Category: Blogolicious

Categories
I Work Out Personal Growth (or not)

The Pains in My Ass :)

It was sit up time. I can’t tell you how many months it’s been since I’ve done sit ups. Karen, the wise and kind, asked me if I wanted a mat for under my back. I declined.  And, that was my first mistake.

I sat up aggressively over and over. And consequently lost skin on my butt. It’s a thing that’s pretty normal, but that typically doesn’t become anyone’s business but your own.

My next fun mistake this week was to believe that I could do a workout with cleans at 115 pounds. Many folks can, but I am apparently not one of them.

Cleans are taking a barbell from the ground to up in front of your shoulders. It’s a lift that’s poetry in motion when done correctly. When I did it at that weight, it was more like a ransom note written by a 1st grader. I caught it ugly more than once. I ended up with a lovely green bruise on my chest, and a sucker punch of a pain in my left hip. Fine. My error for lifting with shit form, I’ll work around it, and it’ll be okay.

Three days later, I was doing deadlifts. The weight was not terribly heavy, 165 pounds. Things were going “old lady lifting” smooth until they really really weren’t. I was pulling the bar up, and the universe was like “naw bitch, sit down.” There was a pop in my hip. I crumbled, cussed, rolled out, and pared the weight WAY back so I could finish the workout.

But I was fine. I went outside later and tried some banded muscle ups. I was okay. I sat for 3 hours on a webinar training, and was fine-ish. Nauseous, and couldn’t get comfortable, but fine.

Then I did the craziest athletic thing yet for the week, I was (wait for it…) unloading my dishwasher. I bent over on my right leg. There was a sharp sensation, tingling, and the next thing I know, I was laying on the ground. I spent several minutes trying to get up, but I could not. This, and the pain, made me cry. I had a moment to inspect the underside of the cabinet and realized it needs to be re-finished. I made a mental note to get on that.

Finally, I realized I needed to call to my dear hearing-impaired husband who was watching TV on the other side of the kitchen. He’d heard nothing of my dramatic fall. I called. No answer. I tried to get up for a while more. I called again. I imagine that he had a moment of “did I just hear something?” before he came to the kitchen. His face told me he was worried, and I felt really bad for that.

While I thought that I’d be fine once I got off the ground, he made it clear that going to the ER was not a choice. He was taking me regardless of my protests.

The ER is weird right now, much like the rest of the world. He was not allowed in. I was left to myself, trying desperately to avoid COVID so people can’t have their satisfaction that I got it after going to the rodeo. But I was in so much fucking pain that I was touching everything as I writhed and wept.

Triage decided it was a sprain of my sacroiliac joint. The PA said it’s sometimes called the “sac” joint and I giggled because my sense of humor is that of a 14 year old boy (Deez nutz!). It should heal on its own without any major intervention. The plan was to address my pain. They were going to inject a muscle relaxer and an anti-inflammatory IN MY ASS THAT’S MISSING SKIN. Cool.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the years forming opinions about med seekers. I think the universe may have given me this awesome experience to help me expand my empathy on the subject. The nice nurse was understanding about my chapped butt and gave me the injections. I was “chilling” in the room for about an hour. I googled things such as “how long does it take for an IM muscle relaxer to make the pain stop” because I was still in a lot of pain. I looked like an alligator whose just taken prey as a I twisted and turned just trying to find a comfortable spot.

The guy came back and asked how I was doing. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m still hurting. I was expecting the shots to stop it.” I started to cry when he said that he was going to get morphine. “Have you ever had morphine before?” “Uh, I think so after I had a cesarean.” That shot stung like a mo-fo. I told him that there’s a bunch of calves that would have loved to see me stung by a shot. And then I told him the importance of seeing the rock walls out Ash Creek road. And then I felt better for several hours.

More humbling lessons came from the universe the next day when I went to fill my prescription for 12 pain pills and 15 muscle relaxers. The pharmacy clerk asked if I’d filled prescriptions there before. I thought I had, but I guess not. Apparently , this is a trigger for folks when getting pain medication. Another way she could have assessed the situation is that “maybe this chick doesn’t get medication often,” but naw. Maybe I was suspicious. After all, I have taken opiates in the past. In 1999. When I had a baby cut out of me!

