French press coffee, getting after it with intention; then you got that whole Greek thing going on too. Also, seeing the result of someone’s enthusiasm is a gift for everyone.  

So thanks Mr. Nightingale for the pinballing thought in my head for the last week. Hopefully it helps me to remember to appreciate the vivacity in others. At the very least thought, it’s also made me think about Greek food and made me hungry. That’s right….THAT’S why I walked in the kitchen!

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Social Worky Things I Think are Funny

Free Ice Cream!

I like to give blood. And not just because they give you free ice cream.

Much like me, my blood is basic. There’s literally nothing cool about it. I’m not like Brian with his “everybody wants some” O+. With just basic blood, you have to wonder if they’re just being polite when they take yours. Like, maybe they don’t want to hurt feelings or deter positive behavior so they just go through the motions of sticking me and then put the blood in the blood fridge in that space where the un-helpful blood goes. I used to envision my poor little blood bags having a fate similar to boxes of lettuce that live in the vegetable drawer in the fridge only to be thrown out when it gets slimy.

I’m thinking I’m not the only person who wondered about things like this since a couple years ago the blood people have switched up their business model to include something I really like. If history is any indicator, here in the next couple of weeks I’ll get a text letting me know that someone is getting my blood. When that text comes, I have a moment of “Man! I hope they’re alright” followed by a moment of “eesh,…I hope they don’t get the part of my blood that’s responsible for me being a werido.” I know that’s not how weirdness works, but it still makes me nervous for them. I also have the moment that I can only compare to when you have unexpected company at house, that sense of dread like “I should have cleaned better.” My blood is much cleaner than my house, but I still feel nervousness hoping it meets standards (yes,…I’m aware I overthink things. Thank you for your concern 😊)

The actual task of giving blood is really no big deal. Despite that, I still refuse to look when I’m getting stuck to check my iron and getting stuck with the blood taking needle. The latter hurts less than the first. Since I’ve never watched that part, I decided to feel brave and watch a YouTube of the process. Can confirm, it’s really not a big deal. I doubt I’ll watch in my own arm, but I now know that there’s no need for me to petition for my own medal of valor for the “bravery” needed to have a needle but in a vein.

There’s a million questions all of which confirm my basicness. No, I didn’t live in the UK for period of time greater than five years. No, I haven’t spent more than 72 consecutive hours in a detention facility in the last 4 months. No, I haven’t had a tattoo or piercing in the last 4 months (boo!) But fun fact, you still can donate if you have. Some of the naughty questions read way more complex than an SAT question or math word problem. I have to read them a couple times to make sure I’m answering correctly. “A person left Boston on a train traveling at 64 miles per hour, did you have sex with them?” “Was it in the Falkland Islands?” (these jokes only have a chance at being funny to people who’ve given blood. Go jokes! Find your audience!)

On my donation days, I like to back in to my parking spot. Not as a flex, but because I don’t back up well in general and really don’t want the blood people to have to watch my seamless backing and wonder if I’m too low on fluids to drive away. I also like to make sure that I sit in the blood couch for a while after they take the needle out. Turns out that it only takes once of me feeling woozy when I stood for me to be forever worried it’ll happen again. I feel like my dogs when they limp around not using a foot even after there’s no more sticker in their paw. And finally, I like to make sure that I take bloody pictures and virtual signal about my task. Mostly because I post way too much, but also because I want people to know it’s an easy way to help others.

If you’re looking for a way to help people, maybe give it a go. They’ll happily take your blood in trade for Hagen Daz (or whatever your brand is). If you go, not that it’s a competition, but I can bleed in just over 6 minutes.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Personal Growth (or not)

Dead Batteries/Free of Charge

#DadJoke

Joy is like a battery; it has to be charge, it can power other things, and much like battery power on my precious cell phone, it’s an absolute necessity. I hope that we all strive to bring some level of joy to our surroundings in our own ways. I don’t want to become one of those people pleasers who makes it a mission of trying to make others happy. But I do hope that some of my interactions result in people feeling “not worse.” There’s plenty of times in which I have to be “that guy,” the one who has to say the hard things or hold the lines, but when it’s not one of those situations, but intent to be the opposite of a chi vampire.

If you don’t know what a chi vampire is, you may be one. They’re the folks that after you’ve chatted with them you feel depleted of energy. Like your soul became a discarded empty Capri Sun juice pouch. Given the choice, I’d rather be more like a chi Tesla charging station (without the accompanying virtual signaling) and a vitality leech.  

