Author: bifocalsandbarbells

I had flown to Vegas and driven to St. George, Utah to do something for work. I went to a Crossfit gym where I learned about altitude and conditioning. Ironically, I was giving up hard on my workout while Sia’s “I’ve got Stamina” blared. I didn’t. I didn’t have stamina at all. But it was a good trip. I’ve never seen anything quite like the landscape around St. George and I highly recommend that drive. I expected Wile E. Coyote to hop out at any corner. 42 hours had passed from when I left Cottonwood to when I got back.

You’d think not a lot of change would occur in 42 hours.

The first obvious switch up was that we had a wood stove. When I left, 42 HOURS EARLIER, we didn’t have a wood stove. Don’t get me wrong, it’s saved our bacon and I’m very grateful it’s here, but I had no idea we were getting one.

“Surely she’s not going to complain about this or look a gift wood stove in the mouth.”

I’m not at all. Super thankful, just surprised.

The next surprise came as I was unpacking. There were some red smears on the bed sheets. Maybe because I’m a conspiracy theorist, maybe because I’m a social worker, certainly because I’m constantly trying to over parent my boys, I started to ramp up on my agitation. “Did either of the boys have company while I was gone?” I was assuming that the smears were lipstick or something. As I was headed up the tantrum spiral, Brian interjected quickly to show me his THREE new tattoos. This took his tattoo total from 1 to 4.

Again, I was gone 42 hours.  

After navigating that weirdness, he told me that we’d have to be up early because he had a surprise.

We woke the next morning and rolled 4 deep in the Megacab pickup southbound on 1-5. Only 1 of us knew where we were headed. Some random park in Woodland was our destination. Some other family was awkwardly lingering. There was some exchange of “You here for the thing?” “Yah. You too?” I still had no idea what was happening. More SUV’s pulled up with more people full of nervous excitement pouring out. Then the dude heavily laden with 3 litters of beautiful lab puppies arrived.

This surprise was a glorious one, but also, 42 hours.

When it was our turn to pick, some yelpy bundle of chocolate fur toddled up to us, dropped the oak leaf he was carrying and yiped at us. Maybe that should have been a warning sign that he’d be loud AF, but we were powerless against the cuteness of it.

Maximus became the 3^rd chocolate in my life and the first I got to name. He’s pretty cool but he can’t read a calendar for shit. Which is probably why his Darth Vader breathing self was hovering over me at 4:38 this morning thinking it’s an early gym day. It’s not, Max. It’s Saturday which means back day and no gym till 7 am. You should know that by now.

But my alarm-brador gave me a chance to think about how it was that he joined the scene, and to think about how what can happen when I leave for 42 hours. Bwah ha!

Thanks for reading!

Two beautiful, vivacious young girls arrive in Paris for “holiday.” They meet the handsome young Frenchman who makes them blush with compliments and shares a cab with them. Then some Albanian bad guys kidnap those girls with the intent to auction them off as sex slaves. Luckily, one girl has the bad-ass black-ops dad with a particular set of skills who will rectify her being Taken.

And this is what people generally think is human trafficking.

January is Human Trafficking Awareness and Prevention month. Which seems like a good time to talk about prevention. Turns out, it’s a little different than just avoiding strangers in the Paris airport.

My work has a focus on Commercial Sexual Exploitation of Children (CSEC). CSEC and trafficking go hand-in-hand.

Numbers grab people’s attention. As result, I can be asked for things such as how many children are trafficked, or are at risk of being trafficked, in our community? The answer doesn’t reflect the situation as it exists here (or in most places); we had zero kids abducted in Paris. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t risk.

Given the digital age we live in, kids can be trafficked without ever leaving their home. The legal definition of trafficking includes “exploiting in an obscene manner.” There are over 38,000 children in Shasta County; by that definition; if they have access to the internet, access to humans, a desire to be connected to other humans, and a body; they are at some level of risk of exploitation/trafficking.

