Lilly Livered

So I spoke too soon about all my colonoscopic success.

Apparently, you have this gross looking thing living in your abdomen known as a liver. (I find it mildly disturbing that I possess parts which may appear on a menu.) My liver is extremely petulant and indulged and decided to throw a temper fit shortly after being bombarded with Movi-Prep. It has had its problems over the years and contributed to interruptions in vacation schedules and general good health. It does not take medicine and sticks out its little liver lips and pouts. Now it has the dubious distinction of also being clinically fatty and enlarged.

And why not? It belongs to a person who is fatty and enlarged. Shouldn’t we be a matched set? This is apparently undesirable. I think the clinical term the doctor used was “not good.” But it may be reversible with concerted effort. (I always got D’s in concerted effort). If it does get fixed I hope the rest of my body follows. It would be a shame to have a beautiful and svelte liver that didn’t match the whole ensemble.

All of this led to a dramatic visit to the hospital via ambulance. (The ambulance driver invited the lovely 18-yr-old Bo to ride along. No one invited me when my stepdad fell. It must have been my chubby liver.) It would seem something was jostled during my colonoscopy or else all the Movi-Prep moved and prepped things not designed to be moved and prepped. Whatever happened, something went seriously amiss and dire pain ensued along with other effects that do not deserve honorable mention. And since my abdominal menu item is in a less-than-healthy state, it has had some trouble recovering.

I am happy to say it is at least up and receiving visitors, though it draws the line at alcoholics. They are too toxic. Not to mention obnoxious.

Juicing and even more healthy eating are before me. This morning I juiced carrots, beets, cabbage, dandelion, fennel, broccoli, apples, and oranges. It takes FOREVER to wash, juice, and clean up. I was going to blog but I had to juice. That’ll be my excuse now for everything. “Oh sorry……I can’t

• Run for governor
• Clean
• Do laundry
• Drive the speed limit
• Keep appointments

I have to juice.”

Think of the things I’ll get out of. I may have the liver for this after all.

Copyright © 2010

I Can See for Miles And Miles

(And you thought YOU had a bad job. How would you like to have been a fleet enema character at the Indiana State Fair last year? And I don't know what his date here is supposed to be and I have no desire to know. This is a field trip we won't be going on soon.)

As far as my actual results I got the "all clear" on the colonoscopy which, really, how could it be anything else after the 55 gallon drum of Movi-Prep? I'm pretty sure if you look down my throat you can see my shoes.

Now, for those of you of a certain age, and we know who we are, it's your turn. You can see how much fun Dave Barry and I had. Why not you? And it buys you at least one cheap blog post. It is not unmentionable. We all have a colon. They don't have to be whispered about. I mean, I'm not having a party for mine (or dressing up in costumes) but I am wearing a party hat about it's high functioning status. Nice to get an "A" on something.

And sorry, Scurra, no pictures of my intestinal maze. And for all the rest of you? You're welcome.

© Copyright 2010

The Bottom Line

Greetings friends and hello from the deadbeat vacationing author of this blog. It truly has been a near Tibetan monk retreat time. You may or may not have noticed my absence on your blogs and even my complete avoidance of email connection. In true Tibetan style I have chosen to eschew the modern trappings of electronic communication and have, instead, immersed myself in unbridled electronic entertainment - oh, and books.

I have become addicted to Monarch of The Glen, a lovely BBC series the whole family is now unreasonably invested in, reveled in Cranford with Judith Dench, buried my nose in Two Years Before The Mast which I’m nearly reading at traffic lights due to utter fascination (and the idea of a nearly empty California which baffles the mind of this California citizen – one among 37 million), and have consumed yet more books on healthy eating, organic food growing, and politics, while falling even more in love with author Michael Pollan and Polyface Farms owner, Joel Salatin.

It has been a lovely retreat and, frankly, I think I look great in the vibrant colors and jaunty hat. (Unfortunately, I was JUST out of the frame on the right there.)

Now I come to you on the eve of an event I knew you wouldn’t want to miss: my colonoscopy.

Yes, that’s right saddle pals. It’s time to once again purposely inflict upon my person nausea and epic evacuations, all in the name of health. Oxymoronic though it may seem, I will chug volumes of nasty tasting salt cocktails whilst rendering myself permanently adhered to the porcelain throne. If you’ve never read Dave Barry’s account of this marvelous adventure, I encourage you to click http://www.miamiherald.com/dave_barry/story/427603.html.

