The Ice Cream Man Cometh (Insert Jaws Music)

It will be 98 degrees in Fresno by Monday. Two days ago it was 68. Welcome to much of California.

The beach areas and some far northern locations are usually spared. The rest of us just pray for death. Summer tends to come unexpectedly and with a vengeance. I don't know WHY we don't expect it. It happens every year. But each season we optimistically anticipate mild temperatures while failing to remember this pertinent fact: volcanoes will not erupt in our vicinity because they can't take the heat. Occasionally some outsider will make the comment that at least it's a "dry heat." Yeah, well, so is a blow torch but I'm not volunteering to stand in front of one.

And with the searing weather will come the ice cream man. This will not be the ice cream man of my youth. Gone is the fellow with the friendly, toothy smile and white Garrison cap perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Gone is the alluring truck with lovely decals advertising enticing frozen concoctions. Gone is the perfect ice cream treat that when unwrapped, looked exactly like the picture promised it would.

I think Stephen King designed the ice cream truck and driver that now prowls the city streets of California.

It would seem apparent the legislature passed a bill requiring all said trucks to be in a demolition derby before hitting the road. This should be followed by a "Thelma and Louise" style vault over and into a canyon.

When the truck body is appropriately mangled, it must be abandoned, in the rain, for at least a year. This will create the rust and dirt needed to create the "war-zone chic" effect. The decals will have been applied on the assembly line so they are now barely visible and scuffed beyond recognition.

The music blasted from the truck as it travels through your neighborhood will be as damaging to your nerves as electrocution, but far slower. It will warble and dip so as to never hit its proper pitch, even by accident, and won't pause even when parked. And the truck will not visit your area once a day but will be on a continuous merry-go-round loop passing by at least 400 times.

Should you be a thrill seeker and, horror-of-horrors, let your kids approach and buy something, you will be most fortunate indeed if your ice-cream has retained its original shape and/or coatings. More likely it will look like a science project comparing the ice-age effects against global warming; continuous freeze vs. melt and thaw.

You will also discover the ice-cream man comes in, primarily, two frightening flavors.

The first will be an ex New York City cab driver. He will hate you for trying to do business with him but you will only know this by his contorted angry countenance and volume of voice. You will never understand a word he says and when you order a Missle Pop you will receive a Drumstick. You are not allowed to protest or he will run over you. Sometimes he will have a wife sitting in the back of the truck to retrieve the items he barks out. Hopefully, she will be unchained.

The second flavor will be the reason my children will require future therapy for trauma and are never allowed to make purchases from the rolling danger wagon. They were taught when they were little to run back inside if they heard the music because I didn't even want the driver to know children lived here.

It was a friend who informed me about this type years ago. Her brother was released from prison and got a job driving an ice-cream truck. He said lots of ex-felons did this. And many of them were sex-offenders. Her brother had done time for drug charges. That was concerning to me considering he hadn't overcome his problem. But sex-offenders, including rapists and child-molesters, are allowed to drive ice-cream trucks where would-be victims come running to them. If you find this hard to believe go here. The A.C.L.U. is all for it. Apparently, they don't have children. Or brains. For a complete list of things to be terrified of with your local ice cream driver, go to "Do You Really Know Your Ice Cream Truck Man?"

Why can't we get this guy?

Or this truck?


Or this one run by a whole family, even their children, in Grand Forks, North Dakota?



Not on my street, I can tell you. I want little children hanging out of windowed ice cream trucks happily advising would-be customers. I want to believe in happiness and families working together for the common good. Maybe they even homeschool and have little desks set up in there. Can't I believe that if I want to? Can't they come to my neighborhood?

All of this occurred to me as I dropped into my friend's blog this morning. She takes interesting shots of life around New York City and you can see my inspiration here at her blog called "On The m104." She took a picture of an oncoming ice cream truck. I knew by the shiny chrome grill on the front and sheer gleaming cleanliness it exuded, our worlds had nothing in common.

So bring on the heat California. You're going to anyway. And when the urge to soothe my fevered brow seems to be provided by the creamy goodness of icy decadence, you will find me roaming the aisles of the frozen food section at Whole Foods looking for my fix. If the ice cream man comes prowling into the neighborhood, we'll be locked in the house, thank you very much.

Disclaimer: My sincere apologies to any ice cream truck driver reading this who drives in California and whose person and truck do not fit this description. You have my utmost appreciation and gratitude. Please come to Fresno. We might erect a statue in your honor.

(I have a long history with ice cream issues. If you'd like to read about about my childhood waywardness, you can go here.)

Copyright 2009

Fingerprint Friday

There is a song by Steven Curtis Chapman that says:

"I can see the fingerprints of God
When I look at you
I can see the fingerprints of God
And I know its true
You're a masterpiece
That all creation quietly applauds
And you're covered with the fingerprints of God."

So look around you and see where YOU can see God's fingerprints. Is it in nature? Kids? Animals? Where do you see them?

Pampering Beki always hosts Fingerprint Friday and if I can, I like to participate. It certainly isn't hard to come up with something this morning.

I am awed and touched God has seen fit to bring all of you dear friends and readers into my life. Your words and laughs and encouragement are beyond what my limited descriptive abilities can convey. You make me feel like a real writer. You cause me to believe I'll get the books out there or the magazine articles. You make me want to grow and be able to tell a publisher (because they always want to know what you've written and, basically, why anyone would bother reading), that I have THIS blog, and THIS body of work, and all these people who are willing to come back, day after day, to read my scribblings. Every new follower adds mightily to my credibility for marketing. And I very much want to publish. Writing is my passion. That you enjoy it and keep returning and encouraging, is my over-the-top blessing.

YOU make me believe it's possible.

With Deepest Gratitude and Love,

Robynn

Never Eat Crow - Part II

When the dove flew back onto the ark, wasn't it carrying an olive branch? I don't remember anything about a finger. And I still seem to have all of mine.

So Twig was back. Now what?

We resigned ourselves to more bird poop inspired masterpieces everywhere.

The backyard chicken coop was still housing a couple of tired out old hens. We decided they might enjoy a fine retirement out at my mom and step-dad's place. They only laid an egg every month or so, the hens not the folks, and mom liked watching them peck around. Red Feathers and Chicken Little would be happy there and that would open up the hen house for a pigeon to live in.

It was hard for Bo to say good-bye to Chicken Little. Daughter and hen shared a special bond. Bo had stepped on Chicken Little's leg when Little was just a peep and the bone had snapped in two. We popsicle-sticked it into a cast and Bo carried the baby invalid around so long, C.L. would lay on her back in Bo's arms and stick her feet straight up in the air every time she was picked up.

