Category: Personal Growth (or not)

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Growing up Personal Growth (or not)

Not Sure How I’ve Lived This Long

“She was just so full of life. No one expected something like this. The community was shaken up.” The classics of murder documentary catch phrases. It’s really a wonder I didn’t end up on one of those.

News Flash: Teens can make bad decisions. While I’m living proof that adults can also possess that skill, this is a story about some of my questionable decisions I made with my undercooked brain.

I was a shiny new adult waiting tables at my first real job at the truck stop. Full of hope, wonder, and the dangerous belief that nothing bad could happen to me.

Maybe it’s also no surprise, but I was a giant dork then too. “Quirky,” if you will. Certainly not the girl that would be showered with compliments or lavished with boy attention.

So,…naturally I blushed painfully when the handsome young man was in my section to wait on. Emphasis on “painfully.” Being the person I was, flirting was not my forte. I’m sure I resembled someone passing a kidney stone with everything he said to me. We’d chatted throughout his meal. He stayed long after. He left saying that he was headed back home to Nevada.

After a couple of hours, he returned. He gave one of those lines that would sink a person like me. Something akin to “I knew I would regret it if I didn’t come back and get to know you better.”

Don’t worry, this won’t evolve into a naughty story. I wasn’t that boy crazy.

But, it will evolve into something cringe worthy. After work, he and I got in my car and I drove him to see Shasta Dam. Just me and whoever he was. I didn’t tell anyone I was headed out with a stranger to a dark secluded location in the wee hours of the morning. You know, because that’s safe.

This was in the days when there were no cell phones. No security footage to review from my last known whereabouts. Nothing of the like. Luckily, he wasn’t intent on any nefarious activity, murder or otherwise. We remained pen pals for a while. Legitimate letters were sent back and forth. Postmarked from Nevada, for real. Bullet of blind faith effectively dodged.

I should have realized that I needed to be safer. Instead, I did something else.

At the truck stop, there are customers who are regulars even though they’re from far off places. A lot were from Seattle. It was the early 90’s and Seattle was the shit. So, when a regular invited me to visit there; I did what any overly trusting 19 year old would; I fueled up the yellow Prelude, opened the sun roof, and headed north.

As evidence that fully cooked adults can also make bad decisions, a co-worker asked me to take her children to Oregon and drop them off. Who does that? Kids were dropped off with who I guess were the right people, and onward I pressed.

I did not see the regular customer as a potential mate. He was a nice man, to be sure; but his look was a combination of Mike Ditka and stereotypical 70s era Italian gangster. PS it was not the 70s. I’m sure he worked hard, putting in a lot of OTR miles to get the weighty gold chain he wore. Nice man. Probably someone’s exact type. Not mine, but someone’s.

Looking back, I’m not sure what I expected to happen out of this experience. Maybe to find some strapping young grunge Seattle man in his flannel ready to take me to hear Eddie Vedder croon. That’s not what happened.

Instead, what did happen was I was met at the door of the humble home he shared with his mother by his two daughters, maybe 8 and 10.

They were extremely excited to meet me. This is what a grown-up would call a “red flag.” Baby me didn’t see it though. Baby me grew up a lot though when they said “are you going to be our new mom?” Shortly thereafter I was showered with the quintessential claiming gift of the time, black hills gold. I’m sure my jaw went slack as the light slowly started to come on for me. “Wait a second,…he….oh….no.”

I grew up a lot in those couple days. Nothing will teach you about learning to gracefully back pedal and regroup quite like being a 19 yr old in a situation you should have seen coming. Prelude and I beat feet back to C’wd.

Maybe the modern popularity of murder documentaries and podcasts would have scared some sense in to me. Maybe not. Maybe we all have to make questionable decisions to appreciate the good ones we be still making. Probably one of the best take aways from questionable decisions is the ability maintain hope in the growing up process. Teens are like turkeys that have that crispy golden skin, but are still undercooked on the inside. They look like the real deal that is an adult, but their internal temperature is still at that point that will make you sick. We got through it, and we need to know that they will get through it too.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Personal Growth (or not) Social Worky

ALPHAS

I saw a person at a place recently wearing a shirt that said “Alpha Male.” I’m sure he’s a lovely human, so it’s with zero judgement that my mind screamed back “Alphas don’t advertise that they’re alphas!! They just don’t!” Don’t worry, this isn’t about me bashing attempted alpha males, it’s about bashing attempted alphas regardless of gender.

