Category: Blogolicious

I listened to a good book last week; Be the Unicorn. I’m not trying to go full book report mode here; but it seems part of my “’25: Year to Thrive” plan is to check out more of these kind of books and since it turns out there’s some cool and useful info in some, I just wanted to share it.

The book states the traits to be a Unicorn are:

• Fast: Do what you need to do quickly. Unicorns don’t lollygag
• Authentic: Unicorns don’t pretend to be something they aren’t. They also admit wrongdoing as a trait of their humility.
• Agile: It’s important to be flexible and adaptable
• Solver: Unicorns don’t discuss a problems without having ideas for solutions
• Anticpator: Being able to have enough power of prediction to be prepared for potential metaphorical landmines is important.
• Prepared: You know, because there are metaphorical landmines
• Self-aware: You have to be able to see yourself the way you are, not the way you think you are
• Curious: Unicorns like to continue to learn
• Connected: Unicorns share resources and want to make sure everyone gets what they need
• Likable: Unicorns win people over and it can go farther than, say, actual knowledge
• Productive: What good is being magical if you’re not showing it by making whatever it is your unicorn self does?
• Purpose driven: Unicorns have a strong “why” to the “what” they do

It all made sense. There’s nothing on the list that shouldn’t be there.

And  yet there’s one thing on the list that if it’s not in place, the rest of the list is useless.

Self-awareness.

Without it, you may be cruising through life thinking you’re well on your way to unicorn-ness only to have no idea about your blind spots. Or in the words of Metallica, without self-awareness “nothing else matters.” (I’m pretty sure Metallica was singing precisely about unicorns)

An example of this that comes to mind is Lois on Malcolm in the Middle. Lois went to dance class. The episode showed her gliding with elegance and finesse; being grace personified. Not to spoil a 25 year old tv show for you, but at the end Lois gets a chance to see video of her dancing only to see the actual hot mess of a disaster it looked like from the outside leaving a wake of injury and destruction. Don’t worry about Lois too much. Perception gave her another win in that Hal/Walter White/her TV husband perceived her has the beautiful graceful gazelle she’d seen herself as. (Serio

The Unicorn traits listed above depend a lot on subjective measures. There’s not a blood test to objectively quantify if you are or are not likable, productive, authentic, etc. While self-awareness is important, cross checking self-perceptions with the outside world is also important.

I’ve seen and done both sides of the equation that is underestimating self or overestimating self.  Consideration needs to be paid to the balance between not depending too much on either measure; you can’t rely on just yourself to assume how you’re doing, and you can’t rely too much on others. Because guess what? Both sets of opinions can be wrong. But asking the questions and doing some work can really help someone become a little more unicorn-y and do a better job at protecting their emotional peace.

We all can benefit from being self-aware by reducing blind spots. I’m not sure everyone wants to be a unicorn. I am, however, sure that no one needs a book report about being one though, but thanks for reading along!

One of the problems I have with story telling is knowing where a story stops and starts. I think this story starts in the days of Napster and Grad School and ends on Thursday.

There I was, just a human navigating through new marriage, parenting, college, etc. Music mattered. Even if it was not what high brow would consider quality music. In between all the phishing Napster offerings of Bill Clinton calling out to his fellow Americans, I landed on a band called Slightly Stoopid. 100% of their songs are about the ganga. And though the ganga is not for me, the intensely chill vibe of their music was. Yadda, yadda, yadda, grad school Crystal (30’s) and her husband find themselves at the Senator in Chico watching the band.

“It’s great that people your age are here,” said some yung’n that clearly didn’t know 35 isn’t the same as “dead.”

The show included a mosh pit in which it’s great to have a 6’4” sidekick, as well as a call to encore. Most people held up their lighters. My date (Brian) held up a can of Copenhagen. Same, same.

I wanted more music of this genre. Luckily a child in our village parenting cohort let me know about Dirty Heads. Yes, this was a child who definitely had a phase that included him taking his guitar on dates and skipping the lake to praise the lord while we were out sinning, but he was on-point to let me know about the Dirty Heads. Again, “chill” that permeates the soul.

My first time to see Dirty Heads deserves it’s own separate story; but this week I was fortunate enough to head to see them for the 3^rd time.

My heart was full. The company and weather were beyond perfect. I was not in a bikini prep so food was actually an option. I waited in lengthy line for a crepe that was advertised to be holy and carne asada fries. I didn’t mind that the wait was long. Some random (likely high) woman had complimented my hair, the music was on-point. It was good time.

