Tag: humor

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Hungry Like the Wolf

They say the post achievement depression for Neil Armstrong after his moon walk was nearly unbearable. I’m hopeful that’s not how I’ll feel next Saturday. Though my highest of highs won’t be space travel. It’ll be far more astronomical. Or at least as astronomical as things can possibly get at a casino events center in Lincoln.

As a child, I was obsessed with a little musical group called Duran Duran. This was in the 80’s when a guy really had to work at being obsessed with something. Instead of internet searches and tik toks, middle school me had to beg friends to record MTV and shark around Front Street Cottonwood counting down until the latest issue of Bop was placed on the shelves of Holiday Market. Thanks Bruce!

The magazine had tear out posters that lined the walls of my room all the way up to the glitter infused popcorn ceiling. Not everyone made the wall though. There was a very strong middle school celebrity crush set of rules. Shondell liked Duran’s John Taylor. He was only to adorn my wall in group photos. My crush was Simon LeBon, the front man who crooned his way into establishing my lasting fixation on good chins. Some others got to be on the wall, the classic Rob Lowe in the ribbed white tank and the black and white Soloflex man also in a ribbed white tank. Sort of. Both are worth a google. They were both only supporting characters in the DD shrine.

If there was something Duran Duran to be had, I had it. T-shirt? Yep. Scarf printed with the band’s picture? Also yes. Facsimile to the best I could pre-amazon of Simon’s hat from the Hungry Like the Wolf video? Absolutely. Shondell and I would also scour the button collections at Mt. Shasta Mall making sure we had as many as we could in our respective stocks.

I dreamed of being able to see them live, but it was a different time. Concert tickets were not to be had by everyone. At the time, getting them meant hundreds of thousands of people waiting in lines for the bell to ring at the local ticket master vendor and hope that the odds were in their favor. It was too elusive to even try.

But that did not stop my fan loyalty. I waited eagerly for the new album, and am still so thankful my poor father who had to take me to Sierra Sound in all my Duran regalia to procure a copy of VINYL Seven and the Ragged Tiger as soon as it released. If there was to be any coverage of Duran Duran discussed by John Tesh and Mary Hart on Entertainment tonight, I was transfixed, making VHS recordings of the “news.” I remember feeling an unworthy amount of pride when the news was about my band making the theme song to a Bond movie. I concentrated harder on that coverage than I currently do on presidential elections.

Shondell and I had gone in halves on purchasing “Duran Duran-A collection of Duran Duran’s first 11 music videos” in stereo and unrated. We’d ordered the video from Bowman Video and counted the days until it was in. Our funding was largely sandwich bags of coins gathered in part from bottle recycle fees. Division of property resulted in her keeping custody of the actual tape after making me a copy and me keeping the official box. Some of the 11 videos were played more than others. Planet Earth was a little too much eyeliner for me. The Chauffer and Girls on Film really had no business being in our possession so they were played less (also worth a google). Save a Prayer moved whatever soul my 12 year old self thought it had. I wanted to move to Sri Lanka and London.

As is still who I am, I was all in on Duran Duran. Full send, or no send.

It’s more than a little cringy to look back on, though I didn’t know it at the time. Back then I was just a fan who would likely someday meet them and be asked to join the band on tour and whatnot.

Not terribly long ago though, I was given a glimpse into how I came across outside my head. I was talking to someone who I had gone to elementary school with at little old Evergreen. I’m pretty sure we were together there for years.  Granted, I’m a look a bit different than I did at 13, but still…she simply could not place me no matter what context clues I threw down. Then, a dawning of knowledge slowly and fully spread across her face. “Duran Duran?” Yup. That was me. Not Crystal Palmer. Duran freaking Duran.

In the 1985 Evergreen annal, The Mirage, there is a picture of me in my DD vestments. The aesthetic is rounded out with my mullet perm and ear cuff. “Play it again, Duran” is the quote. The quote that as the editor gave me the opportunity to say “I’ll allow it.” Power like that shouldn’t go unchecked, but here we are.

Somewhere between 13 and now I grew up somewhat but that doesn’t take away the nostalgia from a far simpler time.

It’s been a minute since the biggest concern on my agenda was making sure that Shondell and I didn’t get the same buttons. But time changes also brought algorithms, the Bop magazine for the modern era. And the algorithms know that behind aged gym go-er is kid who loved D2.