Alpha status is as old as time. I’m guessing there was a brave, strong cave person (Grog) whose acts of power benefited others. In turn, that probably afforded Grog more privileges. Maybe he got first choice of which cave person to club over the head for special cave person time. Or maybe he got extra servings of saber-tooth squirrel salad. I’m sure that it resulted in Torg looking at Grog with envy. Torg too wants extra paleo pot roast. But,…“Torg no alpha.” (imagine sad caveman face)

Since challenges to hierarchies continue today, it’s completely reasonable to assume that Torg challenged Grog. They may have had a spear chucking contest, wooly mammoth wrestling display, or perhaps a dance off. And maybe at some point Torg attained his caveman dreams of alpha.

I’m sure that over time, the reasons creating alpha status, and the activities to establish pecking order have changed. But deep in our lizard brains, it would seem that we are still hard wired for herd life. In isolation we fail. We need each other. And we need alphas. They come in many forms. Alpha Grog’s freshly harvested saber toothed jack rabbits would be useless without the fire guy or the cooking person. And quite possibly, they are alphas in their own right.

Some people seem to feel a need to continue to buck for alpha status. Maybe that’s good, I don’t know. Maybe is the challenges to hierarchies that continue to push whatever system is in question to another level. But two important things 1) it’s okay not to be an alpha and 2) I don’t think real alphas try. I think it just happens. Alphas don’t get pegged with the title because they set out for it.

Maybe you’re reading this wondering if it’s your time to challenge the hierarchy with your own dance-off. Maybe it is. Maybe the system will be better off before. Just please make an informed choice ahead of time because (stolen internet quote of the week…) “everybody wants to be an alpha, until it’s time to do alpha shit.”

Thanks for reading!

Categories
I Work Out Personal Growth (or not) Social Worky

Discipline-ish

Discipline. I need it. You need it. We all need it. And we all have some degree of it. And in an illustration of irony, I’ve wanted to blog about it for a minute; buuuuut just haven’t quite had the self-regulation to get it done. The cursor flashes at me; taunting, “What do you know about discipline?” You’re right cursor. There’s plenty of room for improvement for me on this one.

Anybody can do things when they’re easy. Maybe it’s new and exciting and so it doesn’t take much get you moving towards your goal. But then,…those damn walls and changing circumstances. That’s when you really get the benefit of being tested. Stolen internet quote of the week: good sailors are not made on calm seas. It’s not until things become inordinately difficult that we learn whether or not we have the needed amount of discipline. We have to be faced with the decisions about satisfying the “what you want now” vs. “what you want the most” to know how much restraint we have.

I could be wrong, but I thoroughly believe that discipline is a transferrable skill. Once a person develops those intrinsic means of self-discipline in one area; they are able to apply those skills to new goals. In looking at people who’ve accomplished pretty cool shit; they have a tendency to complete other pretty cool shit. Like the doctors and lawyers who are also black belts. Or the people in addiction recovery who now run marathons.

I very much do want to be more disciplined. I even read a book to learn more; the one by the writing guy/navy seal guy Jocko Willink. The book was a fun read. Each chapter charged with enough oomph and motivation that it felt like caffeine to the jugular. I would read and be like “YEA!!!!! That makes perfect sense! But also, ….now I kinda need a nap.” A theme that was a new to my undercooked brain was “discipline equals freedom.” It was counterintuitive. In general, I think of discipline as restrictive. But the words that my brain could only read in a yell made sense.

My interpretation was probably too social-workie, but how I understood it was that we learn where the boundaries are. Then it’s up to us to charge full steam towards them and get them to move. Test, and then be tested again. See how much progress we can make. What we can’t tolerate today; if we work at, maybe we can do tomorrow. There’s a great picture lots of us have probably seen with the horse obediently remaining tied to a plastic chair. The horse could totally shred the chair and get away, but in it’s horse brain, that chair is a limit they can’t surpass.

All our proverbial plastic chairs are different. But we can operate in the freedom of knowing that we are in control of how we react to the limits. (She said as she headed to the gym knowing it’s questionable if she’ll squat below parallel bwah ha!)