I can tell when I’m veering toward the vampire stage. There’s a pretty steady consciousness stream of sarcasm in my head. When it’s time to charge my joy stores, I get worse at gatekeeping those comments in the brain. They just freestyle their way out the old mouth hole; where you can try to do some clean up about them, but you can’t make folks unhear them.

Some people have much better controls of the use of their energy than others. My social battery runs hot which means it can burn out quickly. People can probably see it on my face as easily as a digital batter bar over my head like I’m a video game character.

Just as there are different ways to bring joy to others, there’s different ways to recharge your own positivity. They can be complex efforts of self-care or it maybe you just need to be still. I try to have a variety of rechargers in my tool belt. Some include construction paper, some include writing random things for others to read, and many include food or exercise (I’m basically a puppy). When it’s time to restore my positivity, I also have to look at what my attention is digesting.

Recently my Spotify found itself “stuck” (at my doing) in a loop of playlists like Villain Mode, Angry Girl Workout, and Bad Bitch Vibes. It was song after song of jilted-ness with revenge themes or “my power comes from your inferiority” themes. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to key a car or buy some Louboutin red bottom shoes so “bitches can be hatin’” I’m literally at zero risk of either, especially since I had to google Louboutin to spell it only to learn those shoes are $1,500! Suddenly I’m a bitch that be hatin’!

I also found myself consuming documentaries of murder and dysfunction. I enjoy human behavior so much I’ve made a living out of it. Watching those shows is easily justified as satisfying that curiosity. And the fact that shows like Dahmer are “chart toppers” tells me I’m not the only one who watches stuff like that. Much like I’m not at risk of those damn shoes, I’m not destined for crime either. Which begs the question; what’s the harm is watching or listening to stuff like that?

There’s probably not a lot of risk. And I certainly can’t address what such shows do for others. But for me, I’m a strong believer in the hypothesis that you get what you give. If I wander in to work sour in attitude, people will likely engage with me in the same demeanor. I “just feel like” whether you bring positivity to your day or negativity, the universe will respond in kind. Basically, if all I see it negativity, I’m much more primed to see more negativity. There’s enough of that around, I don’t need to go looking for more.

So, murdering body builder documentary went off, and Monty Python came on. Nothing quite like dead parrots and silly walks to cleanse the palate. I’m genuinely thankful for the shenanigans and the reminders not to take life too seriously. What I particularly watched was their 2014 “Live (Mostly)” show on Netflix. They’re all in their 70’s at the time. They’re still painfully funny and the silliness of it all was restorative.

So chi vampires, bring it. I’m ready to listen to how somehow your doctor’s office’s receptionists brother in law has some impact on your day. Hopefully my hype will last a long time. Buuuuttt… if you see me melting into my chair while intermittently uttering “wow. that’s crazy….wow…..crazy,” maybe ask me what’s up with Monty Python. Or better yet,….buy me some of those red bottom shoes (bwah ha)!

Thanks for reading!  

Categories
Personal Growth (or not)

Lemme Tell You a Story

I’m not that great of a story teller. And those long jokes where the details have to be in just the right order for the punch line to make sense, forget about it. I’ll mess that up in a heartbeat.

When I’m telling stories, I get lost in the weeds of how much information needs to be included for the story to flow. Maybe the person listening to the story doesn’t need to know that the story’s main character is the same person who had a flat tire 3 months ago. It’s probably not relevant to the current story. But maybe it is.

This line of thinking causes me to insert all sorts of random facts into whatever yarn I’m trying to spin. 99% of story listeners are inclined to let those random facts just continue to pop up when they aren’t necessary. Thank you 1% who don’t mind the pain of asking me “Why did I need to know the part about the hamster’s physical therapist for a story about you ordering Chipotle?” You didn’t. My Applicable Details filter is more than broken, it simply doesn’t exist.

When I get is story mode, it’s like a runaway train. You know it needs to stop, but all you can do it keep your eyes peeled for the inevitable wreck. By the time you hear my story out loud, it’s probably already been told in my head or told 8 other times to poor unsuspecting souls who may have thought it was safe to say “good morning” without it turning in to a immovable stream of words.

I use stories for too many things. Sometimes they’re intended to be cautionary tales or ways to help normalize someone’s experience. Such as: you’re beating yourself up about a thing you wish you’d done differently, I want you to be easier on yourself, I tell you about a stupid thing I said to my kid in 2012. I’m sure sometimes it is genuinely helpful. Other times, I know people are like “what the f is wrong with you? Can’t you see my eyes glazing over? I’ve heard this one already.”

