Category: Blogolicious

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Blogolicious Growing up

“Herd” the Yard is Closing

Evolution. Bleh. Things evolve whether we want them to or not. Today will be the last sale at “the yard.” The closing of Shasta Livestock Auction Yard is a big deal Cottonwoodians.

My parents moved us here when I was 5. Essentially my whole life that smelly place has been a part of what I call home.

If you’ve not smelled my town, you may have the COVID. It’s pungent, especially going in to Fridays when the sale happens. A few years back a casino put an I5 billboard up near it that said, “Smells like money.” The distinct smell means that cattlemen were getting paid and steaks would be able to show up in your local grocery. It’s weird to say that the smell that may turn stomachs is the same that comforts others because its symbolic of a culture.

The restaurant there will also close. My parents moved from LA-ish to Cottonwood. I think they rather enjoyed taking their LA family and friends to the Branding Iron restaurant to highlight just how country they’d become. If the aroma that lingers outside the restaurant wasn’t enough proof, my mom would point out the dead flies in the window sills. Large mammals means flies. Lots of them.  The restaurant food was amazing though. The pies in that place may single-handedly be responsible for diabetic conditions of two generations. The only things stronger than the coffee there were the values and waitresses.

The regulars are a living history of the town I love. They know everyone, which means whenever someone enters the dining area, there can be one of those movie like moments when all noises instantly hush as cowboy hats tilt to see who has entered. Don’t let the weathered faces and predator eyes fool you. They aren’t judging, they’re just expecting that whoever’s walking in is someone they know. However, show up in your best “Vegans Rule” or “Gun Control is Awesome” shirt and they may not have a lot of need to get to know you.

Going to the restaurant as a kid was an exciting adventure. While your parents waited for food or visited after eating, you could roam the halls at the Yard. The walls are lined with black and white 8×10 photos of cattlemen from as early back as the 30’s to modernish times. There were great names to look at, mustaches to appreciate, changing cowboy attire trends to track. Family names were familiar. It’s a veritable who’s who of Cottonwood life. As a kid, you were also obligated by kid law to sit in the vintage phone booths. If those booths could talk they’d be a testament to the ebbs and flows of cow business life. I’m sure there were excited calls made from those booths about fortunes made, and other calls to the bank begging for just a little more time.

When growing up happened (meh!), the hall walls still held the attention of many. They were like vision boards (or whatever those things are called). “Man, I could really make a go of it if I just had a couple million dollars to buy that ranch.” Haven’t landed the couple million yet, but I have been lucky enough to calves I know chilling in the pens waiting for the Friday sale.

The Yard is a central hub for all things Cottonwood/cow. Countless young’ns have spent time there working,  cleaning with their FFA club, or meeting there on Sundays to weigh their steers. It’s been there long enough that Yard fashion has cycled back around. I distinctly remember the trucker hats of the  70’s with that sway-back intentionally pathetic-looking cow on them. The new youth has brought those hats back with a vengeance. If you have one, get it hermetically sealed and wait sell it for some serious coin in couple years.

It’s been such a part of so many lives for so long. It will be sad to see it go. I asked young Dirty what he thinks about it closing. Without zero intentional irony he said, “It’s bullshit.”

Things change. We don’t have to like it, but we will have to accept it. The memories of it being a place of honor, virtue, and ethics will live on. In its closing, there’s still lessons to be learned. Cow people, yard owning people, regular people; can all have those times when even though they’ve done everything according to plan, the fickle finger of fate will fuck with them. We can just revel that we had it at all instead of regretting that it’s gone. Goodbye to a stinky place that symbolized hard work and dreams, and thanks for all the great things.

Thanks for reading!

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Blogolicious

Stood Up Shark

We did this whole conflict styles test thing at work a while back. According to it, I’m a shark; goal oriented, competitive, and aggressive. So, clearly the test is wrong. Nevermind the fact that before I’d even taken the test, 15 ish of my peers were confidently declaring, “Oh, Crystal’s definitely a shark.” C’mon guys! Not one person thought maybe I was a turtle?! Whatever.