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious I'm Broken Movie Personal Growth (or not)

The Ew! Mutants

It was bad. So bad. But still worth it. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but the whole “restrictions-on-freedom-that-change-rapidly-with-little-justification” thing has been a bit of a struggle for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m super happy that the world reopened again. I just get more than a little confused about what causes the rules to change.  

But I was sooooo excited that movies were re-opening; I was going to go, period. There was nothing I really wanted to see, but I wanted to fling $23 at a business to let the know that I’m thankful they haven’t had to shutter.

What to see though? Unhinged looked interesting, but my unrealistic criteria blocked that one.

Russell Crowe in Mystery Alaska or as Maximus in Gladiator,…there’s not a whole lot better. However, time doesn’t look like it’s been particularly kind to the Aussie.

“Crystal! Should you really be all ageist about someone?! You. Are. 49!!!”

I hear you. It’s not his age. I am also the person who embarrassed her husband at the theater once swooning aloud about an aged actor. 65 year old Sean Connery has a line in The Rock. Something about being less assaulted by the prisoners. He says, “Maybe I’m losing my sex appeal.” I yelled out to the giant screen, “No! No you haven’t!”

So, it’s not about age, it’s just,… where are Russell Crowe’s people? They should be telling him to lay off the salt, or the liquor, or whatever.

As a result of my unreasonable standards, The New Mutants was the movie of choice. It’s Marvel. Marvel is like pizza, even bad pizza is better than no pizza. Right?

I’d have preferred one wedge salad to a million shit pizzas that was last night’s movie.

I can’t really put my finger on the why of the suck. It wasn’t that it was a ridiculous plot, I’m love me a super hero movie. I can even turn a bifocal-ed eye to mediocre special effects. So I can’t say for sure why it was so bad. It may have tapped into my omnipresent social worker stuff. I’m thinking the intended audience may be pre-teens/teens. If so, impressionable teens deserve better stories. I wanted to punch in the face both the over-accented characters from Kentucky and Columbia. I’m not sure how they did it, but even the parts of the story that could’ve been interesting got ruined. I wanted to pick it apart the entire time. Even though Brian stayed awake for the whole thing, I tried to be respectful of other movie goers. Maybe they liked the movie, and my repeated “Are you fucking kidding me?” could be perceived as disrespectful to their movie-going experience. (yea…I’m failing at saying “fuck” less. Progress, not perfection).

But there was movie popcorn(!!!!!!), and a giant cherry coke. And because the movies are worried people are never going back to them, “dinner” only cost $8.50. I ate so much popcorn that I woke up this morning looking like Russell Crowe in Unhinged.

And that made it all worth it. So, go. See movies. Enjoy yourself. Don’t let my weird values deter you. There’s at least 3 other movies to choose from. Maybe you’ll enjoy one of those. Maybe you’ll enjoy The New Mutants. Maybe you’ll hate The New Mutants and you can take your besties to coffee afterwards and enjoy bitching about it. But just go.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Personal Growth (or not) Social Worky

FUCK

Rose: “Crystal. What was that word you used yesterday?”

Me: “Was it ‘fuck’?”

“Well, you used that one, but the other word…?”

“Court-diversion” was the answer she was going for. I knew without doubt that my previous day had the queen mother of all dirty words. The “F-dash-dash-dash.” (fake bonus points awarded to anyone who knows that quote.)

I say fuck too much. I’m not sure how it started. Maybe I thought I would sound cool or tough. Or maybe I thought that it would make people think I’m outgoing, or whatever thoughts it caused in their head. But regardless of how it started, it took on a purposeful life of it’s own.

It’s become my filler word. Where someone with a fully functioning brain may say “uhhhhh,” my twisted self will insert “fuuuuuukin.”

There’s been times over the years when I’ve been more potty mouthed than others. When we had the classic young child saying the bad word at school, the teacher said it wasn’t a big deal. “Lots of kids hear their dads talk like that.” I could’ve corrected her, but I didn’t.

I was able to pass for a number of years, mostly swearing like a sailor on the down-low. But recently it seems to be getting brazenly worse. It’s like “fuck” is my emotional support word for those days/weeks when I feel like I’m stuck between losing my mind and finding my soul. (another stolen internet quote).

It’s the word that flows so freely when injustice hits people who are important to me. Their situation doesn’t improve by me using so much profanity. I know that. But since my passion runs in the red pretty often on the daily, it seems like cussing is all that’s left to add oomph to my expressions.

