Brain cancer is...

...giving us another day of gratitude.

We are thankful for yet another day of goodness.

• Greg and Nancy drove down from Goleta for lunch at Darrell's staple, Fratellino's.  We realized that this was the first time that the four of us have ever double dated.  We're grateful for this fun first...and for all our future dates. (New rule for everyone:  Go on a "first" double date.)
• Mousse is playing with new toys and chewing new "bones" given surprise deliveries.  And we're loving the cupcakes.  We're grateful for the surprises, Kim and Donna!
• Last night Sue dropped off the delicious grand finale of the Department of Elementary and Bilingual Education's dinner deliveries.  I realize that, given your generosity (first Raymond School, then CSUF, plus lots of FFF [Food from Friends]) I haven't cooked a meal since Darrell's diagnosis.  What a tremendously generous gift of your time and effort to feed our family, Friends.  I can't imagine, in retrospect, what it would have been like to cook instead of spending time with the hunky guy.  Truly. You gave us the gift of time.
• In today's mail came a gift card bundle of love from BTSA Cluster 5. I am grateful for the privilege of having worked with you good, good people for decades. And we are grateful for your thoughtfulness from the bottom of our hearts, Friends.  

Some posts are harder to write than others.  This was a tough one.  It's overwhelming to be as well loved and supported as we are by you, Team D.  Maybe the word for the day is "immense."  We hope you realize the immensity of our intent when we say, for these things, and for all you do, "We are grateful for you."

Until tomorrow, from UCLA.

Brain cancer is...

The Glendora Chalk Festival, Post Breakfast:  Multiple Super Heroes

...appreciating local traditions.

...and also (we hope) appreciating far flung stories where we connect the seemingly disconnected dots.  Here goes.

Perhaps you know that this guy

was nicknamed by Alex and Zach years ago as Gumby.  Why?

Because he's Fun! and Flexible!

Okay, here come the dots.

• Where was Darrell born?  --In Glendora. 
• When was Darrell born?  --1960.
• When did he graduate high school?  --1978.
• Where did he attend community college, and where was his dad, Gordon [above] math department chair, and where did most family members
• Beverly
• Gary
• Nancy
• Brady
• LuAnn
• Meridyth
• Andi
• Melanie
• Katrina

          take at least one class?  --Citrus College.

Now here's where it gets weird.  Dots get connected!  Reminder:  Darrell's nickname is Gumby.

• Where was the Gumby cartoon filmed?  --In Glendora.
• Starting in which year?  -- 1960.
• Ending when?  --1978.  
• And where was Gumby Fest 2015 held?  --Citrus College.

 Coincidence?  You be the judge.  Submitted for your approval.

Brain cancer is...

 

...entering the new baseline.

We are waiting for Darrell to be called in for his first post-treatment MRI.

We are at a different St. Jude facility, and we wonder if this unfamiliar  place will become part of our new routine. (Darrell will have an MRI  approximately once a month for the rest of his life.)

As someone who hates sitting, Darrell is being a super hero (again!).

Update 8:24 pm:  Darrell rocked both the non-contrast and contrast scans and was finished in 38 minutes. Although we have a CD of the scan, it won't be read until Monday, by Dr. Cloughesy.  We could read it by popping it into our computer, but we might as well pay the palm reader on Harbor Ave.  
 

Brain cancer is...

...continuing treatment with Dr. Dolkar remaining on the team.

Overall, Darrell's appointment went well today.  It was, though, unexpectedly unsettling to be back in the radio onc department (where Dr. Dolkar's office is).  We hadn't been back since the last day of radiation, when Darrell took his mask and ran.  It's odd how quickly we'd moved on with our lives and got busy making new memories.  We spent lots of weeks sitting in that office every day, and all of those memories came back when we stepped into the room.

We heard the next generation of patients checking in, asking questions about their first treatment. ("Yes, you sign in every day.  Then you go back and change.")  We saw caregivers who had clearly bonded, holding cheering conversations while their loved ones were getting zapped.  The couple who wished Darrell well on his last day weren't there.  Here's hoping they were home relaxing, or maybe on Catalina eating steak and lobster.

A note about the picture, above:  That genuine smile on Dr. Dolkar's face is typical for her. When she entered the exam room, she looked at Darrell's head and exclaimed, "You buzzed it!" It was sweet; things were new for her too.   

Being new to the maintenance phase, we asked Dr. Dolkar whether we'd ever see her again, barring recurrence.  She eagerly asked Darrell to continue seeing her.  She likes to follow her patients.  And she's excited about the foil hat.  For real.