If you think you know all your kid’s internet activity because you have controls set or whatnot, you’re wrong. If you think knowing the most popular apps used by pedophiles protects your kids, you’re still wrong.

The amount of points of access kids have to the interweb is probably too high a number to calculate. In my little home right now; there are at least 9 different ways for me to find the internet or for the internet to find me. Regarding the apps; maybe at some point I’ll see some dark web version of how we got to sexual exploitation; but as for now it’s only been the harmless apps we all use that have tripped up most kids. Snap chat, Instagram, and Facebook all have real world examples right here of shitty situations. That’s not the fault of the apps, I’m sure the Myspace of olden days had creepers and I’m sure that whatever comes after Snap chat et al will have creepers too.

Those creepers are good too. They are much more practiced at getting what they want than our kids are at avoiding it. The bad guys don’t care that the kid is an honor student or a fringe kid, boy or girl, they too have a very particular set of skills and if our kids aren’t prepared, they can fall into the trap.

“Sweet. I’ll just tell my kid not to talk to strangers” Okay boomer. It’s far less frequent that it’s the stranger who exploits. Far more often than not, kids fall into traps with people they know.

I’ve worked with a lot of kids who absolutely meet the legal definition of sexually exploited. Not yet has one felt they were exploited. Every one has thought they were calling the shots in whatever relationship they were in. Every. Single. One. They saw themselves as using their bodies to get their needs met, to help their boyfriend/girlfriend, or because they were choosing to “party”. I’d argue that there’s not a lot of “choice” involved when a 14 year old sleeps with a nasty older person to get some dope, but it’s hard to convince the “strong independent teen” of my side of the argument.

As depressing as it all sounds, it’s not a foregone conclusion that our kids will be trafficked. Education, support, and awareness are all bad guy antidotes:

• Teach kids boundaries about their personal body: Our bodies are ours and we get to choose what happens to them. Remind them of the importance of this even in situations when they feel pressured. Don’t wait till they’re 14 to have this chat; start having it before they’re 5. You don’t need to make it naughty, just let them know they are the boss of their body. Reinforce that message by not making them give a hug to that smelly aunt with a mustache that they only see once a year.
• Remind them that the digital world is forever: Teens are going to send nude pictures. And they are going to think those nudes are safe. They’re not. Everything that hits the virtual world absolutely can be found again. I’ve seen that enough times to know it to be true. If your person can’t be swayed by that logic, maybe this will work: if they are under 18 and send a naked picture to someone, that someone is now in possession of child pornography. Maybe junior won’t want their BF or GF at risk of being in trouble for child porn.

But most importantly

• Make sure kids know their worth: It sounds very social work-y but if a kid knows the inherent value they hold, they are less susceptible to someone from the dark side trying to help them feel good about themselves.

Maybe you’re not a deep voiced ruggedly handsome protector like Liam Neeson in Taken. Or may-be still you are. Either way, you can still help arm your kids against exploitation pitfalls. But just in case, I’d be happy to take the tickets you got them to go to Paris so you don’t have to worry about that scenario.

Thanks for reading!

The doe-eyed, full-lipped “kinda pretty but kinda plain” woman puts her hands up in front of her face. She’s in shock and disbelief. This could never happen to her. “And, it was at that moment that Sarah wondered if she’d live to see another day,” dramatic music, then boom a commercial about how you need to take medicine to poop better or how your life will be dramatically improved if only you bought this yellow couch and mid-century modern buffet.

And THAT in a nutshell is what I see every time I’m doing cardio.

Society is fascinated with dramatizations and re-enactments of murders. If the number of shows and podcasts dedicated to the topic are any measure, we’re obsessed. Which means that a lot of folks will try to capitalize.

This means there’s a giant variability in the “quality” of the shows. I remember scoffing loudly with Forehand while on the treadmills about some dramatized murder victim. She was bludgeoned in her garage next to her sensible sedan. Obviously, that would be horrible to scoff at. However, the fact that the actress’ knee pads were very visible in her fake death definitely deserved scoff. Someone(s) are profiting off the tragedy of others, but they don’t want get hurt in the process. Ironic.