There was nary a hesitative second between my phone showing me there was a concert coming and my debit card smoking with use. It’s not going to be 1984 for the performers or the fans. It’s not going to be the site of the Arena Live album; Oakland Colosseum. But Sally and I will see the band in all their glory. And even though I wish the show was earlier in the day because we all old, I can not wait! I’ll hold off on forwarding my mail to London, but if you don’t see me at work you’ll know why.

Thanks for reading!

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Quasi Granola Girl Meets Mt. Eddy

I didn’t plan to make this a granola girl summer, but I’ve done a lot more hiking than ever before. So much so that “I’m going to go walk around and eat peanuts” was an entire description of a plan.

Yesterday’s trail mix justifier was Mt. Eddy. It’s another one of those beautiful sites right here in our backyard that I’m ashamed I haven’t appreciated before now. It’s about an hour and a half north of Redding. Thankfully for my little non-subaru grocery getter, the road to is it nice and paved. It’s probably not a great road for people who don’t like to look straight down off a roadway to tree tops hundreds of feet below them, but if you’re good with that, the drive alone is stunning enough without any hike involved.

The trail from Deadfall Lake trailhead, was NOT hard to locate. Which foreshadowed my adventure when I initially couldn’t find it. There is a lot of babbling brook, falling water, cooling meadows, and serene lake front. Even before the alpine section of the trail, it became my favorite adventure of the summer.

The trail took me 2 and 10 minutes to get to the top. Roughly 2 hours and 9 minutes of that is completely west facing side of the mountain. The view captivates with layer after layer of rugged blue peaks. The backside of Castle Craggs was visible in the distance and all I could think of was the Disney Jungle Cruise joke “the back side of water.”

As noted. I was already impressed.

Then, that very last minute.

Alone and weird, I literally gasped out loud when in the course of about 6 steps, the summit is crested and Mt. Shasta becomes visible smacking you in the face with its prominence and majesty. I knew it was over there the whole hike, but it seemingly appears out of nowhere with a suddenness that made my eyes leak. Granola girls.

I didn’t stay up top long. I had a grocery order to pick up. I stayed long enough to take some pictures. One of a ladybug I decided to call Olive. Allegedly the mountain is named after Olive Eddy. The first woman to summit. It’s not typical for me to get too angry about things like this, and no disrespect to Olive, but c’mon man. I walked up this in 2 hours. You can’t tell me there was no reason for any indigenous woman in the epochs of time to walk up there. Probably laden with children and perhaps a bear carcass. But okay Olive. Credit to you. Luckily the mountain was so beautiful it could be called poop pile and I still would have chosen this as my favorite hike of the year.

I headed down, still very excited about the view.

Things were going great. Until they weren’t.

At a saddle before the summit push, there was a group of 7 ish young men taking pictures with the lake behind them. I can’t tell age, but I’m thinking teens. Clean cut, well-mannered kids that made my boy mom heart smile. They asked me to take their picture. As I did, I noticed things like sheathed large knives, bear spray hanging from their backpacks in the ready position. All things that I didn’t have. I took trail mix and water. We parted and I thought about how I should probably better prepare for things like solo walkabouts.

And that’s when the wheels fell off.

I blame being in my head for the directional fail that happened at that point. I turned left. I should have gone right. When I hike, I listen to music and try not to focus too much on surroundings on the uphill. I don’t like to keep looking up and get discouraged at how much more there is to cover. This is a poor plan. I pressed on in the wrong direction not being sure if the trail was the same. The cell signal was non-existent so I had to rely on other means to know if I was actually lost. I knew that the whole loop was 7.9 miles. Accounting for goofing off walking around, I figured that if I hit nine miles and no Honda, I was certain I was lost.

I was.

The good news is, I’ve put some miles on the Pacific Crest Trail and am now wondering if that can be a goal for me. The bad news is, that 4 miles in the wrong direction was downhill. Which means to correct I had to go 4 miles uphill just to get back to the error point. In total yesterday

If I could have found a way to quit, I would have. I was out of peanuts. I was mad everytime the Garmin watch chirped that I’d gone over my elevation gain goal again. I was listening to nature because somewhere on the trail I lost my earbuds. Granola girls shouldn’t leave electronic waste on the PCT, but there was NO way I was going to walk the 4 miles again to reclaim them. Sorry planet and my grandkids grandkids!

