We are considering adoption and see a lot of children available in our county come with a caveat that the children need to be adopted by a family that can ensure the child or children remain involved in the lives of either their biological grandparents and/or siblings. We are definitely ok with this. But I’m wondering what that looks like in terms of visits? Monthly, weekly, only on holidays etc? Does anyone have experience with this? We are very early going into this, but all the children we see that are eligible for adoption in our county have family members in another county that’s around 2 1/2 hours away. FSA we are in CA in San Bernardino County, the children would need to visit their family in Los Angeles County. We will be retiring from the military in the next two years and are considering moving to the Palm Springs area. (Our move will not impact our resolve to ensure visits take place, we just want to anticipate the norm).

Γεια σας! My partner and I will be traveling to Crete for one week this September and I was hoping I might be able to get some feedback on my proposed itinerary. I've done a fair amount of research both on this subreddit and in general, so I think I have a fairly good idea about what to do, but I have two general questions:

1. I know this is probably too much stuff (to me, vacation is about seeing and experiencing a new place more than it is about relaxing). What, if anything, would you remove from my plan? Would you replace it with anything in particular?
   
2. Is there anything absolutely essential that I'm missing?
   

Here's my rough itinerary (nothing is reserved so the order of the days is more or less irrelevant so far):
Day 0: Fly from Athens to Chania, landing around 2pm. Get rental car and check in at hotel (west side of Chania). Lunch nearby if we're hungry. Relax and get dinner in Chania.
Day 1: Drive (or take a boat?) to Balos/Gramvousa
Day 2: Drive to Elafonissi Beach (if we're ambitious, I've considered combining this with Balos into the same day, but I know that's a lot)
Day 3: Samaria Gorge (probably via a tour group for simplicity, but I'm not opposed to driving to Xyloskalo and then taking the ferry + bus back to our car provided that it is easy and straightforward)
Day 4: Ntounias (and more? I'm not sure if we want to just get a meal at Ntounias or do a whole workshop or what. It's a bit of a drive but not crazy far so I think we could fit something else in if we want)
Day 5: Minoan Palace of Phaistos + Iliana Malihin Winery + Rethymno (lunch and/or dinner) -- this is a long day, I know, but it looks like everything flows together from one place to the next
Day 6: Heraklion/Knossos + Psychro Cave
Day 6 Alternate: Psychro Cave + Elounda/Agios Nikolaos (beaches and food)
Day 6 Alternate 2: Heraklion/Knossos + Elounda/Agios Nikolaos
Day 6 Ambitious: Heraklion/Knossos + Psychro Cave + Elounda/Agios Nikolaos
Day 7: Fly back to Athens around 2:30pm for one last night before flying home to California.
I'm not worried about food/restaurants since that's where I've focused most of my research. We don't really eat breakfast so I figure we'll maybe grab a small bite at the hotel before heading out for the day and grabbing lunch near wherever we are, then either returning to Chania for dinner or heading to dinner near our activities too (e.g. I really want to go to Avli in Rethymno since I've heard a lot of wonderful things about it).
I suspect Day 6 is the first thing we would cut or at least simplify, since everything is so far from Chania (but that's also why I would want to condense it all into one day). I also know my partner wants to get out on a boat at least once while we're in Crete, so maybe it might be better to replace the entire Heraklion area stuff with a trip to Gavdos or something? I know that's a long day too, and maybe not worth it since we wouldn't end up with a ton of time there.
Sorry if this seems like a repetitive kind of post; I tried to do as much research as I could beforehand. Thanks for reading all of this. I'd love to get a few other opinions about my trip!
Ευχαριστώ πολύ!

