Kid Whizdom 1

Some of you know I battle a health condition that is progressive and has taken out some nerves, small muscles, and caused other problems. We're still on a hunt for final answers and I'll go back to San Francisco again next week for more fun and games at UCSF. It can cause pretty dramatic flare-ups when it hits and has seriously worried The Wild Man at times. He's my thinker/fretter. Like mother, like son.

But awhile back when my liver went south with it for bit, I was in rough shape. TWM came up to me, gave me a big hug and said, "I don't want you to die, mama."

I said all the reassuring things moms say and, because we kid about nearly everything in our family, even illness, I looked at him and laughingly added, "Besides, only the good die young. I'll be around for a LONG time."

He wasn't in the mood to pick up the teasing thread and looked at me in all seriousness and concern. "But," he paused a little too long, "Aren't you.......too OLD to die young?"

THEN he laughed because I fell onto the couch in hysterics! Boy, was HE right!!

Copyright 2009

The Winter Ow-lympics Part II

I wish I had looked as calm as this woman riding up the lift. (Although, I might have been worried if my legs looked liked hers. Those bruises seem to indicate some sort of recent plummeting from vast heights during the photo shoot.) However, I was not that carefree. My situation was more like this:

That's how far back Ditzy Girlfriend was. And it was snowing. And blowing. And freezing. It's hard to yell anyway when your lips are frozen into an Egyptian mummy-like grimace with your teeth bared. So, there I was, casting around inside my brain for the solution when it hit me: I would watch the people in FRONT of me! Of course! How silly of me. They would get off the lift before my very eyes and I, in Silly Putty fashion, would do likewise. This brilliant idea allowed me to sit back and pretend the day looked like this:

Doesn't this seem like a good idea? See those people ahead of me? Don't they look relaxed? Wouldn't you want to do whatever they did? Me too!

Unfortunately, as we approached the top of the lift something began to dawn on me. I watched as each chair dropped down on the other side of the slope and I couldn't see a single thing. Panic set in. What was I going to do? How steep was the slope on the other side? Did I just stand up? Wouldn't the chair lift hit me in the head? Wasn't this thing traveling at like 85 miles an hour? Couldn't that knock me out? Did only stupid people stand up and try and outrun a charging chairlift? My options were rapidly narrowing.

I was able to see the skiers in front of me lift the tips of their skis. It seemed this was to keep the skis from popping off or toppling the skiers forward into death's waiting jaws. But then the people disappeared over the slope. I did all I knew to do. I lifted my skis until they were flat and parallel with my ear lobes. It was a good look.

Suddenly, the top of the slope was directly under me. If I was going to stand up I would have to lower my skis and do it NOW. But was I supposed to do that? A few more feet forward. I noticed the empty chairs flipping in the turnstile and heading back down the mountain. I could see myself sitting there riding all the way to the bottom. Not an option. Humiliation for stupidity is worse than humiliation for broken bones. The slope descended. The ground was quickly moving away from me. I was still chair bound. "Do something! Hurry!" I yelled at myself inside my cavernous head. "Jump, you idiot!" I commanded. So, I jumped.

And jumping would have been a good option had I been two feet off the ground. But I wasn't. I wanted to be sure the demonic chair lift couldn't catch up to me and bash my skull in, so I waited until I was ten feet above the snow. I was relatively sure my legs would splinter but my brains, such as they were, would be intact.

I was wrong on both fronts. If I'd HAD any brains I would have realized the chair would have simply given me a gentle push and propelled me slowly forward. And my downward trajectory would have supplied ample head room. I also found that hitting the snow caused nothing to splinter. I didn't even fall. Right away. I landed with both skis pointed downhill and in a slightly crouched position. The perfect position, it turns out, to launch me as rapidly down the slope as possible. Which would have been okay if the hill hadn't ended and made a hard left turn. And if I had any idea about HOW to turn in that position.

So I gained speed and began to flail with poles flying wildly around me. My skis began to separate as I lost control and did a free-style cartwheel. It's always nice when these things happen at the bottom of the lift because you are guaranteed an audience. At any given time 20 people are standing around waiting for someone or trying to decide what direction to head. It's gratifying when you know you have provided a fun-filled moment in their day.