In total I hiked 16 miles of a 7.9 mile hike. 2 hours and 10 minutes to the summit, 5 hours and 10 minutes from the top back to the car. I was tired and hungry and thankful to be back in the car. Maybe not surprisingly, there was an absence of matched sense of urgency from the staff at the McDonalds in WEED. Not making assumptions, but,…Weed.

This will probably be the last hike of the year. Even though I’m trashed today, I’m incredibly thankful I did it. 6 out of 5 stars, even with getting so lost.

Thanks for reading and please let me know if there are other wonders of the local world I’ve missed.

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Worth It

Yesterday I learned a valuable lesson, there are specific classifications for hiking trails that expand beyond the scope of “easy, moderate, challenging” ect. I’ve put some miles on my hikers this year. I’d hoped to have my feet be places they’d never been. Living where we do, there is a bounty of beautiful trails to find yourself in moving meditation. Sometimes I’m lucky to chill with some epic and like minded humans on these adventures, but also being out there alone has been an unexpected treat. Turns out I mind my own company a lot less when I’m doing things. Busy body, quiet mind (or whatever the guy said).

As my year progressed, the list of trails I visited has grown. Living in the golden internet age, it’s been great to plan ahead with trail maps and descriptions. I’ve found the information to be both very helpful and to be taken as a personal challenge. The National Park Service says Mt. Lassen summit is “strenuous” and takes 4-5 hours. They say Brokeoff Moutain is 6 hours and is “considered one of the toughest in the park.”

Since I handily made both of those hikes my proverbial bitch, I didn’t give a second thought to walking up Black Butte. Black Butte is 60 ish miles north of Redding and sits right along I-5 like a solitary geological sentinel. It’s an isolated hiccup in the landscape that has probably made more folks than me wonder what the view from the top is like.

My buddy Google said that I would expect to take 3 hours to complete this “moderately difficult” walk. The distance is 5 miles. This was shorter than the last week’s hike of 7 at Brokeoff. The height of Black Butte is 6,300 ish feet. This is less than Brokeoff at 9,200 and Lassen at 10,400.

With confidence, I put in my Walmart grocery order for 11 am pick up, put some water in my backpack, and headed north.

When I’m getting ready to go somewhere new, I enjoy spending time listening to podcasts about my destination. I didn’t find any Black Butte specific pos casts and I chose not to listen to all that Spotify had to offer about Black Butte’s neighbor, Mt. Shasta. Titles such as “Mount Shasta” A History of High Strangeness” “Don’t Be Fooled…Mt. Shasta is EXTREMELY Dangerous”  and “These Missing People Cases on Mt. Shasta Don’t Make Sense” didn’t really seem like a good plan before a solo hike.

So with my trashy music instead, I plowed ahead. My Civic just begging me to trade it in for a stereotypical outdoorsy person car as it kicks up dust in to a road whose difficultly to locate does not at all match the ease with which you can see the odd mountain from the freeway.

For not the first time on one of these adventures, I had an “oh thank gawd!” when I found the signs and the other 2 vehicles at the “trailhead.” I blame Spotify for my fully held belief that these 2 vehicles were driven there by blood-thirsty ne’er-do-wells. Soon after I started the hike though, I learned that there’s far too much energy expelled to do much of anything, ne’er or otherwise.

I grossly underestimated the trail. I probably shouldn’t have been there. And probably shouldn’t have been alone.

As I contemplated turning around, insult was added to injury. A doggo met me from the uphill side. A voice called him doggo and said “he’s showing you how it’s done.” The kindly woman accompanying the dog appeared close to my vintage. I know she wasn’t wearing pajamas, but they could have been. She wasn’t cussing or panting. “But she was coming down hill.” Yah, well this trail sucked in both directions sooooo,….

I told her I was happy to see her dog and told her it picked up my spirits so that I may keep going on. “It’s worth it.” She chimed as she bounded past. Clearly she was a cyborg.

As it turned out. The trip took 2 hours 59 minutes and 18 seconds. I technically got it done in the time prescribed. But it pointed out that I am someone who clearly has only done hikes with inflated marketing about their difficulty.

When my beat down ass and my groceries got home (not at 11 at all), I promptly started to look up more about this hike. Turns out there are classifications for hikes similar to rapids; class one etc. They take into consideration things such as if a “climber” (which I am not) has to “scramble.” This hike was like my morning eggs, full of scramble. The hike overall is described as class 2 and 3. Mt. Shasta Summit is also 2-3.