I know who she is, and she was sending all kind of "I'm here" messages yesterday, and today. I don't know what she is trying to tell me. It's my sister. I think its important to try and figure out what she is saying other than "I'm here", but I don't know how to read what she is trying to convey.
Yesterday, while sitting with my spouse, our touch lamp went off by its self, twice, jokingly, he says, "its a ghost, its your sister", and "I was like yeah, because you keep picking on me." Then while driving, 'She talks to angels' comes on- we played that at her funeral and then a country song called 'Come crying to me' with the chorus saying, "I'll leave the living room light on, burning all night, no dont even pack, dont even look back, come crying to me" (I know the song is a love song, but the part about the living room light stood out, also, no my spouse and I havent be going through any problems, and we are very open with each other so I dont think any of this is tied to our relationship.)
Today, while cooking, I said told her I know she is with me, I know she is here, but I dont know what she is trying to let me know. I look up at the stove clock and see the time at 4:44 and knew I needed to see that number. And when I googled what it meant. - and it said my connection with the angels, and the angelic realm is powerful, and that I can trust the guidance they are giving me. BUT I dont know what the guidance is!
If anyone is willing to help me understand this a little bit more I would be thankful for any and all input.

[Encerrado] Los Angeles FC 0 x 1 Leon

Gols Los Angeles FC: N/D Gols Leon: Lucas Di Yorio (20/1T)
Escalações:

Los Angeles FC (5-3-2)	Leon (5-3-2)
John McCarthy, Aaron Long (Denil Maldonado), Giorgio Chiellini (José Cifuentes), Jesus Murillo, Diego Palacios, Sergi Palencia (Ryan Hollingshead), Kellyn Acosta, Ilie (Timothy Tillman), Mateusz Bogusz (Kwadwo Opoku), Denis Bouanga, Carlos Vela (Stipe Biuk)	Rodolfo Cota, William Tesillo, Adonis Frías, Stiven Barreiro, Elías Hernández (José Alvarado), Iván Moreno (Osvaldo Rodríguez), Fidel Ambriz, Lucas Romero, Ángel Mena (Joel Campbell), Lucas Di Yorio (Brian Rubio), Victor Dávila
Suplentes:	Suplentes:
Daniel Crisostomo, Erik Duenas, Julian Gaines, Eldin Jakupovic, Nathan Ordaz	Jesús Angulo, Paul Bellón, Alfonso Blanco, Byron Castillo, Oscar García, David Ramírez, Iván Rodríguez, Oscar Villa
Técnico: Steven Cherundolo	Técnico: Nicolás Larcamon

Arbitragem: Ivan Arcides Barton Cisneros (Árbitro Principal)
Estatísticas

Los Angeles FC	Estatística	Leon
56%	Posse de Bola	44%
3/14 (21%)	Finalizações Certas/Total	2/7 (29%)
8	Finalizações Erradas	3
3	Chutes Bloqueados	2
1	Defesas de Goleiro	3
2	Chances Claras	1
324/431 (75%)	Passes Certos/Total	245/349 (70%)
7	Escanteios	2
22	Cruzamentos	12
0	Impedimentos	2
16	Tiro Livre	15
29	Arremessos Laterais	14
114	Ataques	72
17	Faltas	19
22	Desarmes	24
3	Tiro de Meta	8
5	Cartões Amarelos	5
0	Cartões Vermelhos	0

Vídeos

N/D
Match Thread: https://www.reddit.com/futebol/comments/140vcli/match_thread_liga_dos_campeões_concacaf_los/