I lay in a position that should only be possible if you were a performer with Cirque de Soleil. My girlfriend skied comfortably up to me. "You okay?" she asked. "I have no idea," I mumbled. "Help me figure out where my legs are in relation to the North Pole and try to unwind them from my right shoulder." Any skier knows that, in theory, my boots should have popped out of my bindings. And any skier knows this is only guaranteed to happen if you catch the most delicate edge and take a tiny fall. At that point your ski will come off, fail to deploy the brake, and will finish skiing down the hill without you, determined you will not spoil its good time. You will then be free to walk/ski down the remainder of the hill and pick it up while it mocks you.

My skis were still attached. But I was young and supple and therefore didn't qualify to be lifted off the mountain by the ski patrol. No, I had to get up, spit snow, dust off, and act nonchalant as my audience laughed themselves silly. Being the center of attention is overrated.

By now my snow legs were wobbly and I was a nervous wreck. Not the best condition for your first descent. And it was cold and overcast, without snowing, which meant lots of ice patches. And ice patches meant less control, especially for the inexperienced, horrified, terrified, stupefied, and wild eyed. What could possibly be more fun? I couldn't wait to start. I saw signs. Black. Blue. Green. Were these the colors I could expect to be when I was all done? My girlfriend explained they were levels of difficulty. I asked if there was anything pink with little ponies pulling a cart. I would ride the cart down.

"No. It's no big deal," she replied. "The runs with the green signs are really easy. Anybody can do them. The blue runs are more difficult with moguls and steeper inclines."

"What are moguls?" I asked. "Oh, just little bumpy places on the hill where rocks are, underneath. They're easy." I could just envision the complete ease I would, no doubt, experience.

"And the black hills?" I inquired. "What are those like?"

"Well, just over there is 'The Face.' It kinda goes straight down. It's pretty fast. I don't think you wanna try that yet." Really? Wow. She could have been a hostage negotiator with that kind of instant grasp of the situation.

Green it was. Green sounded good. Nice and easy. Fairly straight. Good places to fall. As long as you don't take wrong turns. Wrong turns are bad and take you to other hills with different color designations. Those are bad. Stay on the right path. No problem. Stay with me Ditzy Girlfriend. Don't forget I'm here. I'll follow you. Our run looked something like this:

Easy enough. Straightforward. I was a little squirrely being shaken up and nervous and did fabulous windmills everytime I hit an icy patch, but I was moving. I began to gain a little confidence when I went more than 100 feet without falling down. It actually seemed almost fun. I had no idea how to plant my poles. They were just along for the ride dragging behind me or stabbing the occasional rock to keep me from running into it. Whatever. It was handy. I even passed a couple of people. That must be good! That meant I was going faster than somebody which I thought might be impossible unless someone was actually backing up.

I even got a chance to practice my skiing protocol. "On your right!" I called out to the skier I was approaching and passing, or "On your left!" Wow. I was sounding cool. Using the lingo, man. It didn't matter that little children two feet high were zooming past me with no poles at all. Mere pre-verbal infants looking like Bode Miller. And then there were the hotdoggers. Teen boys who were all flash and splash, with no manners. They seemed to take delight in cutting as silently close to me as possible. I fell over everytime.

I had just righted myself, snapped back into my skiis and was underway when I heard a scream right behind me. I suddenly became "one" with a fellow skier. She was out-of-control and made no attempt to recover. Her plan was for me to stop her. It worked. We were on a descent when she hit me like a Mack truck. Our fall was spectacular. With sixteen legs, arms, skiis, and poles between us we unhooked, unwound, undid, and examined ourselves. Nothing broken, amazingly. And at least she apologized. That was something. I willed my jelly legs to stand. My friend was nowhere to be seen. I thought I had seen her cut to the right. So I turned right.