With glaringly obvious shark like tendencies, you may think that I was maybe scrappy as a young’n. Never have I ever been in spontaneous physical altercation. Yet.

One of the earliest times it did almost happen was nearly 3 decades ago, and I’m still confused about it. The almost fight brewed after this one time when I got stood up.

I did okay in dating stuff back a million years ago. I had the number of dates and boyfriends that I wanted. I managed my expectations, tried to proceed wisely, and just didn’t get stood up.

Except that one time.

It was after high school. A young man I’d dated for a year in high school wanted to go out again. There was no heavy meaning attached to it. No need to say no. So,….sure. We’d det a date for a few days out. He didn’t show. It really was fine. I REALLY didn’t care or get bruised ego about it.

The next day I was at the frosty in town. As I waited for my upside down banana split, one employee there said to another, “Did you hear about (insert boy name here)? He went to Reno last night and married (whatever the girl’s name was).”

I was awash with relief. At least there was a reasonable explanation for being ditched.

I thought nothing more of it. Until months later when I was trudging around the Red Bluff fair grounds parking lot. I heard threatening expletives being yelled from a car.

The realization journey between “what’s that noise?” to “oh bitches want to fight me” was a short one.

The journey between,  “why the fuck they want to fight me?” and “let’s go” was even shorter.

It was the girl who’d married the boy and two of her friends. I have NO idea why beef with me was a thing. I mean, you got the boy so that shouldn’t matter. I was a solo girl (with some other boy by this time) just chilling. Posing no threat to your newlywed self.

As a shark might, I began to hurl my own threatening expletives back. Making it clear that I was not intimated and strongly encouraging them to come visit me.

Their Ford Festiva got stopped in traffic. Me, on Justin Roper clad foot, gained on them.

As I got closer, they sat in the car, eyes forward acting like nothing had happened. I was confused at their agro display, and even more confused by their “don’t make eye contact” response. Me being one person, it’s not like there was a lot of risk of me breaking all 30 of their combined fingernails. Maybe somebody was on probation or maybe someone became the festiva voice of reason, “Guys, we’ve got no beef with her.” Whatever the reason, they skirt skirted out, pushing all 4 of the car’s cylinders in to maximum work.

The flex on their part didn’t make sense. It made even less sense that unconsciously decided I wasn’t going to back down. Shark things make great sense if the goal is to remind everyone you’re a shark, but beyond that, they can be kinda stupid responses to situations. I’d like to think that I’ve matured some since that day, but when a room of people declare your sharkness, it’s clear I still have room to grow.

Thanks for reading!

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Social Worky

Fostering

Child welfare is an interesting gig. Until about the 1900’s, there were far more rules protecting violence against animals than there were for the protection of human children. Child welfare in it’s modern sense came into being around the 1970’s when there was an increase in the role of government trying to ensure that children were safe in their own homes.

Since that time, nearly everyone has heard a story about a time that Child Welfare didn’t intervene enough. And nearly everyone has heard a story when we intervened too much.

It’s a very difficult balance that people who chose the field as their career take very seriously. Fortunately for the families we serve, they are entitled to privacy about the events that led to our intervention. However, this makes the work seem like we are transparent to those outside the field.

By the time the events take place in which children are removed from the care of their parents, things have happened. Things that those with the legal ability to remove children (cops and courts) have determined have made it so the children can not currently be safe in the care of their parents.

Whatever those things are, stacked up with the removal of kids, are a lot for families to endure.

Social workers constantly meet 6-year-olds who experienced more in their short lives than they themselves as adults have experienced. It can be hard, but the depth of the experiences our families have had also make them some of the strongest people ever.

Most often, things have just gotten a little out of hand for a minute, and they need an opportunity to reset. There’s tools in place for that. Tools that really do help. But in the meantime, kids need a place to rest their souls while parents work.

A great foster parent is one who will be there for those little ones in an unsettled time in their life, and be prepared to support them when it’s time to go home.

It’s a very big ask. Love them like they need, but don’t love them so much that you get in the way of them going home. And, if they can’t go home, go back to wanting to be their forever solution. Open your home to scrutiny, and your heart to potential breakage.