 The lecture and judgment was unwarranted. And it got in my head. Am I med seeking? There’s no cool outcome to explain my pain. Like, I’m not having a baby or needing surgery. I’m thankful for the wisdom shared with me that it’s okay to take pain medication when there’s pain. Then I got angry at big pharma for creating circumstances where people feel like they have to question if someone really is having pain.

This week has been bursting with things that have been pains in my ass. Hopefully I’ll have learned some valuable lessons from this all and can put it all behind (oh!!!!) me.

If you hung in there, thanks for reading. 🙂

Categories
Blogolicious

Dick and Sandi: Love and No Cults

It really is a wonder that I wasn’t raised in a cult. Back when there were gyms and I spent time on treadmills, I watched a series about cults. Hopefully that’s normal-ish, and no, there wasn’t an episode about Crossfit.

The theme I noticed about all the ex cult members was that they all had indeterminable belief in the goodness of others. That’s precisely how my mom sees the world.

It occurred to me right then and there that my dad probably had to spend a fair amount of time making sure we didn’t end up in a cult. My mom is not gullible, but she wants people to be their best and will do whatever she can to support them. She’s known to buy from any number of the varied characters that have graced her studio over the years; Fuller Brush man, Schwann’s man, Avon ladies, the multilevel marketing vitamin people, you name it. Whether or not those things were “needed” in the household is open to debate. She does it because she believes in people and wants to help them.

Then there’s my dad.

One of his best attributes is how pragmatic he is. His realism is just about as opposite as it can get to my mom’s “everything is awesome” outlook. The way that their two perspectives work together is precisely how they accomplish all that they have.

My parents have been married 52 years. If that doesn’t impress you enough, I’ll add that my in-laws have been married 50 years. In a world where an accomplishment in commitment is more like “I was able to watch every episode of Breaking Bad,” the length of these marriages is astounding.

Anyone can be in a marriage (or committed relationship) when it’s easy. And, nothing can be easy for 52 years. Not even getting out a chair.

When they met, she was a 19 year old starry eyed waitress (that’s what servers were called back then). He was a 28 year old father and business owner. They dated a short time, and married quickly thereafter. You can ask them the mushy stuff. They’re my parents. I don’t need to know any of that.

I don’t know that they intentionally set out to push each other to succeed, but that’s how it looks from the outside. They both believed that the other was capable of whatever was needed to be achieved. Every single idea. Some of the things they’ve believed the other could pull off would test even a 1967 vintage marriage. The challenges of co-parenting, trying to have children, uprooting for a new life, career changes, family crises, recession, and more recession, the whole gamut.

Divorce happens a lot now. When I was growing up, not so much. I remember one story when so-and-so left so-and-so after 32 years of marriage. I was trying to gossip with my dad about it in that beautiful wood and corrugated metal shop on the ranch. Mr. Practical with a dry sense of humor, “Yea I don’t know what I’d do if you mom left me after 32 years.” Then a pause and twinkle, “I guess I’ll never get that lucky.” I’m sure he was joking. Pretty sure.

They didn’t get to 52 years without pissing each other off on the regular. Mom’s people don’t need to see my dad to know if he’s in trouble. My mom’s an artist. There’s a disturbing degree of realism when she draws a literal asshole with legs on her white board. It’s the unquestionable sign that he’s in trouble.

We are constantly barraged with images of what love is supposed to look and feel like. We measure ourselves and our relationships to unrealistic standards. Fuck you advertising and media.

Love isn’t hearts/flowers/diamonds. It’s not first kisses or 100% smiley days. It’s waking up every day for 52 years choosing to be married. It’s keeping your partner out a cult and making sure your partner knows when they are being an asshole.  It’s being true to yourself and really being in partnership with someone who makes you want to be better. It’s seeing the other as you saw them when you fell in love with them. My dad turned 81 recently. My mom posted, “This gorgeous hunk of male flesh sitting right there in front of you. He still makes my liver quiver.” She’s back to the starry eyed waitress meaning every word of what she says. He’s back the young entrepreneur believing that there’s nothing they can’t do.