So I turned right. Four little words that can change your life. I spotted Miss Ditz in the distance. I think she forgot we were skiing together. She was standing in a group. I arrived just as she prepard to take off. I looked down the hill. All I could see was this:

Moguls. Not bad hair, "Your Fired!," Donald Trump type moguls. The where in all-that's-sacred-is-there-a-place-to-put-my-skis-flat moguls. My friend was non-plussed. "Just keep your skis pointed downhill and use your knees a lot," she instructed. "Oh, and keep your skis together and try to point your body downhill, too." Try to point my body downhill? Was there another directional option as in, "I think I'll ski UPhill for awhile!" Because if that was an option, I was signing up.

"Just follow me!" she called back over her shoulder. Uh-huh. I'd be following her alright. Probably in a ski litter but I'd be along directly. I finally arrived at the bottom a few weeks later after much prayer and supplication.

I actually signed up to repeat this process many times over the next few years. I learned to love it. I attached ski racks onto my little V.W. convertible. I bought cute clothes. Better skis. Cooler boots. I even accidentally bought smokin' sunglasses. I was informed they were the latest by a pre-teen on the lift one day. "Are those Vuarnets?!" she asked gazing into my face. "Where?" I panicked, feeling around for something crawling across my head. "Your glasses! I hope I can get a pair of those one day." I just liked the color of the lenses. Who knew I'd ever be cutting-edge on the ski slope?

Which goes to show, even uncoordinated dorks who jump off chair lifts rock once in awhile. If only by complete accident. Could there be any other way?

Copyright 2009

An Award, uh, Sort of........

So, uh, okay. I received this "award" from my recently fired press agent, Libby, over at Neas Nuttiness. You will see why I had to let her go when you read her latest press release on me. It is as follows:

"And last for today (and believe me I didn't really want to add her cause she's really smok'n me out with her followers - and she's often a BIG FAT LIAR - oh did I really say that? Uuuummmm - she stretches the truth now and then - yep, that's better.) is Robynn at Robynn's Ravings."

I want to thank you, Libby, from the bottom of my shoe for these warm words! lol! Now I do suggest you pop over and visit her because she is very nice to everyone else and will probably be nice to you, too.

Okay, the rules are as follows:

List 6 things that make you happy. Pass the award on to 6 bloggers for Kreativity. Link to the blogger who gave you the award. Link to the blogs receiving the award. Notify the recipients.Things that make me happy:

1. My family, friends, and pets on a daily basis. Such warmth, joy, blessings, and love.

2. My faith in an all powerful, redeeming God who has seen fit to love EVEN ME.

3. Joy, fun, laughing, humor.

4. Finding meaning - even if it takes years.

5. Kindness - it is always unexpected and I hope I never fail to appreciate it.

6. My new blogging world and the wonderful friends I have met here. I am touched and amazed.

Next: The Nominees are - (oh man, only six? you know how BAD I am at choosing......I don't follow anyone I don't think is fantastic.) But okay....based on creativity......

1. Sharon Linne Faulk is an incredible designer of handmade cards. They are available on Etsy. Sharon's life is filled with challenges and love as she raises two boys with autism, and does so on her own, after having lost her husband. Her story is compelling and I urge all of you to visit her and buy her cards. They really are lovely.

2. Andrea at Finding Sirius. I love her writing and her heart. Both are beautiful. And she has started a new blog called, The Charlie Project in which she features photos of dogs. But it's not just photos. Andrea offers captions that explalin the photos in meaningful and moving ways. She can see something in dogs you might miss as a casual observer. She doesn't miss a thing and you may see dogs differently after viewing her photos. If you are in any way a dog lover your life will be enriched.

3. Gizten Girl is a treasure. She has incredible health challenges that keep her housebound and in pain. But you won't leave her site feeling down. Quite the contrary. She's funny, encouraging, and very talented. Today she is starting to sell her inspirational, and lovely, canvases that she paints. I already ordered one this morning. I want it, dang it! If I wait ten seconds I'll be in line behind the rush. LOTS of us love her. You will, too.

