Category: Blogolicious

There’s those young girls who fawned over babies and couldn’t wait to have their own. You know, those kids who didn’t get troubled looks when they tied their baby doll to the tree. And those kids who begged to hold babies and counted down until they were old enough to babysit. As it is now; I essentially worship my children, but I was not one of those girls. If my memory is correct my son Daniel was the 3^rd or 4^th baby I’d ever held. He turned 23 this week and birthdays are always a good time to reflect on just how miraculous humans and their entry to the world are.

My pregnancy with Daniel was smooth. The only complications were 1) the time that I fell down because I’d tried to spinning back kick Todd and forgot that my center of gravity had changed dramatically and 2) how if I dropped coins in my teller station in the bank I’d kick them to the corner so I could minimize my bending down. My skin felt like it was clothes that were too tight, but aside from that, I good. Good enough to even pull a prank at the request of the bank manager on April Fool’s. A water balloon and squeezing pressure from my knees was involved.

On Easter, people asked me why my belly looked different. I felt kicked in new places. Week 38’s prenatal appointment ended with Dr. DeSoto asking me to join him in his office, which was scary as shit. “Your baby has turned breach. Do you know what that means?” “Yah, feet first…” I wanted to “duh” but he wasn’t asking for my comprehension of the word. He wanted to know if I understood that now I’d be having a baby cut out of me. Oh. He asked me when I wanted to do it. I didn’t want to choose a birthday so I asked “when’s good for you?” Maybe if it hadn’t been 1999 I could’ve texted Brian for a date, but honestly it seemed like choosing a birthday isn’t what’s supposed to happen.

Being cut open was not my goal, but on the upside you get to tell your people “I’m having the baby Wednesday at 8am if you want to come by.”

There were a few people quite excited to meet the new baby; my parents, Brian’s parents, my gpa and co, and Todd and Sandra. I walked by this crowd in my hospital gown, dragging my IV along, smiling for the film cameras because I was in zero labor at all. The 8mm video cassette recordings of their wait is filled with their excitement “Here comes the baby!” as they pace and peer as best they can through tiny windows as if to will the process to hurry up.

Meanwhile, the nurse told me that the anesthesiologist who she called Crockett the Rocket Man is very hard of hearing so I need to be sure to speak up if there’s something wrong. I tried to hide my “what the fuck!?” face, but probably failed. He jabbed some needles in my spine and it was go time.

Brian sat next to my head. His version of the story is that Crockett briefly assessed if he’d be able to manage what was about to happen and determined that he could allowing him to stand up and see beyond the curtain.

I guess after they cut outside and in, they essentially winch your belly open and then put some of your guts outside of you. Brian’s intermittently would look at me, “You really can’t feel that?” No man, see how I’m not screaming here? That’s how you can tell I can’t feel being cut open.

I guess my baby was enjoying his stay, and as a result squirmed out of grasp necessitating the other doctor to push on my low chest like he was getting the last bit of toothpaste out the tube to force him down for capture. “You sure you can’t feel that?!”

What seemed like forever passed then I heard tiny baby noises, “It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy!” Being breach caused some swelling of little baby Daniel’s man parts. They brought his little ashy gray perfectness up to my head so I could marvel and instantly have my universe tilted to so that it revolved around him. Everything changed in an instant. We got some more quick film pictures and off Brian and Daniel went.

Recovery was dumb. I wasn’t going to be able to hang out with my baby until I could wiggle my toes. It was probably less than an hour, but it felt like an eternity.

Finally my bed got rolled in to a room of excited people who oohed and awed as I held Daniel for the first time. I just stated in wonder. I still do. A wise person points out that there is, dare I say, no skill involved in making children; instead the skill is in raising them. But even though there’s no skill needed, it’s still quite miraculous.

Thanks for reading!

I had reason to be in the fabric store yesterday. I felt a strong magnetic pull to the end cap display of bright and colorful tulle. I stood and stared. It was a negligible amount of time, but any amount of time to stare at unneeded tulle is too long.