Categories
I Work Out

The Essential Employee’s Guide to Essential Exercise

For folks who see exercise as a valuable part of their lives, and those who may even see it as a coping skill, being in a pandemic with gyms closed can be a huge challenge.

Here’s how I think we can maintain following the shelter in place orders, but still keep some exercise going.

Let’s start all the hours of our essential duties days with a little body movement. These can be done at your desk (make sure to keep safe social distancing).

There’s no need to dress out for these activities. The intent isn’t to get all sweaty, it’s just to get some body weight action continued.We’re reminding our bodies that they work for us, and that we will take care of them. Plus, it’s something like the apocalypse, it’s okay if we do sweat a lil.

All we need is maybe a towel so your hands don’t pick up and COVID 19 off the floor, and some willingness to look strange for exercising at your desk.

9:0020 Air Sqauts
10:0010 Burpees
11:0015 Push ups 
1:002 minutes of plank (break as often as needed, but accumulate 2 minutes)
2:0015 Tricep dips
3:0020 Leg lifts
4:0010 Lunges each leg
The Essentials Workout

 If you do this, it’s not lying to tell people you worked out all day. Adding some light cardio in your day will help with the stresses of all this, and will remind your body that this is break from the gyms, not a new way of being. I plan to walk or bike around my hood (6 feet from any others) for about 30 minutes a day.

If you’re thinking “Man. I’d like to do this, but I don’t want to seem weird doing this stuff at my desk,” remember that 3 weeks ago hoarding toilet paper was weird. Abnormal circumstances allow for abnormal responses. It’s totally okay to just bust out some burpees in times like these. Just remember to take off your lanyard. I know from experience that burpees will break our IDs.

If you need help on any of these moves, seek out a gym rat. Cyndi Code has done great burpee demonstrations in the quad. Am I right, Code?

Who’s down?

Categories
Blogolicious

Mo Bear the Cow Dog

We lost a dog this week. Mo was clearly reaching the end a few weeks back, but his stubborn cow dog spirit hung on. I think the right call was made about his home hospice treatment. We certainly don’t believe in allowing animals to suffer. He would have been taken him in if we thought that to be the case. But, it also seemed unkind to take the dog of unknown age to vet to add whatever extension to his already full life.

Nobody knows how old Mo was. I came home one day in 2010 to very excited young boys bursting to tell me that Dad got a cow dog. (Side note, this is dog #1 in a series of four that entered our life without my involvement in the plan at all *heavy sigh). I expected a puppy, but was met with a fully grown character already set in his ways. Brian had talked to a person who’d had a dog. He went to see the dog. The dog promptly walked up to Brian, hiked his leg, and pissed on him. Thus, Mo became ours. Or, rather, we became his.

To be clear; though Mo’s resume said he was a great working dog, we didn’t see that.

Cow dogs are incredibly smart, so it’s most likely that his failure to be effective was on the humans. I’m  pretty sure that if Mo had come with a Mo Owner’s Manual, things would have been better.  There were a couple of clues that Mo had cheat codes that were just unknown to his keepers. One day Brian was working on something that was vexing him. He yelled out “Son of a Bitch!” Out of nowhere the largely antisocial Mo appeared at his side, sitting at attention with his tail wagging. Hmmm, MAYbe this is how his last human’s got him engaged (?)

He came on scene at a time chapter books were read aloud to and with the boys. Hank the Cow Dog was a favorite. Hank was the self proclaimed head of ranch security. Mo fit that mold. He was efficient at herding children. Barking, and nipping if he could. He was terribly fast. I yelled at him A LOT to leave kids alone. So that was cool. Nothing accompanies the soothing sounds of a barking dog quite like the gossamer winged screech of a worried mother.

