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Everything is a Competition

I have what some would say is a “problem” with competition.

It’s a thing I’d hope to grow out of, but that kind of maturity seems to have alluded me.

Of course there are upsides to being competitive, it causes drive, focus, perseverance etc., etc. But man. Those downsides are embarrassing. Even the synonyms for the word are unsettling: gung-ho, bloodthirsty, aggressive. None of that sounds like labels I want to wear.

I like to pretend that I have it under wraps. That maybe people can’t tell that I am so uh….spirited. But people know. In a big meeting once, we were asked if we’d made new year’s resolutions. I’d said that I was going to work on being less competitive. The hysterical laughter from the crowd was a rather clear sign that I’m not as secretive as I’d like to be. I revised that resolution. I intended to get better at cutting vegetables more uniformly.  I did pretty well at that one.

The competitive nature has persisted over time. When it appears, it’s not necessarily rational. If I was aggressive and needed to fight off wild animals for food for my family, that’d be fine. But when I make a fake race with the neighbor, there’s no benefit to behold. Poor Suzy. She had no idea that for months we were racing to see who get out the door fastest to get our kids to school. The fact that she didn’t know made my losses sting even harder.

If you’re wondering if I was able to let my kids win board games when they were little, yes. Not without some eye twitching, but yes. When they figured out games and such though, naw. Perhaps this is why young Dirty would angrily sweep the Payday board clean ruining the game when he was losing. I think conquering something should feel good. It’s probably wrong for me to think like this, but easy things hold less value. It’s difficult to appreciate hard work when everybody gets a trophy.

I hope that my nature doesn’t make me come across as overly self-important. I want to do better at the things I do, but I want you to do better also. I like being pushed, so the better Suzy is at getting her kids out the door, the better I will have to be too. Doing better by others doesn’t mean doing less yourself. It’s not a pie. We can all do better together.

I guess that, like most things, it all comes down to balance. That perfect sweet spot in between passive and cutthroat. If you’ve found it, please let me know your secrets. I’ll take on information with an open, and try really hard to squash thoughts about trying to be even more balanced than you. Bwah ha!

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Dirty’s Daunting Decision (again)

18 is fun. Biology is telling you that you’ve got the world on lock down. The world says back “Not so much.” There’s an expectation that a magical moment occurs and suddenly you’ve figured out the things. Once you’ve lived for exactly 6,570 days, you’re able to enter into legally binding contracts, register to vote, serve on jury of your peers, and other grown up things.

Thankfully 18 doesn’t have to mean the end of figuring things out. Coincidentally, neither does 48.

When it was time for young Dirty to go back to school following the holidays, he got the opportunity to flex his adulthood muscle. It was just a few days before he was due to go back. He wanted to go to lunch. My spidey senses should’ve tingled.

As we sat down to our street tacos, “Crystal, I wanted to have a talk with you in a public place. I’m not going back to school. I’m joining the Army.”

I held my carne asada and narrowed my eyes, “You grossly underestimate my willingness to cause a scene. It’s a Sunday in Los Gordos. That won’t stop my words.” (maybe not the best way to start, but like said…it’s still okay to learn at my age too.)

I was pleased that he was able to have a difficult conversation. He clearly articulated his position. He’s forever wanted to join. I will be incredibly proud of him at such time that he does join, so any uncertainly on my part has nothing to do with army. It had everything to do with my worry that he was going to make a decision based on a short term need that would have long term results.

What followed was exhausting agony. Just like when debated which school to enroll in. He thinks hard about things before doing them, and puts a lot of pressure on himself. He was advised that he would go back to Cal Poly because the plane ticket was already paid for and his shit is there. But zero pressure about what he should do after that.

He said a lot of things about what he intended to do with his new plan. I’m not sure if he was trying to convince me or to convince himself. I apologized to him and said that part of his struggle was my fault. In my efforts to make him confident, I overshot and gave burdened him with an over inflated sense of self importance. None of us are that important. But most of my words were for my benefit only. The only ones I said that were seriously considered were “You’ll never be able to afford a Denali.” That. All my social worker mumbo jumbo fell out the ears, but conceptualizing earnings potential comparisons by talking about a pickup? That caught his attention.

