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
I Work Out Stories about my fam

“Your Mom Does Karate”

One day when dropping off the child formerly known as Derek at kindergarten, Ms. Barnes pulled me aside. “Derek keeps telling people his mom can beat up their parents.”

My eyes narrowed as I tried to decide the next right thing to say. I knew it probably wasn’t, “Well, tell me more about them” or “Maybe I can” or “If this is about that one dad with the blackeye,… he should’ve blocked.”

So instead, I tried to stifle my grin and assured her I would talk to him about it.

My first attempt at anything martial artsy was in my late 20’s. A buddy wanted to try kick boxing and wanted company. NOT cardio kickboxing. Kickboxing in a grungy looking gym that smelled exactly like you’d think the ones in the movies would smell.

I’d never hit or kicked anything before, nor had I tried to avoid being hit or kicked. It felt amazing. I loved everything from methodical hand wrapping to the sight of a bag moving in response to the effort put in to a kick or punch. It was the first time that I recall exercise being an incidental part of a bigger goal; things like “I’m going to practice with my jump rope so I can have more cardio conditioning.” There were layers of activity that were all novel and interesting.

Kickboxing was not a good match for the maternity years, so my interest was on hold a minute.

When the boys hit 4 and 2, I decided to look into martial arts again.

Enter Northwest Martial Arts. American Kenpo Karate with Sifu Alan Myrtle and his son, Nick.

I wasn’t totally sure if it was going to be for me. But after 7 years of training, I’m pretty sure it was exactly what I needed.

The early lessons had all the things that capture my attention; challenge me, humble me, give me opportunity to grow and improve. Everything was awkward; task after task that felt exactly like the first time you try to rub your stomach and pat your head. As each task was understood(ish), there was another task to challenge again.

The memories of it all quicken my heart to this day.

Bad day at work? Take it out on the bag.

Ever wondered what it feels like to be thrown to the ground? Wonder no more. And, oh MY! The feeling of throwing someone else to the ground…! Just like Cobra Kai, I learned how to “sweep the leg!” I also learned the ability to cause submission by the gentle act of an arm bar.

Want to go ham on a fellow classmate with wooden sticks? Put on the padded suit and the face cage and get to it. (That was an epic one. “You going to tell people you beat a Deputy with a stick?” “Yea. You going to tell people you beat a social worker with a stick?” “Yea.”)

Want to know how you’ll do under pressure? Belt test. I was so nervous from before each one. I’ve locked my keys in my vehicle a total of 3 times in my life. Two of those times were on the day of my first brown belt test. In case you’re wondering, I went as far as 2nd degree brown belt. In my system, there is only 2 more belts till. Black. (Close! But yet, so far!)

Want to know if you feel comfortable being an outlier? Stand alone at a tournament sign-in table with your 2 young children in tow. “Are both boys competing?” “Actually, it’s me.” Then later, right before you put in your mouthguard tell your little ones to listen to Beth, “I’ll be right back.” I loved the tournaments. A way test your skill against others. A favorite was when I’d won against both a mom and a daughter. Probably both with a stopping knife edge kick. It was kinda all I had.

Curious how it would be to have a decent black eye as a social worker? Wait for the bare knuckle sparring that comes from some of the tests. For days, people at such places as Wright Education (the biggest anger management game in town), Juvenile Hall, and Children’s Services all got to see that I didn’t block. (sigh!)

I was there long enough to see martial arts cause some unbelievable transformations for children. Long before I’d been taught about the importance of physical activity in relation to neurosequential modeling, I was able to just see kids blossom in martial arts. Shy kids found their voice with a kiai. Busy kids got to stimulate their bodies so their minds could soothe. They simultaneously learned confidence and humility. I also got to watch them grow both in their bodies and in their skills. That day when the person who was a kid now kicks your ass,…that day is a special one.

I gave it a go with my kids, but it didn’t stick. No matter how cool Karate is, it’s going to lose some of it’s vibe when it’s your mom’s jam. I may as well have signed them up for needlepoint.

Over the years, there’s been more than a few day dreams of me vanquishing some enemy with my sneaky karate skill.  I’ve never had to test them for real to know. But I do know what it feels like to get struck. Which is nice.

I’m incredibly grateful for my Karate time. I highly encourage anyone to look in to self-defense and martial arts for more reasons than I could list in 100 blogs. But when you do, make sure you tell you kids something very important. “Just because mommy comes home and brags about beating someone, doesn’t mean we can say it to the other kids in Kindergarten.”