I park my car in the incredibly nice upper-middle class Huntington Beach neighborhood, just down the street from the ‘New Reality’ (editor's note: fake name) sober living I got kicked out of. I take a second to pull myself together while in the darkness. I’m starting to feel very weak, very frazzled. I’ve been awake for at least 60 hours straight now, and I’m well aware of that. It is 1AM. I can’t decide if I should get a hotel or not.
I am so weak. I need to eat. I need water. I need to sleep. My mouth tastes TERRIBLE – like I am decaying from the inside out. I need to shower. I am aware that I have many physical needs that go beyond my need for more drugs.
See how you feel after the next shot, Lonnie.
I text Kace:
Here
I pat my pockets, making sure I have two separate bags: a bag in my left pocket, which has my furanylfentanyl and clean syringes in it, and a bag in my right pocket, which has both their meth and their dilaudid pills in it. I do not want to sell them furanylfentanyl because I don’t want them to die in the sober living house that has already seen 2 overdoses because of it.
I get out of my car and lock it. I walk through the sprawling, meticulous Huntington Beach neighborhood full of spacious and decorous houses, heading towards the sober living, though I stay on the other side of the street. I walk past several houses, with perfect green lawns and perfect landscapes, walking past the sober living. I walk a few houses past it, and then cross the street. When I arrive on the other side of the street, I glance all around me, checking for surveillance.
I double back, heading towards the sober living. I cut into the side yard, heading for the side door that leads into the garage. It is already cracked open, just as we planned. I open the door just enough so that I am able to slide through. I see two phone lights on in the far corner of the big 3-car garage.
“Yo,” I whisper-yell in the direction of the phone lights. One of the lights starts moving in a circular motion, beckoning me closer. I walk up, moving as quietly as I can. It would be terrible if the house manager, Jack, came in here right now.
I pull out their bag of dilaudid and meth. I see a hand with money in it being held out in my direction. I take the money and replace it with their bag of drugs.
“Nice, thanks,” Kace whispers, as I count the money. It's right on. The phone lights move closer to the ground, so I move with them. I see 3 fresh bottles of water on the ground, just like I asked for. I pull out the bag of needles and hand each of them 2 clean needles, putting one on the ground for myself.
“You got the Q-tips,” I whisper, looking towards Kace. His hand is already outstretched, a Q tip in it. I open the water bottle and put the bottle cap on the floor, beginning to prepare my shot of furanylfentanyl as quietly as I can, while they break up their dilaudids. The phones are propped up on the floor, giving me an eerie feeling. I have seen this before.
Déjà vu hits, and something inside me works to flash me back to my horrible half-ounce psilocybin trip. I suppress the embodied, hellish memories and the feelings of absolute terror, doom, and panic by preparing the shot as fast as I can.
“Where are you going after this?” Kace whispers to me, while we all work. I don’t even know the third boy, I only know that his name is Shane, he is white, he came here from the east coast, he’s in his 20s, and that he came to the wrong place if he wants to survive and recover from his addiction.
“I might go get a hotel, depends on how I feel,” I whisper back.
“Well, take a piece of this, mix it in there, that’ll help,” Kace whispers, his hand outstretched with a shard of meth in it. Meth is Kace’s panacea. I hesitate for a second, only because I know that this meth came from Sloan, which means it came from Lucky, which means it is very clean and very, very strong.
A small amount added to my shot of furry would ensure that I could stay awake for a little while longer. Now that I am coming down from the 2-day cocaine binge and haven’t yet slept, I run the risk of passing out at any moment.
“Maybe I should, just to be on the safe side,” I whisper, before involuntarily watching my hand take the small shard of meth and add it to the bottle cap. I take pleasure in the fact that this is fresh water from a clean water bottle, a fresh cotton, a clean bottle cap, and drugs that I sourced myself and am familiar with.
Listen to you, Lonnie. This is your third day in a row, and now that you don’t have cocaine, you’re doing meth? You were chugging cough syrup, you went on a cocaine binge, now you’re doing some goddamn meth? The dirtiest, most disgusting drug on the planet? And you’re selling it to these poor kids, at their sober living? Shame on you.
I shake my head slightly, hoping to shut it up.
I push the limits in my preparation of the dose: adding meth to this shot enables me to add more furanylfentanyl than I normally would, since the meth will keep me awake and therefore alive. I look up from the phone light when I am done, and I am surprised to see somebody else is done prepping and has completed their injection before me.
“Whoa, god damn,” Shane whispers. I chuckle.
“He’s never done a dilaudid before,” Kace whispers. I can hear the smile on Kace’s face, even in the darkness. I don’t smile, for something terrible has happened on this night. Shane’s soul has been infected by another parasite, and I will burn in the deepest level of Hell for being the one that brought it to him.
“Can you light me up?” I ask. One of the phone lights turns towards me. I find a vein quickly and easily, though I am having to rotate injection sites constantly. I cap the needle when it’s done and lean back, putting my hands on the concrete floor of the garage behind me. I count mentally, and barely make it past 3.
Every cell that I consist of alights with the jolting electric euphoria of meth. My chest tightens with power and ecstasy. I feel electric light waves of raw energy emanating from my heart as my heart rate dramatically increases with feelings of excited arousal.
