Elisa's Journal

We're still hear in the Salvadore Dali World that is Florida, home of the WORST drivers in the world. I think the average age of Floridian drivers is around 114. When I'm on the Tamiani Highway, I see every lane littered with Oldsmobiles with only a nose, a pair of glasses, and a tuft of blue hair can be seen peering over the dashboard. They go 20 mph in the fast lane, weave around lane markers like their Olympic Slalom champions, and look completely undazed by the concert of honking horns and squealing rubber. I guess they probably turn their hearing aids off to preserve their sense of self-worth. But that's not what I really wanted to talk about today. Not only do I tend to digress like the old person I'm becoming, but I know it won't be long until I'm a 90 year old menace to the highways. Moving on: We were driving from Sarasota to Captiva in a car that was two sizes too small for our family because my husband thinks it's ludicrous to pay the outlandish fees for renting a minivan and the kids didn't take him up on his offer to pay the difference out of their allowances. So we had lots of lap sitters and kids complaining with their "When are we going to get there!" "How come we have to go to this stupid place anyway?" "I'm carsick. I'm going to throw up." (All before we've left the parking lot, of course.) When we got to our destination, the car doors flew open to a mass exodus of bodies. You'd think a grenade was tossed in the back seat. "I can't feel my legs, Mommy." "How come my legs are blue" "Ew, I still smell like puke, Mommy." Fortunately, we got sidetracked by the very vision of paradise. Captiva is lush and quaint with more souvenir shops per square foot than I thought was humanly possible. We found a cool outside restaurant and collapsed into our seats. After ordering a couple of beers to soothe our wounds (nope, not the kids, but they did ask,) Kristina, my 19 year old, and I whipped out our brand new wi-fi enabled PDA's to see if we were in a hot spot. Sure nuff, we piggybacked on someone's wireless network and checked the weather, stock quotes, and other sites. The trip was miraculously redeemed. On the way home, Lukas and I beamed silly notes between our pda's-notes that started out with little hearts and "I love you's" and degraded quickly to pictures of butts pooping, penises peeing, and, well, you know how it is. The trip's redemption was quickly reversed when we hit traffic getting off the island that turned what should have been a 15 minute exodus to a 2 hour one. But, with our high tech beaming action, things were nice and quiet. No complaints. Just an occasional giggle and snicker and a few snores.

Posted by elisa at 09:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Am I alone in this situation or what? My husband (and father to our five kids) seems more paranoid than most. You'd think it's a miracle that any of our children are still alive!To him, the world is full of death traps luring all children into it's dark clutches with promises of fun, excitement, or just an end to their boredom. So, although we live two minutes from the school, the kids aren't allowed to bike on the quiet roads to get their. Mind you, my kids' ages range from 9 to 19. He won't let my teenagers walk to the grocery store if it's sprinkling, for fear that a tsunami or twister may be poised to destroy them. He dusts my teenage girls for fingerprints after every date (okay, I'm stretching the truth on this one, but not by much) and he won't let them roam around his old neighborhood in Norway (where the only threats might be a snowflake or weasel) and, I think this is the worst one of all, when we go out on our weekly dateevery Wednesday night, if the kids haven't eaten dinner, they're only allowed to eat oatmeal when we're gone--just in case they choke. Never mind that our teenagers, who babysit for us, know how to do the Heimlich. ANyone out there who shares my sad plight?