Thanks to people who believe in me more than I believe in myself, Shasta is on my list of already done hikes. And gloriously, I was able to stare at Shasta’s majesty on yesterday’s hike. When I was able to look around instead of looking for the least treacherous steps, I was stunned with what I saw. Also luckily the trail was lightly traveled. That means there weren’t a lot of people to hear me loudly declare repeatedly “fuck you, rock!” Communing with nature isn’t always filled with spiritual fulfillment.

But like doggo owning pajama ladies often are, she was right; incredible experiences after putting in work are “worth it.”

Thanks for reading!

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Graveyard Cake

“It’s getting harder to believe this isn’t personal” I scoffed as a came back in from an unsuccessful search for a CR1320 battery.

I’m not a person who erroneously believes the universe cares enough to be out to get them. I do however believe that moping begats moping and if you want to have the kind of day where your belt loop gets caught on the door handle, you can 100% generate that kind of negativity. So even though I try to spawn positive energy, the batteries tested me.

 How did I provoke the cosmos?

Well, it was a day just like today. I was in beautiful coastal Ferndale, California getting in some steps in the community cemetery. It’s not as weird as it sounds. Or maybe it and there’s just an increasingly large group of weirdos who do the same. This cemetery has great tales to share dating back to the1800’s. The hills are steep and the views are glorious. Paired with coastal weather of perfection, there was really nothing else needed to ice the day.

Then I saw the Hammils.

According to the front of their marble headstones engraved with sensible font, they are both still with us. They are also hilarious (BTW: anyone ever seen a comic sans serif font headstone?)

Mr. Hammil’s marker says “Oops, I should have listened to my wife,” hers, “Yeah. Look where we ended up.”

The fact that they did this was already chef’s kiss. Add to that the fact that they did it while still alive so they could know people’s reaction is priceless.

I grinned from ear to ear, took a picture, and wandered on. Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Hammil’s headstone was like an infomercial baiting, “But, wait….! There’s more!” It wasn’t until exiting the cemetery that I saw the back of the headstone where the same sensible font caught my eye with a recipe for “A Good Carrot Cake.”

Fuck yeah, Christine! In one swoop call awareness to the temporariness of human existence and the permanence of legacy. Her essence will not stay forever on the earth, but her Good Carrot Cake will. In an age when most of my recipes are channeled to me in 15 second increments by the gods of algorithms, Mrs. Hammil made sure to etch her directions in stone for all to enjoy.  

Naturally, I was going to make that recipe. I was excited to do so and to share with my co-workers. How often does one get to eat something from a headstone recipe?!

Also, naturally, I had to channel my inner goth/Miss. Frizzle and wear something befitting a graveyard dessert. Luckily, I just happen to have a dress with Ouija board print perfect for the occasion.

And that’s where I believe I invited the universe to fuck with me.

The cupcakes were delicious. There was nothing wrong there. I mean, REALLY yummy. Like, to die for. *eyeroll

However, let me present a list of things that were jacked up that day.

  1. My FULL cup of coffee spilled in a place like my office (but not at all near my computer, thank Jeebuz!)
  2. My State computer port ceased working, completely hobbling my work progress (legitimately not at all related to the coffee)
  3. My Starlink/Internet fully died with no anticipated fix for 7-10 days (reminder: I have ZERO cell signal at my house no internet means no ANYTHING!)
    1. Trying to get this fixed caused it’s own level of frustration when The Almighty Elon’s phone service closed at 4 pm CST and redirected me to try to address the issue ON THE WEB!
  4. My car’s key fob battery died
  5. A small parchment paper related fire started in my air fryer
  6. A slightly less small bacon grease related fired started in my oven

In the midst of all this shenanigan, I was eager to have something get successfully completed in my adventures. This led me to 2 different stores in 2 separate towns to at least try to buy a battery. How hard could that be, right?

So anyways, after being skunked on even the most basic of tasks, even a non-believer has to wonder if they’ve angered the gods in some way. I really like that dress. It will get worn again to test any hypothesis of its unnatural power. I also really liked Christine’s recipe. And before I incinerate a cute outfit, I’ll have to retest making her deliciousness to see if something there was the cause of debauchery. Perhaps this time I’ll follow the direction of using 3 9-inch cake pans instead of making cupcakes. Maybe that will keep her from turning over in her grave (whilst still alive) and keep my mojo in check.

Thanks for reading!

