Author: bifocalsandbarbells

At some point yesterday morning, I was asked what I was doing for the day. “Chores.” Household things needed to happen, but it was also pretty lame answer. So to my Precious (cell phone) I go. There were no movies that sparked my soul and it was too hot to for much else to sound fun. Then I suddenly remembered that it’s been a full moon, and that for years I’ve been hoping to remember to hike Lassen in the dark.

Luckily when you’re a little unbalanced such as I am, you find that you may have other like minded folks in your life. I paused the exciting car vacuuming and out-of-the-blue flung Stefanie a text. What follows is the entirely of “planning”

Me:  “Any interest in a night Lassen hike?”

Stefanie: “When?”

Me: “Tonight (?)

Stefanie: “What time we leaving?”

Brief chat about how Kim would be picked up. Not so much asking Kim as letting her know she’d be coming along. And that was it.

If you haven’t hiked Lassen, put that on your list. It’s close to home, it’s a well cared for path, and it’s absolutely stunning. There’s not technical skill needed, just less slippy shoes, and that internal voice that keeps telling you to step.

A backpack full of uncrustables also helps.

We knew we were making this adventure up on the fly when someone at Kim’s house asked if we’d chosen this night because the meteor shower. It only took him a second to tell by the look on our faces, “You guys didn’t even know there was a meteor shower did you?” Nope. Sure didn’t.

A eventless drive later, we found ourselves at the summit trail head. There were only a handful of cars in the lot. There would have been no one there to witness the violence Stefanie looked like she wanted to inflict on us when Kim and I pointed out the tiny tiny people you could barely see silhouetted on the ridgeline near the summit. In true Stefanie fashion, a brief grumble was followed by an inability to do anything but concur the obstacle.

We didn’t know how long the hike was. We encountered almost no one the entire way up. We could see forever until about half way through when we switched to headlamps.

It was 60 degrees when we started. A beautiful departure from the valley’s 100 plus temperature. As the sun set and the altitude climbed, it got flat cold. Luckily, I’d worn my fancy pants.

We really had no idea how long we’d take walking in the dark. We started to encounter groups of people that we had no idea had been at the summit to watch what had to be a stunning sunset. The hike-ability of the summit trail meant we passed all sorts of groups of people; young, old, serious hikers, us, etc. They told us the summit was near. I’m not sure if it was the great company or the changing view as the sky changed, but I was convinced the “you’re almost there” people were lying. They weren’t.

At the summit, it was biting cold and windy AF. But also dark and still. It occurred to us that we had no idea what time the moon actually rises. It also occurred to me that I really was with the right peeps because a quick uncrustable and selfie and they were ready to continue to explore. You know, because….cold. But also because “we have moon at home.” Some dude in a glowing jacket advised us that the moon was only 97% full and expected to rise in just a few minutes.

The trail put us on the side for what we hoped would be a decent view.  Our numb handed selves headed down.

I noticed a surreal light that I didn’t recall seeing before. A bright orange orb spread light on the horizon. It really took me a second to process then blurt out, “YOU GUYS! IT’S THE MOON!”

It’s the same moon we’ve all seen in countless places. I didn’t expect it to seem nearly sacred. But something about the stillness of the night and the connection to nature made it so. Small pockets of people up and down the trail could be heard ooh-ing and ah-ing or howling. I felt positively connected to the universe and my heart swelled with gratitude for buddies willing to shenanigan, health, and nature. I took a second to just be still. Of course I ruined it by being my socially awkward self (“You guys. This is spiritual or something”), but it continued to be a pretty perfect night.

Up in light and down in darkness made it seem like two separate hikes. We encountered a number of people who chose not to use any light at all. They’re stallions.

We chose light, chat about Lululemon, and discussion about the incredible wedge salad at Claim Jumpers in Roseville. We’re pretty fierce, but also know what we like.

Stefanie assured us we’d encounter a bear in the road. I’m pleased to say she was wrong. They both got to question my night driving ability and the brake-i-ness of the grocery getter. But we made it home unscathed.

I count myself as very lucky to have the people I have to rally for impromptu weirdness. I look forward to whatever the next adventure with the next folks will be (but I’m not running any damn place). I highly recommend this be on your list of awesome reasonable adventures.

Thanks for reading!