Categories
Stories about my fam

Boy Mom Life

We didn’t find out what gender babies we were having. And even though I’m old AF, there was technology more advanced than holding a ring on a string above your swollen belly to determine your baby’s sex. I wanted no part of it. There’s not a lot better than a genuine “I did not see that coming” surprise nowadays.

I knew I wanted at least one man-child, so I was elated to hear the “it’s a boy” declaration when Daniel was born. I just assumed that my next kid would be a girl. Not that it was something I needed or anything that would’ve caused disappointed if it didn’t happen, it’s just what I thought would would occur. As a result, the first words Dirty heard from his mommy on the outs were “Huh. Another boy.”

God/the universe/whatever absolutely knew what they were doing when the plan was made for me to be a boy mom. I can’t braid hair, I like things that are fast and loud, my sense of humor is perpetually stuck at 14 year old boy, I curse,  and I handle other’s people’s emotions like shit.

Also, I’m not super feminine. There was a minute when the director of Youth and Family, Ralph, was worried that the dads we worked with were surrounded by only estrogen. “We don’t have any guys working in Redding except for Crystal.” Maybe it was intended to be offensive. It wasn’t.

So, yea. Destined to be a boy mom. Put Danny in a Carhartt coat, put Dirty in Danny’s last Carhartt coat, turn them loose, and watch them grow and explore. Enjoy every random or filthy thing they do. Watch them as they learn how things work by trial and error. Spend a summer listening to frequent statements of “deez nutz” followed by crackling voice giggles. Every little experience building on the next until they become the profoundly amazing young men that they are today. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

As I take a bran flake out of my sports bra when I, in fact, have not eaten bran flakes today; I recognize that it may not have gone so well if I’d been charged with raising a girl. Kudos to those who raise warrior princesses. They truly are lucky to have you to guide them into a futures of strength and fiery spirits. They’re especially lucky to have you if you can do that AND braid hair or do the make-up thing. Everything I know about eye shadow I learned from South Park when Cartman was a lady wrestler.

As for us boy moms; it’s a special club. Hit us up if you need any advice on how to locate and eradicate smells. Or if you want some reassurance that the weird shoulder bump thing they do is probably them showing boy affection. Just don’t be surprised when we snicker if anyone says “balls.”

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.

Categories
Stories about my fam

Dad

“Cow shit I know?” That was a classic #dadjoke of my childhood. It was a spin on “How should I know?” and got laughs every time it was deployed. But being dad hilarious isn’t all that he brings to the table.

He’s always worked incredibly hard. He’s had other endeavors throughout his career, but the one was spanned my childhood and beyond was that of dirt trucking owner. Summers were busy, up and gone early. I was able to go with a few times. The 80’s were the good old days when children could go out on road construction jobs. I remember that he’d be as excited as my dad gets to have someone along who could load a chip with dip. That’s not really something one should do when driving an 18 wheeler. My keep was earned by putting Frito bean dip on chips and passing them along. To this day, for me fresh asphalt is the smell of contentment.

It was important to him that those in his circle work hard too. This doesn’t mean that I did work hard as a child, not a fucking bit. At one point, my room was so messy it required cleaning via rake. But his efforts to instill work ethic were important to him nonetheless. He’d very consistently tell me “get in around those lug nuts real good” whenever we’d make some attempt to help wash trucks. If you’ve seen my attempts to wash my car, you’d know that us washing was about me learning instead of about me actually being helpful.

He and my mom have been self-employed as long as I can remember. I think it taught me to appreciate things that simply don’t exist when you own your own businesses like, paid vacation, sick leave, unions etc.

He’s fiercely attached to continuing to work hard. He had a lil surgery a couple years ago in his late 70’s. I went to see them at the hospital. He was wearing “fall risk” bracelet. The kind of thing that tells the staff, “this one could hit the deck, be careful.”

I was confused, “Well, they asked me if I’ve fallen recently. I have.”

“Uh,…you had climbed up on a tractor tire and fell off. I’m pretty sure that’s not what they mean.” Septaugenarians aren’t supposed to shimmy up the sides of tractors. They just aren’t. But that doesn’t stop my dad.

He’s strong willed, and able to defend his position on a subject with great verbal sparring. This may or may not be have been the foundation for the skill set I’ve developed; if my work peers and I were the Spice Girls, I’d definitely be “Bitchy Spice.” Not that he (or I) look for arguments, but should they come our way, we’re ready.