But don’t eat or drink while reading or you could cause severe damage to yourself or your computer. Especially if you’re prepping for a colonoscopy. The damage could even include others.

You may remember Katie Couric, in near Jules Verne style, grinning at us in her drug-induced stupor atop a hospital gurney while inviting us to go journeying into her “center of the earth,” as it were. We were treated to pictures of her cavernous insides so that we, too, might see how simple this procedure is to endure. No offense, Katie, and I know your heart was in the right place (I think I saw it), but big deal. It’s not that phase that’s really the problem. Please feel free to bring cameras along and don your headgear for the spelunking part of my adventure tomorrow. I’ll be like you, blissfully drunken, or if I’m really lucky, knocked out. But where were the cameras and where were you (like we don’t know) during the PREP part of this mission? Not nearly as filmable. We all know how that part works:

I knew you wouldn’t want to miss this deeply important aspect of my life so, out of the goodness of my heart and typical thoughtfulness, I return to include you.

I don’t know. Maybe this was a crappy idea.

© Copyright 2010

Photos Courtesy of: Flikr/Wallpapers Desktodesk

It’s The Wind Up

Christmas is almost here, in case you missed that little fact. Maybe you’re way more organized than I am and, by now, are sitting around your toasty fire (or swimming pool for my southern hemisphere friends) sipping a mocha latte. Not me. It’s more fudge making this morning, gift wrapping, house cleaning, and then fudge delivery (but I LOVE that part).

I don’t have a great deal in the way of family traditions passed down, especially from my father’s side of the family, but THE FUDGE is one thing I do have.

It was my great-grandmother’s recipe and is only handed down to the next generation when their complete discretion can be counted on. I didn’t qualify until I was in my 30’s which probably speak volumes about my character. That’s when my aunt took me aside and made me swear an oath never to reveal the secret except to my own children. It would seem it’s the original See’s recipe and I honestly cannot tell the difference between the two so I’m likely to believe it.

The fudge is requested each year with great anticipation by some of my friends and neighbors and my girlfriend’s nine-year-old son, Andrew, even requested the fudge – in a pan – for his birthday cake two years ago. I found out at the Christmas parade that he wanted it again this year but she wouldn’t let him ask me. DIANE. The child can have a pan of fudge ANYTIME he wants one! Andrew!! Don’t ask your mother! Call me directly! I’ll slip you my number later today.

And I’m back from my travels to Bakersfield to see dear, life-long friends, Jeannette and Jo Ann. We’ve known each other since I was three and those friendships are more like family……well, family you want to see. Jo Ann was here from Missoula, Montana so we had to grab the visit while we could, even amidst the Christmas rush.

Officially, I’m saying good-bye until after the New Year and will be taking some time off to have family time and maybe get a project or two done. I pray you all have a blessed experience celebrating in your own particular way and I want to thank you for all the gifts you’ve given me this year. Your sweet support and comments are gifts I can return to and they continue to bless me. I wish I could sit across from each one of you, hold your hands, look into your eyes and thank you for being my friends, walking with me through this year, and sharing your lives with me. I’ve learned so much from you.

I’d like to rerun my Christmas post from last year when I was just starting out in the blog world because it still warms my heart and I hope it does the same for you. Here it is:

A Christmas Story – But Not The One With The Leg Lamp

I don't think I can top the Bumpkiss' dogs or the fish-net leg lamp. I can identify with Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when he has to suck on a bar of Lifeboy soap. I became a regular connoisseur of the latest "on-sale" bar soap when I was a kid. Lux, Lifeboy, Dial, Ivory. Apparently getting cleaned from the inside out was the way to approach child rearing. Maybe it was a chaser for the bleach I accidentally drank from a Ball canning jar several years earlier. My heart may have its stains but my intestines are clean as a whistle.

It was during this same period my Christmas story takes place. It wasn't humorous but it was definitely happy. I remembered it today when the kids and I were part of the follow-up team for handing out Christmas food and gifts collected by the company Grizzly works for. We volunteered for the privilege because who doesn't want to be part of that kind of Christmas cheer? Of course, I groused about schedule logistics (note last blog) even though I truly, truly wanted to do it. I mean really, WHAT is my DEAL?!

We drove across town to the warehouse, picked up seven boxes of groceries and a few toys, and headed to the home of a single mother with lots of children. The neighborhood was down-trodden but several neighbors stood against the blight with cheery light displays and decorations.