“I told my dad that I wanted a couple weeks off because I wanted to drive my ’55 convertible to Denver. You know, see some cousins and see the Rocky Mountains.” This was my dad’s conversation in 1957 in little old Forest Lake, Minnesota. He’d just graduated high school and had a quest for adventure. Has he made many trips back to the land of 10,000 lakes since that time? Oh ya,…sure,…you betcha! (*typed in Minnesotan accent). But those trips are just to visit and stay connected. For all intents and purposes, he took a hard right out of Minnesota, and just kept going.

Denver turned in to Phoenix where he learned a little bit about how outsiders view young men with a nice car and guns to sell. Clearly they must be hooligans. A bum rap was averted when the heat called back to the sporting goods store in Minnesota who confirmed that young Dick wasn’t hauling around lifted gats. He celebrated his vindication by peeling out leaving the station. The cop he encountered after this display understood, but warned that such future behavior would not be tolerated.

Thus Dick and his travel buddy, Roger, continued on down the road. They had friend in the military who would be on a couple weeks of R&R soon as he prepped for his wedding. They set course to visit him. They thought they’d stop in Palm Springs for a meal. The meal led to a recruitment for a bus boy job in a fancy resort. Some lady saw them and asked them if they possessed black slacks and black dress shoes. They indeed did. The gig provided lodging and a covered parking spot for the aforementioned beloved ’55. The resort was visited by the celebrities of day. They made serious coin in tips on a weekend dedicated to fundraising for, “I don’t know,…polio or something.”

They continued on to So Cal. Where next thing you know, my dad is kicking ass at life. By the time he returned to Minnesota for the first time 4 years later; he’s married, adopted one child, had my sister, and is the owner of a lucrative service station. Gone is the ’55. In it’s place is the ’59 El Camino and the family truckster ’57 Dodge (with a push button transmission).

While he and my sisters’ mom weren’t destined to be together, he was still a great dad to them. He and my mom married when he was 28 and she was 19, and he took on a second round of being a great dad. For us probably as well as my mom. He had a ’64 Pontiac Catalina when they got together. My mom says that she thought it was a Cadillac. (Those car badges written in cursive will get you every time.) He says she came to him and told him the car wasn’t running right. She said that she had beaten a corvette in it recently, but now it didn’t have it’s usual “pep.” He had altered the carburetor so that she could no longer fish tail when she left the station.

Dad’s 83 now. The fact that he can recant a story from 65 years ago with so much detail you feel like you’re there is just one testament to how bright he is. Call him right now and give him a complex math problem or ask him for directions to a place he hasn’t been for 20 years if you need any further proof of his brain powers. He’s an incredibly hard worker who pushes others to do the same. He continues with his spirit for adventure, piloting his motorhome criss cross the country.

We’re lucky to have him and lucky his example has helped pass those values on to us. Well,…more or less. After he told me how he uprooted his life at 18 and made it thrive, I shared some of my recent “outside the box” adventure. “I went to Nello’s. You know, the Italian restaurant that’s been in Redding for over 40 years but I had just never gone. I had pesto tortellini” I realize it’s not quite the same, but I think that’s how it’s supposed to go when parents are as they should be; a goal to aspire to so that you keep working to try to be better. Who knows,… maybe in the future I’ll give Giff’s Ugly Burger a try or maybe part my hair on the left. Sky’s the limit.

But in the meantime, I’ll just bask in the gratitude that I’ve had a great dad. A wise man says there are different skills required in making children versus raising children; one could even argue that the latter requires no skill. I’m thankful for the standards my dad has set. Happy Father’s Day to him and all the other dads out there doing the next right thing by their kids.

Thanks for reading!

I never saw Daniel read one book in 7^th grade. But this didn’t stop him from getting good grades or being on the school’s kick ass science team. His secret to success was to align himself with people who wanted his skills in exchange for theirs. He liked to be the power point guy, and his ease with public speaking made him well suited to be a valuable member of middle school academia teams. He was laying the foundation for what would be (so far) a life of working smarter not harder. That’s not to say that he’s work shy. He absolutely works hard, but he’ll also spend some time assessing if there’s a way to accomplish things in a more efficient way.

This lesson was only reinforced by his high school education experience. His freshman year, he was enrolled in honors English. His hate for it was reflected in his grade. That year we learned about credit recovery and summer school. Daniel made up for a whole semester in roughly 3 days worth of summer school. It was an example of his abilities and made me think about that special meeting his 4^th grade teacher made us have with the principal. We were to address Daniel’s goofing off in class. Teacher, Mr. Whatever, was irritated that Daniel didn’t see the value in his academic career at age 9. Principal, Mrs. Whatever, looked at his state testing scores and determined that Dan was bored. I believe she was right.