I ran a quick mental check list seeing if there were any events coming up for which I could justify creating some elaborate and quirky decorations. It’s not Halloween. Sweater Vest day has passed. Daniel has made sure he’s states away for another birthday. I walked away tulle-less.

I don’t always experience temporary paralysis when encountering tulle so of course I had to over-think things on my way to the hemming tape. I decided that that it was because there’s a bit of a vacuum in my universe for my “particular set of skills,” and by skills I mean over-doing weird shit.

Dirty is out the house again. He now has an apartment shared with 3 other men in Hayward. Daniel is wrapping up his final semester of bachelor’s degree (!!!!) in Pittsburgh, Kansas. This has resulted in me getting a lot of questions about being an “empty nester.” I think I’m a little more of a Air BNB Nest Host, but there definitely are adjustments happening. Some are good. I get excited to know that the home I return to after a long day at my fake job will be the same home I left. There’s not dishes strewn about etc. I’ve also been reunited with a glorious part of my home I’ve not seen in years…THE LAUNDRY ROOM COUNTER! But aside from that, it’s weird.

So much of kid raising time is a beautiful existence of structured chaos. I liked it a lot. It’s how I’m wired. If an ad were to be written about me as a rescue dog it would say that I need lots of activity and space; all the code words for “this dog’s a bit crazy. Give it something to do or it’ll probably eat your couch.”

Having lived a while, I’m aware that there are patterns in my behavior. I expect that I will end up creating crises for myself to replicate those times of kid-support chaos. Maybe I’ll make my own crab feed where so I can decorate tables again with the hope of winning illustrious (chromosomally challenged) eagle trophies. Or maybe I’ll over-do a pastime on weekends where I just be still. Only time will tell.

Meanwhile, in this interim I’ve got time and energy to help. Let me know if you need raffle baskets made, center-pieces built, sweater vest cookies made, or supplies bought at 8pm for a model of Mars that’s due tomorrow. You can find me at Joann’s staring at the colorful tulle,…just…waiting.

Thanks for reading!

Maybe in the olden days, people would look at Clark Gable and model their thoughts and actions after him. I kinda doubt it, but maybe.

And maybe nowadays we’re just so drenched in information and stimuli that we NEED shortcuts for all the critical thinking we don’t have time to undertake. May-be still that’s why we look to celebrities for thoughts on various issues. I’m sure they’re most often well intended in their platforms as they see them. I mean, heck, if I had the opportunity to tell a shit ton of people what I think should happen, I certainly would. But even in their well-intentioned efforts, things go haywire.

I’m just fascinated by this whole Will Smith/Chris Rock thing. I’m not proud to admit it, and I’m not entirely sure where I land on it. But I do know it’s a captivating social study.

As a culture, we’ve come to accept jokes even though they may be hurtful. We’re conditioned that it’s okay to say things if you’re going for a laugh. We’ve also lived with some expectations about how to behave when “wronged.”

Make no mistake, I think it’s great that something like chivalry still is out there even if it comes in the form of “keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth!”; but how is it okay to slap the crap out of someone in a situation that’s already determined to be “socially acceptable”? Nobody stopped either of them. The green light for both of their behavior was implicitly stated.

If they aren’t already out there, the PR apologies will appear. Maybe the incident will reprise in some docu-drama (If Denzel plays himself in it, I’ll watch it). Maybe there will be some social media hashtag or frame people will use to show their solidarity to something.

I dunno, but what I can hope for is that it gives us a chance to refocus on our own critical thinking and what our tolerances and expectations are. In short, just because Will Smith smacked Chris Rock doesn’t mean I can smack whomever was to blame for my broken internet. If I do, please accept my sincere apologies and respect my right to privacy as I work through this issue. #PRApology

Thanks for reading!

The baseball field was full of kids and parents this weekend gearing up for the season ahead. It gave me chance to think about my own ball playing adventures.

If you don’t know,…I like to work out a little bit. It’s a moving meditation and it makes me happy. Sometimes this results in me being misidentified as an athlete. I’m not. I wish I was, but I’m really not. If you have any doubt about my athletic-ness, take a look at the rims of my car. Not one is unscathed. Depth perception is an important part of sports, and I simply don’t possess it.  

