Rob Riley's Fantasy Factory
I have a wild, fantastical imagination. I blame it on all those books I read as a child. Cursed reading!
Poor Pastor. If he only knew what was in my head. He doesn't hardly stand a chance.
Before we go on these trips, the romantic things I imagine! A trip to the beach! I conjure up visions of flow-y dresses and romantic handheld walks. Some of that happened, but -
I almost never imagine ahead of time that a hippie will touch every single one of my fingers, one by one (one of these trips I'm going to have to remember to say the first touch is free, the rest will cost you $5 per finger. I thought I'd learned this lesson a long time ago in Chicago when that man asked to touch my shiny hair. Think, Robyn, think!!!!). Or a goth man on Venice Beach will ask me if I've ever wet my pants. The Pastor refusing to stop re-working his scholarly paper, him at the computer in our swanky hotel room, me falling asleep while reading the Twilight book (another cursed stupid fantasy inspiring book!) while I'm waiting on him to come to bed. Or, him, finally in the bed with me, but us in the hotel "annex" next door to the two homeless guys who scraped up enough cash to get a room for the night, and leave their t.v. on at full volume against our adjoining wall to celebrate.
California? It's got a bad reputation, that's what I think. My coffee was cheaper there! Think of all the money I'd save! I could have stayed there forever. Me, the Pastor, our Chevy Aveo rental and Madge. Pricelining our way through the Golden State, going from hotel to hotel every night, buying our clothes at whatever Goodwill we stumble upon.
Unlike most of our trips, I didn't get a single bout of homesickness. Sure, I thought of Nate, but I thought of him in terms of telling Mom to stick him on a plane with the good cupcakes hidden in the deep freeze (You didn't think you'd get to keep him forever, did you Mom : ) ?). You gotta have something to munch on while you are reading all those books!
Thanks for taking me to the beach Pastor.