The home sat on a quiet corner, surrounded by a chain link fence. A chewed rope hung limply from a metal pole advertising a dog no longer tethered there. I walked up and tapped lightly, feeling slightly awkward and apologetic. The door creaked open and out peeked little shining faces, obviously excited to see strangers bearing gifts. A teenage son arrived home just in time to help unload the car and serve as translator. His mother spoke only Spanish and I spoke only English. He stared at us through dark-lashed eyes that were guarded with a mixture of suspicion and embarrassment. He couldn't have been much older than Hunter. I wondered if my son wouldn't have felt much the same. I sensed his gratitude but also felt the sting that charity might bring to a young man. He quietly complied with my request to let his mother know I had been on the receiving end of a Christmas delivery when I was child. I suppose I wanted her to realize (and him to understand even more) that I knew how it felt on both sides and it was a blessing to give back. Her shy smile showed her appreciation, and discomfort as well. It truly is more blessed to give than to receive.

I wanted to share my own story with them but I couldn't invade their emotional space. He needed me to leave; she needed me to leave; and they couldn't have been more quietly gracious about it. I drove away remembering a Christmas that wouldn't have happened but for the intervention of friends and strangers.

I was ten and my sister and brother several years older. It had been a year of great upheaval. Well, come to think of it, I guess all of our years were years of great upheaval but this one came with even less money. My mother had just landed a good job but found out right before Christmas there would be no paycheck. It was a government job and the policy was to withhold the first check to be used for future severance pay.

The morning of Christmas Eve arrived but there was no sign of Christmas at our house. We had often gotten our tree on Christmas Eve because they were rock-bottom priced then. But on this day there was no discussion of a trip to the tree lot. The pantry was pretty bare and there hadn't been any talk of presents except to say there wouldn't be any. I don't remember being worried that we would eat beans for our Holiday dinner, but I do recall wondering afterwards what the menu would have been.

I think, on that day, I must have been in that beautiful place children live in their minds; the place that helps them believe everything will be alright somehow; the place where magical thinking rules and reality doesn't have a prayer. And it was in that moment that a knock came to the door. My sister and I opened it and saw our mother's friend, "Aunt" Fran. She had her husband with her and much more importantly, to our minds, the most beautiful white-flocked Christmas tree in tow. Now, our trees had been pretty much the bargain variety and we had never entertained the idea of a tree this grand. This was purview of the rich; the domain of the entitled. We were suddenly and at once part of this club of exclusivity. Aunt Fran was the prosperous owner of a nursery school that was much in demand. It was always immaculate and beautifully appointed. Each year, at the school, she prominently displayed her faith in God and her exquisite tree. It would normally have remained up through the New Year but this year she and "Uncle" Austin dismantled it and brought it to our house, along with the ornaments.

We had barely begun redecorating the tree when there was another sound at the door. Representatives of The Lions Club stood on our doorstep with arms full of boxes filled with ham, canned goods, and items far more tempting than beans. They left everything on our dining room table, wished us well and "Merry Christmas" and were gone. Here was food and here was a gorgeous tree. How could it get any better? In a matter of minutes it did. Another rapping at the door brought members of First Baptist Church bearing more food and wrapped presents. I can still see the white tissue paper and red ribbon wrapped around what I knew was a game. I couldn't wait to open it the next day. I don't know what the other gifts were that year but I was the happy recipient of "Sorry" and it's the game the kids and I still use after all these years.

Apparently, Aunt Fran had placed us on a few "needy family" lists and I'll be forever grateful that she did. It wasn't until years later I realized how close we were to having a very different Christmas experience. It was nothing short of a miracle to me and yet it lived up to my faith that all would be well. And for that time and for that day, it was. And that was enough.
I hope it will be the same for the dear family we met today. I pray a bright memory of Christmas miracles lives on in the hearts of the kiddos there and, if only for a short while, a burden is lifted for a weary mother. I hope a tentative young son feels compelled to drop his guard. I think that might be the case. I hugged his mother and then turned to him to pat his arm. He started to lean in for a hug, too, then caught himself. But it had happened, nonetheless, and in that moment, if only for a moment, I think all was well.

May you have the merriest of Christmases, my friends, and may God richly bless you.

With Love,
Robynn

© Copyright 2008/2009

Trouble With My Vowels

If you’re a gal who pulls all vowels and one weird consonant when playing Scrabble, then you have to marry a guy who pulls all consonants and one weird vowel.

It says so in the marriage handbook.

On Thanksgiving, this was how it shaped up. After 23 years we finally figured out why we’re together.