Technical Stuff
Darrell thought that some of you would like to hear how one of his many appointments goes.  Scroll down to the puppy video if you prefer puppies to appointments.

1. Nurse does the typical preliminaries:  Weighs Darrell, takes his blood pressure, asks about any changes in how he's feeling. Is he having any headaches or blurry vision? No seizures?
2. Doctor enters and remarks happily on scalp choices.
3. Doctor sits, positioning herself so that she can talk with both of us.  She starts with a conversation.  She asks questions about how Darrell's feeling, how it went at UCLA, what the plan is from Dr. Cloughesy based on the upcoming scan.  She listens to Darrell's speech and asks questions about speech therapy.  ("It's fun!" we say.  "Everyone should try it!")  She asks and waits for our questions.  
4. Doctor inspects the awesome scar.
5. Doctor conducts a series of physical tests.  (Note:  All the oncologists give this series.  Darrell will go through it again with Cloughesy on Monday and Park on Tuesday.)

• "Press up when I press down on your legs."
• "Press up with your arms.  Press down with your arms.  Press away from me.  Pull into me."
• "Can you feel my touch equally on both of your legs?"
• "Can you feel my touch equally on both sides of your face?"
• "Take my hands.  Squeeze my fingers."
• "Look straight ahead and follow my finger with your eyes.  Look up, down, left right."
• "Close your eyes.  Can you hear this rubbing sound?  Both ears?"

 (Andi's interpretation of these tests:  From my readings, I conclude that they are assessing potential changes in tumor size, as tumor changes might be manifested in changes to Darrell's vision, hearing, nerve conduction, or strength on either side of his body.  All of these potential changes are based on the location of the tumor so that its growth would affect different things, like movement in one side of the body.)

Every time Darrell completes these tests, the answers are:  No seizures, no headaches, no blurry vision, no problems with eyes tracking together, no hearing loss, no changes in strength, no uni-lateral changes.  Here's to no! Today and every day!

(Mousse learns to come.  For a price.)

Brain cancer is...

...like this.

No analogies or tough moments here.  Just taking 20 seconds to video the puppy doing nothing in the backyard. How fortunate are we? 

Thanks for your contributions to the day:  Texts, e-mailed photos and messages, fixed jewelry and pancakes, more prayers, Jungle Book again...all of it.  We take none of it for granted. Nor any single day of life.

Updates tomorrow after Dr. Dolkar.  Hugs.

Brain cancer is...

 

Or click here:  Great Views

...enjoying the 2.0 views. 

It's spring in Southern California (yes, haters, we have seasons here).  We wake up to the smell of jasmine, and the weather has been wonderful.  We are appreciating, with our Life 2.0 senses, the beautiful greenery, flowers, and butterflies on our walks.  And we're appreciating the other great views that come our way too.  Thanks for your continued support and good wishes.

Schedule updates:  Darrell sees Dr. Dolkar on Wednesday for a post-radiation check up on Wednesday, and his "baseline" (first post-treatment) MRI is Thursday.  We head to UCLA, scan in hand, on Sunday for a Monday appointment.

May your week treat you gently.

 

Brain cancer is...

...facing another mighty foe.

World, meet Pup.  Here are the facts:

• He's a male chocolate lab from the same breeder as Delilah (Cherry Oaks).
• He weights 19 pounds and is 6 weeks old.
• Summer and Zach picked him for his temperament.  He's very mild, people centered, and relaxed.
• His name is Mousse (Get it?  Chocolate Mousse?)  It's also a play on the homophone moose because of his temperament...and the size of his paws.  
• He'll be quarantined for 6 weeks until he's finished with shots and has built up his immune system more (breeder's recommendation). That means no walks or visits with other dogs for a bit.

 Here are a few pics.  (We're exercising considerable restraint here.)

 

Selfie kiss on the ride home

Two happy dudes

Close up by Summer

 

This dog actually smiles.

Okay, and one video of the momentous "first contact" with requisite kiddie pool:

Thanks, friends, for sharing this happy, happy occasion with us.

In other news: A brain cancer perk is a brand new handicapped parking pass:

Brain cancer is...

...about to be opposed by another fierce addition to Team D.

Darrell said "Yes!" to a puppy!  Zach and Summer will pick the pup out of the litter and bring their little darling home this afternoon.

D and A will be away with the Szabos until tomorrow.  We are so sorry, but you'll need to wait a whole 24 hours for the first shot of Team D's newest canine member.

