Author: bifocalsandbarbells

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

Categories
Personal Growth (or not)

Cascading into Culture?

You guys should totally volunteer at the Cascade. In the days of yore, I had a chance to be an usher for a fancy smanchy symphony and a film festival. At said film festival in early March 2020, there were rumblings of “I wonder if this coronavirus thing is going to be a deal?” It was. And as such, gatherings and opportunities to volunteer ceased.

The Cascade has reopened, and last night I got a chance to don my volunteer lanyard once again.

I’m pretty perpetually awkward in roughly 99.9% of the settings I find myself. This one was no different. The volunteers I met were all retired folks with a more culture than a truck load of Activa. My mentor, Rose, is a strikingly beautiful woman who must be a vampire for how young she looked and because she was better able to handle the nighttime hours than me.

I didn’t try to fit in when before the show there was chatter about going to see Hamilton or the merits of the local schools music programs. I couldn’t share what “productions” I had been in, and I had no information about the Madrigal dinner. Nope. Instead, my outsider-self got a text from my boy. It was a picture from inside the seasoned workout room at the jail. A picture of a rusty weights and rusty  benches with a lone sandbag on the ground. The entire conversation was as follows:

“100 pound sandbag.”

“Oh yah. What’d you do with it?”

“Over the shoulder”

The end.

However, one of the great things about music is how it doesn’t care if you’re a meathead in the midst of culture; you can all benefit from the wonder of people using tools to create live art.

The band last night was the Mavericks. It was phenomenal.

Brass, reeds, an accordian(!), and all the other standard musical stuff. They’ve got a loyal following. One couple I’d talked to before the show started was there for their 25th anniversary. They’d come up from their temporary home in Chico since theirs in Greenville had burned down. They said that since they’re in their 60’s they’re not interested in rebuilding in the place they loved. “We’re not going to live long enough to see it restore.” They could have been horribly depressed or cranky. But they weren’t. They were so thankful for a night of music they love. That’s how powerful music can be.

The event was smooth. Only one lady nutted up about people not wearing masks. Rose handled that with grace and composure. The lady in her 70’s that danced the entire 2 hours right in front of where I stood never did fall. I couldn’t tell if she was drunk, a yogi, or both; but she bent exactly like she was Neo dodging bullets in the Matrix. I don’t know how she remained upright, but I’m thankful she did.  I’m sure with the great power that comes with the volunteer lanyard, there’s also great responsibility. There’s probably something you have to do if gma is so overcome by rockabilly Tex-mex that she wipes out in front of you. It was a crying shame that the Mavericks didn’t perform my favorite song of theirs, but that’s okay. I’ll be still listening to it on my own anyway.

It takes a lot of volunteers to make an operation like this run. I count myself lucky that I can be even a little part of it. If you have some time to spare and see the value of picking up trash in exchange for great experiences, I highly recommend adding this to your schedule.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Dreamy Darkness

I’m not sure how many places you can get lasting muscle tension and a sore throat for $25, but Dreams of Darkness is one. Part of that muscle tension was in my face, because after each of my many screams, I smiled so hard my face hurt.

My brother Josh and his girlfriend Liz are both younger than me. It was clear that they were counting on me to be the “mature one” to lead the charge on this adventure. “This was your idea” was the real reason; but even at that, Josh had to literally shove me in to going first.

I’d hoped that the couple of things I’d heard about the haunted house would position me well for coming across as “tough” or “emotionally stable.” One coworker told me that on the night she went there were only 2 actors who jumped out and scared them. Apparently the rest were on some zombie union break that night because I’m pretty sure roughly a million jumped out at us.

I was already wringing my hands and doing my best impression of a turtle before we even walked in. I’d squealed during the photo before we got in line. I looked at unscathed kids as they exited the haunt and told myself (and anyone within earshot) that if they were fine, I’d be fine too.

Shortly after entering, some miner masked mother-trucker gave a minimal “ah” as he stepped in front of me. I screamed and followed it up with “I don’t want you to scare me.” He casually replied, “I already did.” Then did the “ah” thing again. Surely I wouldn’t scream again. I did.

Josh did have to keep pushing me along. I kept screaming. Somehow, I was able to get behind Liz and hide. I stayed behind her the whole rest of the way. Screaming and laughing. She’ll probably get her hearing back in a couple weeks.