TWICE in the last week I’ve said that word in the presence of someone who really doesn’t deserve to hear it. Our dear, sweet, revered director has the ability to get some serious shit done; completely without the use of potty words. She is to child welfare what Will Smith is to rap.

TWICE!

Teapot Tara tried to prevent the second f bomb by “subtly” calling out in a voice way louder and high pitched than her regular “OH!  HI!! NANCY!!!!” It could’ve worked. But I tattled on myself. “You didn’t have to tell her” offered Teapot. “I’m Catholic” was my response. Tara and Nancy nodded with full knowing that yea, yea I did have to tell on myself. ‘Tis the Catholic code.

Problems can’t be fixed until they’re fully identified. So I asked young Dirty, “When I say ‘fuck’ does it sound like a mom saying it? Or does it sound like some fake forced word?” “I don’t know. You say it a lot.”

So boom. There it is. I’ve identified that it is a problem. It’s a problem I hope to correct. It’s not very ladylike, grown-up, or professional. Please be patient with me as I try to eliminate my sentence enhancer. I may explode from managing my least favorite f word (feelings) without the help of my most favorite f word.

But make no mistake, just because the volume of the communication changes; imma be still just as passionate.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious Personal Growth (or not)

These Boots are Made for Rocking (?)

I’m sure all hoarding starts somewhere. Maybe my inability to throw away my Doc Martens is where my hoarding adventure will start. I bought a replacement pair nearly 2 years ago, but I can’t seem to get rid of the originals.

For those who aren’t weirdos like myself, allow me to introduce you to what some would call just “a shoe”; the Dr. Marten boot.

The traditional black leather low-shin, lace-up, work-boot looking thing was way more than just a shoe to me as my brain cooked though. They were a symbol of things I wished to represent; independence, toughness, style (dramatic eye roll on that one), and essentially just being my own person (just like everybody else).

But fashion statements like that are expensive.

ForEVER, I couldn’t justify spending $110 to “fuck authority.” So there I sat, in a self imposed shoe purgatory. I tried to soothe my feelings of shoe shortcomings with some Mock Martens. ‘Twas not the same at all.

But then…!

Baby Daniel, my mom, and I had a day of adventure. We’d gone to the Renaissance faire. We made too many jokes about “ye olde convention center” where it had been held. Then somehow, we and that stroller found ourselves at the mall.

I’ve got a weird relationship with money. I like to think of myself as “situationally cheap.” Like, most of my clothes are second hand but then I also own a small fortune of lululemon pants. Also, I’ll be baffled that people eat out often. Like “how do they afford that?!” But will head to a store to buy a sweatshirt, and come back with a 4 wheeler.  So, even though I  was an adult doing well, it wasn’t going to be still a given that I’d buy the boots I was drooling over. I was a home owner, a parent, a possessor of good credit,….but $110!?!?!?

Grammie thought I should have them. She did all the mom things. She even said they made my legs look great (I was wearing shorts while boot shopping…obviously.)

With a “fuck it” and the swipe of the card, they were mine.

Many an adventure I have been on in my DMs. Most of them only interesting to me. They have a cut in them that I got my unknown means when on a trip in early pregnancy with baby Dirty. I recall precisely how nauseous I felt as we went to Basque food in Alturas, but have zero idea how the boot got cut. They are slightly melted on the right toe from getting too close to a fire at the beach in Somoa while there for a family 4 wheeling trip. The left sole still has paint on it from the time I walked right through someone’s catastrophic paint wipe out in front of the Chico Mall.

I loved them so much, I needed an additional pair. Thanks to ebay and quite possibly some recently deceased “lady of the night,” I was able to procure a second pair for $40. There’s a change in how I feel when I lace up a steel-toe punk boot that comes to just below my knee. Those boots are what I wear when I want confidence. I’m not sure why. It may be as simple as “after what a pain in the ass it is to put these on, there’s not much else that can irritate me.” Every time I wear them, I hope that I honor them by wearing the shit out them.

It stung only slightly less when I bought the replacement pair for my original low Doc Marten’s a couple years back. Originally, I held on to the OGs because I was “breaking in my new pair.” I know that after this long, that’s no longer a valid excuse. So I moved them out of the closet. They’ve moved around my bedroom for a couple of weeks. Today I tried to take them out to the trash. I’ll try again next week. And quite possibly the week after that.  And the next week….and the next week…

Categories
Personal Growth (or not)

Show Me Your Toenails!