4. Red Pine Mountain is a humanitarian. She focuses on people and the writings of others. She has contests encouraging people to visit other blogs and purchase handmade products. She advocates for and writes about random acts of kindness. Her heart is evident in all she does. Go and be blessed by her graciousness.

5. French with Music is unbelievable. Here's something even more unbelievable: I am her only follower. She is in France and has other blogs but this one, well, you have to have eclectic musical taste (and I DO) but I have found myself enraptured by some of her video posts. Three of my favorites over there are as follows: No Me Quitte Pas, is the real version of a song translated into English. And believe me, something was lost in translation. (This has subtitles.) Absolutely stunning in its emotional grip and poetry. Another is Liberta which will just make you smile. Trust me. You can't help it. (Put on the headphones for the best effect for all of these. You'll feel like you're there.) And finally, don't miss Chocolat Chaud. I have no idea what the words are but I love how she sings them and the tune is something I hummed constantly this last week. It's a live performance and I LOVE it! Please visit and tell me what you think.

6. Finally, Azure Island Designs is a woman who makes jewelry. Yeah, I know. Lots of people make jewelry. But not like this. She is not only richly creative, she infuses her pieces with feeling. I don't know how she does it except that she's an artist and that's what artists do. Check this out especially: Broken Heart Necklace. Scroll down when you go there and just look at that. I don't know why but that necklace makes me feel hopeful and sad, all at the same time. I want it. It says so much.

My deepest appreciation goes out to all of you ladies for enriching my life. I have found my way to you and I am grateful.

Proverbs 3:6 "In all your ways acknowledge Him and he will direct your paths."

So grateful our paths have crossed. :-)

(Now go blame Libby that Part II of "The Winter Ow-lympics isn't up. She'll thank you for it.)

Copyright 2009

The Winter Ow-lympics Part I

My kids have been wanting to learn to ski. It looks simple to them. A board or a couple of sticks, some snow, gravity, what could go wrong?

I used to ski but that was back before my weight warped my velocity and would now cause me to propel down the hill at Mach 1. Since I was never into speed skiing, I view that as a negative.

And not being people of means, I hate to start what I know cannot be supported. Lift tickets, equipment (ever changing), clothing (ever changing), food (never ending), transportation, emergency room visits. It's not a sport for the faint-of-heart or faint-of-wallet.

Nevertheless, we have had a banner year of snow here in the Sierras and I've begun to wonder if the kids shouldn't experience it at least once while they're still able to heal. If they love it then they can get three jobs to support it.

I didn't learn to ski until I was in my early twenties. And I learned about snow and skiing like I had learned everything else in my life. The hard way. My mother exposed us to some poetry and music and the occasional book, but our exposure to common sense was learned on the street. Consequently, life had a propensity for biting us in the rear-end and leaving big parts of our posteriors missing. (If you saw my rear-end now, you would avidly dispute this declaration.) When we ended up burnt, bleeding, broken, or ill we would (sometimes) have epiphanies. I watched and mimicked everything, for good and ill. It was my primary mode of learning. I wasn't a chameleon; I was Silly Putty.

Remember Silly Putty? We loved that stuff when we were kids and would flatten it out like a pancake and press it onto the colored comics in the Sunday paper. When you pulled it off, you could see an exact picture, colors and all, of what it had just touched. That's how I applied myself to everything. Why not to skiing? Seemed good to me.
I had planned to rent my equipment, watch my friend, and ski. Some benevolent soul told me that, at the least, I should take a half-day of ski school. Never one to cast off good advice as worthless, I signed up.

We were informed a rope tow would tug us up to the top of the hill. All you did was sidle up, point your skis forward, grab the rope, go. Let go when you're done. Easy. However, never having six foot tree limbs nailed on to the bottom of my shoes, I had no idea that my legs would follow them and not the other way around. When you split eagle and face plant in the snow, the rope tow stops. And you look around sheepishly as everyone huffs and shifts and waits for you to stop being a dork. (I was able to right myself but I've never been able to stop being a dork.)