All weakness and negativity have disappeared from my body. I could fight a tiger right now. I should go play basketball right now. I’d be unstoppable. I’d win every game. Nobody else would even have a chance.
“Fuck, I hate meth,” I whisper, overly alert, my heart racing in my ears. Now it feels like the house manager will open the door any second. Police are certainly watching us. My heart races in nonstop anticipation; I can feel my heartbeat in my trembling hands. Only the massive shot of furry I did can prevent the paranoia from causing me to panic. I take solace in the sensations of peace and relaxation that underlie the meth high. My lady, the Opioid - even though She is the cold, robotic Miss Furryfent, She is with me. I have nothing to fear.
“Nobody hates meth,” Kace whispers.
“It’s too good. It makes me feel too powerful. It makes me feel crazy,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” Shane whispers, as we watch Kace inject himself. There are a few seconds of silence, all of us waiting for Kace to get his rush.
“Shit, that dilaudid gives you a good rush. I forgot how good it is,” Kace whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back, before standing up. I walk to the exit, loath to be physically alone again, even though I feel lonely all the time. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but I know that this is another place that I am not welcome. The world is shrinking around me by the day. I am wearing out my welcome at the few places I am still allowed to go.
I need to go back to another treatment center, but life feels hopeless. More talk therapy, more 12-step meetings, more jail-rehabs, more vacation-rehabs – none of it has worked for me, and more of the same thing won’t help me. I am so hooked on these drugs; the drugs are a torrent, and every method of treatment is like a two-by-four piece of wood laying in the way. These drugs have my soul. Death is closing in on me.
“Thanks for coming out here. Be safe, brother,” Kace whispers, before closing the door behind me. I hear it lock, which hurts my feelings, even though I don’t blame him for locking me out. I’d lock me out, too.
I step out into a warm summer California night – back into a world that I don’t belong in; back into a world that doesn't want me.
Where are you going to go, Lonnie?
Not here. Anywhere but here. I start walking, and then start jogging across the street. Surprisingly, I feel no pain in my ankles at all. Jogging feels good. I make it across the street, and then keep jogging.
I jog up to my car. I open the door and get in it. I sit for a second. I check in on my body.
I feel amazing. I could run 3 miles right now. I feel great. I should keep moving.
I check in with my stomach. Although I couldn’t be less hungry, I know I need to consume some nutrients, even if they’re just liquid. I've been injecting cocaine continuously; I haven’t eaten a solid meal or slept in days.
I know what to do. I put my drugs and paraphernalia in the center console of my car. I get out of the car with only my phone, wallet, and keys in my pockets. I lock the car, checking it twice so it registers in my meth-addled brain, which is often riddled with unreasonable paranoia, that it is locked, and nobody can steal my drugs.
I start to walk away from my car, then stop mid-step. What if Kace or one of those guys comes looking for my car, knowing that it is full of drugs?
I am frozen with indecision. I notice I am licking my lips with overstimulation and force myself to stop my tongue. My heart is racing. I’m shaking with excitation. My brain is screaming at my body to do something, but I don't know what to do. They will certainly come looking for my car, hungry for more drugs.
You're being ridiculous, Lonnie. Nobody is going to steal your drugs.
I tell my feet to move. They won't move. I feel the urge to scream. I have to get away from here, I have to do something.
I start to jog again. I can get a quick workout in and get my brain to shut up at the same time. I start to jog, doing the old breathing trick I did when I was a kid trying to run the fastest 1-mile time in gym class.
I focus on my breath, to which I apply a specific breathing pattern. In, in, out. I jog, and I breathe. I jog, and then I jog faster, and my breathing sharpens – and then I jog even faster. I jog out of the neighborhood and onto the main road that connects these huge, gorgeous housing developments in Huntington Beach. I jog in the direction of a gas station that I know is just down the street from me.
I jog, and my mind turns to college basketball. I visualize myself playing in my mind, shooting 3-pointers and knowing that they’re in the hoop as soon as they leave my hand. I shoot a few more 3-pointers in my mind before losing myself completely.
The big, bright, lights, the smell of the hardwood, the sound of the ball bouncing on the floor and echoing off of every wall. The sound of solitude, and hard work, and everything that is good in life. The sound of the ball hitting nothing but net. Watching the net flip up after a perfect swish. I take myself back to some of my favorite moments playing basketball: back to Frederick, Maryland, where I scored 16 points on an overseas professional in a competitive men’s league game.
Back to West Palm Beach, Florida, where I got invited to try out for the semi-pro ABA team, the Miami Storm.
Back to Atlanta, GA, where I got made fun for doing ball handling drills with a tennis ball and then picked last, only to lead my team to victory several times in a row, scoring almost all of our points, winning in silence.
Showing up day in and day out, scoring and shooting and winning. Even when I was losing, I was getting better, so I was winning.
I press onward, jogging harder. I am going to play college basketball. Nothing is going to stop me. I notice that my shirt, which is drenched in sweat, is sticking to my skin. I peel my shirt off, barely slowing my pace. I glance up and to my right. There is a brown apartment complex. I throw my shirt in one of the bushes, making a mental note to get it out of the bush on my way back, certain that I’ll remember exactly how it landed in the bushes and precisely where it is.