Dan wasn’t interested in projecting an image of a serious student, not at 9 and not through his high school. He passed, but it wasn’t because he felt some draw to get the highest marks. When something interests him however, he is a voracious learner. It’s never about showing off his knowledge, it’s about learning what he wants to know.

Since he couldn’t give a fuck about high school, he wasn’t in the position to jump in to a 4 year college. But, he’d taken it upon himself to pursue an associate degree at Delta Junior College in Stockton. The fact that he chose a program associated with his dad’s work is far less about nepotism than it was about his natural maker/fixer skill set. From where I sit I can see a number of projects his little 14 year old self built with ease. You can’t really see someone’s maker/builder attributes until you’ve seen what it looks like for someone to not have them. Daniel definitely has it.

He went through a competitive testing and interview process to get in to the Think Big program. It’s designed to further the education of the all-too-needed fixers of tractors. He was praised for his poise as well as his mechanical aptitude. A lot of times people have either one or the other of these qualities. It’s not as common for someone to have both.

He moved his baby self to Stockton and kicked that program’s ass.

I was beyond happy that he’d gone this far in his schooling. It was clear that he wanted it and it would happen on his terms.

Then he wanted more.

It was surprise to us that he’d decided to further his education and move to Kansas (!!!!!). The goal was to get his Bachelor’s of Science degree in diesel tech from Pittsburg State University.

It was great to see an accomplishment of importance to him be celebrated. He’s done all this on his own, and it makes my heart want to burst with pride.

Only time will tell what Dan’s next accomplishment will be. He’s going to live local this summer at least to get his journeyman card (I think). Maybe he’ll stay local, maybe he’ll move to Chile, with him it’s really impossible to guess. Whatever the next thing is, it will be because it makes sense to him. He’ll slay it and find a beautiful balance between work and play. I can’t wait to see what happens next. Congrats Danny!  

There’s those young girls who fawned over babies and couldn’t wait to have their own. You know, those kids who didn’t get troubled looks when they tied their baby doll to the tree. And those kids who begged to hold babies and counted down until they were old enough to babysit. As it is now; I essentially worship my children, but I was not one of those girls. If my memory is correct my son Daniel was the 3^rd or 4^th baby I’d ever held. He turned 23 this week and birthdays are always a good time to reflect on just how miraculous humans and their entry to the world are.

My pregnancy with Daniel was smooth. The only complications were 1) the time that I fell down because I’d tried to spinning back kick Todd and forgot that my center of gravity had changed dramatically and 2) how if I dropped coins in my teller station in the bank I’d kick them to the corner so I could minimize my bending down. My skin felt like it was clothes that were too tight, but aside from that, I good. Good enough to even pull a prank at the request of the bank manager on April Fool’s. A water balloon and squeezing pressure from my knees was involved.

On Easter, people asked me why my belly looked different. I felt kicked in new places. Week 38’s prenatal appointment ended with Dr. DeSoto asking me to join him in his office, which was scary as shit. “Your baby has turned breach. Do you know what that means?” “Yah, feet first…” I wanted to “duh” but he wasn’t asking for my comprehension of the word. He wanted to know if I understood that now I’d be having a baby cut out of me. Oh. He asked me when I wanted to do it. I didn’t want to choose a birthday so I asked “when’s good for you?” Maybe if it hadn’t been 1999 I could’ve texted Brian for a date, but honestly it seemed like choosing a birthday isn’t what’s supposed to happen.

Being cut open was not my goal, but on the upside you get to tell your people “I’m having the baby Wednesday at 8am if you want to come by.”

There were a few people quite excited to meet the new baby; my parents, Brian’s parents, my gpa and co, and Todd and Sandra. I walked by this crowd in my hospital gown, dragging my IV along, smiling for the film cameras because I was in zero labor at all. The 8mm video cassette recordings of their wait is filled with their excitement “Here comes the baby!” as they pace and peer as best they can through tiny windows as if to will the process to hurry up.

Meanwhile, the nurse told me that the anesthesiologist who she called Crockett the Rocket Man is very hard of hearing so I need to be sure to speak up if there’s something wrong. I tried to hide my “what the fuck!?” face, but probably failed. He jabbed some needles in my spine and it was go time.