On a fundamental level we understand each other. My vowels are a problem and he’s consonated.

And you know what that spells: romance.

© Copyright 2009

Goofballs Keep Me Sane

This guy on the left keeps me crackin’ up. That’s my Wild Man. (Blurry photo as I try to sneak up on them.)

The guy on the right keeps me crackin’ up. That’s his sidekick, Mr. Drama.

They have a ball together and could talk all the legs off a centipede. They could power a small country with jaw movement alone. They regularly injure one another in wrestling matches trying to establish who is dumb and who is dumber. Right now, it’s a tie.

They’re killin’ time here between performances in a production.

At least they weren’t killing each other.

The Wild Man has one wrist in a brace and an injured thumb on the other side after the smack down a few days ago.

Yep, it’s good to be fourteen, heavy on testosterone and energy, light on gray matter. Hopefully, this will balance out when he gets older.

Probably around 75.

© Copyright 2009

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like HOLIDAY?

Okay. So I was watching a commercial on television with my nearly grown children (who undoubtedly were basking in the glow of my presence) when onto the screen loomed a mother, Christmas shopping with her teenage son. Said son whipped out a gift he bought to give to a sibling and mom replied to him in surprised tones, “You bought a holiday present for your brother?!”

“A holiday present?” my children and I replied in unison.

And this would go under the holiday tree? What holiday would that be exactly? I don’t know……Christmas?

I know retailers, in an effort to be financially correct and carve out any possible green from all wallets of any persuasion, have assumed the position of neutrality. “Holiday” and “Holiday Tree” are the new correct terms. But there IS no neutral and there is no need for correction. Guess what? It’s Christmas! It’s about Christ. Being born. For us. In a manger. In Bethlehem. Around this time of year.

When Meredith Wilson penned the now famous words “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” she had an opportunity to use the term “holiday.” She didn’t. And there’s something about, “I’m dreaming of a white holiday,” that just doesn’t have the same warm, fuzzy glow to it. Irvin Berlin knew what worked and called it "the best song he, or anyone, ever wrote." And he was proudly Jewish.

But if the word “Christmas” isn’t safe, what other words might become fiscally or politically offensive to those who want our dollars or would seek to control our beliefs?

What will we do with the song, “O Christmas Tree?”

“O holiday tree, O holiday tree,

Thy leaves are so unchanging (well, except of course we understand that nothing is cast in stone and if you want to change we will support your decision),

Not only green when summer’s here (or rather, we mean that time of year when the position of the earth – be it northern or southern hemispheres – is closer to the sun….it is not our intention to limit you to the term ‘summer’),

But also when ‘tis cold and drear (understand that we are not attempting to cast judgment by intimating the positional rotation away from the sun is in any way negative),

O holiday tree, O holiday tree,

Let’s just forget we sang of thee.”

And can “A Charlie Brown Christmas” ever be the same if we must now call it “A Charlie Brown Holiday?” What will we sing when we hear the theme song? This?

“Holiday time is here……”

Perhaps we should change ALL special days to reflect greater inclusion of every possibility and build in apologies as well. Maybe New Year’s Day could be “Culturally and Historically Egocentric Day of Western Civilization Time Marking.” Definitely makes you feel like popping a cork on the bubbly.

We in America err gravely I’m sure to celebrate Independence Day each July Fourth. Far less divisive to call it, “Lack of Cultural Sensitivity Day Wherein We Did Not Strive to Be Good Citizens by Working in Unison With A Somewhat Oppressive, Albeit Temporarily Misguided, Overseas Monarchy That Seemed Unwilling, Or Perhaps Unable, to Represent Our Interests.” Pack that in your fireworks and explode ‘em.

And in celebration, as we raise aloft our sparklers, let us not hail that Star Spangled Banner over the “land of the free.” Let us sew a picture of the whole world onto one flag so as not to celebrate that we in America, with our stars and stripes, are the home of the brave. We may be sending a message that “you, over there, are not.”

So, lift your spiced egg milk product, throw a cement log on the gas jet, let Jack or Jane Frost nip (no, that sounds distinctly like drinking and could be misconstrued as an alcohol endorsement), er, touch you on the nose (if that’s agreeable to you and you do not feel it creates a hostile holiday environment), and sing your non-descript carols. And have yourself a happy little holiday now.

Wow. I feel sort of tingly and sentimental. Don’t you?

© Copyright 2009

Photo Courtesy of: FreeChristmasWallpapers.net