For the dog lovers on the team:  Please don't take the cruelty of this long wait as a sign of any sort of lack of regard for you and your feelings.  You know we love you.

Brain cancer is...

...not taking our Friday.  No way!

We started the fun at Polly's, a local favorite.  We heard bad rumors that Polly's would soon be closing, but--fear not--even though a land deal is in the works, our server told us that Polly's will stay in place until the current lease expires in 14 years.  We have pie through tomorrow anyway.


And then we went to see Jungle Book.  (Yes!  Second movie in three months!)

We LOVED it!  Definitely seeing it again with you, Mom.  Because it was in 3D, I ask you:  How much cooler can this guy get?

And here's what it's like to try to selfie kiss a cool guy in the dark.

Just like high school and (I hope) a lot like Saturday.





Brain cancer is...

 ...getting a triple dose of humor therapy.

Today Darrell and Andrea give the official stamp of approval to humor therapy.  There is such power in the laughter you bring to Darrell's treatment. 

Good thing, Kathie and Franceen, you supplied the apple along with the humor.  Just in case!

And, Team D, the selfie kisses?  They are such a great range from sweet to marvelously silly.   Keep 'em coming!

One Super Hero Update:  Darrell endured speech therapy today.  He walked in with a goal (which I believe was his way of deflecting away from the exercises that some freak named "Einstein Puzzles:"  "Look over here, Maureen, Shiny Things!"), and he walked out saying it was tiring but helpful.

Because Team D includes a number of vocabulary lovers, I'll tell you that today we worked on prosody.  Context clue:  Reading Dr. Seuss books aloud is a great way to regain prosody in speech.

 Here's to Thursday and its proximity to Friday.  Hugs to you and yours.

Brain cancer is...

...tossing us some sweeter stuff today.

In the pic, above, you see the Iowa maple syrup we received today from our caring family members, Pat and Veryl Burghardt.  (Team D Iowa!  Represent!)  Veryl has helped more remote family members in the production of this pancake prize.  We--again--love the Life 2.0 lesson of the wonder of the connections among us all.  Thanks, P & V, and thanks for sending the link to the PBS video that shows the place of production, the Potter farm, where many family members (including my mom) were born. 

Thanks, too, you two, for the theme of the day's post, from the quote in your letter:  "You've had enough bitter pills to swallow lately...here's something sweet instead."

Here's to five more sweet things that came our way today too.  

1.  Dr. Park called Darrell yesterday afternoon, highly annoyed with our insurance company.  The first cancer call of this morning was from chemo nurse Patty (The crowd goes wild! Aaaaa!), letting us know that Dr. Park called the medical director at our insurance company and--voila!--the tinfoil hat treatment is back on the team!  

I'm not sure if the news is a little late; mechanical engineer Darrell apparently held the power all along to build his own Tumor Treating Fields device:  

Whatever.  Maybe we'll alternate his version with the hard won, FDA-approved, $22,000-a-month version.  Sweet.

2.  I know you recall Melanie, SHRNS (Super Hero Registered Nurse Sister) who coaxed us to the ER, met us there, and stayed with us through Darrell's tests, admission, surgery, and of course later, with Gail, all the yada yada.  Melanie keeps fighting medical crimes.   Yesterday she was part of the advance life support team (whoosh) for a little girl who took on a rattlesnake.  Melanie's carrying the girl in the news video.  You're cool, Melanie.  Fight on!

 3.  Take a look at this pic.  More specifically, look at the shirts.

FOUR Team D members...FOUR vee-neck tee shirts.  It's a trend, friends.  Thanks Ruth (left) and Hallie (right) for your love and for salmon dinner.  Deliciously sweet.

4.  Our family has the incredible gift of knee-to-knee, real, raw conversations every day.  (Ignore the cancer stuff on the floor.)  Sweet.

 5.  And because you're hanging on edge about my poor fingers trying desperately to open my pajama drawer with mismatched pulls...

...sweet.  Good night, moon. 

Brain cancer is...

...one children's classic after another!

• Kathy and Gerry Strickland told us that we need not feel bad about our Pseudo Seuss Trooper status:  The Seuss they sent us yesterday (What Kind of Pet Should I Get?) was just recently uncovered from Seuss's unpublished files.  How cool is that?
• Today we received from the Capp/Stangs the classic that serves as a reminder for every adult in America:  Life goes better when we say "Yes!" We love you!

•  Then we recreated our own classic.  If You Give a Moose a Muffin is an oft-read text in the Guillaume house.  In today's version...