On this very day I was walking in downtown Redding. A “gentleman” who seemed to have decided flannel pajama bottoms only was the exact right outfit for the day was sharing the sidewalk with me.

“Hey sexy mamma.”

He was either talking to me, or the pleasant looking gma who was ahead of us waiting to cross at the light.

Everyone has to establish their course of interaction with folks downtown. Generally, I’m not afraid to say hello. Even if I haven’t been called “sexy mamma.” So I said hello and we continued on the path to the crosswalk.

“I like your tattoo. What does it mean?”

“Thank you. It means ‘to learn'”

Without missing a beat he asserts, “Learn to foot fuck?”

Followed promptly by “Show me your toenails!”

In between fits of laughter I was able to tell him that it REALLY doesn’t mean “learn to foot fuck.” 

“But, that’s like a fetish or whatever. Show me your feet.” There were other words. Utterances of attempted convincing. They were hard to track due to the unexpected absurdity of it all. 

I felt that my continued engagement in the chat prevented gma from pulling out a gat and busting a cap in him. 

Me to foot guy, “Do you know who Fred Flintstone is? Because that’s what my feet look like.”

He was undeterred from continuing to request to see my feet. I was undeterred in getting back to my office without allowing my foot to be,…uh…objectified. 

I could’ve taken issue with his behavior. Told him, or someone else, that he made me feel “uncomfortable.” But I didn’t. I know that I am the master of my domain. The only thing I can control is my response. He did the creepy thing, I chose not to be a victim. I chose to be amused. “But he was inappropriate!” I hear you. But that’s totally based on objective interpretations of what makes makes one uncomfortable. I wasn’t uncomfortable.

 Awful taste, but great execution, guy. Better luck next time. 

Categories
Blogolicious Personal Growth (or not)

Think Ink

“You’re totally a biker now,” said the gentleman who permanently marked the second toe on my right foot with a shitty infinity symbol. I don’t know that “biker” is what I was going for, but I do know that the single line that cost me $20 wasn’t really worthy of any street cred.

Nevertheless, I could now say I was tattooed. It was probably 1997. I was content for several years. Me and my sneaky inked persona were working on other things. Like having babies and stuff.

I thought about getting another. It was hard to choose what to get. Like what if you choose “LA Raiders 4EVR,” or maybe the limewire logo? Do you want permanent ink to be based on temporary circumstances? I think not. That’s why the infinity symbol was the first one. “It’ll be relevant forever because it means forever.” Yes, that made sense to my still cooking brain. But what to get next?

There was a friend, Travis Bassham, who’d shared the idea that he wanted to get kanji tattooed on each shoulder; one meaning “to teach” the other meaning “to learn.”

Poor guy was just shooting the breeze, next thing he knows I’m stealing his idea. “I like to learn!”

I’m not a total animal. I asked him before I actually did it. I even showed him different kanji representations of learn so I wouldn’t steal the exact one he wanted. Then,….I really did get “to learn” tattooed on my right foot. It hurt. Badly. I’ve never been skinned, but I wonder if the feeling is similar. Got it done at lunch from the bank. There’s probably not a lot of mystery to me anymore now that I put  all my info on blast, but in case you didn’t know; I don’t speak Chinese. So I believe my tattoo to mean “to learn” but it may say “sweet and sour number 5.” The closest I ever got to a real interpretation was at the kids’ pediatrician, Dr. Hu. He said “yea, I guess I can see that.” Not very reassuring, but no ragrets.

I went about 7 more years before my next tattoo. The delay wasn’t because I was struggling about what to get, I just didn’t have any pull to do it. I couldn’t even tell you why I found myself talking to a guy near my job about being permanently tagged with “I dunno, a heart maybe.” He starts to take notes. I add, “Maybe a heart with some kind of design around it?” A couple weeks later, Sally and I headed back to that shop for what in fact turned out to be “a heart and a design” on my left thigh.

This tattooing itself was different than being skinned. It was oddly soothing. I’m sure there are varying experiences, but for me it goes “Ow!”, then “Okay, maybe I can do this”, then endorphins kick in and it becomes a meditative experience of overcoming a painful challenge while watching art be created.