I’m really not sure what the draw is. Maybe it’s just controlled fear or compassion for the victims and families. Maybe some folks like to watch as a cautionary tale. Maybe some as a reminder of how the decisions they made in the past could have had more dire consequences.

There’s often the scenes when the sensible parents or friends try to warn the future victim of their potential fate. I’m certain that every girl who has felt drawn to the bad boys has their own similar scene. That moment when their parents are trying to console them in the middle of the night after some incident, but also trying not to throttle her for the choices she’s making. In the shows, these parents are portrayed as put together and supportive, and if we’re being honest,…just a little better looking than their real life counterparts. They work hard to sell us on the emotion of the moments. The re-enacters are replaced with the actual loved ones of the decedent who understandably cry about the loss of their loved one. They express regret that they couldn’t have prevented it.

Cut to commercials where the messaging is that your life would be better if you remodeled your home into more of an open concept or if you bought the shirt for your man that is specifically designed to look good untucked. Then back to trauma voyeurism.

Sometimes the subtitles aren’t on the TV in front of the stair stepper. In those moments I have to make up my own stories. Luckily I’ve seen enough with the words to know the recipe: She grew up in a quiet town. She had a smile that lit up a room. She fell in love quickly with him. He showered her with attention and she felt like the only girl in world. She and he made “x” sacrifices to be together. He soon became jealous and possessive. She didn’t know how to break it off. Yadda yadda yadda,…she got murdered.

Capitalism feeds this machine. If Sarah’s murder didn’t generate views and subsequently increase sales of elderberry supplements, then the shows wouldn’t get made. But they do. And unfortunately, there is no shortage of tragic stories to tell.

But fortunately, there are other things that grab our attention and for which shows are made with the hopes of finding another way to get us to buy that elderberry supplement.

As a result, I don’t have to watch the murder shows. Sometimes I want whatever is the exact opposite of trauma voyeurism. I can always have Joe Rogan talk me through a hypothesis of what happened to the Lost City of Atlantis or maybe I can watch the new pro sport of Tag. (I’m not kidding a bit. The World Chase Tag show exists. F’n TAG!! It’s priceless). And for those options, I am truly grateful.

Thanks for reading!

It’s 6:10 in the morning. I’ve just returned from the gym and am making my eggs. From the living room comes the gravely voice of my zombie boy as he’s watching TV.

“Do you know what the California penal code is for brandishing a firearm?

“No.”

“417. You should really spend time learning those.”

I continue to stir my eggs realizing that there’s nothing further needed from me in this “conversation.”

I do not need to know the penal code for brandishing a weapon. I need to keep brain memory space free for other things like “where are my keys?” Or Welfare and Institutions code 361.5 (b) (13). (Am I right! #SWNerd)

But also, I don’t want to be a cop.

Dirty, on the other hand, has taken serious efforts in hopes to become one. I want to say that it came out of the blue. It’s not like we know cops. He didn’t have friends doing it since they were mostly doing the things that normal 18 year old do, such as not trying to get a job at the jail. It’s far too early to know if this will be a real career for him; but, when I look back on his formative years it kinda makes sense. He thrives in structure and discipline. At 10 he beat out teenagers in young marine boot camp for the honor of the Private First Class award. He’s physical. He gets every where early. He’s an incredibly hard worker. He’s smart. He’s a critical thinker. He looks great in aviator glasses (bwah ha). Essentially, he checks a lot of the boxes.

His cop dreams simultaneously makes me very proud and very scared.

I can see the serious work he’s put in to chasing this goal. My heart swells that he wants to serve his community and be a protector. But, I don’t know if you know;… cops have a dangerous job. And, not everyone likes them. It activates my mom mode.