•  If your antique dresser needs new handles...

• ...you just might need to conduct dangerous modifications to screws.  (Note the safety goggles. And the awesome scalp landscape. And the vintage Coach bags showered with sparks.)

 

• And when those screws are still just slightly too long...you might need to go buy washers.  Which might take you to Ace Hardware.  Which is right next to Twisted Vine. 

• And when you return home and discover that your dresser has ten places for pulls and you've purchased nine...

• You look forward to tomorrow!

Brain cancer is...

 ...getting the royal Seuss treatment.

My mom, Lu Ann, jump started Darrell's UCLA-approved speech therapy by sharing her copy of this gem:

 

Then, today Darrell received from K & G a treasure we've never seen:

And we call ourselves Seuss troopers! Ha!  You notice, don't you, that Darrell took his new treasure right into our room and prepared it for bedtime reading?

Thanks for making us smile!  And for not sending logic puzzles!

I also want to share a brief story from the day about Patty, Darrell's chemo nurse. Digging right in to our Monday cancer to-do list, I called Patty with some drug questions.* Patty's actual words to me were, "I love my job.  Let me help you." 

She helped with the temozolomide, then with a new prescription for the anti-nausea medicine, and then with...drum roll please...the appeal to the insurance company.

Crying with Patty is much better than crying with the insurance company. 

Note to self:  Practice those words.  "I love my job.  Let me help you."

 *For the detail-oriented members of Team D:  The "maintenance" dose of temozolomide is different than the "treatment" dose.  It's 280 mg versus 125 mg, delivered five days in a row out of each 28 days.

 

Brain cancer is...

...Backyard-chella.

 Can't remember the last time we lay in the grass and looked up.. 


We also looked at old albums.  The '80s were (it appears.)...very..difficult.  Sigh.

Hope you had a great weekend!

Brain cancer is...

...infinitely more bearable because of you.

Today was one of those days wherein you somehow knew that we needed you, and you were there for us en force.


Recall Cancer To-Do List items #1 and #2 yesterday, those related to Optune and a certain "appeals" request?  To get right to the point, the new case manager from our insurance company called today to explain that the appeal is indeed necessary; the insurance company so far says "no," and the next step involves further effort from us to document the likely efficacy of the Optune for treatment of Darrell's tumor.  That was this morning.




This evening, because of your support, we have the resilience to say, "No worries.  We love a good to-do list! We got this!" Without you, though, this post would have been The One about Andi Learning that it Is Okay to Cry during Some Important Phone Calls.* 




We hadn't told anyone about our new to-do list item, and still you wrapped us in your love and support all day long! 


This isn't a complete listing, but you'll perhaps sense the number and range of caring thoughts we received today:  You checked to see if a visit was possible, you sent cards, you sent a fancy razor (best shave ever!), you sent emails, you sent a kiss selfie**, you texted pics of the beautiful places and exciting things you did today, you fed us dinner (again!), you inquired about coffee, and you (Barb) made use of the magic front porch that generates apple pie cookies unbidden.  Your thoughtfulness lifts us up above the wave.  You are incredible.


The most important lesson we learned today was that we need to be as great of team members for others (including you) that you are for us.  Everyone deserves a team like Team D. 


To celebrate Darrell's change of status to "walks-with-changing-altitudes-are-fine" status, we walked five miles through the Raymond Hills:

We continue to be immersed in the beauty of the world and its people. 




*About crying:  Our family often (umm...daily?) embraces a good cry as therapeutic, but cries that occur with strangers from an insurance company don't fit the "therapy" bill.


**About kiss selfies:  We'll let this go soon, but based on our experience with a single kiss selfie today, we're ready to begin a clinical trial of the immediate mood-elevating potential of vicarious kiss selfies.  Not to give you a chore but an invitation: If you ever find yourself with a partner, parent, child, friend, or pet who will consent willingly to a kiss selfie, send it to us.  We promise not to post it.  And we promise to smile.

Brain cancer [treatment] is...

...back to business.