Tuition was due a few days after he got back. He was saying that he didn’t want it paid if he wasn’t going to stay. This was kind to my wallet, but also possibly a tactic to put the decision off of him. That was not what was going to happen. He’s put in more than 6,570 days. They’re his decisions to live with. It literally came down to 28 minutes left to pay before he decided. Me and siri got some important shit done as I drove home from Chico. I didn’t know how it would turn out (and still don’t) but it was worth every penny to the decision to stay in school be HIS decision.

Needless to say, when you put your mom in what feels like a hostage ransom situation, there will be feelings. I was very disappointed in my phone’s inability to capture the seething tone with which I’d dictated my texts. Despite there not being a “you are on such thin ice” font in which to send texts, I think he knew my position. There were several days of radio silence.

Then a text, “Crystal.” “Yea?” “How much water do you put in the instant pot when you’re making rice?” His existential crisis had been replaced with problem solving how to meal prep in his dorm room. Wha?

This week he talked about his housing plans for next year. He starts a job on campus  Monday. It’s like the army blip never happened. If adulting is still as I know it to be, that doesn’t mean all our “crises” are over, but I feel happy for him that he was able to get through this one. He practiced seeking help, decision making, and living with the result.

Just because we’re adults doesn’t mean we never need help. Thank you for all the people who helped him problem solve. And thank you to those who helped me and listened to me bitch about it. (I really have no idea where he comes by the emotional roller coaster tendencies he may have. No idea! Oh my GOSH! NONE AT ALL!)

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Validation: It’s Not Just About Parking

In the last couple weeks I’ve had several “opportunities” to think about “feelings” in an attempt to experience “personal growth.”

It’s been “fine.” (intentional excessive use of quotations)

Don’t worry. There’s no dramatic reveal here. Just my notes on some introspection. I won’t be offended if your read stops here.

Validation. Why do some people need it more than others? And what are they to do with that need?

In a fun cycle of events, my curiosity about why reassurance can be so important led to reading up on it, then writing about it, which technically is looking for reassurance.

Nevertheless, here we be. Still.

The most common explanation I found on reassurance was that we’re biologically wired for it. The idea is that we’re born dependent,…yadda yadda,…social creatures,…blah blah.

Cool. But how does someone know if their need for validation is normal?

I think I was looking litmus test of “if you ____, you’re too needy.” It turns out, that’s not how it goes. Your needs are interdependent with the needs of others.

The first step is becoming aware of what your needs are. This requires more honesty than everyone may be comfortable with. Don’t weed out the needs that you think are inappropriate, or paint you in a light different than what you’d like to be. Take the freedom to lay it all out there.

You can take comfort in being honest with even your most uncanny needs, because…guess what? Just having a need does NOT create an obligation for it to be filled.  There is so much worth and freedom from the knowledge that we’re not that important.

After individual needs are called to awareness, the next step is to see if those needs are:

        1) Realistic: Everyone must think pistachio truffles are the best.               

        2) Able to be filled by the required entity: I want pistachio truffles, but this director doesn’t make truffles. He gives oranges.

        3) In conflict with the needs of others: I want to eat all the pistachio truffles, but Karen also wants to eat all the pistachio truffles. Uh oh.  

        4) In conflict with other perceived needs: I need the soothing sensations that come from chocolate gorging, but I also need to not suffer the consequences of chocolate gorging. Looks like you win this round, Karen. This round.

        5) Actually a need:  What’s really at stake if I don’t get pistachio truffles?

(Sure, the intention of this post is about emotional needs, but when given choice to talk about feelings or pistachio truffles, the truffles will win. Every time.)

The next step is determining if you can articulate the need.

If you can’t, you don’t get to be pissed if it’s not met. Also, if you can’t, what’s driving that? Run your need through the list above and see where the change needs to happen.

I’m sure as fuck not an expert, I’ve got no idea where the sweet spot is between emotional self-reliance and inter-dependence. There’s some magical emotional place where we can know that we can draw on our own resources to get our needs met, without becoming too guarded or isolated.

As of now, there is no blood test developed to determine if a person is the right level of inter-dependant. Sadly, there is also not yet a pharmaceutical way to recalibrate someone’s need for validation.