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Conversational Analysis/Ear Hustling

Last night found me watching the Burney Basin fireworks show completely by happy accident. Driving back from a hay ranch wedding gave reason to wonder why at nearly 10 pm everyone was lining the roads in backs of their pick-ups. Which led to “I wonder if there’s fireworks here tonight” and further, “I wonder if you can see the fireworks from (ironically) the Fountain Fire Lookout.”

The answer is not only “yes” but also “you’re not the only one to think of this.”

The timing was laser precise. There’s no way I could have planned that to have occurred like it did, so it was already a banger of an experience. After wedging the civic amongst RVs, trucks with chairs in the beds, and thank Gawd a fire truck, a couple steps was all it took to see something pretty cool.

The stars were bright and the night was calm. The only noise was the distant mortars and some chat that I didn’t plan to listen to. “Plan.”

There in the perfectness of the night were 3 people sitting on the ledge appreciating the show. It was about the time that I heard the words “father squatch” that my attention was wrangled.

There was nothing in the tellings that led me to believe that anything I heard was intended to be ironic. To be clear, I like sasquatch memorabilia and I’d like to think that our universe has mysteries we’ve yet to understand. But I don’t believe in sasquatch.

That being said, I’m not in a position to make light of the beliefs of others. We all have our own personal understandings that drive our perspectives on our worlds. And so in the vein of immersion of alternative viewpoints, I ear hustled the fuck out of the conversation that unfolded before me.

The person sharing their story talked about sasquatch meetings in such a way that they sounded like spiritual encounters right out of the bible. They’d met squatch more than once (allegedly) and had been cautioned by others that if they’d ever helped a squatch they’d find more squatches coming to them for help. It sounded like the narrator had been given the ol’ “don’t feed strays” speech. Only the Bigfoot version.

They talked about how a mother sqautch radiated peace and understanding and that she essentially prophesied that our narrator would have a life that was blessed with harmony. As much as I wanted to whip my head around and see if I was being punked, it’s hard to want to harsh that kind of vibe of positivity.

The narrator gave great detail about the visual experience in which the bigfoot has revealed itself. Maybe not coincidentally it sounded like what I’ve heard a hallucinogenic experience is like. I kept waiting for someone to call “bullshit!,” but that never occurred.

Maybe it was because the orator had provided excellent detail. At one point the statement was made that a later measuring of the tree showed that father sqautch was “around 10’3” or 10’4”.’ That added questionable inch means the story must be true, right!? Maybe the speechmaker was someone’s beloved uncle who had a little too much hooch or Burney herb and they were just letting him spin yarn. Maybe they were punking people. Or maybe, just maybe, it all really did happen.

As the simulcast of “God Bless the USA” wound down, I toddled back to the grocery getter ready to take my poor sight and white knuckle down the mountain. I kept my bi-focaled eyes peeled looking for Sqautch. I saw deer, coyotes and carnival trucks; but no 10’3” (or 10’4”) Wildman.

However, thinking about the way in which all the events unfolded gave me a lot to smile about. Real or not, Squatch did spread peace and happiness on an already amazing day.

Thanks Squatch, and thanks for reading!

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Pick Your Poison

If you’ve ever read a warning label and thought “what idiot prompted the need for this?!,” it may have been me.

As fate would have it, I have accidentally poisoned myself not just once, but twice.

The first time was eons ago and a little less dramatic. I was at work at ye olde bank in Red Bluff and noticed I was feeling very off. In talking to my coworker, whose husband is an ag chemical expert we established that fertilizing one’s lawn while barefoot can lead to transdermal exposure to harmful substances. I’m sure the fertilizer people didn’t think to add that as a warning, because who would fertilize their lawn barefoot?!

Me.

I was in a hurry that morning and classically just trying to get one more thing done before I headed out to work. I was probably trying to avoid marring my Payless Shoe Source pumps and well,… got a little poisoned as a result.

The second time I poisoned myself was in 2022, a time when I should have possessed a level of maturity and knowledge to prevent such actions.

In the bodybuilding things, it’s common to be gifted swag. Free shirts, supplements, shaker bottles, etc. are common. I’d had one such swag bag in my clutches. There were some great scores, vitamin C, taurine, BCAA’s, and a bag of zinc oxide powder.

You may already see where this is going, but I didn’t.

I looked up the zinc. Mostly, anyways.

Zinc is good for you. It supports your immune system, lowers inflammation, keeps your brain healthy. That’s all good stuff.

