once upon a summer

I'm cleaning out my iPhoto cache. You might find this hard to believe, but I've got a stash of too many pics in my cache.

So here, from the "best of Robyn & the Pastor" is the summer we went to Kosovo and backpacked across Europe. Also known as "that time I got to see a cow get slaughtered right in front of my eyes."

In other words, dozens of pictures of me with curly un-flat-ironed hair and a lack of wardrobe choices and makeup. Except for the pics (red shirt) when I got to dress up like a Kosovo bride. The bridal look in Kosovo is much, much different than it is here.

And this was the debut of my favorite travel accessory, the blue Victoria's Secret sweatshirt.

here I am to worship

Church has quickly fallen apart this morning.

The mentally handicapped woman has demanded we pray for all the awful cartoons on tv.

And another lady stepped out of the service for a smoke break and broke her flip flop.

As for me? I'm clearly blogging during the service.


cheap & common

Wedding tonight.

The officiant said "Wedding rings are made out of precious metals. They are neither cheap or common."

Uh oh.

The Pastor's wedding ring? He bought it off ebay from a guy who made it in his garage.

Cheap and common.


grocery list squared

the myth of scarcity vs. the Pastor at the grocery store

Pink Lady apples
Special K cereal
fat free milk

6 frozen pizzas
Special K cereal
another box of Special K cereal
a super-sized bag of some generic Cap'n Crunch cereal (perfect for the downwardly mobile, smaller house with no room for storage of bulk-sized items) (btw, I don't have room for one box of cereal much less two plus a giant bag) (btw, did I mention it's hard to find room for anything when you are storing 24 jars of peanut butter???)
banana smoothie mix
more bread (I still haven't recovered from the bread he bought during the infamous Peanut Butter episode)
tomato cages
2 bean burritos with no onions from Taco Bell but he ate them before he came home and didn't call me and ask me if I wanted one


I'm a doctor, not a movie watcher!

Yep, I'm still going to movies.

I've pretty much given up on the Pastor though. He's about the worst person in the world to go to the movies with. First and foremost, if he can't fast forward through the thing at 4x speed, he's not interested.

In the eight months before I started dating the Pastor, I saw more than 30 movies. In the four months after I started dating the Pastor, I saw two. Besides, we have much different tastes in movies. Various movie dates with him have included Hotel Rwanda and The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.

I went to see Star Trek this weekend.

I've never been a big fan of the whole it's-the-future-so-let's-all-wear-the-same-thing, but this movie may have converted me. Red minidress! Yes please! Knee high boots! Dangling earrings! And the Starfleet brooch! You've got to love a future existence where you can be beamed from planet to planet and you still get to wear accessories.

I really liked the movie, although I must admit I had to think pretty hard about some things. Me trying to figure out sci-fi? That's up there on the same level as me trying to interpret the Old Testament. There are some things best left to the experts.

And the rest of us can go to the movies.


chemical reaction

I remember very little about any science education I may have had.

In Junior High, I remember one boy I had a crush on in Science. And I remember a never-ending fear that when called upon to read out loud from a chapter, I would accidentally say "orgasm" instead of "organism."

High School? Did I take a Science class in High School?

In College, I remember one boy I had a crush on in a Science class.

I'm wishing I would have paid more attention. To class. Not boys.

I'm no longer worried about saying orgasm out loud, but I am scared to color my own hair. Really scared. Like more scared than I was to give birth scared. It's hair, and a bunch of chemicals. What's the big deal, right?

As I type I have two band-aids on my arm (skin tests) and two strand tests going.

I have hung clothes on a line. I've tolerated a garden the size of my house. I've downsized my house and my car. I've gotten rid of tons of stuff. I've just said no to buying things I don't need. I've reduced the number of paper towels I've used. I've washed dishes by hand.

But my hair? I don't know if doing my own hair is the next step I'm willing to take.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll find that reading out loud in Junior High Science wasn't the worst thing in the world.


here's to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know

-Nacho Mama!!!
-my b-day
-my first and only pinata (what a disappointment you pull strings and don't get to beat anything!)
-the garden
-the parental units
-Cake, cake and more cake. And cookies.
-Hello Kitty!
-the o.j. I squezzed and didn't get one drop to drink
-my cute purse I had the good sense to pay $5 for 8 years ago in Mexico
-my cute shoes
-the college graduate I would trade at least three kids for
-what the back of the Pastor's head will look like in 35 years
-The Last Graduation???
-Mother's Day brunch


the myth of scarcity, Peter Pan Whipped Peanut Butter edition

Sorry it's been a few days since I posted. I had to find places for 24 jars of peanut butter.

If there is any truth I hold to be self evident, it is that I do not like peanut butter. I never have. I blame my mother. She used to mix it in a bowl with the jelly and it just grossed me out.

If you have read this blog for more than 5 minutes, you probably know that too. Everyone knows this, right? I someday hope that my blog is the #1 hit when you google the phrase "I hate all kinds of peanut butter except Peter Pan Whipped Peanut Butter."

A brief history. The geniuses at Peter Pan figured out a way to whip regular nasty peanut butter with air and magically change it into whipped goodness and charge you more money for less peanut butter. Blah blah blah, there was salmonella, blah blah blah, people died, Satan's minions took peanut butter off the shelf.

So now I hide the Whipped Peanut Butter. I've seen the way people in this house eat. If you are willing to say, pick up strange people's food trash off the ground and eat it, or lick a pole in the subway, then you don't deserve the "good" peanut butter in your mouth.

The Pastor realized last week I hide and hoard the Whipped Peanut Butter. My selfishness offended him greatly. His solution? He went to the store and bought 12 jars of peanut butter. It went something like this: "Here (you selfish person) - now you can have a couple of jars, I can have a couple and the kids can each have a couple. There's plenty for everyone." OK, that still doesn't add up to 12 jars but I don't have a Ph.D. like him so I'm not sure how the math of scarcity works.

Only, he bought the wrong kind of peanut butter. He just bought regular Peter Pan.

Why oh why???!!!!! Why oh why did I not just keep my pie hole shut? Why did I not tell him thanks?! Or you guys can just eat all this peanut butter because I love you so much!

Nope, I told him. Ever since I've known the Pastor he has been the king of taking things back. Did he return the peanut butter? Nope. He went to the store, found the Whipped Peanut Butter and bought 12 jars of it.

This brings us to the grand total of 24 NEW jars of peanut butter for this house. Not to mention the peanut butter (and hidden jars of Whipped Peanut Butter and Nutella) we already had.

Did I mention we have been trying to become a downwardly mobile family and moved into a house half the size of our old house? When you minimize the size of your house, you also - get this - minimize the amount of storage space you have for 24 jars of peanut butter. I know! Crazy, huh? Who doesn't have room to store 24 jars of peanut butter?!?

That's ok. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. With peanut butter, you make cookies. Only when I told the Pastor I was going to make peanut butter cookies, his response was "I don't like peanut butter cookies."


The Pastor did eventually offer to return some of the peanut butter. On the same day I finally found places to stash it all. When I die, poor Nate won't find hidden money. He'll find hidden Whipped Peanut Butter. Sorry, kid.

And what's peanut butter without bread? Yep, the Pastor bought bread too.

Have I mentioned I don't eat bread?