Posted by elisa at 02:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Here I am, spending a small portion of my Christmas vacation in Florida with my husband and my five kids. When I woke up this morning, every thing seemed pretty normal. The Earth's rotation was stable. Stellar parallax was predictable. The universe had no evil twin. But things were about to get ugly later on. Yes, we went to breakfast at some dive that had a parking lot filled with pickup trucks that were at least a decade or so old and lots of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling and walls. It should have been a tip off to see they had decorated the place for Christmas by bordering pictures and clocks on the wall with squares of pink lights, but no, I was blind for the terror that was in store for me, my husband, and my innocent children, untouched by the harshness of reality. The minute I walked in, I new that I had taken my family into the bowels of the worst Fellini movie ever to taint the universe, for there, before us, were the Austrian twins: two gymnasts who dressed in sexy tards and suits that would have made karolyi proud. They were doing all sorts of things with their bodies that my husband would give his right arm for me to do and seemed to be shoe-ins for the next Cirque Du Soleil tryouts. Problem is, they were at least 80 years old. Yep, 60 pound women with legs that looked a hell of a lot better than mine, that had wrinkles the size of the Grand Canyon's West Rim. Although they had 50 pounds of makeup each, giving that girlish appeal of an aging hooker on a corner of the French Quarter, there isn't enough Bondo or Spackling Compound to cover up the fact that they were both Death Warmed Over. Fortunately, I chose a seat that allowed me to have my back to these writhing Olympics Hopefuls Gone Bad, but I couldn't help but wonder, amid my giggles, why the other customers and the restaurant's employees were regarding their act with fascination and respect. Seriously, I thought the whole thing was a big joke, so why didn't everyone else? I turned to watch now and again, but when they were bent backwards thrusting their crotches toward me, I couldn't help but wonder if they had done the splits on the very table from which I would partake breakfast or if they had to, as an occupational necessity, get a regular Brazilian waxing. Ugh. I carefully examined my banana pancakes for pubes, false eyelashes and flakes of foundation, but my appetite couldn't recover. I began to wonder if I had entered some parallel universe that was actually composed of the mental playground of Salvadore Dali? Or perhaps we're all really trapped in some terrible rerun of the worst Fellini movie ever to have been created--with no English subtitles (okay, maybe that's for the best.) When they finished, they passed around the hat for tips. I had to throw in a fiver just as a show of gratitude that the whole degrading and sickening experience was over. And although my appetite suffered the rest of the day at the very thought of that surreal experience, the worst part of my ordeal was that the Austrian twins had legs that made mine look like those from a cross between an wooly mammoth and a walrus paralyzed by a blubber overdose. (Not getting pretty graphics here, are you?) Now, as Fellini ended his films, so shall I end this blog: FIN

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ya know, I just don't know what happens to me right before Christmas, but I temporarily lose all sense of logic and sanity. (Even compared to my questionable year round baseline.) Why you ask? Because I actually bought my kids their dream presents for Christmas--electric guitars. I even got an electric drumset for the collective Family Von Trapp/Medhus. Now, I have to rush t the nearest otolaryngologist to get ear protectors permanently implanted in my ears lest I become deaf as a post within weeks. Add that to the fact that all four of the five kids who know are self-proclaimed guitar "experts" are starting off with Jimi Hendrix guitar licks and, well, I'm moving away and leaving no forwarding address. Maybe I should deglorify Hendrix in their minds by letting them in on that little known fact that the guy drowned on his own vomit during a heroin overdose. Oh well, he did reign supreme with the guitar. Second mistake, I got two of my kids PDA's. Will they use it to become better organized and become diehard obsessive compulsive list makers like me? No. Of course not. They're using it to wrap themselves in little cocoons from which they may never emerge to be a part of the family again, playing mind melting games and downloading third party software that causes fatal exception errors on their PDAs. Oh wel. Live and learn. I'll remember these lessons until Thanksgiving 2004. Then, amnesia will hit. Next blog--the multitasking Mama.

Posted by elisa at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I was withdrawing some cash at the drive-thru automatic teller of my bank and noticed something kinda funky. All the labels and instructions are in braille. That's right. Those little bumps that make no sense to you and I but enable the visually impaired to read. Now that's okay, but as it happens, these braille labels don't have any alphabetic labels for those of us who can see. Nothing. Nada. Yep, just the bumps. I had to guess the function of each little hole, button and slot by it's size, the amount of wear (obviously more in the withdrawal areas than the deposit ones,) and other such things. My question is: What the hell are blind people doing rding around in cars making withdrawals and deposits? It's not like these buttons are on the passenger side. Anyone who can answer this for me will be a god I will worship for eternity.