I wish to protect him from all the potential pitfalls in his future. Some people are going to love him just because he’s in a uniform. Some people will hate him for the same non-specific reason. Then there’s the whole “they’re going to give him a gun…!” worry.

I’m fortunate to work with some cops in my job. It’s given me the opportunity to have the utmost respect for what they do. It’s also helped me know that they are also human. As with any large group of humans, you’ll have some good and some really really bad. I don’t want for any good human/cop to have to be considered bad based on bad actions of an individual. But as I’m learning, young Dirty’s world doesn’t bend to my will.

He’s been at the jail for a year and some change. I firmly believe he’s seen more shit (metaphorically and literally) in that time than I’ve seen in my 50 years. And I can’t protect him from it. His little brain is still cooking in a situation where some disturbing core memories are formed. All I can do is knit my brow in my concerned face and ask if he’s okay. He seems to handle the things better than I handle the hearing of the things. And because of such, he’s maybe well suited for his chosen career. Or maybe he’ll learn that he’d rather go back to Cal Poly wine making school. Only time will tell.

The TV is still on, and somehow the zombie is still awake.

“You know what he’s going be charged with, Crystal?”

Again, “No.”

“California Penal Code 2800. What’s the California Penal Code for assault?”

“I don’t know.”

He sounds disappointed as he says, “I already told you that one last night.”

Obviously he’s excited, and we’re excited for him. As wise man says, he’ll spend his days hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. As his mom, I hope that he finds his purpose and flourishes despite the burdens ahead. I also hope that he has to drive the Dash car around downtown because humility is important too.

Thanks for reading!  

The new Matrix movie will be out next week. I’m excited about it, and it makes me think of childbirth.

I was 28 when the movie came out. I was also fully pregnant. Aside from developing a moderate addiction to KFC and increased trips to the bathroom at the bank I worked at, my pregnancy with Daniel was easy peasy.

It was nineteen hundred and ninety nine. We could have found out the gender with systems more advanced than the whole “holding a ring on string above your belly” thing. But we chose not to. There’s so few genuine “where did that come from?” surprises left in life that I wanted to capitalize on this one. When my baby “turned on me” in the last 2 weeks of my pregnancy, I automatically assumed it was a girl. You know how passive aggressive girls can be (bwha ha).

At one of those weekly ob-gyn appointments, Dr. Desoto popped his head up from,…near the stirrups… and told me to get dressed and meet him in his office. Creepy.

“Your baby has turned breech. Do you know what that means?”

“Yea. Feet first.” Duh. I’d paid attention in class and read roughly a million books. C’mon Doc.

“Yes. But what it also means is c-section.”

I felt kind of dumb. Maybe I should have brought a handler to prevent me from missing such basic cues.

He asked me what day I wanted to have my baby born. I oddly did not want to pick a birthdate so I asked, “What day is good for you?” I also low-key didn’t want to chose a day that maybe accidentally got in the way of golf or something. Then maybe he’d be cranky as he cutting me open.

A couple days later, my parents, my in-laws, and my grandpa all showed up to see me waddle down to the hospital hall.

The nurse told me, “Your anesthisologist can’t hear well. Speak loudly if something seems wrong.” Da fuq?!

Brian was able to go in to surgery with me. It seems like there’s testing to see what kind of trainwreck you’ll be about your bride being cut open before they decide how much you get to see.

After a few moments, he was allowed to stand up and watch the entire thing. His head kept going back and froth between both sides of the vision-blocking sheet, “Are you sure you can’t feel that?!” I was sure. I was dead from the neck down. “You’re sure?! How can you not feel that?!” The marvels of modern medicine, that’s how.

His version of the story is quite more graphic. With elements like a crank that holds your body open, my guts out, and doctors having to push on my chest because the baby kept squirming away from their grasp. Meanwhile, I’m just a head laying there. “Hey guys, what’s going on?”

“It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy.”  