Now, skiing seemed like a great idea until I got to the top of the hill and looked down. I wondered what in the world would stop me from propelling straight down the hill, crashing through the restaurant glass, and ending up splayed out like a frozen Thanksgiving turkey on someone's table? I grew petrified with the thought. I was already shaky and my muscles were sore. I had been skiing five minutes.

The instructor put us through our paces and taught us, first and foremost, how to fall. He said falling was a guarantee so learning to fall well was essential. Thank you Mr. Walking Metaphor. I learned to snowplow, traverse, lean to the left or right and plant my rear end smack into the hill to stop acceleration. I gained a little confidence and by the time the lessons were over, I was relaxing. I was ready. I was good.

No one had told me not to wear jeans in the snow, however, and I was soaked. And I had never heard you needed sunscreen in the snow. I never used sunscreen anyway. I just thought faces and bodies always burned into huge blisters, your skin rolled off like wallpaper, you moaned in cold baths, and moved on. And with any luck you turned a darker shade of pale. My face felt tight and swollen. I figured it was cold.

I met up with my girlfriend for lunch. I did my best to look cool and alluring as I walked to the food deck in Frankenstein boots that slipped out from under me on the icy stairs. My skis fell off the rack when I went to grab them and knocked down a few others for good measure. I snapped my goggles over my eyes to disguise myself, locked into my bindings, and skated and hobbled my way to the lift.

A chair lift is an interesting thing. It's supposed to keep things moving and stay in motion. I never knew it could be any different having never been on one before. I didn't know it could stop or that you could let a chair go by if you were having trouble. It completely intimidated me so I determined I would be ready. Not so my friend. She was one of those blissfully, and maddeningly, unaware people who never give a thought to how their existence in the world impacts anyone else. She frequently dawdled, put on make up at red lights, pulled her car into the fast lane and drove 30, etc. She was no different in the lift line.

She considered her skis, fixed her hair, adjusted her goggles, applied chapstick, repositioned her pole straps, unzipped and rezipped her jacket, straightened her hat, blew her nose, talked endlessly, and noticed nothing. Flirting with the guy behind us was her main objective when our chair arrived. I had been moving forward with pressure butterflies hatching in my stomach. As soon as my turn arrived I moved out quickly, got into position, and sat down. Alone. And away I went. Alone. My ditz of a girlfriend was clueless and only just managed to catch the next chair.

I jetted into the air and became weightless. It was exhilarating. It was breathtaking. I could see the tops of the trees, the next mountain range, a frozen lake. And just as suddenly, I could see my traction device and bedpan as I realized I knew how to get on the lift but was utterly clueless about how to get off. What was I supposed to do? Stand up? Jump? I yelled back to my girlfriend for instructions. We were too far apart and it was too windy to do me much good. I was on my own and scanning my brain wildly for ideas. Then it hit me.



To be continued........

Copyright 2009

The Pitch - When Will I Turn 100?

I've noticed the followers climbing slowly towards the 100 mark. However,

.....delayed gratification is not my area of giftedness. ("Not my area of giftedness:" Over-exercised excuse that I now like to use everywhere.)

So, because I'm THAT close......may I ask you, dear reader.....if you are reading me regularly and wondering why and when you lost your mind, why not just accept that it is so and join me on this jocular journey? Wow. I always wondered when I'd be able to work "jocular journey" into a sentence. Well, there you have it. I've done it! Ahhhhh. Okay, I'm over it.

Anyway, just click the little "Follow" button to your right and maybe I'll turn triple digits. And it will match my I.Q. (Okay, it will be 40 points higher than my I.Q. - indulge me here.)

Hey! We are a party of 100 now!! But keep signing up if you want to because people on the list might come to their senses and escape! THANKS ALL!

Wild Men Have Birthdays, Too!

A certain person in my life, known as The Wild Man, is turning 14 today.

He is one of the incredible lights of my life. My sunny son. My "point and drive" buddy. (I should post about this - so much fun we've had.) He's a feeler of feelings - you never wonder where you stand. He's a comedian, one-liner delivery man, looks at you and always SEES you. Gives incredibly specific compliments. You never hear just a, "You look nice" from him. It will be tailored to you. He's a chatter box with a million thoughts.