There were a series of yearly tattoos to follow; “flower and stuff,” “skull and stuff”, peony, honey bee, and most recently, the beautiful posey on my right thigh. Every single one had that arc of “I’m going to die because of this” to “I feel so relaxed and peaceful.” Each sitting was uniquely personal. Again, I can only speak to my personal experience, but there’s something very connecting about giving part of your skin to an artist. In the work I’ve had done, the artists are careful to make sure they don’t break you but push you decently so work can get done.

There was some element of planning by folks with expert skill so several of those tattoos connect making one large piece; from high on my ribs to low on my thigh. Despite that, my tattoos are still pretty sneaky. I can pass for inkless. Or I can show off and prove that I’m more inked than a WWII sailor.

I sometimes feel a little superficial when having tattoo talks. Some people get each one with intense personal meaning. I just do it because I like them.

I tried to backfill a meaning to the big skull on my hip. “It’s symbolic of mortality.” “What? You only got one shot? You Eminem?” This highlighted the absurdity of my attempt, but also gave the friend at my hip a name. He’s Marshall. NOT Biebs. MARSHALL.  

So what started all those years ago with a shitty line, didn’t turn me into a biker. I mean, I had that Honda 230 for a minute, but I don’t think that really count since I never went faster than 3rd gear on it. But it did turn into an appreciation for a craft and something that will be a part of me as long as I exist.

Addendum: On this very day I was walking in downtown Redding. A “gentleman” who seemed to have decided flannel pajama bottoms only was the exact right outfit for the day was sharing the sidewalk with me.

“Hey sexy mamma.”

He was either talking to me, or the pleasant looking gma who was ahead of us waiting to cross at the light. Everyone has to establish their course of interaction with folks downtown. Generally, I’m not afraid to say hello. Even if I haven’t been called “sexy mamma.” So I said hello. We continued on the path to the crosswalk.

“I like your tattoo. What does it mean?”

“Thank you. It means ‘to learn'”

Without missing a beat he asserts, “Learn to foot fuck?”

Followed promptly by “Show me your toenails!”

In between fits of laughter I was able to tell him that it REALLY doesn’t mean “learn to foot fuck.” 

“But, that’s like a fetish or whatever. Show me your feet.” There were other words. Utterances of attempted convincing. They were hard to track due to the unexpected absurdity of it all. 

I felt that my continued engagement in the chat prevented gma from pulling out a gat and busting a cap in him. 

“Do you know who Fred Flintstone is? Because that’s what my feet look like.”

He was undeterred from continuing to request to see my feet. I was undeterred in getting back to my office without allowing my foot to be,…uh…objectified. 

 Awful taste, but great execution, guy. Better luck next time. 

Categories
Personal Growth (or not)

Left Turns in Kansas

I accidentally landed on one of those bullshit motivational quotes the other day, and I’m irritated that I think it’s right. “Don’t tell me how to live my life, Internet. You are not the boss of me!” (she said as she ordered some “necessity” off the Amazon Prime).

”The secret ingredients to true happiness? Decisive optimism, and personal responsibility.”

Duh, on the optimism; but what about that whole personal responsibility stuff?

I’m just a cave-person, I truly don’t have the brain power to make declarations about how personal responsibility directly impacts happiness. Buuuuut,… even my cave-person brain can see that we live in times where personal responsibility has gone further than even taking a back seat. That shit done fell out the car completely. These are times in which someone may admit to a wrongdoing; with numerous qualifiers. I did the thing, but it’s because the sun was in my eyes, or how I was raised, or because the government didn’t do enough for me. The excuses may vary, but they’re consistent in the fact that they take away from the individual’s role in the situation.

I could rant for days with examples, but I’m not feeling like I want to be the “get off my lawn!” guy today. So here’s a story about going to Kansas.

There were lots of wonderful things about the trip; the excitement of Dan’s new adventure, how green everything was, the fried chicken, the other fried chicken, jet rides, and more. But one of the more subtle delights was that it is a place that expects you to take care of your own self.

There were little differences, such as in traffic laws, that oddly pointed out to me how much we depend on external sources as holding the responsibility for our actions.

Example; Kansas doesn’t have “yield before turning left” signs. “Seriously Crystal? You gonna try to tie this to personal agency?” Yup. Wish me luck.  