So, in the free shaker it went. I had my first sip before my car got out of my neighborhood. It tasted off, but,….gains! So I continued consumption until I got to the gym about 15 minutes later.

I was only in my second set of exercise before alarm bells screamed in my head, “MAYDAY! MAYDAY”

I ran to the bathroom barely making it in time to violently vomit in the bathroom trash. I’m not a barfer. This does not happen to me.

There was an immediate and reacherous drive home included stops that would have helped people fill out their commuter bingo card of things to see.

I was mercilessly ill the next several hours. So ill I couldn’t even look up web md (bwah!) My body has never before so forcibly expelled anything. It was more barbaric that an exorcism. I was glued to the bathroom floor and later learned that my guts were so impacted that I got petechiae bruising on my c-section scar from so much pressure from the spasms.

But then just as instantly as it came on, it stopped. I ate (!!!)  and went straight to the Dr. Google to see what way in which I was dying now.

Some clicky-clicky and yada yada yada; zinc OXIDE is NOT good for ingestion. Zinc oxide is used to make sunscreen. Sunscreen is not for drinking.

You may be like me, asking yourself why a company would give a bag of powder for making sunscreen to bodybuilding competitors. Maybe they were thinking this would be like the sourdough starter trend or something. I don’t really know. But I do know that in looking up the company and the product, there had been a rather significant change in packaging from what I was given as to what was sold presently: “For External Use Only.” Thanks Supplement Company. Little too late for me, but thanks nonetheless.

So in short, don’t drink sunscreen. I’m thankful that our bodies are programmed to immediately thrust out things that aren’t supposed to be in them. I’m also thankful that I have other data points in my life to let me know that I’m not a complete moron for poisoning myself. Twice.

Thanks for reading!

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Steer Clear if Queasy

I contemplated buying a new bowl this weekend. A big one with a lid to take to parties full of whatever Pinterest recipe caught my attention.

If you’re thinking that people don’t contemplate bowl buying, let me point out that I’ve been officially using my current bowl for 30 (!!) years. It was a wedding gift. I’ve hung on the to the bowl so long that it may be headed back in fashion. Cranberry pyrex could be on the verge of a major comeback. If so, call me Spongebob because I’m ready. I’ve got the whole damn cranberry family.

Ultimately I chose against a new bowl right now. But it made me think of the a standby heirloom bowl for folks around my vintage that quantifies changing beliefs and makes me realize that “normal” is not a fixed or permanent idea.

The bowl; the giant yellow lidded Tupperware classic.

The way it defined normal in the 80’s; not only was it the bowl from which air-popped popcorn was enjoyed on Saturdays while watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island, it was also the puke bucket.

Before you panic that I’m disclosing a deep seeded family secret, I’ll have you know that I’ve conducted extensive research over the years and MANY families have the same story. I think it crossed my mind in part because this is a time of year when sicknesses abound. I’m very much not a fan of that level of sickness and would rather have anything that that. I certainly don’t need to be graphic about any of this to make my point.

Buuuut, when that bug hit, letting the family popcorn bowl do the dirty work was normal. It was as normal of an experience as it was to be sent to the neighbor’s house when they got chicken pox so you could get yours. Or as normal as having a principal literally hit kids with boards when they misbehaved. Us Evergreen kids all learned about President Regan being shot because the one kid was in the office being paddled when the news broke. Paddled! With a board with holes in it to make it more memorable.

As is always the case, societies evolve. Change is the only thing that can truly be counted on. It’s easy to look back on things like paddling and think “Noy doy that needed to stop.”

But what’s equally wild is that none of what we do will ever be perfect. Ever.

There are things that occur right now in modern times that future people will look back at completely astonished that they ever occurred. I don’t know what those things are, maybe “everyone gets a trophy” culture or maybe we’ll learn vegetables were bad for us all along. Who knows.

We just kind of all move along forward doing the next normal seeming thing hoping for the best. Everyone trying to make the best decisions they can with the information they have at the time and with each generation hoping that things are even better for the next.

At any rate, my search for being a better human as well as my search for a new bowl identity will continue. I can assure though that my next bowl won’t be one of the vintage yellow Tupperware bowls for sale online. I know they’ve seen more than potato salad.

Thanks for reading, and Tupperware, don’t hesitate to hit me up as a brand ambassador (bwah!)

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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
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
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.