Even if I can, I can’t stop.

When I get going on one of the classic hits, there’s just no redirecting. It’s similar to on South Park when Cartman has to sing the entirety of “Come Sail Away with Me” every time he hears just the beginning of it. I’m not proud to be Cartman-like, but at least I’m self-aware. They say that’s an important step in the solution. I’m sure repeat listeners to the some of my story chart-toppers have calculated that it’s easier to wait it out than to try to stop it.

There was a story recently that I shared too much. I thought it was hilarious and enjoyed retelling the events in specific order to try to maximize the impact of the mechanical bull rental. I still think it’s hilarious, and will gladly tell you, but spoiler alert, it ends with the rental of a mechanical bull.

I didn’t want to share the story via text, it’s just not the same. I went to tell it to one of my favorite quads in the social-work-iverse. Kim was gone, but Eletra indulged me. She laughed accordingly. I was pleased. As I was getting ready to go, Kim came back. If you don’t know Eletra, she’s really smart. She remembers details well. She re-enacted my story for Kim. It was as though I was a playwright watching oddly exceptional talent in community theater. I listened in, waiting for the delivery of all the details, hearing the unneeded add-ons that I thought helped explained the story’s main character like how he’d wanted top ramen hair one time which actually meant a perm. (Not needed detail. Not needed at all!) The story still killed, and I’m thankful I got to see my script. Buuuut, like that the brave have told me,….too many details and side roads in my story.

In classic fashion, hearing someone else tell my story has become a story of it’s own. I clearly can’t help myself. Also, I’ve found loosely associated ways to infuse that story in other conversations since that time. Have I eliminated one detail? Not a chance!

Thanks for listening to my story (ies)!

Categories
Stories about my fam

Young Marines and Police Academy

When Young Derek was 9, he saw some kid at school in a nice camouflage uniform. The kid was in the Young Marines, and my boy decided he too must be a young Marine. There were a couple of low key meetings with the former Marine group leaders. Dirty’s interest was held long enough that he decided to go to the week long “boot camp.” A buzz cut and some clothing purchase later, and he was ready to go.

We took him to the far off wilds of the Sacramento River Discovery Park at some ungodly hour. He’d been excited-nervous and had hardly slept a wink. It was still dark. My civic cruised through the sentinel teens standing at attention. As we rounded the corner, chaos erupted. Other uniformed youngsters jumped out of bushes and began to yell and bark at “recruits.” They aimed to unnerve and they nailed it. Kids scrambled and ran; to what, they did not know. The leader was decked out in his dress blues. He was a stark contrast to the bedlam as he calmly walked down the row of cars at drop off. “Don’t worry, your child is safe. Parent night is Wednesday” whilst behind him children run as though fleeing a burning building, wheeled suitcases being drug, items falling in disarray, terror on their faces.

I did worry. 9 is pretty young to be turned over to the para military experience. But it seemed to be what he wanted, so I left without him.

The young Marine program is for kids 8-18. There were a couple of little kids there, but most were middle and high school aged.

The program encompassed elements such as verbal/written tests, memorization of procedures/codes, drill skills, physical aptitude, and uniform presentation. And my baby boy had decided of his own free will that he wanted to excel at all these things. He learned to iron and understood the purpose of sizing spray. He bloused his pants out of his boot tops with precision. His cover (because young Marines are too cool to say “hat”) had to be in exactly the correct position. His push-ups had good depth. He continued to run after his little pasty face turned red. All with ZERO prompts from adults.

Wednesday took forEVER to come, but when it did I trucked myself out to see him at camp. His eyes were wet with tears threatening to fall as he said (and I quote), “This is the hardest thing I’ve done in my life.” 9.

While I was there, he told me that he’d hoped to win the PFC award. Private First Class would be given to the recruit who performed the best in the cohort. I thought that was a cute goal to have since he was a baby amongst nearly fully formed adults.

But wouldn’t you know it. When I saw him again on Saturday for graduation; that little dude had won that award. His little 4th grader chest looked about to burst with trying to keep in the pride he felt.

To this day, we don’t really know why he took the whole thing as seriously as he did. I guess some folks are just wired for things like structure, order, and service.