The whole thing was set up so well. There were great props, spaces that closed in on you, smells, and sounds. They did a great job of tension building by not having a jump scare at every corner, but enough jump scares that you expected one at every corner.  

Those that did jump out knew the exact right amount of creepy to be. They’d get their reward of a shriek, then I’d have a fleeting moment of composure in which I’d compliment them, “That was a good one. You really got me. Nice work.” Then they’d scare the crap out of me again.

It has to be so gratifying to be a haunt zombie. If you get some Karen mom like me who tries to disrupt the flow with conversation, just jump right at her and shut her down with terror.

I may give that a try next time someone’s talking to me and I’m done listening.

Imaginary boss: “I’m going to need you to get me those TPS reports. Don’t forget the fax cover sheet.”

Me: *put on a scary mask, flex up on imaginary boss, and let out blood curdling yell.

My real bosses are used to my shenanigans so there is no danger of me doing this in real life, but maybe you can try it.

I also tried talking the spine chilling clown who appeared out of nowhere in my face and quietly asked me, “Do you want to play?” I screamed (obviously) then said, “No. No, I don’t want to play.” Pennywise moved closer still to me. He said something else, but I don’t know what because I was (wait for it…) f’n screaming again!

The cast didn’t all jump out and scream. Some were even creepier still by their absence of movement followed by just subtle shift such as turning their heads to look at you. Or that one lady who I swore was an animatronic until she looked at our group and said “We like squealers.” Even though she was probably talking about Josh (kidding), I squealed at the top of my lungs.

When my heart rate recovers I’d like to go again. So much effort was put in to each room. And some of those rooms I wasn’t able to see very much of. I had like dirt in my eye, or something, it made me keep my eyes closed. It’s probably a medical condition for which I should see a doctor. There’s no way I was just too creeped out by the Christmas scene room or the room with the old timey music playing. They had enough haunt in there to tap in to a variety of people’s fears. A little something for everyone.

I’m pleased to say that I was unscathed. I did not pee myself. I do have a sore throat. I did enjoy the crap out of the event. And I did have a minor cardiac issue when I was home alone and there was a noise that was either a goblin coming to get me, ooooor….the ice machine in the freezer. It really could have been either one.

The event was easy to participate in. They sell tickets for specific time blocks so you don’t have to worry that you’ll end up standing in line for an hour just to have something close. It’s definitely recommended. Just make sure you bring your ear plugs if you’re going when I’m there.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious Growing up

If You’ve Got It, Haunt It

It’s happening. I’m going to go to a haunted house tonight. This is not a thing I do.

I enjoy setting my house up spooky style and assisting people with adrenaline spikes as they just try to get some candy. That poor grandma. She knows what’s coming. Every year some monster will be jumping out of hydrangeas at her. Every year she screams.  

It’s not like I want everyone to be scared. There is a “caw-CAW!” signal that I call out to goblin Katie if the treaters are too little to traumatize. But if you’re a middle schooler who is trying to pass off your Pop Warner football jersey as a costume; jump scares will rain down upon thee.

With all the scaring I do, you’d think I’d be down for being scared. Not so much. While there are some scares I like, for the most part I avoid being startled. I still blame my mom for this since I was TWO YEARS OLD when she took me to see THE EXORCIST…in THE THEATER. *shiver

Me, the lady who had a guillotine in her front yard, dyed her pool red, and who makes fake broken glass for creepy snacks is a big scaredy-cat. I have only been to a handful of spooky things.

Shasta County old schoolers may remember the haunted house at the Monolith. It was in the teen days. I don’t remember whose back I burrowed my face in. It’s quite possible it was a stranger. I do remember the smell of fog machines and clove cigarettes though. I’m sure the smells are all I remembered because I didn’t open my eyes throughout the entire event. At all.

As an friend and family event, we did a Hawes night when the kids were young. I kept my eyes open in the corn maze, and made loud declarations of how I wasn’t scared. I sat on a throne of lies. But luckily, I also had other fears to prevent me over focusing on when someone was going to jump out of the quiet at me. Fears like, “Will one of these dads have a reactionary response and punch someone?” or “Will we get in trouble that SOMEone just peed in the corn maze?” Luckily no punching or trouble occurred. Perhaps if the zombies heard the distinct sound of a can of beverage being opened they decided to steer clear of us. Even the undead know how to avoid drama.