Next, and perhaps a simpler question: Why do I duck every time I drive my car through those parking garages with the lower ceilings? Like that's going to help when the top half of my Suburban is scraped off like burnt off toast? Like it's going to make me feel any better when the car roof is sledding in a sea of sparks behind me? Hmm. Just wondering.

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Today is the last day of school before the holiday. Naturally, I'm overjoyed at the prospect of having my five kids around me 24/7, but I am bracing myself for the onslaught of mayhem come noon today. It's not easy trying to cram 10 hours of work and errands into less than half the time, but it beats the heck out of trying to do these things with kids underfoot. Remember when you had your babies and signed up for rooming in because at birth he seemed so peaceful and angelic--Ghandi reborn? Then after 30 minutes with the wailing little monster has you sweating bullets and dancing to his command by screaming with hunger and peeing and squirting out green poop every 20 seconds. That's when you crawl on your hands and knees out into the hall, grab the nearest nurse (heck, an orderly or dietician will do at this point) and beg her for mercy: "Take him back! Take him back! For the love of god, woman, take his back. He's Demian ressurected, I tell you! I can't find the 666 yet, but I know it's scrawled somewhere on his evil little body." Well, that's how I feel about the kids coming home for Christmas. It's bitter sweet. There'll be fights. There'll be begging and crying. There'll be tiresome declarations of boredom. There'll be the the ever-revolving door. And the house will look like the setting for a documentary about Category 5 hurricanes. Despite it all, I count the minutes filled with anticipation, joy, and maternal love. Merry Christmas everyone.

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, I know your first reaction to this title might be Ewwwww. What kind of sick lady is this? But actually, I've been thinking alot about public restrooms: what my personal perceptions are on the subject, how others might regard them and, naturally, how they relate to the meaning of life, the nature of the universe, and the moral decay of humanity. You know, light and mindless stuff. I know what you guys are thinking and NO,I DO NOT have a lot of time on my hands. I'm just weird. Wired that way from birth. But cast your preconceived notions to the winds and hear me out:

First, the heavy stuff. What's with the paper as gasket? I mean, do you guys really take the time to pry that paper that's only 27 microns thick (miss that lesson in physics did ya?) It's not as easy as you think. Must be designed by a group of doctors that specialize in the microsurgical reattachment of extremities, retinas and other procedures requiring superhuman fine motor skills. The same people who designed the peanut packages for Southwest Airlines. I chipped one of my teeth opening one of those damned things. Once you get the paper out of the little toilet seat shaped container, accidently fingering those same spots on the container that nose pickers and butt itchers touched, try laying it in perfect alignment on the seat. Might as well land the space shuttle in a 200 mph cross wind on a postage stamp, thing goes fluttering about like it has a mind of its own and here you are fresh out of paper weights to keep it from fluttering into the toilet. Then, you have to sit on it, armed with a distorted sense of security. Okay people. Germs are little. They pass through those microscopic holes in that paper like mosquito buzzing between the goal posts in the Alamodome. Anyway. Just turn your cheek to reality. When your ass breaks out in purple blisters oozing glow in the dark pus, don't come crying to me. That said, let's talk about some more disgusting stuff. Are you a brave butt against the porcelain girl or are you a hoverer? Me, I take one look at that split at the front of the toilet seat with all the crusty stuff and pubes and practically throw up. Next question. When you accidently splatter, do you wipe it off like a good girl. Next: do you do a very careful splatter check before you sit down? I hate those wet surprises. Ugh. Next: When you make bodily noises you'd rather keep to yourself, do you try to disguise it with a cough or nose blowing? Next: Do you ALWAYS flush? I mean, eewwwwww. I hate passing three or four stalls filled with crap, two tons of toilet paper, or maxi pads that look like they came from an exsanguination victim. Gross. Moving on. Do you wash your hands afterwards--every time, or do you wash them only when someone else is washing theirs when you get out of the stall? On the other extreme, do you protect yourself from the Bubonic Plague by using paper towels to shield your pristine fingers (which, by the way, you just used to wipe your ass) from faucet handles and door knobs? Finally (I think), do you have as much trouble as I do wresting paper towels from the dispenser. It's like pulling eye teeth from a rabid elephant, for god's sake. Better than the little blower thingie, though. Got no damn patience for those blasted things. They sound like a cross between a 747 and a walrus in heat. Rather just flick off the water and be done with it. Course when I get out, I always have to explain to my husband that, yes, I did wash my hands and no I didn't piss all over them.