We hated to see them leave, too, and tried to make it work with all three, but the hens had a flapping fit every time Twig came into the hen house. Somebody had to move out and Twig had already proven he was not taking part in the Pigeon Relocation Program.

The move was made and, with hardly a ruffled feather, the hens settled in to their new country home. Twig now had the joint to himself. We would open the door to the coop and give him a little fly around during the day. He was never hard to lure back in. All it took was food. He was a man pigeon. What can I say.

During one particular week he was gone - a lot. We began to think he'd broadened his horizons and might be moving on. But then he was back, with luggage. We noticed a little red haired girl pigeon our Charlie Brown was enamored with. She hung out on the periphery and wasn't the least interested in human contact. Twig flew in and out of his cage a hundred times and got down on the ground inside pretending to eat. He pecked and fluffed and cooed and tried, in every way, to convince her the coast was clear. She was not a believer.

Every day the courtship was the same with Twig trying to entice her into his bachelor pad. She would watch him and tip forward, touching her beak to the fence. She looked like a teapot being poured out and that's what we began to call her: Teapot. An unfortunate side-effect to all this was that the Modern Art Bird Poop Museum was growing in its display. What we had tried to eliminate was now expanding. It was in everyone's interest to arrange these nuptials - and fast.

We set out the choicest morsels for the marriage feast. Twig did his part by flying back and forth between Teapot and the supper table. We began to see signs of weakening. She would now fly down to the ground and walk around the outside the coop. We knew our move required cat-like reflexes and a coordinated effort the second she stepped far enough in to slam the gate shut.

For two days she hung around at the threshold and then, as hunger won out, she flew to a perch just inside. The Wild Man seized his opportunity, rushed in, and slammed the door on their future. Teapot went ballistic. Twig was thrilled. Let the honeymoon begin! But an appropriate marriage had to take place first.

You have never seen courtship until you've watched one pigeon applying her lipstick and the other one slickin' down his feathers with hair gel. Pigeons invented the term "Billing and Cooing." There is dancin', yee-hawin', bowing to your partner, and more struttin' than models on a runway. Teapot was a goner and seemed to forget she was now in captivity. She willingly became a slave to love. And her trust wasn't misplaced. Twig attended to her every need.

It wasn't long before she was sitting most of the time. And then I noticed her out pecking and stretching and Twig was sitting. I knew nothing about pigeon parenting but it's very progressive. Their time on the nest was shared equally. And when Twiglet was born (his sibling didn't make it) they tended and fed him together. It turns out pigeons are much like crows. They don't launch their babies until the babies are indistinguishable from the parents in size. It was nearly disgusting to see these poor parents trying to shove food down a bird throat large enough for them to crawl into. It was more reminiscent of "Jaws."

Finally, he ate on his own and Twig and Teapot left for a Bermuda vacation. It didn't pay off, though, because ten minutes later they were sitting again. Two babies were born out of that misspent time-off but they weren't long for this world. JoJo, our Border Collie/McNab was absolutely fascinated with their squawking and flapping and, in a moment of total dog abandon, dug under the edge of the coop and had squab for dinner. There was great dismay and chastisement from the kids and me. (I think Grizzly was cheering for the dog. He couldn't figure out what possible benefit their could be to pigeon replication.) To JoJo's credit, she did her best to look like she felt bad about it. She never really pulled it off.

With just the three birds we decided against adding to the flock and collected eggs when they showed up. And a few years later, before we left for an extended vacation, we relocated them all out to the grandparents' place. The old hens were still kickin' out there but the coop was so huge they barely noticed a few birds flying around. And containment kept Twig from flying home again. He hadn't been free at our house for quite sometime due to his artwork and this coop was big enough to contain a tree. Life was good but Twig passed on eventually and Twiglet married his mother. It became a Greek tragedy.

I told you keeping crows was illegal and now you know why - they turn into demented pigeons. Those Fish and Game people know what they're doing and next time, I'm listening.

Copyright 2009

10,000 A.B. and Other Fascinations

Two months ago I (meaning Bo) added a counter to my blog. It was extremely addictive watching it click and tick. Today it turned over the 10,000 mark! So it is now officially 10,000 A.B. - After Blog (really after blog began minus two months but that whole thing - A.B.B.M.T.M. - would look ridiculous so I'll just use A.B. because it serves the purpose and looks right and capitalizes on the whole history thing and oh, really, nevermind.) Let's just say I'm going with it.

And let's just also say that I find this terribly exciting and loads of fun!

Now, I have also added a "StumbleUpon" feature which I in no way understand but which somehow gives me more visibility in the blog world, hence, may, in theory, bring in more readers. The same is true for "Digg" which I actually do understand a little more. You, my dear readers, can access Digg by clicking on the button and recommeding this site or a post you like and that, in theory, may bring others in to read it and raises my rankings. You do have to write a little comment, I think, which may put some of you off. I don't blame you. Only go there if you really want to.

And I now have lots more people following me on Twitter and most of them I've never heard of so I am completely baffled as to what they like about me or my boring Twitter posts. Twitter example from today: "Am doing Myers Briggs personality tests with both kids and for my husband in his absence. Not sure why husband and I are not both in jail for mutual murder of one another. Wait. How would that work?" I guess this level of analysis is attracting them. It seems one would not be able to proceed in life without this valuable input. I am flattered. But stymied.'

More "Twig" story tomorrow!

A REALLY BIG P.S.

Please keep praying for Stellan (see picture to the right of this post). He is truly in need. You can click on the picture and read the latest. He is being flown to Boston for treatment and the details are available on their site. My mother's heart just aches for him and his parents as they wait and watch. Thank you for your prayers.

Never Eat Crow - A Critter Tale

I think I've had one of every animal pictured here. Maybe two of the polar bears.

I am a collector of all things furry, feathered, flying, creeping, purring, and barking. Taming my urges to acquire all of God's creatures has been hard-earned.

Grizzly used to bring home every stray anything, hand it to me to save, and then gripe endlessly about its existence in our home. Like the time at work he pulled four tiny kittens out of a pipe that was about to be flooded. The progenitor was nowhere to be seen. Naturally, I became the mama to the tottering, eyes barely opening, mewling felines.

"We'll find homes for them," he announced to me, two-year-old Wild Man, and six-year-old Bo. Yeah. That'll work.

