Idiot Day…….I Won.

Next Tuesday, March 9th, in our little town of about a million people (in Fresno County), our local Children’s Hospital of Central California will host an annual event called, “Kids’ Day.” People volunteer and stand on street corners to sell a special edition of The Fresno Bee, featuring info on the hospital and it’s young patients. It’s a great cause and raises much needed money. The kids and I signed up. Bo has had multiple eye surgeries there and The Wild Man has had surgery as well. They have also been hospitalized for flu when they were very young and given the royal treatment. They LOVE Childrens, as the locals call it.

However, what FEW people know is there is a special day exactly one week before this event for brain-dead homeschooling mothers. It is called “Idiots’ Day.”

Not just everyone qualifies. These are the conditions:

• The day before Idiots’ Day your college age daughter must have all her planets line-up with work difficulties, school deadlines, and social obligations colliding at warp speed. This must cause her a meltdown in the way that the polar ice-caps encountering Krakatoa might cause a trickle of water.
• Your long lost brother must give you his office address for mailing for fear you might stalk him at his residence.
• Your pain medication must quit working. Your pain must not.
• Your 14-year-old son must repeatedly make sounds, thump the desk, argue, and fall out of his chair while you teach him Algebra. This will not happen because he is simple. It will happen because he can.
• Your dog must learn to jump the fence for the first time – and does.
• Your mother must call and want to know all the information the attorney disseminated for her, in your presence, the Friday prior. You must disseminate it again.
• You must call your nephew at Cornell and wish him a happy birthday into his cell phone message center and worry that in the past three months, none of your phone calls, texts, or emails have been returned and decide whether or not to consider foul play or police contact.
• As you share your day with your husband, he must tell you about a friend whose homeschooling wife is leaving him AND the children. You know you should sympathize but instead you ask if there is room in her car. Your husband will reply, “No,” as he has already claimed the extra seat. He informs you that HE is leaving and you can homeschool his friend’s children as well as your own. You both know he’ll never beat you to the car but he will try.

At the end of this glorious day, you will inform your children that they must go to bed early because you will be waking them at 4 a.m. for Kids’ Day. They will be thrilled. Your daughter will stay up until midnight doing homework because that’s life. Your son will stay up reading…..because he can. You will go to bed and set two alarms because you’re exhausted.

At 4 a.m. you will awaken and find two groggy children. You will put your bra on backwards and head out the door. You will head to the pick-up destination where you will all find your instructions, your aprons, and your newspapers. As you pull up, you will notice the parking lot curiously empty. You will then realize, this isn’t Kids’ Day. You are a week EARLY for KIDS’ DAY. You will realize instead, this is Idiots’ Day. And you heartily congratulate yourself. You won.

You feed the less-than-happy children, send them back to bed, and go to bed yourself. But you will not sleep. Your husband’s alarm will begin to go off at 5:30 and he will hit the snooze eight times.

You spend your time in productive murder plots but decide to blog instead before leaving for choir, shopping, homeschooling, and making dinner for a friend. You will realize in a last, desperate, choking realization, you forgot to get the phone number of the departing wife.

The End

©Copyright 2010

Photo Courtesy of: The Collegiate CSUF

Observational Twitter 23

Famous Quote:

“If wishes were horses all beggars would ride.” ~ Old English Proverb

Obscure Quote:

“If wishes were horses all those beggars should get a clue. I know I would. I’d wish so much I'd be exhausted, create the biggest horse flesh business in the world, trade publicly, and pay people to ride for me. Let's have some vision here.” ~ Robynn

I'm Not Dead....Pretty Much

And I haven't been doing anything resembling much of this, either. You thought I was going to tell you I've whipped my house into shape didn't you? I mean, I try. I really do. But it's like bailing out the ocean with a thimble.

So what did I do on my summer vacation this winter?

Did I take care of my innards? I think the answer to this would be, "Yes," if by "take care of" I mean I saw to it that they stayed mostly inside my abdominal cavity. I feel I have been successful at that. I have not found my liver, spleen, or alternator just laying around anywhere. I haven't gone to McDonald's or Taco Bell. But if you mean I ate extremely well and juiced everyday then the answer gets hazier. Like Erica Kane's face (All My Children) as they film her through the years.

Ever notice that? I don't watch this soap opera anymore. I quit about ten years ago when I started choking on their political agenda. But I had watched it from the beginning. And whenever I happen to come across it in these past ten years I always notice that Erica is heavily filtered through a hazy lens. I can barely make out her features to be sure it's her. I know they're trying to keep the illusion of youth alive but it makes me feel incredibly old because my sight seems to be going each time she appears on screen.

I'll try to stick to the subject: Not being dead.

This morning as I laid, lied, lay, lie, lain, (the correct tense never sounds right to me and is my participle past, present, or dangling? Has it been dangling all day and no one told me?).....let's just go with "assumed a supine position in bed," and tried to add up everything that's been ailing me and keeping me from more than four or five hours of sleep every night. But by the time I approached the end of the list, I forgot my reason for counting. When I remembered why, I couldn't recall the point of the exercise. And you can be grateful for that little fact, my overtaxed readers.

I do know I can't sit for an extended period of time because I injured my tailbone and sitting is certainly a vital part of blogging. I remember this salient fact each time I park it. Which is frequently. Almost all of our homeschooling is on the computer.

Also, life hasn't felt very funny since my stepfather's death. We weren't especially close but my mom needs me a lot now and that's its own fresh challenge and excitement in the way climbing Mt. Everest in my bikini - with my current body and photographers all around - would be a fresh challenge filled with excitement. My only cheerful thought would be a timely plummet from a slippery precipice. However, by God's grace I am coping and seem to be some help, so I continue to tie off and use my safety gear, against my better judgment.

The other issue that is ever before me is the simple fact that writing attracts readers. And when readers come, readers who usually have blogs themselves, I like to visit back. And I can't right now. So that makes me feel greedy and makes me hesitate to write.

My solution is to absolve all of you from any obligatory visits and know that I will write and post here simply to remember what in the world I did with my life, when I look back someday. Feel free to stop in if you want to or skip me entirely. I will pop in to your places from time-to-time because I SERIOUSLY ENJOY reading about your lives. But I can't figure out how to have time for everything.

I am considering pulling down the 30 Day blog and simply accepting that combining the info here will be more in keeping with how I live my life - everything overlapping and mushed together. I don't think I can maintain two blogs and do them any justice.

And I have to finish ripping the wallpaper off my bathroom wall and repainting. Grizzly calls the current motif, "Late World War II." That's generous.

All I can offer, I suppose, is a stark comparison for you. Lay your inconsistencies against mine, consider the shadow your figure casts, gaze about your gracious abodes, and come away feeling incredibly successful, sane, and lovely.

To warp a borrowed epigram, I cannot be a good example but I happily offer myself as a terrible warning.

Hello again and thank you for all your kind wishes and inquiries. Really. You ARE the best. WHAT are you DOING here?

© Copyright 2010

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