So naturally, I landed on factory default settings that were bestowed upon me by my mom, and struck up conversations.

Chatting up with a man also clutching his pager for Holy Crepe food when I saw another man bend down to tie a woman’s shoe. I looked to my fellow crepe customer.

“Dude! I totally thought that guy was proposing to that girl!”

Random stranger: *pulls beautifully ornate box out of shorts pocket. “I haven’t told anyone else, but I’m going to propose to my girlfriend tonight!”

The box was a fancy as a Fabergé egg. My new friend looked like he was bursting at the seams to share his plot with someone. We both noted how weird it was that the universe gave the odd opening via a shoe tying man and a chatty old lady.

“Steven” or maybe “Stephen” planned to pop the question during the Dirty Heads song  “Cabin by the Sea.” Excellent choice. I know his name because he asked mine adding that the food truck line conversation will be a part of the story he’ll tell about the proposal.

“It’s her favorite song by them.” As well it should be. That song soothed my soul more than anyone can know during times that were less than awesome. I don’t know that future Mrs. Steven, but I agree with her song choice.

Steven said he had introduced his partner to the band. He said that previously she’d listened primary to Nordic Rock, which he described as “angry.” For a man that looked about as peaceful as one could be, I can see where angry Nordic metal could be something to steer someone from.

Steven shared more. He’s from Seattle. Due to divine circumstances of odd coincidence he and she now run a campground in Old Station. He has an octopi tattoo on his forearm. As the social butterfly that I am, I asked if the tattoo is because of Dirty Heads (their album cover from the 2016 offering is an Octopus) No. It’s because he’s into diving. “In Old Station?” I ask. He tells me, no.

I share my excitement with him about his pending nuptials.

He shares how she almost blew the surprise by rummaging through luggage looking for a bra and almost stumbling on the beautiful box that held his commitment to her.

His pager for fries went off and I wished him well.

As soon as my crepe and I were united, I practically ran to my group to tell them about it. There were way more children at the concert than expected doing children things like “running” and “playing” around my precariously balanced plates. (Balanced as in “weight distribution” certainly not balanced in nutrition). I promptly shared everything I knew with the friends I had at the concert. Friends which, by the way, are far too amazing for me to know. We were all invested in Stephen/Steven’s night.

Some of us danced to every song and sang every word. We wondered if each next offering would be “Cabin by the Sea.”

The show wrapped up at 10:41 pm (ON A SCHOOL NIGHT!!!!!) and at no time did those unclean heads play Steven’s song.

My high quality posse all expressed hopes that Steven/phen was able to find some other way to reach his objective. We want him to be able to plot course for a future full of tattoos, diving, and odd coincidence. We hate to think he’d have to try again at a violent Viking concert. If you know Steven/phen,… we’re dying to know what happened. Please let us know.

Anyways, enjoy music, random chats, and time with great friends; and thanks for reading!

A couple weeks ago was my 8^th annual attendance of the Peace Officer’s Memorial. Well, possibly it  could be counted as my 9^th if you count the time 9 years ago when I didn’t know there was a memorial and just heard shots near my office and walked towards them. I now know it was a 21 gun salute, but still….I heard shots, and I walked towards them. If I was moth, I’d have flown into the first flame I encountered.

Like a lot of people, I’ve always held in high esteem the folks that put themselves in harm’s way to protect others. But the more I came to know cops as real humans, it’s meant even more.

Obviously, they’re cut from a special cloth. They see a whole other world that we’d like to think doesn’t exist. But also, they’re people. Bona fide humans who are sworn to protect us (even if they haven’t grown up enough to know the importance of using a coaster.)

The keynote speaker focused on sacrifice as a theme and offered the following definition; sacrifice is the act of giving up something highly valued for the sake of something considered to have a greater value.

 I cried. Like instantly. I also promptly told the social workers around me that they couldn’t cry too. There are few things that would reinforce the stereotype about our jobs more than us all standing around crying.

I’m sure the rest of the speaker’s words were equally moving, but I was stuck.

Obviously, the speech was about loss of life to law enforcement, but the speech also made me think of the other sacrifices. The more quiet sacrifices that people make every single time they forgo something that is important to them for the greater good.

There’s a painful beauty to think of it.

Maybe I thought of the speech in a less fatal sense because I don’t want to think of anything bad ever happening to my baby boy who chose to be a cop because it would look cool. Or maybe I’m going through a phase.