Over the years, the misidentification has resulted in me being asked to play some sports. Since sports are like working out, I generally say yes to these opportunities, then spend the time leading up to them praying for some sort of rain out or cancellation.

My parents enrolled me in athletic things as a kid. I “played” softball for maybe 6 years. I was a proud junior high Roadrunner on basketball and volleyball teams. But I really sucked at all these things. I was the kid who got no more than her obligatory play time and her participation trophy.

Nevertheless, when I grew up I had a chance to try again.

Some of the women I knew had been fellow softball kids. The rules about play-ability change quite a bit between age 12 and age 30. If you had a glove, could trot 75 feet, and were available Tuesday and Thursday nights, you were a commodity ripe for the picking.

On teams where most are smoking sipping beer in the dugout and adjusting both of their knee braces, I found something like a stride. I got to play in this place I could never really see from my childhood post in right field. A place called “the infield.” It was glorious and fun. Like a proud child, I invited my mom to watch a game. I caught balls, darted for grounders, and hit consistently. They didn’t even put me at the bottom of the lineup.

My pleased-self talked to my mom after the game. I asked her if maybe I’d had more ability as a kid, but just never got a chance. My mom plainly advised me that was not the case.

My nearly-athletic days were numbered though. I didn’t suffer injury, nor did I take up smoking and drinking in the dugout. I just, shall we say, plateaued early.

I’ve still played some though. I was never anywhere as good as those 2 knee brace wearing folks who hit the ball out of the park perhaps for no reason other than they don’t want to run. Still, I enjoy all that it is and felt just enough moxy still be something like confident. Moxy up to and including wearing a particular pair of sassy tall socks. Socks with arrows that pointed up to me and boldly said “Badass.” I wish I was kidding.

Parks and Rec softball has it’s own culture. And a subculture within that group is made up of stallions of the game. The ones who probably have their glove, cleats, and couple decent bats in their car right now just in case they are spontaneously recruited. The ones who make it all look easy and have some innate ability to predict softball futures. They may have only seen you hit once or twice, but before the pitch even leaves the mound, they know exactly where you’re going to hit. They go by many names, but one I know the best is Katie.

So there I was,….happy to do my part on whatever poor team had me at shortstop. Wearing my aforementioned socks and feeling pretty good about myself. But the team was short a player. Luckily Katie just happened to be there and able to play.

When you have a Katie, you’re an idiot if you keep a Crystal at shortstop. Coach wasn’t an idiot. Katie sauntered out, and I quickly traipsed out to left field. Unfortunately for me, Katie had seen my socks. Even more unfortunately, Katie wasn’t about to let it slide at all. She waited until I was out in the tall grass and gopher holes before loudly calling out “I can’t see your socks from here!” and gave a well deserved laugh.

To this day, she gives me shit about those socks, and to this day I absolutely deserve it.

I am thankful to have Katie and other reality checks in my life. I’m also grateful to have experienced my substandard version of sports as a kid and adult. Here’s hoping that the coming ball seasons are amazingly fun for all!

I had flown to Vegas and driven to St. George, Utah to do something for work. I went to a Crossfit gym where I learned about altitude and conditioning. Ironically, I was giving up hard on my workout while Sia’s “I’ve got Stamina” blared. I didn’t. I didn’t have stamina at all. But it was a good trip. I’ve never seen anything quite like the landscape around St. George and I highly recommend that drive. I expected Wile E. Coyote to hop out at any corner. 42 hours had passed from when I left Cottonwood to when I got back.

You’d think not a lot of change would occur in 42 hours.

The first obvious switch up was that we had a wood stove. When I left, 42 HOURS EARLIER, we didn’t have a wood stove. Don’t get me wrong, it’s saved our bacon and I’m very grateful it’s here, but I had no idea we were getting one.

“Surely she’s not going to complain about this or look a gift wood stove in the mouth.”

I’m not at all. Super thankful, just surprised.