Once free from worries there, we waited in a lengthy line for the zombie shoot. Groups rode in trailers with paint ball guns fixed on them. Poor zombie actors, padded as best they could hopped out of darkness for our sheer pleasure in a chance to splatter them with paint. It was ridiculously fun. The boys’ eyes twinkled with glee. My social worker heart had a nano second of feeling bad for whatever teenager was getting hammered by trailer after trailer of patrons. I got over it. But even though it was fun, it was still scary for my timid self. Those zombies just jump right at you! If I were a zombie, I’d scare me too. The payoff has to be pretty decent as I screech like a savage. I’m such a rock of emotional stability.

The only other spooky scene I ever participated in was a haunted classroom at Evergreen Middle School. This one was in my wheel house. Teachers scaring their junior high students. I imagine planning meetings in which there was chat about how things couldn’t be too scary. The science teacher cackled as he held up the fake chainsaw. The route was well lit. There was the classic bowl of guts (spaghetti). It was rated G. The whole experience was right up my alley.

We will see what tonight brings. Hopefully not a heart attack, but definitely some permanent hearing loss for my brother and Liz and a shriek at every scare.  And maybe if I’m able to keep my eyes open, some new ideas on how to spook others.

Wish us luck, and thanks for reading!

Categories
Growing up

Got You Covered

It’s blankie season. I’m not saying I do have a blankie, but I am saying that sometimes I have trouble letting go of things; like my Doc Martens, or my favorite hoodie, or my children. So yah, I guess I kind of do have a blankie.

My grandparents got it for me in Mexico. Carbon dating is required to determine it’s age accurately, but I know for sure that it was before they moved here from Norwalk making that blanket at LEAST 35 years old. If my blanket was a pro sports star, announcers would regale how amazing it is that he/she could still function at the ancient age of 35.

It should be tattered or thread-bare to the point of near disintegration, but it’s not. It’s outlasted countless blankets, comforters, duvets, and the like. I don’t know who “hecho-ed” it in Mexico (you best read that Meh-hi-co). But whoever it was, they “hecho-ed” it real good.

It didn’t come with a fabric care tag, and as a result; I’m not entirely sure what it’s made of. It feels like wool, but it also feels like lead. You know that apron they put on you before taking your teeth x-ray? That’s the feeling of this blanket.

When Grammie and Grandpa got it for me, I wasn’t far out of my “everything-purple-and-unicorns” phase. That’s the phase right before goth for those tracking. I’m not sure if that’s why they chose the plaid purple pattern for me. Maybe someday I’ll cycle back to purple and unicorns, but for the last 3 decades, that blanket has matched nothing in my life. And I don’t care a bit. It’s such a woven miracle, my house should be designed around it.

It’s weird to have a blanket that was on your childhood bed show up in pictures a couple decades later on the shoulders of your own brood as we set off on some adventure. It’s the blanket that was taken to all events. It was counted on to make sure space was saved for my little posse to watch fireworks or to keep me from chattering teeth while sitting on metal bleachers watching football. It simply could not fail us.

The blanket did take a couple years off though. I couldn’t find it, and thought it was gone forever. Though I was bummed, I reminded myself that I own my things-they don’t own me. (This is the mantra I have to say any time I’m suppressing the urge to hoard something). It wasn’t until I reunited with the blanket that I realized how much I’d missed it. A fucking blanket. *eyeroll

I’ve made efforts to try to get the same weighty blanket goodness for the boys. Both in my own trips to Mexico, and in my parents’ annual Mexico medical trips. But those efforts haven’t produced any bedding of near the same caliber. Perhaps there was a wool embargo imposed after my blanket was made. Or perhaps they saw a problem in making blankets that will outlive their owners. It’s not the best business model.

I’m certain the plaid protector has plenty more adventures in it. Maybe it’ll shield my eyes later as I squirm at a violent Korean film. Or maybe it will just keep me warm as a design my new purple/unicorn decorating motif. Either way, I know it’s got my back (or my chilly legs).

Thanks for reading!