It was learned the hard way that he was afraid of guns. He went on a redneck excursion. When the guns came out, he quietly and quickly ran several miles down Vestal Road. Vestal is remote to say the least. But Mo ran and ran and ran. I thought he was gone forever. There he was, in the middle of the dirt road, so far from where he’d left. Given just a little more time and he’d have hooked a right on 36 and took it east bound all the way back to Red Bluff.

He was pretty crotchety. He was mostly indifferent to the humans, unless he determined any needed herding. And he seemed generally irritated to be paired with the last chocolate, Dozer. He outlived that dog, then a few years back he got to be cranky about two new cow dogs (that also don’t work for shit). Maximus completed the crowd. You could almost see Mo sigh, shake his head, and roll his eyes at each new addition. It’s tough being the alpha. Gotta keep setting the pecking order in place. It’ll wear on a guy. Especially given that he was already “get off my lawn” years old when he came to live with us.

His short tolerance for frustration led to a pack inadvertently trained to bark like demon dogs at passer-bys (sorry neighbors, for real!). He was also responsible for there being a special plan in place to get the propane guy to agree to keep coming. It was all annoying as fuck, but I choose to believe that he did it because he thought it was his job. Cow dogs need jobs.

As he came up on short time, I would try not to act surprised to find him still with us when I’d let the dogs out each morning. I’d give him love. He was probably mad that he didn’t have the stamina to run away from me. I’d thank him for all that he’d done. I’d tell him that he’d done good work for us, and let him know it was okay to go. He never did give up. This week, he took the trip to the vet so that he could pass on. He was buried under an oak in with other veteran working dogs and companions. Even though he could take me or leave me, I will miss him.

Categories
I Work Out Personal Growth (or not)

What’s Wrong With Being Confident?

It’s shortly after 6am on a Tuesday. I’ve got to be to work in a lil bit, but here I sit in my kitchen with hair dye on. I got drastic haircut last night and I can’t un-see that my dyed dark parts are in need of touch up. So there I go. Dying my hair before work. The unworthy pop song pops in my head “What’s wrong with being confident?” This. This and many other things are what’s wrong with being confident.

Normal people wouldn’t seize the moment between Crossfit and work to dye their hair. But, unnaturally self assured people will. Sure there’s benefits to self assuredness, but I’m a living example of some of the pitfalls to it as well.

“Yea. I bet I can do that.” This is the thought that pops in my head often before a number of questionable activities. This thought is regularly followed by reality checks that should curb my behavior. One time I thought I could scale a 6 foot fence with ease. There was no ease about it. It was ug-ly. Reasonable folk would be like, “Hmmm. I guess that’s not in my wheelhouse. Guess that’s okay because I have no need to scale fences.” Folks like me are more like, “I want to climb a fence again.” Why? There’s zero rationale for that thought.

I also get some reminders of my sharky presentation in a number of ways. Important person was at a meeting. I’d asked her if we’d met. She said that we had at a meeting that I’d ran about such and such. We’ve all got way too many meetings to track each one, but I tend to remember the ones that I’m in charge of. My take away from this conversation…Fuck. I probably was acting like I was in charge of the meeting even though I wasn’t. Again.

Confidence builds on itself. When little Billy is tasked with something and he successfully accomplishes that task, he will be more willing to do it again. He will get better; and when he gets better, he’ll get more chances to keep practicing. He gets reinforced with the “I might be good at this” messaging.

Meanwhile little not Billy who doesn’t do the thing also gets his ideas that he’s no good at the thing reinforced. It makes me think of that old expression, “It takes money to make money” in that if you have some confidence you’ll get some more confidence just by feeling more comfortable putting yourself out there.

Challenge yourself to try new things. It should suck when it’s new. There’s no growth without suck. Challenge others to stretch their wings too. This is not a dress rehearsal, so we gotta get all we can out of this run. Live with no ragrets, not even one letter. If there’s messaging in your head telling you that it’s not okay to admit that you can be good at something, squish that voice. It’s being a bitch. If you’re worried that you’ll have an unhealthy amount of unchecked confidence, take that off the table too. The universe has a great way of keeping your shit in check.