He's the boy I thought was a daughter when I was pregnant. God knew what he was doing! He showed me about men and boys through this wonderful son of mine. I had never known what a healthy, loving, caring male was like from the ground up. He taught me and opened by eyes, and heart, to many more. He loved with beauty and innocence.

He's the one who says, "Come on mom....drive the Jeep up on the median while we're goin' down the street and get around all this traffic....be a FUN mom!" He's a goofball. He can be a bundle of energy and wear you out. He is The Wild Man, after all. He's a tapper of chairs. When he was really little, every morning he would wake up, crawl out of bed, and sneak in my office to tap on the back of my chair and let me know he was there. It was one of our "little things." Then he would climb into my lap for a snuggle. And what a snuggler.

Oh, boy of my heart. Happy Birthday. I love you so very much. I could never have imagined all you would bring. God bless your year. You have blessed my life.

Why The Heck Do You Blog? I Mean REALLY?

I am unstable.

I come from California. I haven't seen many happy cows. Mostly I see them all crowded together and standing on Kilimanjaro size piles of poop. But it's also known as the land of fruits and nuts out here. That I can concur with. I fit right in.

Do you ever find yourself wondering, "What is the MATTER with that idiot?" when encountering someone who does something really stupid or makes absolutely no sense? And then you realize you're having enough trouble just analyzing your own internal landscape? So, how could there possibly be any hope for figuring out another person's issues? And then you go on a long tirade of trying to figure out why you ever did anything you did? And then you give up and eat ice-cream?

Well, I ask myself 13 times a day, "Why do you blog, Robynn?" and I answer with 23 different responses. Because I'm not all there. And I don't do the right ratios in the question-to-answer department. Math was never my best subject.

Lunch and boys were my best subject.

I had the biggest crush on Mike Karastathis when I was in the 5th grade. He was this cute Greek boy. I think he knew I was alive but I'm not sure he cared why. However, Galen (or something like that I can't recall due to extreme horror) knew why. It was so he could fawn over me and gaze at me on his 18th trip to the pencil sharpener. Him and his three teeth and his butch haircut. And his loud personality. And his "won't take no for an answer" pesky ways of following me around and declaring his love for me on an every-minute basis.

I don't write the blog for him.

Where the heck was I? What am I talking about?

On any given moment during the day I will give one of the following answers as to why I blog:

I love to write.

I love to make people laugh.

I love to make people feel.

Because people seem to like it.

Wait, there are only 2 comments. No one seems to like it.

I'm desperate.

I'm the scribe of the family writing down the good, the bad, and the utterly repulsive.

It's for my kids.

Maybe I'll make money someday. It's the beginning of a business.

It's been 3 months and you've made $7.48, Robynn. You're a mogul. Or a mongrel. Give up.

I'll put all these stories together one day and shove 'em in a book.

I love to stay connected with people.

It gives me happy motivation.

It gives me stress....I'll never write anything entertaining again. What was I thinking.

I'm building a writing discipline. Good writers write regularly.

I write for the naysayers. Those who hint to me that I must have a LOT of time on my hands.

I write for the yaysayers. Those who make me feel I have added something to their lives.

I like to share how I'm a mere mortal, stumbling and falling my way forward.

Because I like to connect with people and we connect with people in our humanity, our mistakes, and our weaknesses. Those who are reluctant, or loathe, to reveal their weaknesses can make you feel "less than." Perfectionism isn't that attracting. And we don't really believe it anyway, just so you know, you perfectionists you.

I am a perfectionist. I'm trying to be a good-enoughist. I am in conflict with myself. Where was I? Oh yeah.

Because maybe someone will see that without God's grace in my life, I wouldn't be here.

Maybe someone will realize their need for God's grace in their life and grasp that hope.

I love to write. Did I say that?

If you love to do something and you do it, is it automatically a weakness?

Do you see my struggle with paralysis of analysis?

I am unstable.

So, why do YOU write? I would REALLY love to know. Would you tell me? Then I can obsess about your reasons, too.

Copyright 2009