Oohs, ahhs, and excitement ensued. The little human I grew was placed next to my head for me to see and have pictures with. Obviously, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But then he had to go do new baby things and I had to be put back together.

And this is where the Matrix ties in.

Turns out, what was a life altering experience for me was what the doctors called a Wednesday. I’m laying there, mind spinning, sad that I can’t be with Daniel. Meanwhile, they’re having watercooler chat.

“I watched the Matrix last night.”

“How was it?
“It was really interesting.”

Stich, stich, staple, staple. More movie chat. “Do they know I can hear them?”

I didn’t watch the Matrix immediately. I was very pleasantly busy with the world’s most perfect baby.

But when I did rent it later (probably as a VHS), it blew my mind. Obviously, I wanted to be bad ass like Trinity. But what stuck with me more was that silly moment when Neo can suddenly see through all the fake and see the “code” that runs the world he lives in. That is a superpower I’d love to have. Maybe it’s because all the social working, but the ability to really know what’s going on and be able to impact it sounds perfect.

This new Matrix movie could suck. I hope it doesn’t. I hope that it’s also inspires thought and conversation. Maybe even conversation over a lucky mom who’s also just had the world’s most perfect baby.

Thanks for reading!

“Is it too late now to say sorry?” I’m sure everyone who reads this is a hardcore Justin Bieber fan and recognizes that lyric. But there’s maybe some words here for the non Bel-iebers too.

Sorry is a word that’s intended to encompass a lot of power. It’s a recognition of wrong-doing, and a declaration of intent to change. I don’t know if it was the interweb, grad school, or a church billboard where I saw this; “the best apology is a changed behavior.” The way I read that was, “don’t say you’re sorry for the thing, behave in a way that is the opposite of the thing.”

For whatever reason, we live in a time when words mean more than action. Some celebrity or public figure will do some thing today that folks think is worthy of public apology. They’ll talk to their “public apology” consultant and craft the proper statement to express their responsibility for their error, and efforts to make amends.

Por ejemplo; the other day I accidentally clicked on a “news” button on Facebook. An “article” was front and center about Jennifer Love Hewitt’s heartfelt apology that because she’d been using an emoji wrong. I don’t know who she is. I don’t care. And I care even less about her use of emojis. Nevertheless, here we be still.

“But she’s just a caring celebrity who wants to make sure she’s not offensive. How dare you?!”

Maybe. So I tried to do a random search of public figures and the words “public apology.” I’m lazy when it comes to research for my blog, but I can tell you that Leonardo DiCaprio and Carlos Santana have google-able public apologies. What I can’t tell you, is how I landed on those two to search.

I think the over use of “sorry” and public apologies is a symptom of our current time when we’re operating as though everyone needs think and feel the same way. There was a time when differing opinions were accepted as just that.

If you don’t believe me, think back to the controversy when Marie Osmond was a little bit country and her brother, Donnie, was a little bit rock and roll. (bwah ha). They used diversity to their advantage. Donnie didn’t get offended that she wasn’t a little bit rock and roll, and Marie didn’t need him to apologize. It’s an oversimplification obviously, but we need diversity to make progress.

I haven’t been wronged and am waiting for an apology that is a changed behavior. And I’m not looking to get out of apologizing for anything of my own. I’m just observing that the act of apologizing has become something other than I feel it should.

Also por ejemplo; there I was,…fueling my very brakey car at the gas station. Clearly, in between fueling my car and driving away; I’d seen something shiny. I thought I heard someone call out. I opened my door and looked back to see I’d left the fuel door open. Some helpful woman had noticed it and perhaps wanted me to be spared some embarrassment. I thanked her, and she called back,…. “Sorry!”

Why? I was a dork and left my fuel door open, and she was apologizing to me. Weird.

In the midst of all this social pressure to apologize, folks have wound up saying sorry for things they don’t need to. Please don’t feel like you need to apologize just for the sake of it. And if you do, know that I may force you to listen to the Biebs “Sorry” song.

Thanks for reading!