It doesn’t sound like a good sales pitch. But somewhere the night is putting a child into your care; a child who’s had a really bad day. And they need a foster parent who’s in it for the right reasons who can help them get through it.

The foster parents who are best at what they do are the ones who are able to balance the many many hard things with the rewards of knowing they helped a kid through some tough times or got to see kids go back to homes where they are loved and safe.

Unfortunately, there’s a constant need for folks who can fill the complex role of fostering. If it sounds like something you’d like to learn more about, or something you’ve heard someone else express interest in, please don’t hesitate to ask a social worker about it.

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Blogolicious

Short Time

Young Dirty wrestled for 3 years. I learned that it’s probably the toughest sport there is. It requires strength, discipline, and vulnerability like no other. It’s one person against another. You can’t blame any shortcoming of the offense, or the pitcher, or anyone. I won’t pretend that I understood it. Literally one of the only things I recognized was when coaches or other parents would yell out “short time!”

That’s the call to the person in the fight that to hang in there because it’s almost time to stop. It can be to the person who’s in the dominant position, “You’re almost there, want to make something big happen? Now’s the time.” And it’s useful to the person who is, at that moment, out gunned by their opponent. You know, the person who could be on the verge of too soon of a surrender. To them short time means “Don’t give up. You’ve got a break coming very soon.” It’s a simple expression that infuses fight and energy into either opponent.

If you watch MMA, you probably can’t hear mommies yelling to their warriors “short time,” but maybe you’ve heard the slapping of sticks together when a round is nearing the end. In the middle of being pulverized, a fighter knows what that sound means. Time is running out so it’s either a) now or never to finish him or b) don’t pass out yet.

The structure of defined starts/stops and rules of engagement is very compelling. As it turns out, life is not so clear cut.

In the big picture, it’s hard to know when there’s short time. There’s no clock to say when the thing (whatever it is) is nearing the end. For folks who are just trying not to get pinned, I wish there was a clock that tipped them off to the idea that things will get better soon.  

I’m sure these kind of thoughts creep up more with age. Lately I’ve considered that there’s a finite number of dogs left for me to own or cars left for me to drive. And, that can be heavy to contemplate. But truly, the thought of knowing time ends is not despairing.

Any time is a gift to be cherished. We don’t know when some fucker’s going start slapping sticks together to tell us our time is almost done.

I really fall short of this goal, but it’s my wish to not take time for granted. This doesn’t mean I’ll burden myself with debt to buy diamond encrusted crossfit shoes or overdose on deep fried oreos. It’s less about wanting to live like there’s no tomorrow, and more about wanting to live like I got the most out of every today.

We’ve all lived in a weird co-existence with a pandemic for a long time. Hopefully there’s some positive take away’s. Maybe we can be more purposeful in the time that we do have, be authentic and make sure our people walk through their days knowing they’re cared about. Maybe we will buy the tickets, take the trip, or eat the Oreos. Whatever is your version of making the best use of our short time, do it.

Thanks for reading!

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Blogolicious

First Job

This morning, young Dirty and I visited as he headed out way too early for his jail job. While he sat on the garage step giving a quick shine to his boots, I reflected on my first job.

I wouldn’t say I was a “go-getter” when it came to working as a kid. I’d had some babysitting jobs. But that’s not really work. Make some quesadillas, do some fun things, and make sure the house is standing when ‘rents come home. So, I wasn’t sure how I would do when it was time to get a real job.

A family member was a cashier at the truck stop, and let me know that they were hiring busboys. I was interviewed, which was really probably just a screening to see if I was not likely to end up stealing the uniform. I must have looked like I wouldn’t.

Turns out, I was eager to please, and tried hard. Weird. I was there early, in my preened uniform. Trying to move more quickly and smile more broadly than I knew I could. I wanted to wait tables. My hope was to be like the big girls with the bow ties and aprons with pockets stuffed with cash. I was a greedy girl at 18 too.

Soon enough, I was granted the precious burgundy polyester pants and that ruffled navy apron. To say I was proud was an understatement. I would starch the ruffles on the apron so they’d perk just so. It didn’t take too long of a job on my feet to know that I needed shoes better than Payless could provide. I invested in a delightfully hideous pair of Sas shoes. In navy, you know,…to coordinate with the apron. I was committed.