Let's see.....we'll all be mamas since there isn't one. And that means we'll hover over them every minute, feed them nearly on the hour, feel them snuggle in the crooks of our necks for warmth while sucking on our ear lobes, and when they're hail and hearty a month from now, off they'll go.

That might have been feasible if he'd brought home hyenas. Not so much with four purring fluff balls.

Names had to be given of course. We were consumed with Beatrix Potter at the time so two of them became "Tom Kitten," and "Jemima Puddle Cat." The others just "Tucker" and "Bess" because we liked the names. Two tabby striped boys, two all white girls.

In our family almost all names get morphed. We can't help it. It might even be a syndrome they haven't named yet. The kids have vacillated between despising us for it and gleefully participating. Recently, they have begun to show signs of irreversible infection.

For instance, "Tom" became "Tommy." No big deal. Then "Tombo Combo" because one of our local hole-in-the-wall hamburger joints had a menu item by that name. (Former owner was named Tom. You don't need to know this so of course I'm telling you anyway.) Then Tommy developed an intestinal problem which rendered him sulphuric and socially unacceptable. Consequently, we dubbed him "Tombo Combo Dropped a Little Bomb-bo." And on and on it went.

"Jemima Puddle Cat" became "Jemima" which became "Mime-urs" but is spelled "Mimers." Which looks like it should be pronounced Mimm-ers. Nothing makes much sense. I just call her "Stewy." Yes, there's an explanation for that, too, but it can wait.

Bess and Tucker, strangely enough, managed to hang on to their original monikers most of the time. JoJo, however, who entered the fray at roughly the same time, developed approximately 35 names. I'm telling you, it's a strange condition and we probably need medication.

But this story wasn't about cats or dogs, believe it or not, or our odd naming affliction. This story was supposed to be about birds. I have no idea what happened.

I meant to tell you about the day Grizzly brought me a baby crow.

He was the biggest, most helpless looking baby. And such a dark gray he was nearly black.

I had always wanted a crow. You rarely see babies because the parents are so intensely protective, the fledglings don't leave the nest until they are nearly grown. And you can teach crows to talk. Technically, you're not supposed to keep them as pets. But if one flies right into your arms, what are you supposed to do? I know what I did, having rehabilitated more than my share of wild critters. I checked the Internet for what to feed him and how best to get him to eat. I even made a mock crow head out of plastic tweezers and a glove and poked food down his throat. He thrived. He grew. He made strange noises.

Every day I gave him flying lessons by holding onto his feet and making him flap. He loved it. He was the UGLIEST thing I have nearly ever seen. And he STANK. Our is it stunk? He smelled bad. But he was ours. I hoped to set him free and find that he wanted to live around our yard. I envisioned him calling out words to us much as a previous rescue, "Hope," the mocking bird, learned to imitate the toads and would croak from the tree tops. I envisioned him swooping in for visits. What I didn't envision was his transformation into a pigeon.

I looked at him one day and wondered why he wasn't black anymore. He was getting lighter and his beak was looking decidedly freakish for a crow. Stripes started forming down his wings. I don't know when it dawned on me but I do remember staring at him one day and saying, "That's no crow." It was Bo who piped up and said, "He looks like a pigeon."

"A PIGEON?" I exclaimed, protesting. Surely, in all of God's green earth I wasn't raising a pigeon and thinking it was a crow.

"Yeah, Mommy. That's a pigeon! Isn't he beautiful?"

"Well, maybe, for a pigeon," I replied, "but he's a pretty ugly crow."


It dawned on me I'd been feeding him the wrong diet. He couldn't have cared less. He was huge.

Since there was nothing to be done but finish his ground school pilot's work, I kept up the lessons. My goal was to teach him to fly......AWAY. One pigeon turns into a herd of pigeons, or a grove, or a quorum. Something.

Fully feathered out and completely ready to launch, he was actually beautiful. We had grown quite attached to him and dubbed him "Twig." He knew his name and began to make lovely sounds when he landed. He was making regular tours around the backyard now and we expected to find that he had gone for good nearly any day, off in search of a flock of his own. But instead, he seemed quite content to stay with us and perch on any surface where he could land. And the closer to the back door the better. If we left it open he would walk right in.

In case you were ever in doubt about this, pigeons poop. A LOT. Soon our ladder, patio table, garden fence, etc. were being christened in lovely white splashes reminiscent of grotesque modern art paintings and equally as welcome. We attempted to shoo him out past our yard. He was undeterred. He belonged to us even though we had at least 300 other pigeons he could have joined at anytime, living a mere 1/4 mile away in an old, abandoned winery tower. Life was good with us. And so we felt his relocation might need a boost. Perhaps he should live somewhere farther away where he could still have human contact.

The perfect place dawned on us. A huge park fifteen miles north with lakes and trees and, best of all, people who came regularly to feed ducks, geese, and pigeons. He would be in his element. He would find a wife. He would go on to create a family tree. With more twigs on it.

With sadness, but a sense of anticipation, we dropped Twig into a cardboard box and closed the lid lightly. We had to stop at the bank on the way and, not wanting to leave him in a hot car, took him into the bank with us. The Wild Man, being six-years-old and not yet known for his judgment, began to worry that Twig couldn't breathe well. So he opened the box. In the bank. Twig popped up his head to decide which teller should receive his deposit. He spread his wings for flight just at the moment we all noticed him. We forced him to make an emergency landing and returned him to the terminal. Disaster averted. On to the park.

As we approached a little lake surrounded by trees we decided this was our spot. We stroked his soft feathers one last time. We assured him birds were thriving all around him. We told him about his romantic possibilities. But the kids cried anyway. They worried he wouldn't know what to do. They were sure he'd starve.

We set him down on the ground. He made no attempt to fly away and merely walked around dejectedly. Bo burst into tears. And then, all at once, he flew to the top of the highest tree and simply sat there, looking lost. This wasn't the comforting parting I had planned. I wiped faces and noses and said the reassuring things mommies say. There was no happy way out of this but I tried to reassure them Twig would adjust.

I headed toward home with a heavy heart. Would he adjust? Had I condemned him to starvation, deprivation, annihilation? I tried to put it out of my mind, distract the kids, and get our errands done.

By the time we got home I sat said children at the schoolroom desk and set their work out before them. The day was beautiful and I threw open the windows and doors. It seemed a little quiet in the backyard not hearing Twig's fluttering coos as he flew about and my heart accused me with a tight pang. I hoped the kids weren't feeling the same way but I figured they were. We had grown so used to his sounds.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar whoosh and coo. I stopped in my tracks and snapped my head toward the back door. Of course, there could be no way it was Twig. I hoped the kids hadn't heard it. Girzzly had already threatened to relocate Twig to Pismo Beach, 150 miles away, and I had laughed him off quite sure 15 miles was enough. But maybe Twig had spread the word before he left and now another pigeon was discovering the gravy train. I rushed to the back door. So did the kids. Yep, they'd heard it.