The next surprise came as I was unpacking. There were some red smears on the bed sheets. Maybe because I’m a conspiracy theorist, maybe because I’m a social worker, certainly because I’m constantly trying to over parent my boys, I started to ramp up on my agitation. “Did either of the boys have company while I was gone?” I was assuming that the smears were lipstick or something. As I was headed up the tantrum spiral, Brian interjected quickly to show me his THREE new tattoos. This took his tattoo total from 1 to 4.

Again, I was gone 42 hours.  

After navigating that weirdness, he told me that we’d have to be up early because he had a surprise.

We woke the next morning and rolled 4 deep in the Megacab pickup southbound on 1-5. Only 1 of us knew where we were headed. Some random park in Woodland was our destination. Some other family was awkwardly lingering. There was some exchange of “You here for the thing?” “Yah. You too?” I still had no idea what was happening. More SUV’s pulled up with more people full of nervous excitement pouring out. Then the dude heavily laden with 3 litters of beautiful lab puppies arrived.

This surprise was a glorious one, but also, 42 hours.

When it was our turn to pick, some yelpy bundle of chocolate fur toddled up to us, dropped the oak leaf he was carrying and yiped at us. Maybe that should have been a warning sign that he’d be loud AF, but we were powerless against the cuteness of it.

Maximus became the 3^rd chocolate in my life and the first I got to name. He’s pretty cool but he can’t read a calendar for shit. Which is probably why his Darth Vader breathing self was hovering over me at 4:38 this morning thinking it’s an early gym day. It’s not, Max. It’s Saturday which means back day and no gym till 7 am. You should know that by now.

But my alarm-brador gave me a chance to think about how it was that he joined the scene, and to think about how what can happen when I leave for 42 hours. Bwah ha!

Thanks for reading!

Two beautiful, vivacious young girls arrive in Paris for “holiday.” They meet the handsome young Frenchman who makes them blush with compliments and shares a cab with them. Then some Albanian bad guys kidnap those girls with the intent to auction them off as sex slaves. Luckily, one girl has the bad-ass black-ops dad with a particular set of skills who will rectify her being Taken.

And this is what people generally think is human trafficking.

January is Human Trafficking Awareness and Prevention month. Which seems like a good time to talk about prevention. Turns out, it’s a little different than just avoiding strangers in the Paris airport.

My work has a focus on Commercial Sexual Exploitation of Children (CSEC). CSEC and trafficking go hand-in-hand.

Numbers grab people’s attention. As result, I can be asked for things such as how many children are trafficked, or are at risk of being trafficked, in our community? The answer doesn’t reflect the situation as it exists here (or in most places); we had zero kids abducted in Paris. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t risk.

Given the digital age we live in, kids can be trafficked without ever leaving their home. The legal definition of trafficking includes “exploiting in an obscene manner.” There are over 38,000 children in Shasta County; by that definition; if they have access to the internet, access to humans, a desire to be connected to other humans, and a body; they are at some level of risk of exploitation/trafficking.

If you think you know all your kid’s internet activity because you have controls set or whatnot, you’re wrong. If you think knowing the most popular apps used by pedophiles protects your kids, you’re still wrong.

The amount of points of access kids have to the interweb is probably too high a number to calculate. In my little home right now; there are at least 9 different ways for me to find the internet or for the internet to find me. Regarding the apps; maybe at some point I’ll see some dark web version of how we got to sexual exploitation; but as for now it’s only been the harmless apps we all use that have tripped up most kids. Snap chat, Instagram, and Facebook all have real world examples right here of shitty situations. That’s not the fault of the apps, I’m sure the Myspace of olden days had creepers and I’m sure that whatever comes after Snap chat et al will have creepers too.

Those creepers are good too. They are much more practiced at getting what they want than our kids are at avoiding it. The bad guys don’t care that the kid is an honor student or a fringe kid, boy or girl, they too have a very particular set of skills and if our kids aren’t prepared, they can fall into the trap.

“Sweet. I’ll just tell my kid not to talk to strangers” Okay boomer. It’s far less frequent that it’s the stranger who exploits. Far more often than not, kids fall into traps with people they know.