Brian sat next to my head. His version of the story is that Crockett briefly assessed if he’d be able to manage what was about to happen and determined that he could allowing him to stand up and see beyond the curtain.

I guess after they cut outside and in, they essentially winch your belly open and then put some of your guts outside of you. Brian’s intermittently would look at me, “You really can’t feel that?” No man, see how I’m not screaming here? That’s how you can tell I can’t feel being cut open.

I guess my baby was enjoying his stay, and as a result squirmed out of grasp necessitating the other doctor to push on my low chest like he was getting the last bit of toothpaste out the tube to force him down for capture. “You sure you can’t feel that?!”

What seemed like forever passed then I heard tiny baby noises, “It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy!” Being breach caused some swelling of little baby Daniel’s man parts. They brought his little ashy gray perfectness up to my head so I could marvel and instantly have my universe tilted to so that it revolved around him. Everything changed in an instant. We got some more quick film pictures and off Brian and Daniel went.

Recovery was dumb. I wasn’t going to be able to hang out with my baby until I could wiggle my toes. It was probably less than an hour, but it felt like an eternity.

Finally my bed got rolled in to a room of excited people who oohed and awed as I held Daniel for the first time. I just stated in wonder. I still do. A wise person points out that there is, dare I say, no skill involved in making children; instead the skill is in raising them. But even though there’s no skill needed, it’s still quite miraculous.

Thanks for reading!

I had reason to be in the fabric store yesterday. I felt a strong magnetic pull to the end cap display of bright and colorful tulle. I stood and stared. It was a negligible amount of time, but any amount of time to stare at unneeded tulle is too long.

I ran a quick mental check list seeing if there were any events coming up for which I could justify creating some elaborate and quirky decorations. It’s not Halloween. Sweater Vest day has passed. Daniel has made sure he’s states away for another birthday. I walked away tulle-less.

I don’t always experience temporary paralysis when encountering tulle so of course I had to over-think things on my way to the hemming tape. I decided that that it was because there’s a bit of a vacuum in my universe for my “particular set of skills,” and by skills I mean over-doing weird shit.

Dirty is out the house again. He now has an apartment shared with 3 other men in Hayward. Daniel is wrapping up his final semester of bachelor’s degree (!!!!) in Pittsburgh, Kansas. This has resulted in me getting a lot of questions about being an “empty nester.” I think I’m a little more of a Air BNB Nest Host, but there definitely are adjustments happening. Some are good. I get excited to know that the home I return to after a long day at my fake job will be the same home I left. There’s not dishes strewn about etc. I’ve also been reunited with a glorious part of my home I’ve not seen in years…THE LAUNDRY ROOM COUNTER! But aside from that, it’s weird.

So much of kid raising time is a beautiful existence of structured chaos. I liked it a lot. It’s how I’m wired. If an ad were to be written about me as a rescue dog it would say that I need lots of activity and space; all the code words for “this dog’s a bit crazy. Give it something to do or it’ll probably eat your couch.”

Having lived a while, I’m aware that there are patterns in my behavior. I expect that I will end up creating crises for myself to replicate those times of kid-support chaos. Maybe I’ll make my own crab feed where so I can decorate tables again with the hope of winning illustrious (chromosomally challenged) eagle trophies. Or maybe I’ll over-do a pastime on weekends where I just be still. Only time will tell.

Meanwhile, in this interim I’ve got time and energy to help. Let me know if you need raffle baskets made, center-pieces built, sweater vest cookies made, or supplies bought at 8pm for a model of Mars that’s due tomorrow. You can find me at Joann’s staring at the colorful tulle,…just…waiting.

Thanks for reading!

Maybe in the olden days, people would look at Clark Gable and model their thoughts and actions after him. I kinda doubt it, but maybe.

And maybe nowadays we’re just so drenched in information and stimuli that we NEED shortcuts for all the critical thinking we don’t have time to undertake. May-be still that’s why we look to celebrities for thoughts on various issues. I’m sure they’re most often well intended in their platforms as they see them. I mean, heck, if I had the opportunity to tell a shit ton of people what I think should happen, I certainly would. But even in their well-intentioned efforts, things go haywire.

I’m just fascinated by this whole Will Smith/Chris Rock thing. I’m not proud to admit it, and I’m not entirely sure where I land on it. But I do know it’s a captivating social study.

As a culture, we’ve come to accept jokes even though they may be hurtful. We’re conditioned that it’s okay to say things if you’re going for a laugh. We’ve also lived with some expectations about how to behave when “wronged.”