There’s the blanket. (And some former kids) Off to the fireworks show!
Categories
Blogolicious

Orange Slices and Chaos

Dirty had a real life adult activity the other night. I offered to make pack him some homemade energy bites and orange slices because:

  1. It’s way past time for me to cut some apron strings, but one of us (me) seems to having trouble with that
  2. I thought it would be funny (that’s how I make a lot of decisions. I do not advise this method)
  3. Once a sports/activity parent, always a sports parent

Dirty flatly declined the orange slices. I’m unsure if his performance suffered as a result. If so, that’s on him.

But a couple days later I had an opportunity to recall sports mom life. A buddy co-worker’s kid was playing baseball and I invited myself along. It’s a public place. What’s she gonna do about it?!

The adventure was fun. I got home close to 8 pm and had this smacking moment of “how in the hell do sports parents pull it all off?” I called out Brian and Dirty, “Can you believe that we did all that we did when the kids were little?”

Both boys played baseball from the time they were 5 until high school. They both did summer golf programs. Dirty also ran cross country, wrestled (sort of), and played football. They were both also very active in several groups of 4H and later FFA. There were also brief showings of karate, competitive archery, and this thing called soccer. I think that covers it, but honestly there was so much activity I may have missed some. Those years were amazing, but also so crammed packed that they’re a little blurry.

Brian was able to recall with great detail his efforts in those years. He was a field truck mechanic at the time so he would leave in the wee hours of the morning and finish up jobs in exotic ports of call such as Trinity Center in time to get back in time to coach. That’s all true; and though it was very challenging for him, he was committed to doing it.

But I’m guessing that it was his  hard work in those times that clouded his memory. Maybe he thinks I was watching soap operas and eating bon-bons while the nanny readied the boys for school every morning, and then got them to those games. Or maybe my personal assistant would make the cookies or the decorate tables. And maybe our executive chef would prepare the staple busy night “food” of quesadillas while the tutor worked with boys hopped up on post-game snow-cones on their accelerated reading or whatever other stuff required of them. I mean, obviously we needed all that help because I worked full time too.

I know he didn’t mean to act like I wasn’t an important element to the kids being as active as they were. I also know that it was unfair of me to be disappointed that he didn’t follow the script I had in my head about how we should feel good about all we accomplished. Active kids does take a lot of work and sacrifice from a lot of people. Not just Brian. Not just me. Grandparents, neighbors, friend’s parents, parent’s friends, and more were required. And whether or not all that run around it is justified is up for debate.  

On the plus side, our boys are incredibly flexible and have a homeostasis that requires them to be active. They are hard workers and have a lot of cool experiences to draw from.

On the down side, they have a homeostasis that requires them to be active. They both have their own challenges with the ability to just be still. They may have gotten that from the nanny. They also had days they went to school exhausted and probably suffered nutritional deficits from a steady diet of quesadillas and sno-cones.

So yah. Not for everyone. And that’s okay too.

I loved every chaotic second of it. Since my sports mom time is over, I’m thinking of taking on sports mom sports momming.

I can thunderously ring my cow bell for you when you get the kids where they need to be. Or maybe I’ll make a banner for you to run through in celebration as you settle in for late evening homework. Or I’ll make violent little snacks to support (and counterbalance) your kids soccer team with the hypersensitive name choice (“We’ll name our league teams after natural disasters so there’s no risk of offending anyone”*eyeroll “Karen, my cousin’s hamster died in an earthquake. How insensitive of you to name a team that!”). Whatever a retired sports mom can do to support your mayhem, tag me in!

Have a great day at soccer/baseball/la crosse/robot wars/scouting/little people military things/whatever, and thanks for reading

Categories
Blogolicious

What’s in a Name

“Do they really call you ‘Crystal’?” Yes. Yes they do. The boys haven’t always called me that, but they have for a long time.

I’m not exactly sure how it started. I don’t know if it says something about me that I don’t care. They also call their father by his first name.

My name evolution origin started the same as I suppose all moms’ did.

I was “Mommy” at the start. I had to dig in the mental archives to see if that was true. I recalled a time when toddler Daniel was talking to Daddy and said, “How big are the balls on Mommy’s pee-pee?” The home we lived in at the time was small enough for me to hear, but I couldn’t get there in time to immediately intervene. Brian’s response, “They’re really big.” *eyeroll

I don’t know when my name merged from Mommy to Mom, but I know it was for sure my moniker when young Dirty was 13.