I was right. I could dye my hair in the time I had. It turned out well. Then the next day I thought, “Chemical peel, I bet I can do that” and my face melted off. As if the universe plainly stated, “Bitch. Be humble.” Got it. Thanks universe. Message received.

Categories
Blogolicious Social Worky

Social Work Appreciation

As I stood in line waiting to buy 100 tortillas for the social work appreciation breakfast, I had some time to contemplate the universe.

In a perfect world, child welfare social work wouldn’t exist. We’d all be clamoring for some real jobs because kids would have safety, permanency, and well-being without government intervention. That’s not the reality though.

People are pulled to social work. Every worker I know possesses the intelligence and skills to make an easier living. But they don’t. Everyone has their own reasons for doing the job. Some may have experience in the system. Some may have been those weirdos who as a child felt bad for the toys of theirs that didn’t get played with as much as others (eyeroll…it’s me). Some are drawn by the fascination with human behavior. Some want to fight the system from within. Nonetheless, all want to make the world a better place for someone.

There are variances as to what “better place” means, and how to work through “who’s place should be better” in a world of competing priorities. And then there’s those complications of system limitations and good ol’ client right to self-determination. For those non social workers, client right to self determination is best summed with the classic joke: how many social workers does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but the lightbulb has to WANT to change.

Social work is caught between camps that think, 1)we don’t do enough and 2)we do too much.

There’s a  new Netflix documentary right now about a child who was beaten to death by his mother and her boyfriend. 4 social workers were charged criminally for their role in his death. The Trials of Gabriel Fernandez is 6 hours of looking back on a horriific tragedy and trying to assign blame to someone other than the monsters who committed the acts. I’d love to think that it could have been prevented, but I also know that decisions are made hundreds of times a day in which the full impact won’t be known until the story stops somehow. Sometimes our help doesn’t help. We use tools at our disposal and shared decision making in an effort to prevent tragedy, but fully predicting human behavior does not exist. Sometimes, bad things happen despite the very best efforts. The show has caused feelings and conversations filled with critical thinking.

In ironic contrast to the position of the Netflix show, some kindly gentleman set up camp in front of our office to educate the public his belief that child welfare agencies are over involved. Just a little glimpse in to how hard it can be to find the perfect middle ground in intervention.

The external pressures and queries pale in comparison to the pressure the workers put on themselves.

Some social work decisions end up amazing. Others end up with an unofficial jury of your peers passing judgment on them. Others still end in bad things happening. Many end up with some version of okay. The yuck of it is, most decisions can land anywhere on that scale, and the social worker has no idea at the time.

Social workers want nothing more than to do the right thing. And when that’s not clear, or isn’t going to happen, it can be very hard.

God bless their people and pets for being there for them during tough times. They didn’t chose the social work life, but they still deal with the consequences.

if we were really fair, we’d include support pets and people in the hiring process. “Fluffy, what are your thoughts on having your human come home inexplicably crying and not meeting your cat needs as quickly as you’d like?” “Billy, sometimes mom is going to come home from work and hug you a really long time for reasons that aren’t yours to know. How will you deal with that?”  “What are you going to say when your husband tells people he’s a social worker and people at the barbeque suddenly act different toward you all?”

We don’t do that though. (Thank goodness, because I could never interview a cat. The last one I met bitch slapped me for trying to pet it like a dog. I didn’t know!). But, we do try to support each other. We try to honor the families that we serve by giving them our best work. And once a year we over eat breakfast burritos to commemorate the decision that we make every day to wake up and be a social worker.

Categories
Blogolicious Personal Growth (or not)

Don’t Pick at It

“I want to be a pretty girl.”

This is one of the things I say too often that is funny, but also dead ass serious, but wrapped up again with funny so that it doesn’t seem too serious. For me, that mostly means that I want to look put together and like I take care of myself. Hilariously true statement, when I was younger I just thought that women became glamorous when they hit 25. Surely it would magically happen for me. Well,…it did not. And so began the makeup years.