"Is that Twig?!" they shouted.

I looked to the patio table. And sure enough, sitting there plump, pretty, and pleased with himself was Twig. "Made it!," he seemed to say. "Where's my ladder? I really gotta go."

The kids were elated, naturally. This meant Twig simply had to live with us because in his God-given bird brain, this was home, and he'd proven he could find it from anywhere. The place he knew and the place he loved. There had to be another answer. We would discover it. But in the meantime, what could we do but say, "Welcome home, Twig! You're amazing! How in the heck did you DO that?" and, oh yeah, "Dad's gonna kill us!"


To Be Continued....


Copyright 2009

Meet the Dog Mother and Maker of the Cake!

Look at our Kaylee Bean! She is mother to "Molly," my four-legged fan and the baker extraordinaire of Bo's birthday cake! Just look at this beauty! And notice the cake, too, while you're at it.

There you go, Tatersmama. Someone in the vicinity of the cake had a brain, even if it wasn't me. :-)

Four Legged Followers - Are YOU one of us?

If one of your followers has four legs, can't you count that as TWO followers?

This is Molly. She is the exhuberant, goofy puppy owned by my dear friends, the McCrackens. More specificially, she is their daughter, Kaylee's, puppy. And she wants to do everything Kaylee does. And one thing Kaylee does regularly is read my posting and visit my blog. Kaylee says this:

"Molly loves your blog, too. :-)

She always jumps onto my lap if she's let inside and I'm on the computer.

This time, I was looking at your blog and when she saw what I was looking at she was enamored. :-) She.....couldn't take her eyes of it. :-p (so to speak)

I love you Auntie Robynn <3"

And in case you can't tell, Molly has her nose pressed up right against my profile picture. Now THAT's an adoring fan. Just how many of you press YOUR nose right up against my picture each time you log on? I'll bet thirty or LESS. So there you go.

Don't you think Molly deserves to have a little picture of her own and become a full follower with all rights? I'm voting yes. I'd like to have your picture up there too, Molly, so I can press MY nose against it.

And to the McCrackens (who are not only our dear long-term friends, but Tim is our pastor as well) may I say a public THANK YOU for having my orphan daughter and me into your home yesterday for Easter.

Our guys hit the mountains for camping and weren't back by birthday/Easter Sunday. So poor pitiful Bo and I felt appropriately sorry for ourselves and intended to go for full wallowing in said pity, but the McCrackens wouldn't let us. They invited us over, fed us a delicious dinner, and Kaylee even made the most BEAUTIFUL vintage cake with softly draped frosting and tiny baby tea roses. You couldn't have ordered a cake more whimsical and delightful from the best confectioner. We felt LOVED. And then we looked at photos - for twelve minutes - (an inside joke) and laughed at the most ludicrous stories until I thought I would collapse on the floor in a puddle of jello. What's the old saying? "We like those we talk with but we LOVE those we laugh with." Or something like that. But it is true.

What a fun, and loving, day. Another VERY happy memory for my happy memory Easter file!

And speaking of pressing your nose against the computer screen, are you following me by any chance and I'm the only one who doesn't know it? If so, would you consider clicking the little "Follow" button above the photos entitled "The Crazy People Who Like Me" and become an official part of the gang around here? I promise I won't make you comment but it will be far easier to do so, should you have something you want to say. You know I'm always pushing onward and upward and would love to hit 150. Can it be done? Let's see!

I have a contest coming up, too. Come join the reindeer games and don't allow yourself to be marginalized for another minute.

Copyright 2009

Easter, I LOVE You. Your Friend, Robynn

Tomorrow is Easter. And it always brings memories flooding in. Happy ones. I don't remember anything bad ever happening on Easter.

Our home was broken and not in a way marked simply by divorce. There was so much wrong it would never be righted. But there were also moments when the gears of life clicked into place with a steady, smooth sound; the kind of sound you hear when a roller coaster climbs its ascents and you get to lean back, catch your breath, and listen to the rhythmic ticking before the next plummeting rush.

Easter was always an ascent day. And our little white clapboard Baptist church was the anchor that held me fast. It was a constant for me in a teetering world. Most of the people who showed up on Sunday, or for special events, weren't the same people living life in the world the rest of the week. They put on their Sunday best. And I loved to lose myself in the perfection of it. I was unable to discern duplicity. It would be years before I would watch many of the congregants go down in flames, devastate the innocent, or walk away from the faith. I knew little, acknowledged less, and was happy for it while I was there.

Children have a marvelous way of compartmentalizing. And life got locked outside the big double doors of the church. MIne was a world of tight bodices and full, calico skirts filled with the perfume of being freshly dried in the sun. Safe skirts. Skirts I could hide behind when people spoke to me; a bastion to peer around and retreat into.

And on Easter, our hands were afforded the luxury of silky smooth cotton gloves, stitched with delicious raised seams that followed each finger. I don't remember a defining word spoken from the pulpit but my finger would follow the road map of those seams while the preacher delivered. And when I clapped my hands together it gave a sound like very distant muffled thunder. The crisp report my hands usually provided was gone and I was left with this enticingly muted percussion.

Most Sundays I occupied myself with careful examination of my mother's fingernails during the sermon. I occasionally grew too twitchy and fidgety. That would be followed by the brisk walk of shame down the center aisle and past the watching faces, as my mother hauled me behind the church for a sound spanking. She worried very much that people would think she was a bad mother for having children who did not sit still or were uncontrolled. The irony of trying to sit still on a stinging bottom occupied my ponderings. But I never got a spanking on Easter.

Our mornings always began in the dark, reaching for Easter baskets set out the night before. It was positively magical to think you could set this empty receptacle beside your bed and then wake up to find it filled with candy, and maybe that coveted box containing a hollow, chocolate rabbit. The childish holy grail. We would dress quickly in warm clothing and pile into the car, three children clutching Easter baskets in a death grip, and drive through the darkness many miles to a river.