So; until that time, the best I can strive for is to take responsibility for my emotions. Responsibility is power. Blaming external circumstances gives power away (someone’s brilliant words, but not mine).

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Star Wars Made Moral Ambiguity a Thing

Hear me out.

Back in the day, there was this bad guy named Darth Vader. He was the quintessential bad guy. Great clothes, great theme music, horrible behavior. Dude could care less about your title, or your degree of loyalty. If you were in between him and his intended outcome, he’d kill you. He’d blow up entire planets just to show dominance and force. Sometimes he’d let people fight, sometimes he’d just choke them out without touching them. Spoiler alert (for a movie that was made 40 years ago…sooooooo,…if this spoils it for you, that’s on you): Vader was so bad, he cut off his own son’s hand to win a battle.

The first movie, New Hope,  came out when I was 6. Vader wore all black, did awful things, and had a theme son g that called the hairs on the back of my neck to attention. “Ah. He’s a bad guy. Got it!”

When Empire Strikes Back came out, I was 9. He was still that guy. He’d upped his game. He was using some psy ops to futher mess with people’s heads. He was being a barrier to true love by ordering Han frozen in carbonite. He lusted for power, and oozed wickedness. His imperial march that played as he strode about was synonymous with corruption. As my little brain was growing, all this was helpful. I knew I’d be able to navigate future life experiences by paying attention the characters in black with their own march music.

Then, things got complicated.

Return of the Jedi came out when I was 12 years old. For reasons unknown to my 12 year old self and also unknown to my 48 year old self, we all learned a lot about Vader. We were funneled into compassion for him. He was unmasked. A face that looked like skin after a bandaid had been left on too long was revealed. Think about when you’ve been in the water so long that you’re pruney or maybe finding a grape when you’ve done that seldom task of moving the fridge to clean below it. That’s what Vader looked like.

The loss of his ability to strike fear wasn’t caused only by the stripping of his nefarious exterior. We were emotionally influenced by his intent with taking the mask off. He wanted to see his son with his real eyes instead of through his mask. Is that right, Vader?  I’m just saying, the mask didn’t seem to be an issue when you CUT OFF HIS HAND.

Surely that’s as weird as it will get, right? Wrong. There’s a “heartwarming” scene where Vader is spiritually dwelling with Obi Wan and Yoda. The same Obi Wan that he killed. They were just chilling with no hard feelings. 12 year old me had some real “What the frick?!” moments.

The movies were re-released when I was a mostly formed adult. I was still saddened that Vader couldn’t have just stayed bad. Three more movies were released that furthered the narrative that Vader was complicated. That perhaps in the absence of adverse childhood experiences he’d have been good guy.

I’m not sure if movies are where we’re supposed to formulate our values, or if they’re a reflection of them. In my social work heart, I know that everyone has a back story. We are all products of our life experiences. And, grown up me knows that the world is very complicated. There is a whole lot about humaning that was left out the brochures. Maybe that’s what makes me miss just regular old bad guys. He’s fictional. We don’t need to try to help him live his best life. We should be able to dislike him and be okay with that.

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Murderous Maximus

Loyal, handsome, good at catch.  These are the words used to describe Maximus. You know, focus on the strengths. I wouldn’t call him dumb, buuuuuut,…I also haven’t called him canine Mensa material. However, it’s important to continue to reassess situations as they evolve. I’m fairly certain he’s trying to maim me, and he’s pulling off to look like an accident every time. He may be a lot brighter than I give him credit for. 

He hasn’t always wished me harm. I think he knows how loved he is. I’m sure he knows that he’s the first of our dog history that I’ve got to name. I know he knows that I’m the one who takes him on fun adventures like surprise trips to San Luis Obispo to see one of his favorite wrestling adversaries. We go to the DIY dog spa just he and I. I’ve taught him all four of his tricks. (Three years old, four tricks…see?! Loyal, handsome, and good at catch!).  So much reason for him to be on my side. 

That is, until the incident. 

Max has his dog bed in Brian’s closet. This is jokingly referred to as his own studio apartment. This worked great for the first 2 1/2 years of his life. But for some reason, this fall he decided that he was going to take a run at sleeping on the bed. As a Labrador, he’s specifically bred for inclement weather. I’ve got the evidence in my vacuum to show that dude’s got plenty of hair. He’s even got that special Lab hair, the kind that is intended to protect him in cold waterfowl retrieval situations. Not like he’s ever gone hunting, but should his tennis ball fall in the pool in winter, he’s more than prepared. 