The place was always just so dang busy. It was great. Anything I know about multitasking, I learned right there. And, if you ever want to learn a quick lesson about the interplay between your attitude and your income; a day of waiting tables will teach you.

I added another job working at the bank. I went from daily dilla making for elementary kids to two jobs with 3 different shifts each week. I’m not built for graveyards, by the way. But it was important to me, so I did it.

There were sections to work at the restaurant. If memory serves, they were “family,” “middle,” and “truckers.” Truckers was where it was at. The same folks week after week. It was like their home away from home. You got to know them pretty well, and it felt good to that home base for them.

It was my first time learning to interact with other adults in their world. There were certainly bumps, missed cues, overread cues and the like. I met a lot of characters. At least twice I made decisions that could have led to me being on a murder documentary. Youthful decision making,…geez. I was probably an annoyance to my more mature, much better at table waiting, chain smoking peers. But I got through it.

I was there about 2 years before I moved on. There was a moment of sadness as I handed over the paper sack that held my treasured uniform. But the memories and lesson learned were mine to keep.

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Blogolicious

My Lame Bucket List: 3 of 3

With such exotic tasks as “beer with the judge” and “hug from Maxine” out of the way, it was time to add something else to the questionable bucket list. Keeping with the “quirky obsession with public service” theme, I decided that I needed to get a selfie with Shasta County Sheriff, Tom Bosenko.

I suspected this one would be easier. As an elected official, it’s part of his job to placate constituents. I figured snapping a photo would be easier for him than some of the other requests/demands he’d been given over the years. In comparison to demands of “end crime” or “get rid of that nuisance hot dog man in C’wd,” getting a selfie should be cake.

Plus, in an encounter I’d had with the sheriff years before, I’d decided he was cool.

A million years ago, I’d spent some years as the chairman of the Cottonwood Rodeo Parade. It was a big project that I loved. One task as a part of that role is to check off every entrant as they enter the parade. One year, Tom Bosenko and Brad McDannold were both campaigning to become the next sheriff.

There I was in my mesh safety vest with my rented radio and clipboard. When Bosenko arrived, I thought it would be funny to say, “McDannold for sheriff?” as though I thought he was the other guy. He paused for a nanosecond, then laughed. When I tried the same #momjoke on Mc Dannold, he did not laugh. He didn’t smile. It was clear he didn’t think I was funny one bit.

Skip forward a decade and some change, I’m intent on interrupting this busy man for my silly list. It was now just a matter of time before I ran into him.

I was at a community presentation, minding my business while judging the content presented. (I swear to God, if I hear that gangster horse story one more time…), then in walks the big man. THE sheriff himself. He stayed at the back of the auditorium as though prepared to dip out at any second if needed to address public safety. Or perhaps if he just wanted to bail.

I tried to be subtle as I continued to monitor his location. I didn’t want to miss this change. But I also didn’t need to find myself restrained on the ground by a deputy as I try to explain, “No, it’s okay. I was just going to do something funny.”

The talk ended. The auditorium was rather full, and many people had their own hopes to rub elbows with the big dog. I exhibited the patience of raised-hand kindergartener dying to be called upon.

Finally, it was my turn. I led with “I’m a social worker for the County.” Maybe I was trying to align with him since technically we have the same employer. Or maybe I was trying to lead with showing a little street cred (bwah haha!).

Luckily, I’d had 2 previous rounds of practice telling my lame bucket list story to respectable people, so that part went pretty smooth. He was down for it with zero questions. Instead of a selfie though, I handed my phone to some other respected community member. Instead of asking a Deputy DA, I should have found a 17 year old girl. Or Jen Forehand. One of those types who’s good a making sure the picture is quality. One of those folks who maybe would’ve asked “If the look you’re going for is ‘over-eager fangirl’, you’re nailing it. If not, maybe lets dial it back about 20%.”

I’d expected the dorky picture to be the pinnacle. But it got even better. “Hold on a second, I have something for you,” the top Law Dog said as he reached in his pocket.

