Elisa's Journal

Thanksgiving, to me, seems like one of those wanna be holidays like Valentines Day. But hell, at least during Valentines Day you get chocolates and racy underwear and, well, I better stop right there. I dunno. My idea of a blast isn't slaving over a hot stove wearing oven mits until they've become a natural part of my body, being covered from head to toe in bits of stuffing and flour, watching everyone else watching a stupid endless parade and hundreds of boring football games(we're talking some kind of vicarious living here), and then, to top it all off, serving those same people enough tryptophan-loaded turkey so that they're hurled into a deep coma. In other words, putting everyone to sleep so they can't help you clean up. And they're always so disappointed about that. The only reason my kids like it is because they get off school. And the turkey sure as heck doesn't look forward to it. Millions are slaughtered in the name of a holiday that everyone secretly regards as a dud. So what's the deal? Are we paying Squanto back for his having been accosted, carted to Spain and enslaved for years (I learned that from my fourth grader)? Is it a merchant-related "Let's milk everyone else for a few hundred bucks more?" Nah, personally, I think it's a plot created by my thighs (and perhaps thighs the world over ---ugh, what a graphic I'm getting here) to prepare for a two month expansion project that'll take me the other ten months to repair. Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Cleanup starts at six, so be there.

Posted by elisa at 06:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I was waiting for my son to finish with his orthodontist apppointment this morning comtemplating the nature of life, the meaning of man and whether I should make Tuna Helper today when I overheard the nurse giveing one young patient instructions for wearing her new head gear. It looked like the girl was around middle school age, and you know what that means! If she has to wear that in school, she'll be the supreme bully magnet. I mean it's enough that the kid is going to make all the metal detectors in the airport go off, but to pass by a group of swaggering roosters steeped in testosterone trying to look tough in front of their friends, it's like hell on earth! I say kids like that ought to be conferred medals of valor for their bravery. Personally, I'd be inclined to hide in a dark cave and come out blind, pale, thin, and straight toothed at the end of the school year. Funny how being cruel is a virtue and being kind or cheerful is something that is worthy of ridicule or suspicion. Sad.

Posted by elisa at 10:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sometimes I think I'm a sick, perverse woman. Although the last thing I want is for anyone to suffer physical, emotional or financial pain, I adore stormy weather. Of course the weather we had here in Houston recently was alittle over the top, but it was so much fun riding around in my Suburban, gawking at lots that were now oceanfront property, making the waves splash up over my antenna as I forded through freshly created streams, and hoping to see lightning or hail. I think Mother Nature is amazing. And brushes with her wrath sort of puts things in perspective--that we're here on this planet because of a freak accident and have, for the moment, been granted permission to stay by the old lady.

Posted by elisa at 07:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I don't know what is it about men; they couldn't find a purple and green striped elephant if it were perched up on their tie rack in the closet--not even if it were to offer a selection of ties draped over its trunk. Why the universal disability? Is it some hopelessly encoded DNA glitch, an off shoot of Darwinian evolution or an evil plot to drive women mad? For example, my husband, who planned to cook his favorite dish for our family dinner, announced with great authority that we were out of spaghetti. Having just gotten a packet from the market the day before, I assured him that his plans would not have to be dashed or interrupted by a night run to Krogers. He trodded skeptically back to the pantry and still insisted I was wrong. Maybe I hallucinated buying $212 dollars worth of mostly nonnutritious, fat and sugar laden food. It could happen. So I got up to check for myself. Not only was it nestled amongst the other pastas on the second shelf, it was front and center. Do I have to install miniature neon signs. Perhaps I should calculate the GPS coordinated of everything in our house down to the last poker chip and arm him with that list and a Garmin handheld GPS. Since I'm way to lazy to undertake such a behemoth chore, I decided to see just how he went about looking for stuff. Maybe it's the same with the men in your household. Mine--whether husband or sons, simply trudge to the general vicinity of where they believe the object in question to be and stare straight ahead to find it. There is no lateral or vertical movement of their eyeballs. There is no turning of their heads from side to side or up and down. It's almost as if they're injected with a hefty dose of the paralytic agent Pavulon when the words, "I wonder where" tickle their brain cells. Not wanting to mess with neurobiolochemistry and realizing that derailing centuries of evolution is a lost cause anyway, anytime my husband or sons ask me where something is, I reply, "It's right behind the milk, Dear." I first, they took it literally, but when it came down to lighter fluid and dog treats, they began to understand that this phrase, when translated, means "Put some effort into it, Buster, cuz I ain't budging from this LazyBoy until you do."