He does not need to sleep on the people bed. He also certainly does not need to spoon the people on the people bed. 

I drew a line in the sand; and since that time, he’s out to get me. 

He’s knocked my hip out of place. He’s conveniently laid where he’s invisible causing what was far and away my best fall of my adult life. What I wouldn’t give to see video of my cart-wheeling self somehow nailing both the coffee table AND the hardwood floor in the same glorious fall. His chocolate self just looks at me with an expression of feigned innocence.  As if to say, “I see you fell. What an unfortunate mishap.” 

During the middle of the night, he stands with his head at the exact height of mine next to the bed as I sleep. Staring. Intermittently placing his wet nose on my face. I’ll wake and tell him to get back to his apartment. Most the time he goes, but not until he stares at me first. “You may have won this battle, but I’m going to win the war.” 

Luckily, my attributes include being persistent/stubborn. I am prepared to flaunt my ability to walk upright and my opposable thumbs at him for as long as this takes. In the meantime, don’t have worry for my lovely green forearm bruise or the hitch in my giddyup. I’m okay. I’m not headed down the road like to be like one of those people in a domestic violence relationship with their cat. It’s just a period of recalibration as I learn that Maximus is a little more than just loyal, handsome, and good at catch. 

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Bwah

Bwah

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Values (Useless Laces)

There was an exercise I’d done somewhere along the college experience that involved identifying my values. Even though my brain was fully cooked, I was totally fucking stumped.

I guess values are weird like that, they’re so much a part of the fabric that makes us, that we may not even know they’re there.

It’s frankly embarrassing to think that I had no clue how to label what was important to me. I couldn’t put a name to the undergirding principles that subconsciously drove my decisions. This was roughly a million years ago, so there was no cool value cards game or buzzfeed quiz to help me out. I just had to think about it. Think. Bleh!

In the absence of easy hacks, there’s still probably better ways for me to  have figured this out than the way I did. Maybe I could’ve; I dunno, journaled, asked my parents what values they intended on instilling, ask my peers what they see as things that were important to me. I didn’t do those things.

Instead, I thought about the things that really irritate me, and considered that the opposite must be the thing I value. For example,…

(Contemplating…should I be honest here? I mean, I’m still fake reeling from the response to the most recent polarizing statement I made.

Who knew that there was so much passion about my youthful indiscretion of never having seen Roadhouse?!

Hmmm…In the words I’ve stole from someone who stole them from someone else, “We’ll do it live. Fuck it!”)

*sigh

I am irritated by laziness.

Please do not confuse laziness with an inability to do things, unwillingness to do things, or a drive to do things other than what I would do. I can live with it laziness, work around it, and even enjoy it on my own. But it can also make my blood boil. Like, make me seethe. Laziness has the power to render me speechless.

So the takeaway is, hard work is important to me. Work ethic is one my values. Instilled in me on purpose by my parents,  and reinforced over the years by the people around me.  

There’s other examples of how the opposite of my irritations turned out to be my values, but I’ll spare you those. (As it turns out,…pointless rambling irritates me; therefore efficiency is a value of mine. See? It just keeps working!)

Maybe everyone else has their values firmly figured out. They may have framed needlepoint wall hangings that display their values prominently for all to see. But if you don’t, you may see the value (ha!) in some self exploration on the subject. Labeling those thoughts can be incredibly helpful. There will be discord in your days that may be about nothing more than a difference between the values of two parties.

So in that vein, I must consider the following; the installation of a zipper on lace up boots is not an assault on my value that “harder things are better things.” My statement that it makes the boots “reek of weakness” may have been unnecessary. Perhaps the manufacturer just has a different values in mind.

Values can, and should, adapt over time. What’s important to you should change as you grow. If you haven’t, take a minute to think about yours. Maybe think about a bump you’ve had and see if there’s an identifiable value difference that caused it. Maybe go buy some boots. (Useless laces!)