Now I’m SURE he carries around little SCSO badges for small children, or perhaps war heroes; but on this fine day,…he gave one to me!

It’s a really tremendous souvenir. Like, really! I’ve made sure not to abuse my self-implied power of the miniature brass. There’s a number of reasons l like it; not the least of which is that it affirms what I thought when I made my mom-joke to the poor man all those years ago, he is cool.

And thus completed the Holy Trinity of Quirky Challenges.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious Social Worky

Lame Bucket List 2 of 3

If you read my first bucket list happening, you’ll know that my second bucket list item wasn’t really destined to set the world on fire either. But it was something that was a challenge, and that I thought would be funny, so it had to be.

I am NOT a hugger. I’ve been raised by a hugger, but it didn’t take.

It’s not that I don’t love to hug on my people. My poor boys will do that thing where after I start the hug mob they just freeze and disassociate. It’s their primal defense mechanism. So far, it hasn’t deterred me from my repeated hug assaults.

I can interface with huggers. There’s times when people need the hug. I can and will abide.

I also know that there’s sometimes where being held is the only thing that soothes the soul. Those magnificent embraces that remind you that it’s going to be okay. The ones where you just be still and let it work it’s magic.

Buuuuut,…aside from those instances; not a hugger. I’ll shirk away from contact a kid from a sink of dirty dishes.

My guess is that our former director was also not a hugger. She was able to manage an agency based on feelings in a way where she didn’t let feelings have an impact on her work. By no means was she warm and/or fuzzy. I’m pretty sure she crossed a street one time just to avoid interacting with me.

So obviously, getting a hug from her had to be on my list.

I’m pretty sure I could’ve just gone up and asked for one any day, but where’s the fun in that.

So I waited for just the right time. I plotted and schemed. I shared my goal with others. There was speculation on how it would go; maybe even some assumption that she was a robot. “I bet she’ll have to access her ‘engage hug’ sequence.”

There was a get together one evening to celebrate on our attorneys moving on. When I’d parked at View 202, I saw her honor from my first bucket list item being dropped off. I walked in right behind the judge in hopes that people would think we came together. It would have been more convincing if I’d actually talked to her as I did that.

I didn’t expect my hug target to be there, but she was! I had to rally. It seemed like a good idea to check in with my mentor/supervisor before making a spectacle. I sent her a text asking if I should, but she didn’t respond instantly. I had a “Fuck it, we’ll do it live” moment.

There was a quieter moment in the event. I stood up in front of probably 20 people who I really respect and,….yup,…announced that my bucket list included wanting a hug from Maxine.

She shrugged her consent. I walked towards her. Cameras rolled. I felt certain it would be the uber safe one arm side hug, but it wasn’t! It was the two armed, with a squeeze hug! There was cheering (not kidding…we’re all weird where I work).

The occasion wrapped up with a photo of me with both the judge and the director. As we stood there an smiled, both of them flatly told me “You need to do better on making your bucket list.”

Thanks for reading!

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Blogolicious

My Lame Bucket List: 1 of 3

I need a bucket list. I’m a person for whom a pending project is key to sanity. The last big project I had is done. I know that parenting doesn’t ever really end, but we’ve gotten to the point where those boys o’ mine are raised. And despite my unintended efforts to ruin them, they’ve turned out to be such rockstars. So now what? 

Historically, I’m really bad at bucket list making. A real life judge even told me so. 

She was the first of my trifecta of weird bucket list tasks. “Have a beer with the Judge.” She was the presiding judge of our Dependency (CPS) court. I became a social worker to help families. But when you’re involved with families like we are, they can have a tendency to not see your help as helpful. 

In court we had a designated chair in the front of the courtroom. I affectionately called it the Time Out chair. Sometimes in that chair vile and untrue things were said about you. It’s hard separate out that the lashing isn’t really about you. I wanted to turn to the judge and say “that’s not me. I’m a nice person who’s trying hard.” So after several years of this, I decided I wanted to have a beer with the judge so she could know I wasn’t the monster I was reported to be. It was a joke of mine for years.