Today, between the two of us, we accomplished the day's cancer to-do list:

1. Call and speak with an Optune (tin foil hat) representative, who says insurance should pay and that approval takes some time, but that the approval process is underway.
2. Call and speak to the insurance case manager about Optune.  She says she's called Dr. Park and told him to file an appeal so that Darrell can get Optune.  (Numbers 1 and 2 on this list seem like opposites, right?  We'll stay tuned.)
3. Call Radiology and reschedule the MRI so that the results can accompany us to UCLA on May 2.  Many thanks to Radiology for squeezing Darrell in given the tight window. (The scan can't be too soon because of possible brain irritation from radiation.)
4. Call specialty pharmacy to discover why chemo agent and nausea medication for maintenance phase weren't delivered.  (Oh!  There's a "pharmacist's query" on that request, given dosage change. That explains it.)
5. Call Dr. Park to tell him about UCLA results.  Bless him, he calls us back.  He says, in order to clear that "pharmacist's query," we need to go pick up the written prescription from his office to fax directly to specialty pharmacy.  (This is the first item for the Monday cancer to-do list.)
6. Call the social worker from UCLA now on the case to discuss navigating the social systems process.

The list makers in the crowd will appreciate our satisfaction at having completed all six items .  But wait!  There's more!  Audacious tuques for Super D and a minion:

These are from long-standing friend, Curt.  Curt:  Thank goodness you sent two!  Once the fashion world gets a hold of these tuques, they are going to fly off the shelves!

(Reader's hint:  Having trouble spotting Super D?  He's the one wearing tuque plus hat.)  

Thanks for the morning company, Gordon and LuAnn, and for dinner, Edwardses. 

Happy Friday, everyone, and thanks for being on the team.  We hope you know how much we appreciate your presence.  Here's hoping you tried the selfie kiss thing, but enjoy your weekend regardless.

Brain cancer is...

...a super excuse for practicing selfie kisses.

Sometimes it works out better than others.

That's why so much practice appears to be necessary.  We highly recommend that you give it a shot.  Heck, don't even bother with the phone.  That's not even the fun part.

We had an amazing end-of-radiation/happy-anniversary-a-little-early trip.  Here's some bonus content, lest we haven't convinced you with earlier images:

We are thinking of you and your loved ones, sending you our best.

Brain cancer is...

...no better time for "firsts."

This day is absolutely perfect.  Here are nine of the "firsts" that have made it so great.


1.  First time for waking up to this view.

2.  First time walking a different portion of the circumference of the island and touching the water off Catalina at Lovers' Cove.  (New Rule for Everyone:  If you're ever somewhere where the word "lover" appears in the name, you must use the "oil painting" filter to edit the photo.  Or not.  You do what you want.)

 3.  First time renting a golf cart and pretending to listen while the guy explains the suggested route. 

4.  First time viewing the Pacific from a high point on Santa Catalina Island, glad we didn't listen to directions because there's pretty much one road.

5.  First time enjoying the Avalon Grille with another ho-hum view. 

6.  First time eating a buffalo burger after failing to spot any live buffalos and taking lots of photos of buffalo statues.  (We've been over this.  Team D doesn't judge.) The burger--and every other part of lunch--was delicious.  Thanks, Lynda.



7.  First time glimpsing this view during a Jacuzzi tub.

8.  First time shaving a scalp, or having a scalp shaved, depending on which of us you ask. (This is after the actual shaving.  We didn't think Christine M. could handle it, no matter how good of a sport she is about the shower scenes.)  Darrell's framing the view.  Reader's advice:  In case you plan on shaving/having shaved a scalp:  Four disposable razors.  And thanks for the other advice, Gail. 

9.  First time having a wine party sparked by a deluxe gift basket.  Thanks Matt and Mer.  Cakebread Cabernet is a mighty fine wine.  Also in this pic you see the bane of our lives in the VIP room:  Plastic cups for fine wine.  Gasp.  Fresh flowers delivered late.  We need our flowers on time, friends.

Kidding.    It's 4:35.   Must go.  We're soooooo  busy.  Hoping you at least one happy "first" today.

Brain cancer is...

...steak and lobster for lunch.

On Catalina.  

With a VIP room.

It took some energy to pack after our UCLA adventure, but it was worth it as soon as we sat down on the boat.  Thanks, Gail, Melanie, Jeff, and Lisa for the lift.  Much appreciated!

This is our first time on the island together.  Thanks for the great ideas (e.g., ride bikes, do the eco tour, try the glass bottom boat).  They all sound great.  However, we may not leave the VIP room and its incredible treat basket.  

Much love. 

Brain cancer is...

...facing a larger team, starting today.

We're posting early today, knowing that Team D would want to hear about the UCLA visit.