It can be easy to give up things for reasons that are big or small. But the added note of it must be something “highly valued” changes everything.

People who make those decisions everyday far exceed goals of “being a good man or woman.” They’re honorable in their commitment to do the right thing. Those quiet decisions far more than compensate for the slips and falls that happen over the long haul. They’ll humbly think things like  “all I can do is try” which can discredit the fact that trying is everything.

As memorials should be, it was memorable. I’m thankful for so much about it but especially grateful for the reminders about sacrifice. Maybe even right now someone is making doing something that is hard or even dumb because it’s the right thing to do. There’s not going to be a ceremony with bagpipes for all the tough things that people do every day, but that doesn’t make them any less noble.

Thank you all for your quiet inspirations to others. And thanks for not having more 21 gun salutes that I’d just wander to (*eyeroll).

Thanks for reading!

I know that I need to grow up. Maybe if I started to dress a bit more like dedicated fictitious public servant Leslie Knope a dose of self-respect would head my way.  However, It’s coming up on dress season and Instagram knows just who to throw an ad at.

I’m by no means a fashion person, if it’s black, I’ll probably buy it and live in it. One of my favorite overused jokes around here is “have you seen my black shirt?”

But I do like my quirky dresses.

I think when my co-workers give me a hard time about things that it comes from a loving place. If not, this is a good time to let me know that I’m even more self-unaware than I realized. They do politely sass me about some of my unconventional dresses. I get called Ms. Frizzle from the children’s books “Magic School Bus.” I’ve also been told that some of my dresses look like the mom from the Bates Motel series. But they’re fun. I’ve got one with tattooed swimming ladies, one with Swedish fish, an atomic print one and more. I also have one with Ouija board designed that I only wear when I feel like I won’t have childhood flashbacks to a time when Ouija board and chanting “bloody mary” in a mirror made you nearly pee. And don’t forget the one I have specifically for shark week. (“We’re going to need a bigger boat.”)

Today’s times are generally far more casual. I’m thankful we don’t feel we need to don stockings and petticoats on the regular, but I also have something along the lines of envious appreciation for a time when everyone was just more fancy (I guess).

I’ll be travelling this week. I’m happy that I don’t have to worry about my fancy travel stilettos poking holes in the aircraft as was a genuine issue in the day. I’ll keep my stilettos see-through and for the body-building stage only, thank you very much. I will be comfortable when I travel. But I’ll also put in some effort. I want to look like I tried enough that I’m worth rescuing in the event of an emergency. “This one put on real clothes. She probably has something to live for. Get her to the choppa!!” I also feel bad when the TSA lady got for-real dressed to yell at me about my electronics before she pats me down while most of her patrons are all basically pajama-ing.

I won’t pack any dresses for my adventure. It’s not that kind of trip. And honestly, I think my dress phase may have outlived it’s purpose. I do enjoy not having to pick out a top AND a bottom when getting dressed, but wind and stuff. Plus the fact that for my lizard blood self the summer frozen tundra of the office landscape means whatever dress I have is often blanket covered.

Most of my clothes are either used or some cheap thing from Amazon. Today’s dress was still cheap because of who I am as a person, but as I looked at it I realized that dress size charts aren’t made for the gym girls. The chart is clear how big or small I need to be in the areas of bust, waist and hips, but paid literally no attention to the truly important measurements like delt cap to delt cap (shoulders) or biceps. Not that either of mine are huge, but they can make me look like I’m a lot out of place in a dress.

Even though my toddler sized muscles still make me run the risk that I’ll look like Chris Farley sized in his Gap girl sketch, and even though I’m not sure if I’ll feel like wearing dresses anymore, I ordered the dang thing. In black.

Thanks for reading!

This week has me going to Sacramento twice. I really enjoy Sacramento, but I don’t necessarily enjoy multiple trips through those W towns, or as Daniel called it in his frequent trips back from Stockton, “pre-Corning.”

This led me to decide it was a fun idea to ride the Amtrak.

I giggled when I booked the trip and had the internet ask me, “Are you sure you don’t want to protect your $36 trip?”

I’m sure. I’ll risk it.

Of course me running my mouth about how funny this led directly to me learning that I’d messed up my return trip date and now was, indeed, out $18 extra.

There’s only one train in and out of Redding daily. It heads south at 2:30 am and leaves back from Sac at midnight. The technical term for this is “a long ass day.”  