I made myself orange with effort trying to look attractive. Evidence of my labors were like self esteem clues. Foundation residue on my phone (so gross!). A drawer full of eye shadows that were never quite as awesome as I’d hope they were going to be. Too many lipsticks that were barely used because they weren’t quite right.

I remember very distinctly being at a meeting at the bank and seeing all the down turned mouths of the old guard. I thought that they must all be mad, disgruntled. etc. I vowed that would never be me. I’m sorry to them for misjudging. Motherfuckin’ time makes your mouth turn down regardless of how you feel about the new sales quotas.

Then one day as I sat in another meeting, in another setting a very different thought occurred to me No, it was not “boy, I should really start paying attention in my meetings.” It was, “why do the men at this meeting just have their red spots on their skin without feeling some need to cover it up?” And so I stopped most the makeup. If Dave and Larry can get through their day without foundation, by golly, so can I. I’m not sure if this was a moment of maturity and acceptance, or a moment of giving up.

I feel like I still tried to clean up. I comb my hair on many days. I put some dead dinosaur product on my eyelashes. I still want to be pretty. I don’t know why. If there’s a point in emotional maturation where a person no longer has that desire, I’ve not yet hit it. I don’t need attention, but I also don’t want to disappear. If that makes sense.

So with that hope in mind, earlier this week I called the dermatologist and lucked out in getting a same day appointment for a mild chemical peel. Never had one before, but the process seemed simple: brush shit on, wipe it off, go back to work, wait for miracle of skin regeneration.

And then, the universe rich in irony decided to teach me a lesson on vanity. Hard. “Oh. You’re after a change in your skin? I got you.”

The peel “went more aggressive than anticipated” for reasons unknown by the incredibly apologetic team at the place. I look like a cross between a chipmunk and a sugar crisp cereal puff. I’m swollen and scabby. There’s enough fluid in my face that it jiggles when I walk. For real. I can’t smile nor see over my swollen cheeks. My face is jacked up. The doctor assured me it will be okay. But in the meantime, I get to proudly wear the badges of “I’m vain” and “I want to be pretty girl.” Got it universe. Message received.

I considered moving out of the country until my skin recovered, but naw. It would be an injustice not to capitalize on a conversation starter of this magnitude, right?

The purpose of this entry is not to compliment fish. I will fake punch you in the throat if anyone starts that. The purpose is that now that my insecurities have been forced in to the open, maybe it can open a dialogue about all of ours. It’s okay to want to look nice. It’s okay to make efforts to do that. It’s also okay when those efforts fail horribly. It’s called taking your lumps and it’s nature’s way of keeping self-importance in check. I will embrace it, and hope that embarrassment brings a lovely hue to my cheeks.

Categories
Blogolicious

Lady Carhartts

“Hey.” the voice calls to me with a confidence. It knows my efforts to resist will be useless. My lady Carhartts beckon to me. Assuring me that the time and willpower does exist to complete a likely unnecessary project.

“Girl. You know we’ve hated that navy blue toilet and sink since we moved in here. It’s time.”

And just like that, the spontaneous powder room remodel was underway.

My double knee chocolate brown duck cloth has seen some things. They’re present at every half cocked endeavor that’s crept into my brain. They give me a sense of handyman self-assurance that will maybe someday be backed up with evidence. I try, but I know I consistently make things more difficult than they need to be. It has to be hard to watch. Nevertheless, me and the pants struggle through.

Most of my projects really boil down to exercises in humility. I’ve seen projects on TV. I watched Brian and Gino and my boys do things. All the things look easy. When I do them, they’re not easy. They’re not easy at all. In the course of a weekend I can learn several new things that I’m bad at. Looking at nuts and estimating what socket I need, bad. Moving the old toilet without breaking it, bad. Hanging drywall, bad. Setting tile without crying, bad. Avoiding hitting my head on the faucet over and over, bad.