I’ve worked with a lot of kids who absolutely meet the legal definition of sexually exploited. Not yet has one felt they were exploited. Every one has thought they were calling the shots in whatever relationship they were in. Every. Single. One. They saw themselves as using their bodies to get their needs met, to help their boyfriend/girlfriend, or because they were choosing to “party”. I’d argue that there’s not a lot of “choice” involved when a 14 year old sleeps with a nasty older person to get some dope, but it’s hard to convince the “strong independent teen” of my side of the argument.

As depressing as it all sounds, it’s not a foregone conclusion that our kids will be trafficked. Education, support, and awareness are all bad guy antidotes:

• Teach kids boundaries about their personal body: Our bodies are ours and we get to choose what happens to them. Remind them of the importance of this even in situations when they feel pressured. Don’t wait till they’re 14 to have this chat; start having it before they’re 5. You don’t need to make it naughty, just let them know they are the boss of their body. Reinforce that message by not making them give a hug to that smelly aunt with a mustache that they only see once a year.
• Remind them that the digital world is forever: Teens are going to send nude pictures. And they are going to think those nudes are safe. They’re not. Everything that hits the virtual world absolutely can be found again. I’ve seen that enough times to know it to be true. If your person can’t be swayed by that logic, maybe this will work: if they are under 18 and send a naked picture to someone, that someone is now in possession of child pornography. Maybe junior won’t want their BF or GF at risk of being in trouble for child porn.

But most importantly

• Make sure kids know their worth: It sounds very social work-y but if a kid knows the inherent value they hold, they are less susceptible to someone from the dark side trying to help them feel good about themselves.

Maybe you’re not a deep voiced ruggedly handsome protector like Liam Neeson in Taken. Or may-be still you are. Either way, you can still help arm your kids against exploitation pitfalls. But just in case, I’d be happy to take the tickets you got them to go to Paris so you don’t have to worry about that scenario.

Thanks for reading!

The doe-eyed, full-lipped “kinda pretty but kinda plain” woman puts her hands up in front of her face. She’s in shock and disbelief. This could never happen to her. “And, it was at that moment that Sarah wondered if she’d live to see another day,” dramatic music, then boom a commercial about how you need to take medicine to poop better or how your life will be dramatically improved if only you bought this yellow couch and mid-century modern buffet.

And THAT in a nutshell is what I see every time I’m doing cardio.

Society is fascinated with dramatizations and re-enactments of murders. If the number of shows and podcasts dedicated to the topic are any measure, we’re obsessed. Which means that a lot of folks will try to capitalize.

This means there’s a giant variability in the “quality” of the shows. I remember scoffing loudly with Forehand while on the treadmills about some dramatized murder victim. She was bludgeoned in her garage next to her sensible sedan. Obviously, that would be horrible to scoff at. However, the fact that the actress’ knee pads were very visible in her fake death definitely deserved scoff. Someone(s) are profiting off the tragedy of others, but they don’t want get hurt in the process. Ironic.

I’m really not sure what the draw is. Maybe it’s just controlled fear or compassion for the victims and families. Maybe some folks like to watch as a cautionary tale. Maybe some as a reminder of how the decisions they made in the past could have had more dire consequences.

There’s often the scenes when the sensible parents or friends try to warn the future victim of their potential fate. I’m certain that every girl who has felt drawn to the bad boys has their own similar scene. That moment when their parents are trying to console them in the middle of the night after some incident, but also trying not to throttle her for the choices she’s making. In the shows, these parents are portrayed as put together and supportive, and if we’re being honest,…just a little better looking than their real life counterparts. They work hard to sell us on the emotion of the moments. The re-enacters are replaced with the actual loved ones of the decedent who understandably cry about the loss of their loved one. They express regret that they couldn’t have prevented it.

Cut to commercials where the messaging is that your life would be better if you remodeled your home into more of an open concept or if you bought the shirt for your man that is specifically designed to look good untucked. Then back to trauma voyeurism.