My dad’s values are on lock. Remember that he’s where I learned the most important thing any adult can know; all we HAVE to do is eat and shit. Everything else is our choice. I’m pretty sure my dad isn’t a closet social worker. Buuuuuttt, if that statement doesn’t embody the SW value of “client right to self-determination,” I don’t know what does. He has high standards for himself, and high expectations of others.

He’s smart AF. Sometimes it’s fun to just hit him with some complex math just so he can impress with brain power. Need to know how to get somewhere in a place he hasn’t been for 30 years? He’ll give you spot on directions about taking “the” whatever highway to “the” other whatever highway (City people and former city people always say “the” before a highway name/number. It’s science. Try it.)

Fresh out of high school, he moved from Minnesota to southern California. He was a successful business owner there. We vacationed at good ol’ Whiskeytown Lake. Always thinking about the next level-up, he wanted to raise my brother and I here, out of the city. While I selfishly think that was a good choice, I also know that had they not made that move, they’d have done their best to have us have an equally but different kind of wonderful life in So Cal too.

My dad is 81 now. Healthy as they come. He’s got no problem driving cross-country is a motor home. He’s likely scheming his next venture as I type this.

I’m incredibly thankful for all that he’s instilled. I no longer have to clean my room with a rake. I’m mindful of thermostat settings and open doors. I know how to drive a stick shift. And I know not to take things for granted. I love you, Dad. Thank you!

Categories
I Work Out Personal Growth (or not)

The Pains in My Ass :)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you hung in there, thanks for reading. 🙂

Categories
Personal Growth (or not)

Acid Wash Wranglers of Invincibility

It was a warm summer night in maybe 1988 (pronounced “nineteen hundred and eighty-eight”). I was probably 17. It was a great night for adventure. I had a boyfriend. He was a good kid. He had a knack for collecting some vehicles in various states of capacity for safe operation. This is same young man who had the Camaro that dropped it’s rear window on I5. Just dropped it. No warning that it was going to happen. Just a sudden increase in cabin air flow.

The vehicle of the night of this story though was a 1955 Chevy pickup. The root beer brown of the parts that still had paint were a nice contrast to the spray painted white roll bar

. It was four wheel drive. It sported those classic white steel wheels with the red and blue thin lines. The tires had more like an essence of tread. He was particularly pleased with the fact that it was a wraparound window. The back window stayed intact in this rig, but it had lots of other quirks. I’d forgotten until this VERY moment, it was started by inserting a faded wooden handled steak knife in the ignition. It was also questionable as to when doors would close fully.

And that is how I almost died. (dramatization)

Yea, so beautiful summer night. No better plan than to drive and enjoy the air. We’d stopped at Scooters on 99 in Red Bluff. I don’t remember how much petrol we sprung for, but I do remember sometimes in these days giving a gas station clerk $2, and knowing that it would equate to a measurable amount of driving fun. (Fuck, I’m old!)

I’d exited the truck on the passenger side. Befitting, since I was the passenger. I probably was in need of a nestle white chocolate candy bar. I ate SOOOO many of those as a kid. After we got back to the truck, I got in via the driver’s side. This was bad. This prevented me from making sure the quirky door that I’d exited from was properly closed.

Driving straight down 99 was not a problem. But then,…we were going to turn left on Cone Grove Road. The boy said “hang on.” So I did. Windows were down. I put my hand out the window, and firmly grasped the passenger door.

I then learned about centrifugal force. As the truck turned, the passenger door swung open taking me with it. I hit the asphalt and rolled through the middle of a highway on a busy Saturday night. There had been an 18 wheeler behind us on the road. I’m very thankful to have not been hit by it or any of the other vehicles.

Obviously, the boy was scared. His truck rolled to a stop in a move of finest irony. The push bumper stopped against a sign that remains there to this day “Please don’t litter Tehama County.”

Once I realized I was alive, all I could do was shake and laugh.

I’d rolled onto a highway at probably 40 mph, avoided being splattered by traffic, and had only scratches and bruises to show for it. I mean, there wasn’t even any ripping in my black acid wash wranglers. (I so wish I was kidding about my “fashion” choice)

And it’s THIS kinda shit that makes teens think they are invincible.

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Blogolicious

Dick and Sandi: Love and No Cults

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

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

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

Then there’s my dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I Work Out

The Essential Employee’s Guide to Essential Exercise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who’s down?

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Mo Bear the Cow Dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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