Then…! 

Watching the Colt .45s baseball team is a fun summer activity. Got there one night, and saw that the first pitch was being thrown by our judge. She stayed for the game and I creepily stared at her. They look so different without their robes on. They have legs! She was with people, one of which I sorta knew. And, she was having a beer! It was all accidentally falling into place. I’d never talked to her outside of answering her questions in her courtroom. I wasn’t sure I could. 

It was the 3rd inning before I mustered up the courage. I’d ran over the words in my head several times. Do I start with “your Honor”? If I call her by her name, will a hole rip open in the time/space continuum? I’d prepped to be looked at with confusion, or maybe to be pepper sprayed. I’d spent a LOT of time in her court room, but I wasn’t sure if she’d recognize me.

With all the grace of a 7th grade boy asking a girl to dance, I shuffled my way up the bleachers. “Uh,…hi?” I paused waiting to see if I was to be taken down by agents in sunglasses and suits. She “hey”ed me back (It’s going okay…keep going Adams). “So, I’ve got this weird bucket list where I was someday hoping to have a beer with you so know I’m a normal person.”

There I was, vulnerable in the presence of a hero. I had no idea what to expect. “That’s a pretty lame bucket list, but okay.” Her response was more perfect than I could’ve imagined. She added that there better be a picture or “it never happened.” 

Maybe I should’ve capitalized on that opportunity in a different way. Maybe I should’ve tapped into that brain trust and she could’ve helped me come up with better bucket list ideas, because the next two were equally questionable. Those stories deserve their own time though. 

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Social Worky

Blame it on the Algorithm

Well. Somehow we got here. The place where a random guy’s facebook post generated enough conversation that there was a story on the legitimate news about it. To be clear, I’m not weighing in on what he said or what she said. That’s not my concern. The last time I cared about a backing-and-forthing on the social media front was in the days of the Cottonwood Food Truck Crisis (#LongLiveHotDogGuy).

But I do care about how social media is shaping reality. I care about that very much.

I’m ill equipped to describe the dangers of media algorithms, but imma be still trying.

I watched this interesting show on Netflix called Social Dilemma. I’m sure someone has a better summation than this, but in short; it talked about how our attention is a very lucrative product that is battled for. I liked the quote that “if you don’t pay for the product, you are the product.” And the brilliant software folks are very good at getting, and keeping, our attention.

The show discussed the negative consequences that have come from less than 100 programmers being able to influence the opinions of 3 billion people. For example, humans weren’t hard wired to have a need for “social approval dosing” every five minutes. But here we are.

They said that since 2010, this attention feedback cycle has resulted in an increase in psychiatric hospitalizations for girls 10-14 by 189%. By the show’s report, the youngn’s of our time have been manipulated to believe that they need specific kinds and amounts of social media interactions, and that they can hyper-focus on negativity to the point of self-injury.

I don’t know they are right or wrong about that, but I do know that the manipulation doesn’t stop at tween girls. We’re all susceptible to it. Look around you. Can you see something you bought because it popped up on your Facebook or your Instagram? Do you have a strongly held opinion that started after seeing someone’s post?

You’ve probably heard about algorithms. (Again, non-smart person description here) Algorithms are the math-y way that your media controls what you see. What pops on my mine versus your Facebook is specifically engineered to be different so that each of us is inclined to stay on longer. (I’m a size 7 ¼ in tinfoil hats, by the way).

So what does this have to do with the guys’ facebook post becoming news?

Media and social media are feeding their version of reality to us. And since it’s designed to harvest our attention, we’re in a dangerous spot if we take the spoon fed information as gospel.

The show talked about how if I’m always looking at “the chicken came first” stories, my feeds and recommended views will want to keep my attention by showing me more “chicken first” stories. Never challenging me to consider if the egg was first. However, if my neighbor is always looking at “the egg came first” information, that’s what will her medias will continue to push her way. A confirmation bias feedback loop that just tells us each we’re right.

Who needs that much divisiveness? But it takes work to seek out our own information, do our own research, and come to our own conclusions. It’s soooo much easier for me to get my news from memes (What happened in Oregon that made crack legal?).