I start to jog again, pretending that I have a basketball. I cross the invisible ball back and forth on the sidewalk, going out of my way to cross bushes up, crossing the imaginary ball hard and then going straight into a spin move. I lose myself in the movements. Thoughts cease, and there is nothing but my instinct telling me which dribble move to pantomime next against invisible defenders.
I stop. Why am I even going to the gas station? I should just get my car, go to 24-hour fitness, and play basketball for real. I turn around and start the journey back the way I came. I continue to run and do fake basketball moves on the shadow people. Finally, I find myself back in the residential neighborhood of Huntington Beach that my car is in.
I look around again. Is this the right neighborhood? Where am I? I walk around, looking for a landmark or something that I recognize.
There was something I was supposed to remember.
That’s right, I have to get to work. I need to find my car.
A white truck pulls up in the street next to me and stops.
That’s right, there’s a white truck coming to pick me up and take me to work! I walk up to the white truck, which has stopped in the middle of the road. Though the windows are tinted, I know that Todd is in this truck, and that he is here to pick me up to take me to Cinepolis for work. I pull on the passenger side door handle of the truck, so I can get in and go to work. The handle slips out of my hand when the door doesn’t pop open. The truck starts to drive away.
Why would Todd do that to me?! I look up at the sky. The sun is coming up? Shit, I’m going to be late for work now! I jog away from the truck. I need to go back to Todd’s house. I jog up to Todd’s house, which is the brown house right down the street. I walk up to the door and twist the doorknob. It doesn’t open.
Of course, it didn’t open, dumbass. Todd went to work.
I jog away. How am I going to get to work? I jog some more and start to feel sick.
Where am I?
“HEY! You left your stuff, like, way back there!” a random lady yells at me. I look at her, and then around at my surroundings. I don’t know where I am.
“What?” I yell back at her.
“You took your shorts off and left your stuff, like, way back there. I’ve been watching you. I think you should go home!” she yells, from across the street. I reach for my pockets.
I look down at my lower half. I have no shorts on. I am wearing nothing but black Nike compression underpants and basketball shoes. Realization strikes me like a thunderbolt: I have been running around in a state of meth-induced delusion for the entire night, playing with an invisible basketball.
I jog across the street, over to the lady.
“I’m sorry. I had a little too much to drink last night. Do you mind showing me where I left my stuff?” I ask, evaluating the woman. She is in her 40’s or 50’s, with long dark hair and a kind face. She has a small dog with her. He looks like a mutt.
“I figured. I was walking my dog, and saw you take your shorts off. I wanted to stop you when you tried to get in the truck, but I thought maybe you knew them. Then you tried to get in that house. You seemed very confused and out of it. Your pants are back this way,” she says, walking her dog down the sidewalk, back the way I came.
“Thanks,” I say, too embarrassed and ashamed to say much else. The sun is up. I try to walk naturally, like I am wearing pants instead of not wearing pants, which is a difficult thing to do. She leads me several minutes down the sidewalk, to somebody’s front yard. I see my shorts sitting in the grass in somebody’s yard, right by the sidewalk. I grab my shorts and put them on. My wallet and my phone are still in the pockets.
My keys. Shit, where are my keys?
“Do you know where my keys are?” I ask the woman, too embarrassed to look her in the eyes.
“No. I saw you take off your shorts here. I’ve been watching you, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. I wouldn’t be surprised if police are on their way,” she says, her eyebrows raised at me knowingly.
“Ok. Well, thanks for your help. I’m going to go. My house is in the neighborhood over there,” I lie, pointing further away from her and walking away. The word “police” forces me into action. I powerwalk until she is out of sight, and then I start to jog again.
Jog faster, Lonnie. Train harder.
No. I have to slow down. I’m becoming psychotic from overexertion, lack of nutrition, sleep deprivation, and methamphetamine. I have no drugs on me. I can slow down.
I force myself to start walking. I become aware, again, of my racing heart. It has been beating like this for days on end. It could easily explode and kill me at any second. Wait, when was the last time I did any opioids? The furanylfentanyl has been making me dopesick within 6 hours. I search my body for opioid effects. There are none.
I’m in the no man’s land between the opioid high and the withdrawal where I actually feel normal. The more I binge, the shorter the breaks become, and I’ve been binging, hard. If I feel normal now, that means I’ll be dopesick any second. I whine out loud. I want to scream up at the sky. My stomach starts to hurt terribly – it feels like it is bleeding.
I am dying.
I open my phone’s GPS and set it to my old sober living.
Shit, I don’t have a car key. I can’t get into my car! I call a locksmith, and then I start to run back towards the ironically named ‘sober living.’
I attempt to cling to reality.
My name is Lonnie. I am in Huntington Beach. I am going to Jack’s sober living, so I can do some fentanyl, so I don’t get dopesick. I did some meth, and I haven’t slept or ate in days, so I might hallucinate. Hallucinations aren’t real.
My name is Lonnie. I am in Huntington beach. I went to Florida for rehab for sniffing oxy, and I started to shoot dope. I came to California to stop shooting dope and picked up a meth habit.
STOP!
My name is Lonnie. The world would be better off if I were dead.
I start to walk. I can’t take this. I need some music. No, playing music would be suspicious. I start to jog again, trying not to think about my racing heart. I should focus on my breathing.
No, I can’t do that. That’s what made me go psychotic.
My name is Lonnie. I am going back to Jack’s sober living…