A lot of us from work were doing a fundraising color run. You wear white clothes, run around, and people throw colorful chalk at you. It sounded like a thing Dirty and Calvin would like to do so I brought them along. We had a new deputy director who was also participating. My dedication to my agency borders on unhealthy, but still it was my hope that the deputy would think I contributed value to our work.

She and I were chatting while waiting for the race to get underway. Young Dirty excitedly ran up in front of us. He shifted and side-eyed his surroundings. He NEVER has a sense of urgency for my attention like that so Dianna and I paused as he said (and I quote), “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom…” he paused to rescan the area,… “There’s a midget over there. He’s got an iphone 6. It looks like he’s holding an ipad mini.” I stood there completely void of ideas to how to respond. He ran off as though he was content in completing some important mission.

I’ll never know if that story would have been less awkward if he’d used that weirdly deep voice to call out “Crystal” repeatedly before delivering such important news; but I do know that it was about that time my label changed.  

At the beginning, I think I tried to reclaim my title. But I realized I didn’t care. Also, I’m not in the best position to bitch about it.

My Danny started to go by “Dan” in 5th grade. I literally have to put my brain into hyperdrive to figure out who people are talking about when they say Dan. He’s 22. He’s incredibly independent and successful. I don’t need to go out of my way to cling to the name I called him when he was still wearing diapers. One thing I loved about the name we chose for him is that it had options. And here I am short circuiting when I hear something other than “Danny.”

And then there’s Dirty. He’s been Dirty since he was about 8. I could have squished it, but instead I embraced it and have continued to hold on long after it makes sense. I was in one of those UC Davis social work trainings one time. There was a task that included sharing the names of our children. Some self-righteous instructor said that it was not a good idea for ME to refer to MY child by such a derogatory nickname. That was probably 10 years ago, and I’m still pissed about it. If I remembered who she was, I’d reach out to her and let her know that the kid named Dirty turned out pretty well.

He’d also embraced the name, but as he’s grown he’s tried to create some separation. His girlfriend’s parents knew him before they started dating. They knew the little blonde kid named Dirty. “This nickname isn’t really working in my favor,” said young Derek as he talked about trying to make sure important adults in his life knew he wasn’t a threat to their daughter.

Fair enough.

But when I try to call him by the name we chose, I sound like I’m speaking a foreign tongue. It comes out halting and unnatural, “DAAAARE-eck.”

It’s the same level of strangeness on those rare instances now when I’m harkened with “mom.”

Luckily their needs have changed concurrently with my title. I don’t think I would have liked to wake at 3 in the morning by a 8 yr old at the side of my bed to hear “Crystal, my stomach hur….” (you know what happens next). And likewise it’d be weird to hear heard  “Mom. I’m going to work” in a deep ass voice.  I know my role and purpose. And I know it doesn’t change just because what I’m called is different. And calls that start with. “Mom. I need to know your 2017 gross adjusted income for my FASFA” remind me that when the chips are down, “mom” is who I am.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Never Forget

I have 2 pictures taken just a couple of days apart that serve as a reminder of how much the world can change in a few hours. They both are real photos that you had to get by using a camera and taking film someplace to be developed. All these things took effort, and as a result pictures were saved for more righteous occasions than say, for instance, the one I took of my burger last night.

The first picture is of a peacefully resting baby. He’s folded up under himself but you can see hints of chubby pink legs. At only 4 weeks old, his head is still finding it’s shape and is covered with hair that is almost copper in color. That infant had not a care in the world. And in a lot of regards, neither did the rest of us. The next morning proved very different though.

The second picture is of a beautiful toddler with a perfect ducktail in his hair standing by as his dad has he places a brand new flag in a makeshift flag holder on the telephone pole in front of our house.

It’s been 20 years since those photos, but I still can’t fully comprehend what happened two days in between them.

I was home on maternity leave with young Derek. 20 years ago, there was no alert to your cell phone about important events. I’d been just spending my morning basking in the joy of my 2 perfect little boys.

My mom called. They’d taken a pilgrimage to Minnesota and had been scheduled to fly back that day. As things happen sometimes for my folks, they’d canceled their return flight because they’d spontaneously bought a motorhome instead.

“Are you watching the news?”