Me and my “long ass day” backpack worth of belongings headed to the heart Redding in the dark of the night only to have several delays. I hung out in downtown, met some characters, and learned a valuable tidbit about trains, they share the track.

Sooooo, when the northbound train had to stop and address a medical crisis, the ride to Sac had to wait. The medical crisis included 2 Amtrak employees in adorable hats talking to a man who’d been kicked off the same train a week and a half ago for the same circumstances; being unconscious to the point of unable to be woken.

There do not seem to be confidentiality rules for train behavior. As one cute hat guy met with the dude and paramedics, the other cute hat dude told us all there is to know about him. No one asked, but we got it anyway. Eventually they put the dude-less stretcher back in the ambulance and got the train moving.

Choosing a seat on the train is way worse than getting a seat at the middle school cafeteria or on a plane. Trains being as reasonably priced as they are invite a cast of characters. Those characters sleep (or fake sleep) over several seats at a time. As I found myself wandering seatless, I decided I should probably not get myself incarcerated because I wasn’t particularly interested in rousing someone and demanding they share their spot.

To the observation lounge I went.  

At 3 am, there’s nothing to observe outside but lots to try not to observe inside.

It was terribly cold. I had considered bringing a blanket, but didn’t want to carry one around all day in Sac. Rember that episode of Friends when Joey wears all of Chandler’s clothes? That’s what I looked like when I was cold enough I put my work clothes on over my workout clothes for warmth. I looked legitimately unhoused, which didn’t exactly make me stand out in downtown Sac.

Sitting as long as I did, I was compelled to walk a lot. 9 miles worth.

I learned a lot about prostitution pricing as I waited in line at the 7-11 to buy a banana. I also learned from a man walking to work about Joe Biden smoking crack. (And that’s why work man shouldn’t have to pay taxes.) I decided he probably couldn’t tell I was a government worker and there was no need to tell him I was on my way to a cookie laden symposium on policies. I also learned that I have resting “ask me directions” face. I don’t know why I was asked for directions a bunch. Clearly they couldn’t tell I’d just gotten lost on a muthafuck’n train when I tried to get back to my seat.

I enjoyed my time at the event and after. I like walking around, trying new restaurants, visiting gyms in new towns. Shout out to the gym worker who was super nice and didn’t charge me the day pass fee.

Then it was back to the Sacramento Valley Station to wait for my midnight train back.

Here’s the thing about train travel; the only requisite is that at some point the passenger had $18. This leaves a LOT of room for interesting folks to be sharing your space.

Not to make light of mental health challenges at all, but if you’ve wondered what real MH struggle looks like, go to the train station. Several folks were really going through it. One lady kept yelling a lot of random things. At one point she was yelling at me accusing me of murder. Nobody (including myself) cared. Train station things, I guess.

Eventually we’re lined up and assigned cars in which to sit. Train guy told us to put our tickets above our seats so he can make sure we get off at the right place in case we fall asleep.

I didn’t. Because I’m tough? No.

Because the only spot available when I got on was next to my accuser.

I mean, I maybe could have fought another crazy person and made them move their service dog. Or woke up the dude who smelled strongly of piss who was yelling out in his sleep. But since we’ve already established I’m not pod boss material, I chose to sit next to Maybe Marjy.

Train seats aren’t spacious. So for the duration I heard her every word to Marjy, Doty, Satan, and the rest of the ensemble. She would gag every couple minutes and loudly proclaim that demons were cast out of her. She used her cane like a sword to defend herself from things I didn’t see and I just hoped I didn’t get in her way or look demonic in any way. She talked of hidden bodies and “he’ll never do that again.” I’m assuming she was 67 by the way she kept yelling about a 67 year old woman. Non stop yelling.

What do cute train hat staff members do about all the yelling from her and the others in the rolling psych ward? Nothing.

The whole thing felt surreal, like it was on the verge of horrific catastrophe just waiting for one little thing to go just wrong enough to blow up the whole unit/train car in a domino effect of psychosis. I kept hoping she’d tire out and fall asleep. She was working hard fighting those things that weren’t there, but somehow she didn’t need sleep.

I felt for her and for the rest of them and their loved ones. I was relieved to get home and for the first time in years, I slept beyond sunrise.

The train was totally worth it and I’m thankful I got to go on the adventure. But ain’t no fucking way I’m taking it again this week. (Bwah!)

Thanks for reading!