But let’s see if this loosely associated example helps.

Vegas. I’d seen it a million times glamorized in movies and media. Everything from “Hangover” to “3000 Miles to Graceland” glorifies this town. So imagine my surprise when we went there a couple years ago and it dawned on me; it’s a real and little place. Sure it’s cool and all, but being there instantly demystified that it was larger than life.

If Vegas wasn’t exactly like it seems in media and social media, I suppose it’s possible there could be other confusing representations out there as well.

So before you vilify or champion any side of any argument; ask yourself this: Are you being  shown Vegas they want you to see? Or the Vegas that really is? Is the news that you are seeing really news? Or is it the result of algorithms feeding off each other?

There’s an old psychology phrase of “self-fulfilling prophecy.” It means a prediction that causes itself to be true. That’s what’s at risk with algorithms.

I could be going around thinking my neighbor and I are going to have to fight about if it was the chicken or the egg that came first. My algorithms could fight for my attention by making me believe that it’s going to happen. Tensions rise. We each put symbolic frames around our profile pictures indicating our allegiance. Next thing I know, there’s a donnybrook going on as we take out our garbage. A right scrap that maybe would’ve never happened if we didn’t let social media make our opinions for us.

Good on ya’ if you were able to stick with this one as a read. I know it’s a little out there. With that being said, I’m off to post some pictures of my crockpot (full of chicken) on my IG to see if I can land myself on the news.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Totally Witchin’

“Oh! You’re in the house that scares kids!” That’s how the nice dad we met at the mailboxes a few months back was able to figure out where we live. Yes. Yes we are the house that scares kids.

Halloween is my favorite. I still think that the reason for that has something to do with how my mom took 2 year old me to see The Exorcist in the theater, but I suppose there could be other reasons too. But even though it’s the holiday around which my world revolves, I never set out to be the kid scaring house, but man am I glad I am.

It wasn’t until this house that I lived somewhere where there are trick or treaters. I LOVE seeing the kids and their costumes. Everything from the little babies in lion costumes to the grown up skunk couple. I even love the ones who half-ass a costume in the name of candy begging. “I’m too old and cool for Halloween, buuuuuut, I’m not to old to put on my baseball jersey and see if there’s candy to be had.”

We get enough trick or treaters that Katie Barnette said that she’d like to come over on all hallows and scare children. I couldn’t see anything wrong with that plan at all. Mask, jump, loud noise, then children hollering. And like that; a tradition began.

Sure, as a child welfare social worker I worried about whether or not I should be involved in scaring children. But as the years have gone on, I’ve capitalized on another social work value; that of informed consent.

EVERYbody knows that this is the house where you may get scared. Parents ready at their cell phones to record the reaction of their little ninja’s, construction workers and princesses. Last night, there was chanting on one of the flatbed trailers full of trick or treaters as it pulled up, “Scare-y House! Scare-y house!” A family told Chris that last year her sister got so scared she may have thrown a toddler out of the way to clear a path for her escape.

It’s a pretty good heart starter to have a clown or demon on Michael Myers jump in your path. But I’ve wondered if it’s become so expected it’s no longer effective. Kids will walk from the street looking for Michael. Last night, a 6-ish year old said with a sage wisdom “Every year you guys get me.” You could almost hear the finger wag in his voice. His 4-ish your old brother echoed, “every year.” They were scared though. Them and plenty others.

And, last night there was a carrot that convinced me we’re still on track.

Middle schoolers came to the door. A gaggle of them. There was a couple basketball jersey kids and a kid dressed as a carrot. One of the boys said his muscles were bigger than mine. I told him he was incorrect. There may have been some flexing. They started talking about how much they bench; one said 2 pounds another said 4,000 pounds. They got comfortable at the door. Their guard was down. They were ripe for the scare.

As they headed down the spooky sidewalk, they were met by several frights. You’ve never really lived until you’ve seen a carrot run screaming from your Halloween haunts.

Neighbor Sommer is glad we keep the scares up but she gets to deal with the aftermath, “That carrot was a mess.”

Thanks scarers and scar-ees for the great memories!