Posted by elisa at 07:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Two of my five kids have their hopes and dreams pegged on going to the Air Force Academy. They're doing so well in school because of this motivation, whereas before they were just, well, I'll say it in Texan: lolly-gagging around. On one hand, visions of them working at Burger King well into their 80s have lost steam. On the other hand, it scares me to think they might be risking their lives. On one hand, I'm proud to see them serving others, but on the other hand, do I have to salute my own kids now? I mean, these are the same kids whose diapers I changed. (There's a landfill somewhere outside of Houston with my family name on it.)These are the same kids who, only yesterday, would call from the bathroom for me to wipe thier butts. I still get the weird urge to pinch my nostrils shut whenever I hear "FINISHED." Well, kids will do what they want to do, so I guess I will remain confident and proud. After all, tehy'll be part of the few, the proud, the potty trained. Oh, yeah, that's the Marines.

Posted by elisa at 07:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I feel so good, now that I work out everyday. Years of neglect and abuse (not to mention an on-going war with gravity) has left my body, well, sad. So I'm pumping on my ellipticizer for 30 minutes (enough to burn the calories of the candy bar I ate on the way) and then do the weight thing for another thirty minutes. While I'm doing all that, I feel 20 years old again. But dammit--they have mirrors everywhere in the gym so I can see my cellulite dancing and trembling. In fact, I can almost here my fat cells whimpering "Leave us alone. We were just fine the way we were." Some of them have turned into squatters, refusing to leave. And in the mirror, I can still see the greying at my temples. I can still see the bags under my eyes that look like I'm packed for an overnighter. I can still see the sagging jowls and marionette lines. Kinda depressing, but when I think back on life at twenty, I take the wrinkles and fat, thank you. Ugh. I wonder if blindfolds are in the gym dress code?

Posted by elisa at 08:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It seems, to many, that the trend is up for sustance abuse in kids--especially prescription drugs. Communication channels now digitalized, access to suppliers is a breeze as is information about what will give them the high they're looking for. Plus, kids have more money with which to buy drugs now than in the past. Do you know what the most common drugs are among kids now--both prescription and nonprescription? Any take on the age range, socioeconomic factors, etc? For kdis out there: What drives you or your friends to experiment in drugs: curiosity? peer pressure? pressures at home or school?

Posted by elisa at 07:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

You guys hear about that soldier who is having combat stress syndrome after seeing a buddy get sawed in half by a machine gun? And the military is charging him with cowardice because he's havng trouble doing his job! That is an offense unishable by DEATH!! I don't get it. I mean, the guy's been in Iraq for only a short while and is coupled up with a bunch of green berets, who obviously see more action, graphic-wise. They send him to the psychologist for a few sessions and he is still having nightmares, vomiting, and having panic attacks. Give the guy a break! Someone exploded in half before his very eyes!! Do you think it's as ludicrous as I do?

Posted by elisa at 08:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Two of my kids, one 17 and the other 14, have their hearts set on joining the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. They're working hard in schooling, getting into superb shape, physically, participating in seeral extracurricular activities, including community ser4vice projects, etc. Does anyone have other recommendations that might help improve their chances? I know it's tough to get it!

Posted by elisa at 12:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Who of us parents haven't relished those wonderful memories of our children in the throes of vomiting. Well, I ain't one of them. This weekend, my 10 year old spent an entire night puking his toenails up. Poor little guy missed trick or treating and got less than an hour of sleep (as did I.) But these are memories we can pull out later as ammunition to use against them when they're older--like when they forget Mother's Day or when they try to move us into a nursing home. Like they say, every cloud has a silver lining.

Posted by elisa at 08:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)