I also place value on words and people’s time; so thank you for giving time to my words 🙂

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Dixie

I remember the first time I’d had a conversation with Dixie at work. “Are you the lady who was at my kids’ 4H meeting last night?” Dixie, indeed, was the one. She was there with her friend Tammy, flinging propaganda about the merits of joining the goat group. She was the in charge of the visual aid, a baby goat. I didn’t really know Dixie, but this was her in a nutshell “there’s a thing that I think is good, and I can be helpful at it.”

Dixie lived a life of service. Those of us lucky enough to have worked with her know how much she cared about us. Never did I hear her complain about all the work she had to do to keep a constant barrage of us on the right track. She was a woman on a mission.

Over and over, she’d selflessly help new crops of social workers figure shit out. You’d learn early that traveling with her will be easy because she’d take care of so much. But you’d also learn that your choices were to a)manage fluid intake or b)wear a diaper. To my knowledge, she never actually made anyone wear the diaper.

We’d taken a long trip. She was driving. While Dixie would give you anything you need, you also were keenly aware that were some decisions that weren’t really decisions at all. Things just were not up to debate. She would drive. You could tell people that she let you drive for a bit, but you were lying. You know it. I know it. The out-of-county travel requests have long since been processed, so it’s okay to come clean. Our trip was to Fresno and back to make a contact. On the way back, we stopped in Willows where she wanted to go to the Wal-Mart to check for something in the clearance section for her friend. She tells me that, by-the-by, she hasn’t been able to see the entire time. Her contact lens had migrated up into her gray matter. “Why the fuck you didn’t tell me? I could’ve drove.” My tantrum was dismissed. Dixie drove. Period.

Caution was required when asking Dixie for help. She’s the self sacrificing person who if you asked her for an inch of help, she’d give you two hundred well-executed miles, artfully decorated with some little thing she’d whipped up on her cricut. Like the signs that she’d made for me to take to Cancun for my 20th wedding anniversary. Or the signs that she’d made for the youngster we traveled to Texas to bring home. Dixie held the young’n back whilst I ran ahead. Dixie and our friend came down the escalators to me holding “Welcome to California” signs. It was a momentous occasion. She wanted it honored, and she did. Then she drove us home. Because, Dixie drives. Period.

The love she had for Adawna and “Joshie” was infectious. She would count the days until she and Adawna could “share the same air.” You know those women that scream “mother”? The ones that just counted the days till they could be moms? That wasn’t Dixie. She’d come to the plan of mothering intentionally and later, when she could fully appreciate the gift that was her children. Moms love their kids, sure, but Dixie’s admiration for the Josh and Adawna was positively enchanting. It was the kind of momming that really made you question things. “I mean,… she REALLY loves her kids. Am I loving enough?! Can that level of love be maintained?” For Dixie, yes it could.

It wasn’t just those two who benefitted from her nurturing, she could make you feel like you were the most important person in the world with the way she worked to make your life easier. It didn’t matter if you were her peer, supervisor, client…she excelled in her purpose to serve.

I know that everyone who was fortunate enough to work with her and travel with her has a ton of great stories about how she was unflappable in the face of some crazy ass shit. Things would be headed sideways fast, and she’d get that twinkle in her eye that would help you know that it was going to be okay. You also knew that you were on the verge of some wild experience that you’d never be able to quite capture just how wonky is was.

As strong as she was, it seemed way more than a little unfair that she’d had the stroke. My heart broke for her and her family as things just weren’t quite the same.  “I can’t even order anything off Amazon anymore” she’d told me one Sunday when I ran into her at Wal-Mart. While online purchases aren’t the way by which quality of life it determined, it said a lot about how unjust her stroke was. Dixie had been one of the very most independent and capable women I’d ever met. And despite all that she did for others, there she was, stuck in brain that was no longer able to make complex functions seem easy.

I’d love to share the stories of shenanigans. Most are bound by the rules of confidentiality (lame.), but know that there were amazing times. I will say that she felt horrible for the lascivious fate that befell some chickens whose wings she’d clipped to be helpful. I can also say that you can know that she let nothing get in her way when it came to doing the right thing. Also know that she took such great care of us in ways that we didn’t deserve.

Dixie Purdie, you are missed. The world was a better place for you having been in it. Thank you for everything. Thanks to your family for sharing you with us. I know that you’ll get that heaven place all organized and ready for those headed your way.