Make no mistake, I think it’s great that something like chivalry still is out there even if it comes in the form of “keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth!”; but how is it okay to slap the crap out of someone in a situation that’s already determined to be “socially acceptable”? Nobody stopped either of them. The green light for both of their behavior was implicitly stated.

If they aren’t already out there, the PR apologies will appear. Maybe the incident will reprise in some docu-drama (If Denzel plays himself in it, I’ll watch it). Maybe there will be some social media hashtag or frame people will use to show their solidarity to something.

I dunno, but what I can hope for is that it gives us a chance to refocus on our own critical thinking and what our tolerances and expectations are. In short, just because Will Smith smacked Chris Rock doesn’t mean I can smack whomever was to blame for my broken internet. If I do, please accept my sincere apologies and respect my right to privacy as I work through this issue. #PRApology

Thanks for reading!

The baseball field was full of kids and parents this weekend gearing up for the season ahead. It gave me chance to think about my own ball playing adventures.

If you don’t know,…I like to work out a little bit. It’s a moving meditation and it makes me happy. Sometimes this results in me being misidentified as an athlete. I’m not. I wish I was, but I’m really not. If you have any doubt about my athletic-ness, take a look at the rims of my car. Not one is unscathed. Depth perception is an important part of sports, and I simply don’t possess it.  

Over the years, the misidentification has resulted in me being asked to play some sports. Since sports are like working out, I generally say yes to these opportunities, then spend the time leading up to them praying for some sort of rain out or cancellation.

My parents enrolled me in athletic things as a kid. I “played” softball for maybe 6 years. I was a proud junior high Roadrunner on basketball and volleyball teams. But I really sucked at all these things. I was the kid who got no more than her obligatory play time and her participation trophy.

Nevertheless, when I grew up I had a chance to try again.

Some of the women I knew had been fellow softball kids. The rules about play-ability change quite a bit between age 12 and age 30. If you had a glove, could trot 75 feet, and were available Tuesday and Thursday nights, you were a commodity ripe for the picking.

On teams where most are smoking sipping beer in the dugout and adjusting both of their knee braces, I found something like a stride. I got to play in this place I could never really see from my childhood post in right field. A place called “the infield.” It was glorious and fun. Like a proud child, I invited my mom to watch a game. I caught balls, darted for grounders, and hit consistently. They didn’t even put me at the bottom of the lineup.

My pleased-self talked to my mom after the game. I asked her if maybe I’d had more ability as a kid, but just never got a chance. My mom plainly advised me that was not the case.

My nearly-athletic days were numbered though. I didn’t suffer injury, nor did I take up smoking and drinking in the dugout. I just, shall we say, plateaued early.

I’ve still played some though. I was never anywhere as good as those 2 knee brace wearing folks who hit the ball out of the park perhaps for no reason other than they don’t want to run. Still, I enjoy all that it is and felt just enough moxy still be something like confident. Moxy up to and including wearing a particular pair of sassy tall socks. Socks with arrows that pointed up to me and boldly said “Badass.” I wish I was kidding.

Parks and Rec softball has it’s own culture. And a subculture within that group is made up of stallions of the game. The ones who probably have their glove, cleats, and couple decent bats in their car right now just in case they are spontaneously recruited. The ones who make it all look easy and have some innate ability to predict softball futures. They may have only seen you hit once or twice, but before the pitch even leaves the mound, they know exactly where you’re going to hit. They go by many names, but one I know the best is Katie.

So there I was,….happy to do my part on whatever poor team had me at shortstop. Wearing my aforementioned socks and feeling pretty good about myself. But the team was short a player. Luckily Katie just happened to be there and able to play.

When you have a Katie, you’re an idiot if you keep a Crystal at shortstop. Coach wasn’t an idiot. Katie sauntered out, and I quickly traipsed out to left field. Unfortunately for me, Katie had seen my socks. Even more unfortunately, Katie wasn’t about to let it slide at all. She waited until I was out in the tall grass and gopher holes before loudly calling out “I can’t see your socks from here!” and gave a well deserved laugh.

To this day, she gives me shit about those socks, and to this day I absolutely deserve it.

I am thankful to have Katie and other reality checks in my life. I’m also grateful to have experienced my substandard version of sports as a kid and adult. Here’s hoping that the coming ball seasons are amazingly fun for all!