Makers and fixers must be appreciated. A pair of soft Carhartts is a sign of accomplishment. The human attached to them has been very useful. My Carhartts are not soft. They were bought for a specific purpose nine whole years ago. Even though I try to make sure they’re used often, they still look like Carhartts owned by a social worker. They are disrespected by being laundered foo-fooey. Carhartts should not smell like fabric softener. They should smell like grout, wood oil, taping mud, and other smells of achievement. Their loops and pockets should be packed with needed implements instead of my cell phone that I again use to watch the YouTube video about how to take out a toilet. (God bless YouTube tutorials!)

Despite the lack of ability I bring to the equation, the powder room is coming along nicely. I think the tears are a great solvent to clean my tile glue overspray. Me and my pants are excited to get it done. Not only because that hideous toilet is gone, but because it means we can move on to the next things to learn about and attempt to accomplish. I call back to my pants, “Hey girl. Look at how that border around the trees is all uneven due to the roots.” My pants fake nod back at me with knowing and approval. “I got you. Let’s be useful.”

Categories
Blogolicious

I’ve Been Thunderstruck

Conceptually, I understand how music is made. The person does the thing, the thing is recorded, yadda yadda, Britney Spears comes out my head phones letting me know I “better work, bitch.”

But knowing about music is no substitute for feeling it. I know that I over use the word “magical,” but it’s only because I over feel things and see them as magical. So it’s with that knowledge that I say; live music is fucking magical.

To watch the making of music is to me like watching wizardry. “So, seriously? You just strum your fingers on those strings and music happens? Whoa.” It really doesn’t matter what music it is, reggae festival, rock concert, marching band, bagpipes, even country music; it all sounds better live.

Watching the music unfold with other people can be almost transcendent.

I’ve been lucky over the years for all the music I’ve experienced. My first concert was when I was 14. I’d been grounded for my behavior. Rightously so. But we’d already paid the $16/ticket to see Howard Jones in Davis. You are instantly in my tribe if you have any idea who that is. His biggest hit was something along the lines of “whoa, whoa, whoa-oah, whao, whoa.” The only thing more 80’s than his frosty bowl cut and the broach he wore at the top button of his shirt was his overdependence on his synthesizer. Mom took me, offering a brief stay from my grounding. We were immersed in the smell of clove cigarettes and artificial angst. It was the kind of show you were supposed to look gloomy for. As if 80’s kids at a concert at a university really had any reason to be gloomy. Geez. Bless my mom for her patronage. She made the best of it. Did some hairdresser research by asking some rando what products he used to get his mohawk as rigid as it was.

That experience could’ve turned me against concerts, but it was the 80’s-90’s. Tickets were cheap and travel was easy. I saw some ridiculously good shows. Scorpions, INXS, Black Crowes, No Doubt, most of Lynrd Syknyrd, to name a few. Far and away during those days, the best was AC/DC.

I’d plotted for weeks. My outfit had to be on point, suitable for moshing, and also easy to travel in. I stuck with the black tank dress. I took the more conservative route by wearing leggings with lace on the bottom. Also, black. (Goth is not a phase). My work buddy drove us to Sacramento , and we were thunderstruck. It was so good. So loud. Such energy. It was perfect. We couldn’t hear for days. Luckily, Denny’s has pictures on it’s menu so we were able to at least nourish on our way home. It was *murmur murmur years ago, and yet I can recall exactly how it felt when they took the stage.

Live music frequency decreased, but appreciation has only increased. (The best show I’ve seen in decades, Highly Suspect, gets a post all of it’s own some day.) Nowadays, I mosh less. I dance less. But stare in wonder just as hard as I ever did. “How do they do that?”

Categories
Blogolicious

Camaro Crush (Literally)

Better Off Dead is a fucking stellar movie. If you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so.

It came out in 1985, roundabout the years I was learning to form my own opinions and tastes. I fell madly in love with someone in that movie too, Lane Meyer’s ’67 Camaro. It’s probably the first independent car opinion I’d formed. She was sleek and powerful but her flared hips gave her a feminine edge. I knew I would need a first gen Camaro. Need.