Grandma Miller, as the whole congregation called her, lived on bottom land near the banks of the San Joaquin river, in a little ramshackle house accessed by a long winding, dirt road. Age-weary and sagging barbed wire fences flanked both sides as we motored slowly down, car lights piercing the dust the cars kicked up. On Easter Sundays she offered up her land and her grove of Eucalyptus trees at the river's edge as a backdrop for our Sunrise Service. We could count on doughnuts and hot chocolate to fortify and warm us after the preaching. Until then we blew warm breath into our cupped hands and stamped our feet. An old wooden picnic table that claimed its permanent residence among the towering forest, guarded our food and Easter baskets as we piled them on top of it. These had to come along for shared excitement with other lucky souls.

As we gathered by the river, a quiet hymn or two would usher in the early light. Rocks and bushes and fine details on the leaves would slowly creep into view. The quiet traveling of the water and the occasional snap of a twig lulled me in the reverent morning air. The preacher would tell the story, once again, of finding the empty tomb where they had laid the body of Jesus and about his victory over death. I would rock on my heels and try to focus. The sun would peek over the edge of the horizon and send a million glittering crystals dancing down the river on top of the water. That cocoon of beauty and wonder would stay with me for life and be inextricably woven in with the Resurrection.

When we headed for home the outfitting would begin. New dresses, frilly socks (for me), gloves and hats, white patent leather shoes. Some attempt would be made to comb my wild and unruly hair and force it into submission, if only for a few hours. Curly, wispy hair always framed my face and drove my mother to distraction. My hair made her insane. (Well, there were a few other contributing factors.) But I loved all the pomp and circumstance and felt oh-so-beautiful for a day. One Easter, when I was eight, my mother even made us all matching dresses. (My brother opted out.) I was so excited I refused to go to bed the night before Easter when she was still sewing at the dining room table. Dinner was understandably late and I gave up and fell asleep with my face in my empty plate. I slept great and loved looking like everything was perfect the next day.

In reality, the two years before had been filled with a remarriage and annulment (he was a homosexual seeking cover), more violence, a fourteen-year-old brother sent to juvenile hall, a desperately troubled sister, three more moves, three changes of schools, loss of pets and friends, and more sexual abuse. But this was a space between those things and there were other spaces like this, and they were magnificent. And I lived for them.

And somehow the truth and beauty of what was real in the meaning of Easter permeated my heart. And it removed me and saved me from the craziness of my world. I developed some pretty strange ideas about God and I had been taught to be afraid of him. But through it all the truth burrowed itself into my being, and clung to me, and refused to be uprooted by the evidence of distortion around me. Years later it would reveal itself to me having shed the cocoon of twistedness. And I spread my wings and soared with it.

And at Easter I am once again reminded of the gladness and hope this day always brought me as a child. I keep it like a treasure and am grateful beyond description for the hope it offered, for my rebirth in Christ, for children to love, nurture and learn from, and for a heart of joy.

Happy Easter, my dear friends. May you be filled with wonder and blessings afresh when the sun peeks over your horizon tomorrow morning and brings you the promise of Easter.

With Love,

Robynn

This isn't me but the period is the same, except for the short, straight hair we look identical, and the photo just captured a certain feel I loved.

Copyright 2009

"Goddess" for a Day!

Remember this photo?

Well, guess what it earned me? A "Goddess" designation. That's right. You are looking at an "Apron Goddess." You may now be appropriately awed. I am disproportionately odd. But I'm still the feature of the day at The Apron Goddesses.

This is a site I have greatly enjoyed. It's usually about very talented people who wear and make the cutest aprons in the world. I have no talent. So I wondered why I was hanging out there. I have been known to throw away whole patterns still firmly pinned to scattered pieces of fabric. A dear seamstress friend, Crystal, told me it was okay to do this (as a last ditch measure and in an attempt to free myself from sewing guilt) if things went horribly south and the project couldn't be saved. Uh, well, that's all I needed to hear.

Sewing machines become possessed in my presence.

Do you realize there is a device on a modern sewing machine that allows you to adjust the tension? It doesn't make any difference. I turn it all the way down and I'm still a nervous wreck. My bobbins leap out of their holders. I've broken more needles than I ever actually sewed with. The thread pile in one square inch of material, when I'm done attempting a straight line of stitching, is large enough for a small bird to live in, give birth, and raise a family.

I did manage to turn out a few sleeveless dresses for Bo when she was around two. Small successes frequently cause me brain damage. Consequently, I got this horrible idea I could make mySELF a dress. Naturally, with "Bingo Wings," as Ladybird World Mother calls them, it wasn't gonna be sleeveless. Yes, Virginia, I truly believed with my giftedness at the sewing machine, I could actually make a dress with arm coverings. How is it you can cut out a sleeve (which is supposed to attach to the body of a dress) but it is several feet larger around than the hole it's supposed to fit into? After several attempts to marry this mismatch, I gave the whole ratty pile a proper burial in the garbage bin and kicked it to the curb. Then I put my feet up, grabbed a latte, and I might have switched on Martha Stewart just to swear at her. I'd like to think I didn't. I prefer to believe only the best about myself and am rarely influenced by facts.

But the lovely folks over at The Apron Goddesses are not given to these fits of temper and irrationality. They actually LIKE to sew. And they are always making the cutest things. All I do is buy well. And I BOUGHT my oh-so-cute plastic apron. And it is highly functional, required no sewing on my part and, therefore, keeps me from swearing. If I ever did. Which I'm SURE is unlikely being the sweet, gentle, demure darling I am.

Please go have a look. People over there sell, too, if you're looking for something in particular. You can also find where I bought my apron. Don't mention any of my bad qualities, please. They might not let me hang out with them anymore.

Copyright 2009

Observational Twitter 15

Famous Quote:

"Friends are like potatoes; if you eat 'em, they die." Unknown Origin

Unfamous Observation:

"Now how could I POSSIBLY improve on that?" Robynn Reilly

My First Flame...And I Ain't Talkin' Boyfriends....

Someone doesn't heart me.

Get in line "anonymous." I'm not everyone's cup of tea.

And now THIS heartbreak (tongue-firmly-in-cheek)

Bo's looks don't meet your standards. Our moral compass is evil. Bo is destined to fail and have a miserable life. Where were you when I was ASKING for advice? Had I only known, we might not have fallen down so flat.

Bummer.

(Anonymous's comments appear around #30 in the comments on "Bo's Senior Photos". My response is shortly thereafter for the interested.) UPDATE: Her name is LENA and she has written again, as have I. She has my admiration for coming back and identifying herself.

And the following is food for thought:

For Fortitude:

"He has no enemy, you say;
My friend your boast is poor,
He who hath mingled in the fray
Of duty that the brave endure
Must have made foes.
If he has none
Small is the work that he has done.
He has hit no traitor on the hip;
Has cast no cup from perjured lip;
Has never turned the wrong to right;
Has been a coward in the fight.