Skip forward to his bright ass being accepted into Cal Poly San Luis Obispo to study winemaking. A career destined for some pretty cool shit. However, young Dirty did not enjoy the dorm life experience in the slightest. He was more than a little grateful for a lockdown to send him home.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d find his way where he did.

Police academy lasted a little longer than Young Marine camp and they don’t have parent night. Also, no children were pepper sprayed at Young Marine camp (that I know of), nor were they issued guns. There are a lot of similarities between camp and academy though. Drills, Physical Training, uniform stuff, written tests, scenario tests, and the like. Once again; of his own accord, young Dirty wanted to do well. Once again, he did.

Dirty just wrapped up academy and is now able to move on to the next phase of being a tadpole cop; field training. There’s a lot to learn still, and entering a field training program does not guarantee becoming a fully fledged officer. It’s a strange mix of pride and horror from my social work parent self. I’m incredibly gratified that he’s chosen to serve in an honorable way as those who have before him. Nonetheless,  I’ll be still worried about all that law enforcement is. I’m sure I’ll spend time wishing he’d become a barista instead.  But I’m very excited for him that he’s passionate about what he’s trying to accomplish. And super hyped that he’s so focused at the tender age of 21 and small change. At his age, my goal was to bump up to better days on the schedule at the truck stop. Tips were best on Tuesdays. Everyone knows that.

I’m thankful he’s got strong positive examples and that it’s important for him to do things right. He and I probably have very different hopes for how boring the job should be; but much like when that 9 yr old learned to iron to impress Commander John, turns out this isn’t about me. (*eyeroll) Congrats Officer Adams! And PLEASE be safe!

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My Name is Not Susan

Hopefully I’m not the only one who gets randomly bamboozled by a song lyric from nearly 30 years ago. Also, hopefully I’m not the only one who sometimes just has songs in their head. Today’s cerebral concert was flavored (!) with a little Salt-N-Pepa.

Often when songs roll through my cranium, they’re subject to butchering by my memory. So when I hit the lines, “Yes it’s me that he’s always chosin’. With him I’m never losin’ and he knows that my name is not Susan”; I thought I had to be wrong.

It’s cool that it rhymes, I’ll give it that; buuuut….”He knows that MY NAME IS NOT SUSAN”!? Is that where we set the high water mark for who gets described as a “mighty good man”?!

I honestly don’t know if it’s Salt or Pepa who raps that lyric, but either one should be able to demand more from a partner than knowing her name. It was 1993 and a lot has changed since then, but c’mon ladies….no dude bonus points for knowing your name.

I can assume that it would be an honor for any 90’s woman to find themselves paired with someone with “a body like Arnold and a Denzel face,” but I’d like to think if it’s you that he’s really choosin’ there should be no question that your name is not Susan.

I finished my drive home/internal playlist and had the time to fall down an internet rabbit hole. I had to know if I had the lyrics wrong. A quick google was all that I needed; “my name is not Susan” and send….

Not only was that the right lyric, but also Whitney Houston has a whole “My Name is Not Susan” song. Who in the heck is this Susan? My 90’s history music adventure taught me that Salt-N-Pepa were harkening back to diva goddess Whitney being dissed by her lover accidentally calling her by his ex’s name; Susan. F’n Susan.

One or both of these options are the only explanation:

  1. Susan is a god among women easily confused for early 90’s Whitney Houston
  2. The dude who did it was an idiot. Really man? You’re chilling with Whitney Houston and you call her Susan?

But still Whitney didn’t have to add weight to dysfunction by making a song out of it. I mean, even Dolly’s Jolene was a 3rd person narrative. Susan must only have grown in her powers by being the source of a song. Neither Whitney, Salt, nor Pepa need to stoop to that level.

I want to take my social worker self back in time and talk to Salt and Pepa. I want them to know that what they tolerate is what they promote. I want to ship them all the inspirational quotes about knowing their value. Things like “When you know what you’re worth, you’ll stop giving people discounts” or whatever. Maybe even call them “Queen.” Any tactics whatsoever I could try so that they could know they can expect that they can have a partner who is both a “God sent original man of [their] dreams” and knows their name.  

I know they didn’t need my help, and I hope me even thinking of the song today puts money in their well-deserving pockets. But I’m glad it came up so that conversation could start for whomever does need it. Folks, it’s okay to set an expectation that your person know your name. That’s not asking too much.

Unless of course you’re Susan. In that case; I hope someone “accidently” calls you Whitney, you Jezebel.

Thanks for reading!