I wasn’t. I had no idea what had happened. I’m pretty sure the 2nd tower had been struck by the time I turned on the TV, but I was just so confused about what was unfolding, that I really don’t know for sure. “America?! Under attack?!” It was beyond comprehension. Like the rest of my world, I stayed glued to the TV hoping for some information that would tell me that things were going to be okay. But it wasn’t okay.  

The world lost the following guardians in NY alone; 343 from NYFD, 23 from NYPD,  and 37 from Port Authority. In one fell swoop; 403 people who’d felt that call to put the safety of others before their own were taken.

And as disheartening as that is on it’s own, there were also regular people who were just trying to live their lives who’d instantly lost them for a matter that wasn’t theirs. There are not words strong enough to accurately capture how wrong it all was. Who did this? Why? Is there more to come? I remember going to bed after a day of watching so much horror and being completely frightened. No one knew what was going to happen. I wondered if my little humans would be safe.

The next days were blurry. I remember bits and pieces of events. Planes had been grounded. My pilot neighbor had flown to Vegas before 9/11. The only way he was able to get home was to rent a Ryder truck. Communications were jammed. It took us some time to learn that Uncle Brad was safe. He’d been living in New York at the time. He was under the towers on a subway when the first plane hit. He heard about it as soon as he got off an got to his office. His was unable to return to his apartment for days because of it being close enough to ground zero. When he did return, he talked about seeing horrific things.

Even though I was 30 when it happened, I did not possess the maturity to know how to feel. The continued coverage of events was both a blessing and a curse. I wanted to know what more threat remained, but that came at the cost of looped footage of people jumping from one kind of certain death to another, trying in their last moments to control their destinies in spite of terrorists senseless acts; or audio of heroes intent on downing a plane before the bad guys wanted it to happen as they call home and say their goodbyes. Maybe it’s just me, but my eyes leak at the thought even as I write about it.

I wanted to feel better and to think that my littles weren’t destined to live in country under attack. It may sound dramatic now, but the realization that we were vulnerable was very unsettling.

I appreciated the messaging about unity; I mean, it’s right there in our country’s name. There was a drive towards increased patriotism. It was unacceptable that this terror was brought to us. And as a stay at home mom in Cottonwood, I felt paralyzed to be able to do anything about it. The only immediate thing that made sense was to buy a flag. As silly as it sounds it was an act of solidarity within my control. On 9/13 I took that perfect toddler and that newborn and waited in line with maybe a hundred other people at the Flag Center for my visual representation of union. This was pre-Amazon so the flag store is was our home for however long it took for all the people with the same goal. Every few minutes, I shuffled Daniel forward and hoisted Derek in his red, white, and blue infant carrier. As soon as the boys and I got that flag home, Brian promptly and proudly affixed it to the telephone pole.

Twenty years have passed, and I still feel completely insufficient in my ability to express sorrow for loss and gratitude for service. There’s no way. I doubt that I’m alone in that thought. And even though remembering and honoring doesn’t feel like it’s enough; it’s what we have. And we still owe to those to make sure we never forget.

Bedtime 9/10/2001
9/13/2001
Categories
Social Worky

Social Work Action Flick

The makings for greatness were there. The movie’s main character was a social worker. It is an action movie in which said social worker (SW) is going to be a bad ass. It had some great actors including consummate dysfunctional role players like Brue Dern and Fran Grillo.

It could have been a good movie.

It wasn’t.

With many other of the ingredients being on point, it begs the question about if what screwed it up was trying to make the SW out to be sparkplug of action.

For the most part; when SWs show up in films, they are either too heartless (“Nothing you can say or do will stop me from ruining your family”) or to heartful/self-important (“Your life will be perfect because I am going to raise you as my own” or “I am saving you”).

Real social work shouldn’t happen on either of those extreme ends. Sometimes it does. The results are typically some kind of disastrous.

As a result of the common role SWs hold in movies, I was genuinely excited to see Gateway.

I tried not to look for accuracies or inaccuracies as it went along; but I couldn’t help myself. SW drove a nice Monte Carlo SS to complete his field work, false. SW had a maladaptive way of coping with the stressors of the job; truer than I’d like it to be.