~Anastasius Grun

May you be brave today and go forth doing good and bringing joy!

For Humor:

This one just gave me the chuckle I needed: :-)

"He has no enemies but is intensely disliked by his friends." Oscar Wilde

And finally, for Inspiration:

"DO IT ANYWAY"

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered; forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; succeed anyway.
If you are honest and frank; people may cheat you; be honest and frank anyway.
What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; be happy anyway.
The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; give the world the best you've got anyway.
You see, in the final analysis it is between you and God It was never between you and them anyway.

Reportedly written my Mother Theresa and found in an orphange where she dedicated her life.

Thank you for making me think of all this today, Anonymous! Sometimes we need a challenge.

My "Bo".....The Senior Photos....My Thoughts

Can my little, toddling baby really be the young woman in these photos?

If your babies have grown up, you'll understand the bitter sweetness of it. If not, it may feel like years before you find yourself in my shoes. And I know mothers always say, "Treasure it. It flies by." But it's true. And it did.

I was older when my babies came so I knew that time warps and folds ever faster as the years progress. And yet I am, even now, caught off guard.

I savored the fragrance of sweet baby heads. I joyed in the sheer heft of chunky cherub legs. I reveled in little arms lifted for embraces and cries of, "Hold you! Hold You!" And I believe with all my heart you will never be loved by any human, through time immemorial, the way you are loved by your baby or toddler. You are the world. And then the world expands.

And you find yourself staring down a telescoping road of time wondering at the speed of the journey. You stumble over the fork in the road that will be THEIR path. And you gaze forward, imagining.

I am prepared for this day.

I am devastated by this day.

I am overjoyed at this day.

I love who my daughter is becoming and am delighted to see God's grace and shaping in her life. Her stubborn streak infuriates me and comforts me. She will not be blown by every ill wind as her mother has so often been. She is stronger. She is prepared. She is more deeply rooted. She, who, at nearly 18, has never been kissed and does not date. She, who waits on God's perfect person and timing. She, who laughs readily and easily, and loves deeply.

She is ready.

And I? I will attend her and shake out the train of her future as it adorns her; not ready, and yet, not willing to hold her back. Go, my darling girl. Seek God's guidance in everything. Give Him all you are. Remember your gifts come from His hand. I pray His blessing on you. He will give you all you need and perfect his beauty within you.

I love you with my whole heart.

The preceeding photos are used by permission from an enchanting photographer, our dear young friend, Miss Sally Parish. You can contact her here. She is the sweetest young woman and gave us an incredible amount of time shooting "Bo's" photos on location. She is truly gifted and if you are in the Central Valley area of California, I would highly recommend you contact her for any photography work. Thank you, Sally, for the time we spent with you and the lovely way you captured our dear girl. We love you.

Copyright 2009

POST 100 - Ma & The Younguns Take on The City - Day 2

What do you do when you find yourself in need of a hotel room for the night and you haven't prepared with silly little details like packing? You count on "MacGyver" in the form of your teenage daughter to come up with ideas.

"Hey, that cat box we just bought is still in the trunk. We can throw our junk in there and use it for a suitcase," intones said daughter.

"I'm not walking through the lobby carrying a CAT box," I protest.

"Who cares? They'll never see us again. Who'll know?"

No one, I'm sure.

So here's a picture of our Samsonite Luggage Cat Box. It carried all our c-rap and we put a pillow on top - oh yeah, we had a pillow for the car - and schleped it right through the lobby like the back water, two teeth sportin', overall wearin', knuckle draggers we are.

And if you wanna go to the beach, don't buy pretty little sand and shell buckets. Just use the containers your kids ate their healthy french fries in.

No beach towel for the ocean? No problem. Plant your posterior on a floor mat. It indents pretty little patterns on your backside as a bonus and you'll look like your buns were grilled on a bonfire. That's sorta beachy don't cha think?

When it's time for dinner, go here. Polker Burger is our favorite neighborhood joint in San Francisco. It's on Polk St. if you're ever in the area. Great prices and food good enough to slop down the front of you when you don't have a change of clothing. Anyone who's known me for very long knows I can't eat ANYthing without spilling it on myself. Why not all the more so when what you're wearing is what you will also wear tomorrow?

Shampoo supplied in the room makes great laundry detergent for all your washing needs and the blow dryer works well, too. Kiss yourself right on the lips as you look in the mirror for thinking to wear two tops. Even though one is open and has buttons, the under one, once it's dry, can be slept in. Try to lay really FLAT all night long and maybe no one will know the difference the next day.

Hike the hills and take pictures of places like these. Don't linger too long with your dinner down your front. They'll take you for vagrants and have you hauled off. That might not be bad though. You get three hots and a cot for free.

Have your children, in this case Hannah-Bo and The Wild Man, sit on someone's stoop and look like they live there. We did. But some ultra-fit bicycle metro-sexual dude in his skin tight high-dollar bicycle outfit started scoping out Hannah-Bo. Kept turning around and eyeing her while nearly falling off his bike. We left before she caused an accident. Though it would have been fun to watch.

"The Thinker" here (aka TWM) was actually very close to the Legion of Honor Museum where they have an incredible Rodin exhibit. This happened to be on the deck of the hotel that Grizzly found for us online.......for $87.00. In San Francisco. On the spur-of-the-moment. It's good to have a husband who has worked a lot in this city and knows exactly where to send a stranded wife and kids. If you look really closely - or enlarge the photo - you can see the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

This sculpture is in front of the building I go to at UCSF. We love the convoluted angles because everything that happens to me here is convoluted.


And don't these buildings look like they're falling toward one another into the middle of the street?

Welcome to the newly rebuilt Museum of Natural Sciences in Golden Gate Park. Now get out.

We weren't here very long when they evacuated us all. About 2,000 of us were escorted rapidly out. Why? We never knew. But I had a jaunty time visiting with the cutest kids from a Chinese private school. They wore plaid skirts (the girls, not the boys) and bright red sweaters. We chatted each other up like old friends and I found out all about their likes and dislikes, school projects, and why they hate uniforms. They didn't even mind about my backwater ways and two teeth (one on the top and one on the bottom fer good chewin'). I would have taken a picture but their parents weren't there to give permission and I'm funny about that with my own kids.

Back inside we visited the aquarium, sat through the MOST amazing Planetarium film, a 3-D movie on the life of bugs, and wandered through a green biosphere filled with birds and butterflies.