Sometimes the subtitles aren’t on the TV in front of the stair stepper. In those moments I have to make up my own stories. Luckily I’ve seen enough with the words to know the recipe: She grew up in a quiet town. She had a smile that lit up a room. She fell in love quickly with him. He showered her with attention and she felt like the only girl in world. She and he made “x” sacrifices to be together. He soon became jealous and possessive. She didn’t know how to break it off. Yadda yadda yadda,…she got murdered.

Capitalism feeds this machine. If Sarah’s murder didn’t generate views and subsequently increase sales of elderberry supplements, then the shows wouldn’t get made. But they do. And unfortunately, there is no shortage of tragic stories to tell.

But fortunately, there are other things that grab our attention and for which shows are made with the hopes of finding another way to get us to buy that elderberry supplement.

As a result, I don’t have to watch the murder shows. Sometimes I want whatever is the exact opposite of trauma voyeurism. I can always have Joe Rogan talk me through a hypothesis of what happened to the Lost City of Atlantis or maybe I can watch the new pro sport of Tag. (I’m not kidding a bit. The World Chase Tag show exists. F’n TAG!! It’s priceless). And for those options, I am truly grateful.

Thanks for reading!

It’s 6:10 in the morning. I’ve just returned from the gym and am making my eggs. From the living room comes the gravely voice of my zombie boy as he’s watching TV.

“Do you know what the California penal code is for brandishing a firearm?

“No.”

“417. You should really spend time learning those.”

I continue to stir my eggs realizing that there’s nothing further needed from me in this “conversation.”

I do not need to know the penal code for brandishing a weapon. I need to keep brain memory space free for other things like “where are my keys?” Or Welfare and Institutions code 361.5 (b) (13). (Am I right! #SWNerd)

But also, I don’t want to be a cop.

Dirty, on the other hand, has taken serious efforts in hopes to become one. I want to say that it came out of the blue. It’s not like we know cops. He didn’t have friends doing it since they were mostly doing the things that normal 18 year old do, such as not trying to get a job at the jail. It’s far too early to know if this will be a real career for him; but, when I look back on his formative years it kinda makes sense. He thrives in structure and discipline. At 10 he beat out teenagers in young marine boot camp for the honor of the Private First Class award. He’s physical. He gets every where early. He’s an incredibly hard worker. He’s smart. He’s a critical thinker. He looks great in aviator glasses (bwah ha). Essentially, he checks a lot of the boxes.

His cop dreams simultaneously makes me very proud and very scared.

I can see the serious work he’s put in to chasing this goal. My heart swells that he wants to serve his community and be a protector. But, I don’t know if you know;… cops have a dangerous job. And, not everyone likes them. It activates my mom mode.

I wish to protect him from all the potential pitfalls in his future. Some people are going to love him just because he’s in a uniform. Some people will hate him for the same non-specific reason. Then there’s the whole “they’re going to give him a gun…!” worry.

I’m fortunate to work with some cops in my job. It’s given me the opportunity to have the utmost respect for what they do. It’s also helped me know that they are also human. As with any large group of humans, you’ll have some good and some really really bad. I don’t want for any good human/cop to have to be considered bad based on bad actions of an individual. But as I’m learning, young Dirty’s world doesn’t bend to my will.

He’s been at the jail for a year and some change. I firmly believe he’s seen more shit (metaphorically and literally) in that time than I’ve seen in my 50 years. And I can’t protect him from it. His little brain is still cooking in a situation where some disturbing core memories are formed. All I can do is knit my brow in my concerned face and ask if he’s okay. He seems to handle the things better than I handle the hearing of the things. And because of such, he’s maybe well suited for his chosen career. Or maybe he’ll learn that he’d rather go back to Cal Poly wine making school. Only time will tell.

The TV is still on, and somehow the zombie is still awake.

“You know what he’s going be charged with, Crystal?”

Again, “No.”

“California Penal Code 2800. What’s the California Penal Code for assault?”

“I don’t know.”

He sounds disappointed as he says, “I already told you that one last night.”

Obviously he’s excited, and we’re excited for him. As wise man says, he’ll spend his days hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. As his mom, I hope that he finds his purpose and flourishes despite the burdens ahead. I also hope that he has to drive the Dash car around downtown because humility is important too.

Thanks for reading!