For Parker (“Badge number 2261” *eyeroll), alcohol and drugs were how he dealt with the emotions of his chosen field. I wanted to call out the to TV, “Parker! You can’t do some blow in your Monte Carlo before you go in and talk to a family about the importance of sobriety!”

Parker seemed to have forgotten that he chose social work. While there are associated feelings with the work; acting caught off guard about it would be like the bridge builder crumbling at the thought that his job includes building bridges.

Get your shit together Parker. Go to the gym or buy something shiny to deal with your feelings like the rest of us. It’s call pro-social activity, figure it out.

Some of Parker’s interactions tracked pretty well to SW. He was well intended. He wanted safe families and absence of trauma for kids. His desk was a fucking disaster. He had a chi vampire co-worker. And like many of us child welfare social workers, he’d had a pro boxing career before signing on to social services. (*eyeroll again)

Maybe it was his incredible passion for his purpose, or maybe it was his dysfunctional upbringing; but Parker was broken.

(Not sure if anyone intends on watching this “movie”; but there’s spoilers coming)

One night while Parker was social working his heart out in what he called the projects. His car was broken in to and he saw two young men run away with his stereo. Later, Parker takes himself a little bump of cocaine off his hand while sitting in his car at the gas station. He then hops out of that car pointing a gun at those same men. They ask him if he’s a cop. “I’m your worst nightmare! I’m a social worker with a gun!” (*MEGA eyeroll!)

Yup. That is a nightmare. As was the movie. It brought me to the point of checking the run time on it, 91 minutes, short enough to justify watching all of it to make sure I could effectively complain about every second of it. There was a death scene that made me long for some side character to just come over and shoot the dude again to get it over with.

Nevertheless, I’ll keep watching SW movies and hoping for one that captures the task as I see it. But I recognize that may not happen. There’d have to be slow motion capture of filing, or hype music as the sternly worded email is written.

Even though I’m ready to lend my expertise to the actress who’d play me (probably Scarlett Johansson bwah ha!), she wouldn’t get it. She’d try to overact the role. There’s not likely to be a movie with a strong SW lead, because SWs aren’t leads in the stories we’re a part of. The families are responsible for their glorious successes or for their other outcomes. We are just there to try to help.

My SW friends and I probably won’t be involved in shootouts with cartel members we’ve accidentally stolen drugs from; at least I fucking hope not. But we will have the chance to think about the work we are doing. Continue to make decisions based on if they further your goal of helping the kid or family. Ask yourself if the work you’re doing “feeds the bulldog.” If it does, you’re doing the work of the greatest movie that will never be made.

Thanks for reading!  

Categories
Growing up

NERDS!

There I was, leading a meeting in my capacity as a professional social worker (whose sense of humor is more aligned with that of a child). A criminal charge was read aloud, “defrauding an innkeeper.”

I’m not making light of criminal acts, someone stole from a hotel/motel. That’s bad. However, the title of the charge sent my juvenile imagination to 16th century England.  

With the room’s attention focused, I flung what I thought was a hilarious joke, “What, did they do….not pay for their mead?”

My room was full. But silent. With the exception of 2 chortles.

I grinned and called out to them, “Where my nerds at?!” Both laughed, one raised her fist and declared, “Huzzah!”

More giggling; by just us 3.

Culture means a set of shared beliefs and understandings. And in that vein, Nerd is most certainly a culture. Nerdism also exists on a continuum. I’ve been nerdy a long time, but I would be disrespectful to true nerds if I were to fully identify as a nerd.

My quasi-nerdism began with Star Wars. Obviously I was in love with Han Solo so I had to know all about his fake galaxy.

But my leaning a little more toward Poindexter was cemented by one of the least nerdy people I know; UG (Uncle George). UG is one of the very coolest people on the planet. He is not a dork by any stretch of the imagination. But he did show me Monty Python.  Specifically a skit in which dark humor showed men regaling in their childhoods trying to out-tough each other. Is starts with mild complaints about having been so poor they drank tea out of a rolled up newspaper. It gradually escalates to “my father murdered me in cold blood, every night…” To my cooking brain, it was magical to think that there were creators who believed that folks would get the dark humor they were generating.

The realization that the existence of such humor means there must be other weirdos out there like me was all it took to find a new way to relate to others.