If you haven't seen this drone view already, have a look, it is jaw-dropping. I've never seen anything like it, and looks to be a fascinating challenge, with players required to shape shots both ways, thread needles, navigate slope changes, and negotiate brutally long as well as miniature par 3's.
https://www.golfdigest.com/story/los-angeles-country-club-north-hole-by-hole-video
I think this could be the most fun Major of the year, just based on the course.

Los Angeles

For anonymity purposes I’ll call her h.
I hate h. She acts like a 5 year old even though she’s 6 months younger than me, and sometimes she’s so immature I feel like I’m talking to a toddler. And she’s so spoiled. She keeps bragging about how she’s getting a new Apple Watch, and a new phone, and new AirPods, and how her parents are paying for all of it. And yes, while I nights also have an Apple Watch, and a phone, I payed for it. I worked for it. And she keeps bragging about how she’s so much richer than me. It’s driving me insane. And not only that, but she’s the family angel. She acts like a sweet girl in front of my family, but in private she’s a huge bitch. She swears at me in private, and she’s been acting super awfully towards me ever since I revealed to her that I was pansexual, as a secret. But of course, she told her parents, who told my heavily conservative parents. And this has ruined all of the trust I have for her. But anyways, she also blames everything on me. When she swears at me, she soon after runs to her parents crying and tells them how I called her a bitch or something. And of course, everyone believes her, which has made me into the family outcast, because not even my own parents believe me over her. And she never makes conversation to me in front of anyone else. She keeps sitting on her phone, watching god knows what, and then running to my parents to tell them how I was the one sitting on my phone and blowing her off. For context, I never touch my phone when I’m near her, and I never bring it near her, because she’s guessed my password and looks through my private shit when I turn around for one second. And yes, maybe I don’t talk to her, but that’s because every time I’ve tried, she’s twisted my words to make me look like some kind of bitch.
Anyways, does anyone have some advice? Bc I’m sick of her, and I don’t know how much longer I can handle her.