In high school, I had a boyfriend who had a ’69 Camaro. Their hips aren’t as flared, but the ’69 has cool shark gill looking accents on her rear fenders. It was a lovely rust primer color. Most of the value in the car was in the pioneer cd player where Thorogood blared too loudly for the quality of the system. It was barely road worthy. One evening as we drove home, the rear window just fell out, tumbled down the trunk and shattered on I5. You know, like happens never.

Life moves on. I was, married, settled, still jonesing for a Camaro to call my own. Brian called me one day, probably from a bag phone. “There’s a ’67 in yard across from my work. It’s only got one dent in it.” My guy failed to mention that the one dent started at the headlight and ended at the tail light, but that didn’t stop me. The car “slept in an auto cocoon”  (-Better Off Dead quote) for a couple years. A beacon of hope cloaked in a tarp. Next to another symbol of dreams, the bored-out 350 from a totaled ’77 Chevy pickup.

More life moving on, it was time. We needed a shell. I placed an ad in the Nickel (that’s how freaking long ago this project was) seeking a body for my running gear and transmission. One was found and the project began in earnest.

You don’t really think about how much goes into car restoration until you find yourself ordering things such as window rollers,  braided hoses, shift pedal, the little slidey thing that controls the heater, so many things. The order frequency was enough that toddler Daniel developed an affinity for what he called the P.U.S. man and went dressed as parcel deliverer for Halloween. Hands were cracked from sanding, blood pressure was experiencing intermittent highs. There were very few battles. I wanted gloss black. Brian worried about it showing imperfections. We compromised as in, she’s pearl white with rally stripes that are a turquoise akin to the color of money. There was also debate about the spoiler on the trunk in which we compromised again, as in it didn’t go my way.

She turned out to be my kind of imperfectly perfect.

Built on a budget. Made with love. Her interior almost matched itself. The paint done in a fellow tuck mechanic’s garage gleamed. The door would close all the way if you did lifted it just so as you were closing it.

Driving her makes me feel alive. I like the sense of accomplishment that comes from such adventures as when I drove her and the kids by myself to the coast. Jamming the gears, feeling the horsepower. Intermittently pushing the visor back up and hoping the tape will hold it out of my way. She got compliments which she loved, because what girl doesn’t. She was responsible for some random stranger proposing marriage to me.

It takes courage and skill to drive her competently. The steering wheel is more like a suggestion for where the tires should go. The interior looks like every crash test dummy’s nightmares. I have to concentrate and REALLY be present when I’m piloting her. It causes a connection to the adventure of travel that’s absent in driving newer cars. It causes my cheeks to flush and my heart to race. There’s few things better than having her out on a warm summer night all to myself.

When she was in the build phase, there were bets laid about how long it would take for me to wreck her. She’s so light and powerful, and I’m so easily distracted, I completely understood the worry. I play safe with her. I mean, yes, I will try to destroy the tires burning out every chance I get. And, yes I will cram through her gears as quickly as possible. But, all safe. So far. And,…no tickets yet. I pitched her sideways right in front of RPD the year before last. The mercy given to me was probably because it was Kool April Nites week and I’m sure they thought that my keeper would take my keys away before I hurt anyone. “Yea. There’s no way that middle aged woman did that on purpose.” Which is true. That one was an accident. All my best burnouts are. It’s a curse.

I’ve called her mine. I know she’s not just mine. Over the years I’ve done things to confound the message of to whom she belongs. Like the year that I bought Brian a gear drive for her for his birthday. (Jerk move on my part, but damn does it sound good!)

I wanted to take her to the drag strip last year. I’ve never raced. I was excited and nervous. Brian tuned her up. Which immediately led to him losing control of her in front of the house and putting that beautiful baby into the fence. In retrospect, “what the fuck?!” should have come AFTER “are you okay?” I am thankful that it happened here instead of where someone could’ve been hurt.  But I’m still sad.

She’s not totaled but because her uniqueness, I don’t know when she’ll get back to fighting shape. She came to me as a rusty pile, so I suspect that there’s an opportunity for her to reclaim her beauty. Just give me another couple decades.