Many high school weekends were spent watching VHS copies of the Holy Grail and quoting it verbatim. Nerdism creates its own synergy. When you’re chilling with the gang who brought their own lawn chairs to sit on campus during school; you’ll learn about other nerd things. Other movies you need to see, other books to read, etc. And then when you’ve all seen/read the same things there’s an increase in the intra-nerd feedback loop. It is a beautiful thing.

Over the years I have noticed that there is a number of unplanned ben-

efits from my dorkish background. Many dweebs can pass for normies or even super cool badasses. Accidentally landing on another covert nerd can be like catching a spark of awesome. Maybe someone throws out a reference that may or may not be nerd-ist related. “It’s just a flesh wound.” Responding with some other quote of the Black Night may net you a level up on communication legit-ness.

I know that nerdist tendencies aren’t for everyone. Nor should they be. If something gets too mainstream, it can absolutely lose it’s nerd charm. That “it’s not for everyone” element serves to make it more important to those that do nerd align. Nearly no one got my meeting joke, and that makes it extra funny to those that did.

Thanks for reading, and HUZZAH!

Categories
Blogolicious

The Importance of Morale

We’re in a bit of a funk at my Agency right now. Like every sector of the world of employment, people are leaving. Word is, pandemics (and probably stimmy checks) are giving folks an opportunity to take a pause and re-evaluate their lives. This makes it tough for those who stay behind. There’s a fair amount of training required in my job. As there should be. We are involved in some big stuff in people’s lives. We owe it to the families we serve to properly train the workers. And, this leads to a lag between when someone’s hired and when they are given full responsibility thus giving some breathing room to the workers who’ve been picking up the slack.

Short staffing and pandemic circumstances have led to a lot of yuck. In March of 2020. We all buckled our seatbelts for a 3 week lock down that’s turned in to a year and a half of daily uncertainty and worry. There’s been division and fear, and the hits just keep coming. The fatigue of managing feelings about it all has led to a decrease in ability/willingness to tolerate adversity. We may have handled something different in 2019 than we do today if no other reason than we’re just tired.

As a result, a phrase that I’m hearing a lot lately is that “morale is bad.”

We are lucky to work with people who’s hearts are in it for the work they do and they people they do it with. When shit gets real, you can count on people to rally without hesitation to each other’s aid or to meet the needs of the community. Without exception. It’s a thing of beauty to see.

But when were struggling, it can be easy to lose sight of this very important truth; morale is everyone’s responsibility. 

Morale isn’t something that any leadership can dial up on their own. Obviously when there’s concrete changes that are within their power to address, they should. If, for example, supervisors were releasing a swarm of bees into the office every day at 2 pm because they like the sound of it, that’s a thing they should stop doing. But if the expectation is that they change the suck of the world, that just ain’t gonna happen.

Ironically, I’m sounding like I’m complaining as I say we shouldn’t complain. I’m not trying to. Folks are all keenly aware of the steps people take consistently to lift up each other. Whether it’s motorcycle balloons, ordering matching shirts, baked goods, kick ass magnets, group gifts, or just being someone’s second on an investigation; that amazingness matters.

However, what’s also noticed is when people complain about morale. The very action contributes to the toxicity. Over complaining about morale is essentially as effective as complaining about sand in your eye as you are rubbing more sand in your eye. It’s counter productive to the goal at hand. Maybe it’s out there and I just didn’t look hard enough, but I did a brief research review and wasn’t able to find any thing that says grumbling improves mood.

This is easy to misinterpret, so I want to be crystal clear about a few things:

  • If you have ideas for solutions, absolutely share them. Time after time, the best solutions come from folks actually doing the thing
  • Keep doing all the amazing stuff to support your peers. Rather consistently, it’s our peers that keep us motivated and fueled to do incredible things

And finally,…

  • This blog is the personal opinion of one worker. If it’s struck a nerve, that’s my responsibility alone.  (ugh….I’m starting to think I’ll never learn when to keep my mouth closed)

We can’t control the status of the world, but we can control how we react to it. If I had a wish; it would be that when that urge to point out how shitty things are hits, take a moment of pause. Do you have an idea for a solution? Share it, please! Trust me, it is needed. And then ask yourself will complaining make you feel better? Or does it run the risk of shoving more sand in your eye?

Thanks for reading, and remember; this is just one person’s observations and opinions.