These choppers (below) were interesting. I think I should have a big blow-up of them to hang out in the entry way to my study when I'm feeling crabby. That would serve as a warning to all without the use of words. My kids would appreciate the signage, I'm sure. I could have used this warning sign after we visited the museum cafe. Mind you, my only possible carrying case was the Samsonite Cat Box which I truly DID refuse to carry through the museum. Consequently, we had nothing to pack our own lunch in. We were at their mercy.

I do not lie when I tell you they charged NINE.DOLLARS.AND.FIFTY.CENTS for a hamburger bun with cheese and turkey on it. No fries. No anything else. Chips were $2.50 a bag. I am feeding two teenagers here, for Pete's sake. But I wasn't about to be extorted three times over. I cut one sandwich up into three pieces, we shared two bags of chips, and, out of the goodness of their teeny tiny museum hearts, they gave us free cups of water. Then I lectured the kids on the evils of highway robbery, told them to buck up (you should know here.....they had each eaten their weight in free pastries at the hotel continental breakfast not many hours before), and promised to feed them again at a more financially prudent time.

What do you think this is? I have no idea either. But I like the color, shadow, and lines.

We left San Francisco headed east on the Bay Bridge. Halfway across we stopped at Treasure Island. I've always wanted to do this but it's been a Naval Base. It was recently decommissioned which opened it to the public. Every time I pass the exit I say we should stop and investigate. Someone told me you can even camp out there. We took the exit this time (it feels REALLY weird to exit a bridge in the middle of the ocean). As we headed down it became quickly apparent we weren't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Criminal types cruised around and looked very scary.

I was thrilled when I saw two police cars with someone pulled over. I stopped and asked the least busy one if it was safe out here with just a woman and two children. He looked dubious and then added cautiously, "Should be okay as long as you don't drive through any neighborhoods or stop the car." Feeling safe and welcome, we left.

But this view of the rest of the Bay Bridge connecting into Oakland was taken from the waterfront area. I don't think we'll be camping here just anytime too soon. But if YOU should decide to, bring your Glock. (Just kidding City of San Francisco! I know you have wonderful prohibitions against law-abiding citizens possessing handguns. Only the thugs of your lovely metropolis and now, apparently, Treasure Island as well, are permitted such favors.)

And when you exit Treasure Island and re-enter the Bay Bridge, you will merge immediately onto the bridge. You will have to go from a dead stop at a stop sign and you will have no merging lane. Traffic travels at around 170mph. Good luck. Plan for this to take two hours to get the guts to take off, and another hour to find a spot to fit into.

Thus concludes our tour. Hope you enjoyed the tutorial on survival and site-seeing in San Francisco. For all it's faults, it's still my favorite city in the world (so far). I hated to say good-bye but I knew we would be back. And maybe next time we'll bring the deluxe, COVERED cat box with the handle on top.

(All photographs courtesty of Hannah-Bo, except where she appears.)

P.S. In my last post, a few of you thought I was asking God to take me home. I really just meant I was ready for him to take away the migraine. I do feel death, in this situation, might be too permanent a solution to this temporary situation. But I'm glad to hear you would miss me!

P.S.S. This was my 100th post in the four months I've been out here. I am amazed that I have yakked on so much and still have so much to write about. Not a lot to SAY, mind you, but a lot I'll be writing. Thank you ALL for hanging with me this long. You're the BEST!

Copyright 2009

We Interrupt Our Previously Scheduled Broadcast.....

Sorry.....migraine today......trying to shake it but can't enough to write the second part of the San Francisco trip. Hurts my eyes to stare at the screen but it will pass and the words will be flying at you all too soon!

I have joined a special post club today from Pampering Beki called "Fingerprint of God Friday." We are to link back to her and then post something in which we can see God's Fingerprint. You might think that would be hard with a migraine but truly, not at all. I could have developed this when I had to deal with the doctors. It could have come during all the frivolity and fun I had with the kids, at the museum. It could have attacked me during heavy traffic and a four hour commute. It did none of those.

It waited until today. Today when my schedule is clear except for a kid activity tonight - and I hope it goes away for that. I can lay down. I can apply hot packs. Grizzly is even laid off work all this week (pray for work please!) and I can ask him to rub my head if it gets too bad. And he will. I think it's medicine induced. Had to go on an antibiotic for a sinus infection and the side effect says, "May cause headache." It did. Of course. But not until today. A GOOD day to be sick. And how many times have any of us lamented, "NOT TODAY! I don't have TIME!" Today I had time. The fingerprint of a gracious God.

Some would say it would be more gracious if he had allowed you not to have a headache at all. But then I would have to answer, "Gracious to whom?" It would place me above the rest of the human race who all suffer at times. This is just my day. I would be a pompous twit if I never got sick, or had pain, or faced travails. These keep me human, and humble, and caring, and in touch with humanity.

And now that I have mixed with humanity to the point that I cannot tell where I end and they begin, I'm ready to be done. Okay Lord? Truly. Now would be good. I'll be the one right here with the pink hot pack on my head. Just waiting on you. Thank you. Anytime would be good. Now would be better.

Copyright 2009

San Francisco - The Boring Part - Day 1

If you're going to San Francisco,

Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair,

If you're going to San Francisco,

Be sure to pack a change of underwear.

(Oh, and your laptop is a nice touch, too.)

I'm pretty sure that's not what the song says but it SHOULD. Maybe then I would have thought of that for those "just-in-case-you-get-stuck-there" moments.

If you read my last posting from what seems like six weeks ago (but was really only Tuesday morning), you know I went to UCSF for a doctor's appointment and some tests. This was supposed to be straightforward. Nothing in my life is EVER straightforward so why, after all these years of experience, do I still act like a "daft and dewy-eyed dope?" (Thank you Rogers & Hammerstein. What's up with me and songs today?)

The appointment was good, as doctors go.

If you've been hanging out with me for very long you know how thrilled I am by most doctors. There are a few fabulous ones but the bad ones are just SO bad, they take up all the air (and print) space. So, it's time to set that straight. I GOT A REALLY NICE DOCTOR! She was informative, personable, investigative, warm, conversational, and thorough. I even brought the kids in to meet her. She laughed and smiled and acted like a human being. Be still my beating heart.

For those of you who may not know, I battle several health issues for which there have been no clear-cut answer. It has attacked different nerves in my body and is degenerative (not MS, not ALS, not AIDS, not HIV - yes, they have checked me for all these and then some - good times), has had a blood component called "porphyria," which has also caused my liver and spleen to get very sick periodically, leaves me with diminished physical stamina and quite fatigued at times, and has affected my immunity. And just for the record? I HATE TALKING ABOUT HEALTH ISSUES. About myself.