It was overall very positive.  Darrell feels particularly good about.  First the information:

Today's Information

• UCLA has an integrated, team approach.  That means we met with Nurse Practitioner Nanette first, who took Darrell's history and did an exam (Darrell was so ready to memorize the words!).  Then she left, presented the case to Dr. Cloughsy, then both of them (and an NP student) came back in and stayed for the remainder of the appointment. 
• Dr. Cloughsy agrees with Dr. Park's plan for adjuvant therapy (maintenance phase).  There's just no evidence to suggest something better than the plan to continue with Temodar five days out of every month.
• No clinical trials work for Darrell at this point.  They are for people with either brand new tumors or recurrent tumors. Our job, as team members, is to send "anti recurrence" thoughts/prayers/points of light to Darrell's lovely head (particularly its left frontal region, if that helps you aim your anti-cancer beams of goodness).
• Darrell's tumor doesn't have interesting mutations that make him a good candidate for some of the innovative drugs making the news.  That might change in the future.
• The next MRI (done later this month) will serve as Darrell's new brain baseline.  We hope to see no "tumor progression" or "activity" in that scan, and that scan will serve to inform any new treatments Dr. Cloughsey might suggest.
• They approved us to travel and gave us prophylactic prescriptions to make the travel easier (namely, pills for Darrell to take if he were affected by altitude or had symptoms).
• Dr. Cloughsey was fine with the tinfoil hat, but he was more guarded in potential positive effects.  The fashion statement is unparalleled, that's for sure.

Gratitude Stuff

• Dr. Cloughsey is interested in continuing with Darrell's case.  In fact, he wants us to move up the MRI scan so that he can see it right away.  Darrell feels fortunate that Dr. Cloughsey said yes to Darrell's case, as he sees patients only once per week.  We will continue with both Drs. Park and Cloughsey.
• It was good to hear our Dr. Park's decisions confirmed by a GBM expert.
• We could see why Dr. Cloughsey is an expert.  He knew the research very well and spoke about it in ways that kept it complex (there are no simple answers) but while helping us see that the research is a tool for making decisions.
• Both he and the NP gave us their email addresses and encouraged us to write, 24/7.
• We learned what potential symptoms of recurrence might look like and what we should do if we observe them.
• Nanette suggested a form of speech therapy that we love.  Finally!  She wants Darrell to read Dr. Seuss books aloud. We kept our collection.  Yess!  We'll let you know when we come up with Darrell's story hour.
• We feel in very good hands.

We hope your day is equally positive today.


We are going to go home and pack.  We hope to be posting from the Metropole in Catalina tomorrow.

Brain cancer is...

...ready for the second opinion!

We are checked in and buckled up for the evening at the Tiverton House at UCLA.  Great recommendation, Hallie; thanks!

Brain cancer is...

..typically an odd and large assortment of things in any one-day period. 

I worry that, because of the format I chose to frame this blog at its inception, I led you to thinking that we think that life post-diagnosis comes in one-day chunks.  It's true that, at the end of each day, we reflect on what kind of day it's been, but, for us,  mostly any day brings a large range of experiences and reactions.  That's probably stating the obvious, as brain cancer days are merely a Life 2.0 amplification of Life 1.0 days.  Today serves as an example.

1.  I woke up, checked out the kitchen counter, and saw that there were more blues than purples in the chocolate bowl:

Logic puzzle: If Andi eats neither blue nor purple, and Zach and Summer eat only blue, who ate most of the purples?  One person in the house is not talking.


2.  We headed to campus to pick up mail, etc.  Here's what the door to Andi's office looked like:

If you know me (Andi) professionally, you know I am a proponent of positive psychology, and my students and I (and all y'all of my colleagues) adhere to a strengths-based outlook.  An outward manifestation is the Drops in the Bucket practice, where each of us fills others' buckets with a "drop" that gives a single bit of what's best in the world.  So you can imagine how it felt for us to see my office door covered with all these wonderful drops.  It's a bit overwhelming, as we've said before.  Thank you.

3.   Granny (LuAnn) came down for a pedicure, lunch at Claim Jumper, great conversation, and  a toast for her sister Roene's birthday.

Happy 80th, Ro!  We love you and hope your day with family and friends was terrific.  Lunch in the OC, on your behalf, was plenty tasty.

4.  As Life 2.0 dictates, we sat in the backyard with a fire in the pit and just held still.  Check out Darrell's cooler-weather hat selection and his spy stance:

Based on responses to yesterday's post, lots of people are thinking that Darrell will appear on some calendar given his mysterious hunkiness, but what does it for me is this:  Before the rain chased us back inside, Darrell said, "Life is wonderful." He meant it. 

More from LA tomorrow.  All the best.