Guess what happens if you don’t yield at the left turn? You get hit. Kansas essentially says “C’mon y’all. Handle your own business.” You don’t crash? Good for you. You crash? Guess what,…still your responsibility.

There’s also an absence of center lines in the road. Know where your vehicle is supposed to be, and stay there. Or don’t. Choice (and resulting consequences) are completely up to you. AND…we drove through an entire road construction site without traffic control. It was wild. People were counted on to be responsible for themselves.

Clearly, decreasing the amount of traffic signs won’t result in an increased awareness of our need to be responsible for our own actions. There’d be crashes, chaos, a veritable free-for-all.

But even without radical changes to road signage, bad things happen every day. That can’t be controlled. But what can be controlled is personal actions and response to circumstances. And I guess that’s what the hokey internet quote was trying to get at. Once we recognize our responsibility, it can free us up from things that happen to us. We get to chose what happens next.

As a footnote: No rental Impalas were injured in the making of this trip even though I was the captain the entire time. Also, just because Kansas expects you to take responsibility for yourself doesn’t mean they don’t care. I mean, after all they do issue storm warnings about 60 mile an hour winds and golf-ball sized hail. They even made sure to mention in their emergency that “people and animals left outside will be injured.” Just make sure you look to make sure you’re not going to get hit if you’re turning left to get out of the storm. Y’all.

Categories
Blogolicious Personal Growth (or not) Stories about my fam

Say Neigh to Bad Hair Days

Dead protein. That’s all that hair is. But we still make a pretty big deal about it.

I managed to make it 45 years without being self conscious about my hair. Growing up with a hairdresser mom gives lots of opportunity to try different hair. Red hair is the only one that I would absolutely not revisit. (If you hear me saying I’m thinking of dying my hair red, know that I am trying to communicate with you in code.)And of course said hair dresser mom always complimented my hair. So imagine my shock when this happened…

We were on a family vacation to Cabo. I did not wish to put even the slightest amount of effort in to my hair. Beaches in Mexico are market places for many a thing. I hadn’t really planned ahead for such parenting conversations such as “hey, uh,…yea….so we’re clear,…please don’t buy cocaine from well-dressed gentlemen walking up and down the beach lightly tapping their noses.” Over the years, I’ve covered “drug are bad” speeches, but the increased accessibility demanded booster informative lectures.

In betwixt cocaine dealers and sellers of blankets and hats are women who will braid your hair where you sit. To be clear, my intent was not a head of gray box braids or corn rows. I was after just braiding my bangs out of my face. Like some of my co-workers can pull off by themselves for a day of work. Though I’m raised by a skilled hairdresser, I do not possess any such ability.

I chose a kindly looking woman who was even older than me. She said $5 would meet the needs. I eagerly took my wallet out of my bikini (bwah ha)  to pay her. She started her task. She sprayed and twisted over and over. Language barrier didn’t prevent me from knowing that she was frustrated with my tresses. She tried to make some small talk as she worked. Her English was better than my Spanish which really isn’t a compliment to either of us.

As I sat, I continued to watch the beach happenings. In addition to buying cocaine and silver, a person could pay for a horseback ride on the beach. Because of this activity, my children, whose Spanish is much better than mine taught me the Spanish word for horse. Had that not happened earlier that day, I may have continued through my life with the misguided belief that my hair is fine.

But noooooo.

Woman with skill and patience continued her work. She pointed to my hair and said my newly acquired Spanish word “cabello.” She smiled. I don’t know that she meant to burn me or give those close to me a reason to sass me for years to come but she did. She’s not wrong. My hair is coarse. It was a moment of hair enlightening that’s provided plenty of material for such gags as “why the long face?” and questions about if I use a curry comb.

The horse hair has been cut short again. I’m trying to grow out the dark part. If history is any indicator, it’ll change again. It’s hair. That’s what it’s built for. I’ve heard a couple “you’re brave” which may be another way of saying “eeeessh.” But just to be clear; I have not rescued a kitten from a burning building. I cut my hair. It’s hair. Trust me, try what you like with your and know that it’ll come back.

PS if you’re really my friend, you’ll stop me from anymore attempts at a perm. A perm of gray horse hair? No matter what I’d try; imma be still looking like a Golden Girl.  Thanks in advance for your cooperation.