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I Wouldn’t Say that Out Loud

The other morning in the o’dark thirty crossfit car pool, I was talking about my food. I don’t know why, other than I’m always talking about my food. I’d mentioned that I eat  8 eggs a day. Stefanie’s response, “I wouldn’t say that out loud”

I personally think we all need to either  a)have “that” friend, and/or b) be “that” friend. You know the one. That friend who will alert you to the broccoli in your teeth. The one who’ll tell you about the mascara booger on your face and who’ll answer honestly about the pants and how your butt looks. She/he stops you before you enter into an unhealthy amount of debt or tells you when it’s time to cut your losses in whatever battle you’re having.

Kindness can get confusing. You ever notice that we have a lot of euphemisms we have about indirect communication? “Beating around the bush,” “sugar coat,” “pussy foot,” “tiptoe,” to name a few. Whereas direct communication is generally described as just that, or maybe as being a bitch/dick. Everyone’s tolerance for directness varies, but  to me it is far more unkind to withhold truth.

Is this carte blanche for us all to freestyle and spill our opinions on unwanted victims? No. The guy at the gas station’s day does not need my direct truthful words about how his choices will negatively impact him. But it is a reminder that we need those people in our lives who care enough to say things even if they may hurt. To be clear, I was not hurt by Stefanie letting me know that I sound like a freak for talking about how damn many eggs I eat. I also clearly didn’t head her warning. But, I know that she’s one of those people in my circle who I can trust to be straight with me.  And for that, and the other’s in my life who fill that role, I am thankful. For those that don’t have those people, HMU. Me or one of my associates will be happy to fill that function for you.

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How Did He Get That Name?

His real name is Derek.

He was 8 when he became Dirty. I wish there was a cool origin story to his name.  There’s not. Dirty has always had trouble understanding this whole “I’m the little brother” thing. There’s a picture on the wall at my mom’s. It’s Brian, Daniel and me. When Dirty was 4ish, he looked at that picture and asked why he wasn’t in it. I told him it was because he hadn’t been born yet. He was way more than confused. He was also a little pissed, like, “how dare there be existence before me?!” I had to explain it several times to him. I eventually got out of the conversation. I think my escape was less about him finally understanding, and more about him coming to a conclusion that I had no idea what I was talking about. “Life. Before me? No way. She crazy.”

It’s been with that mindset that young Derek proceeds through life.

He claimed most of his brother’s friends for himself. He was omnipresent at all things Daniel. By God’s grace, Daniel has always been the most easy going person I know. Sure, when Derek did find Daniel’s line there was worry for Derek’s personal safety; but thank fully Daniel’s tolerance is very high.

And so, Daniel’s every resource was shared by Derek. There was a time when Daniel was called “Dandy.” Derek got the hand-me-down nickname of “Der-D.” Lame nickname, to be sure. However, this was in the days when Derek was at many baseball practices and events with his brother’s tribe. He was the little brother who made bucket hats out of duct tape. The one who would cheer for the team from the stands by yelling things like “house of representatives!” (100% true, and I have ZERO idea why he yelled that. Zero.) In that magical climate, Der D became Dirty. It was perfect, and it stuck hard.

He embraced it early on.  When you’re that age, starting to set your path, “Dirty” was a persona to accept. I loved when he moved schools and I had to pick him up for an appointment. Office lady told child runner “Will you please go get Derek Adams?” The confusion was evident on the young girl’s face. I called out over the counter to her, “Dirty.” Understanding appeared. She had no idea who Derek was; but, Dirty…that’s another story.

As he’s matured, he’s a little less of a fan. He would get pissed when I would tell Starbucks the order was for Dirty. He would flex his jaw with embarrassment. Alos, he realized that when he started to date a person who’s very important  to him that the fact that her father only knows him as Dirty could be a problem. But he absolutely still answers to his magical moniker.

At college, he’s Derek. Can’t really meet a new bunch of people and tell them they need to call you by your childhood nickname. I’m making some efforts to try to make it stick. Every amazon prime order of essentials goes to the dorm with the label “Derek Dirty Adams.”

Time will show what adventures await him, I can only hope that he never completely shirks the name.  Dirty!