That was one of the reasons I started the blog. I could update here and then not have to talk about it when I see my friends. Get on to more interesting things, as it were. But every once-in-awhile I have to face it, see doctors, or (blech) TALK about it. It is the human condition.

The reality is we will all get sick from time-to-time and sometimes we get REALLY sick. Most of us live with a pain or five here and there. Some of us live with chronic conditions for which there is no cure but they wear away at you. Some will be taken out by wretched things. Cheery, I know. Sorry. But it is reality. I just choose to focus on the OTHER things in life which are also reality. Humor, joy, kids, friends, pets, nature, compassion, God's grace. The GOOD stuff.

Which puts me in mind of a little friend I had when I lived in the Projects for a while, as a child. Her name was Lanie and we were near constant companions after school and on weekends. She would go to church with us sometimes and I, in my theological eight-year-old wisdom, thought she needed to hear about the devil and hell as we rode along in the backseat one day.

"OH!" she shouted, covering her ears. "Don't tell me about that bad part! I just wanna hear the good stuff!"

That pretty much sums up my attitude on discussing my health. I like to focus on the "good stuff." Because if I have to give that up AND have my health affected, then it HAS cost me dearly and I would spiral into a depression. There is just so much good and beautiful and joyous in the world. And it will be joyous and good the day I drop dead. (Wait.....I'm not sure that came out just right but I think you know what I mean......!)

When it gets maddening for me is when I am assigned an attitudinal do-little-know-less-uncaring-I-am-the-god-of-the-universe doctor. I won't describe him because you've all met him. I don't know anyone who hasn't come into contact with at least one of these self-appointed rulers of the cosmos. They're such one-trick ponies they don't merit much more explanation.

But sometimes, some blessed, wonderful times, you get a doctor who loves what they do and genuinely wants to help people. I think Dr. Chi, my UCSF Immunologist, is that kind of doctor. So......Yay!

She said she would be doing HOMEwork and research (really? For me?) because she has never seen my particular blood result history and wants to get to the bottom of it. Then she ordered more labs. Labs to be run at her first-rate medical center, UCSF, where I've had labs run before. But since then the insurance has changed the rules and they want you to have labs done at their cut-rate facilities, even if they're very specific labs and take specialty equipment and highly skilled techs. Unless the doctor says "No, it must be done here at the hospital." And by the time I discovered that, the appointment was over. Dr. Chi was the one who told me to check with the insurance company before having the tests done.

And the office staff was less than helpful. One sweet little gal cooly informed me that they wouldn't deal with insurance issues and it was my problem if, "I didn't want to be bothered to go have labs elsewhere and come back and forth." I informed her I lived 150 miles away and it wasn't a matter of not wanting to be "bothered." I was SO proud of myself. I didn't reach across the desk and whack her. Because that's what I wanted to do.

Instead, I spoke kindly and managed to at least get her cooperation in asking someone else. And then I prayed. And then I went to work. I took on Satan - also known as the HMO. Wow. Lanie would have REALLY freaked out if I had told her the truth about THEM.

I spent the next two hours on my cell phone lost in the maze of computer prompts. Each time I got a live body I was put on hold and disconnected or sent back to the introductory prompt to start all over again. When I finally got an answer, I was told they had no information for California and I had been routed to Arizona information. How far can your eyeballs stick out of your head before they actually fall out and roll down your chest do you think?

Next was our local group. They were the ones who informed me special approval was needed and should have been requested beforehand. But it was a possibility. One caveat: it would have to be requested to be processed STAT. And who would have to do that? Our kindly office staff. Yippee. Just great. That'll probably happen when Hell freezes over.

May I say thank you to all of you who were praying for me this day? Our little stone in a sling actually brought down Goliath. And caused the following weather phenomenon:

I won't go into death-defying details but five office people later and a "chance" meeting with the doctor in the hallway (to ask if she would write a request saying she wanted the test done at UCSF and she MORE than happily said she absolutely did, and did it immediately), the insurance rep who had been less than friendly, took it upon herself to WALK MY PAPERS to the approval dept., got them approved before we hung up the phone, and worked out the rest with the office. And this after another rep with the same insurance company had told the office it would be DAYS before it could be approved.

I saw locked doors opened right before my very eyes. The eyes that were laying on my chest.

And I got validation.

A lovely woman, Tanika, who usually worked in a different department, approached me as I sat in the hallway weaving together office staff, insurance companies, labs, and doctors into something I could actually use.

"I just witnessed what you went through with the office here. And I heard what was said to you by the girl who accused you of not "wanting to be bothered." Here's the card of the department manager. Please talk to her. They can't fix what they don't know about. No one should go through what you just went through. That was completely wrong."

Would she have been on my side if I had lost it with that person? Doubtful. Self-control is a powerful tool. I'm usually on the frontlines of battle ready to take on the world. It is so nurturing when someone else leads the charge. And not something that happens to me very often.

With approval verification numbers and blood test orders in hand, I headed for the lab downstairs.

An older, sweet little Chinese woman was my lab tech. She sat me down and poured over the requested tests. She pulled out eleven vials. And then she stopped and said, "Oh. One of these tests must be performed before twelve noon and it's now 4:00pm. It has to be sent to the Mayo Clinic. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

Now, for some people this might have been bad news. But for three hooligans set loose on the city of San Francisco, this was YAHOO! news. We had been finagling, trying to think up an excuse for staying one more day and failing. We don't really have the money to just spontaneously vacation. Especially in a city like San Francisco where the locals start each day by opening up the window, wadding up a $50 bill, and throwing it out. EVERYthing is expensive. Parking for the day can cost $30-$40. Thinking about parking is an automatic ten bucks.

So when we go, it's usually staying with a friend (who has her dear sister with her right now while said friend is facing her own health battles), or it's an up-and-back in one day. But what could we do? Budget or not, I had to come back the next day. This also meant our few hour trip to the museum would now have to be delayed until the next day when we could take our time and CLOSE THE PLACE DOWN! After the lab work, of course. We tried to be appropriately somber about this financial hit. We failed. We wouldn't get any richer sitting around wringing our hands so we took our joie de vivre and thrust ourselves upon San Francisco. We don't believe in receiving blessings and then lamenting them. If this was where God saw fit to drop us off for the night, who were we to complain?

More about that tomorrow.

Copyright 2009