Hope I'm not too crude for you. I'm sick of our society punishing everyone for being honest and open. If you can't take it, you have much bigger problems than an ass gasket can solve.

Posted by elisa at 07:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Yes, I AM a sick woman, as my nightly dreams bear witness. When was young and eternally pregnant, those dreams were vivid, off-the wall, and sometimes downrigh morbid. But now, my dreams are even stranger, For instance, here's a dream I had last night (drum roll, please): Imagine a close up shot of a loaf of Rainbo bread--thin sliced. Imagine a mysterious hand entering from the left frame approaching that loaf. Getting closer...closer...closer until REE REE REE (Psycho sound effects) it unties the twist tie. Fade to black. Um, okay. That's it. Not even enough time to eat one measly kernel of stale movie popcorn or shuffle your feel on a slimy movie theatre floor. I mena, how boring can it get? Does that mean my life is a bland and predictable loaf of bread or does it mean something super profound like I'm meant to be the supreme nurturer of the universe? Am I going to be a world class baker? ANyone who's tried my puff pastries might argue with that prediction. Will I be coming into a lot of dough, soon? Doubt it, by the looks at my recent mindless and maniacal Christmas shopping rampage. Frankly, I think I'm just really easy to entertain. After all, one of my dreams was about unloading the dishwasher. Uh, right. And you know how you do retakes of your dreams til you get it right? You know, you hone a perfect Clint Eastwood comeback just before you slice the genitals off the intruder who threatened the lives of your children, and then hang them around his neck like a bracelet. No, wait, then you decide to stuff them in his mouth. No wait, then you decide to use them to fashion a new nose and new cheeks? Anyway. Moving on. I actually did come up with 37 ways to unload the dishwasher in my dreams. FIrst, I unloaded them only to discover that (gasp) they had only been on rinse hold. (Ree Ree Ree). Then, I found every knife was still covered with peanut butter hardened to a consistency somewhere between tar on a cold day and concrete on, well, any day. Next, I dreamed that all the cups had been turned up at some time suring the cycle so that they were all filled with this disgustingly filthy liquid with brown grit in the bottom. (Naturally, I do what's right and shake them out before putting them away. No sense sharing that secret with the rest of the family.) Next, I dream the dishwasher ran out of Jet Dry so everything was covered with spots the size of Montana. Next I dreamed the whole thing broke, it tooks three weeks for me to find this out, and when I opened it up, the smell was enough to make a cockroach vomit and there was a nice family of rats using it as a vacation destination. This, of course, was the worst. I hate having a family of five with no dishwasher. Paper plates suck. So do plastic utensils. Oatmeals okay, but steak's a challenge. Plus, the kids don't even put THOSE dishes away. Okay I've run out of intelligent things to say so I'll close with two of my most astute observatinos from these dreams: My kids were never in these: They weren't there remembering to put the twist tie back on the bread and they weren't there eagerly volunteering to unload the dishes. Oh well. Next blog--Public Restrooms. The Inside Scoop. (Good graphic there, eh?)

Posted by elisa at 07:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Long gone are the days when I wished I looked older so my patients would take me more seriously. Even in private practice, my baby face (with it's occasional zit) made it hard for my patients to call me "doctor" instead of "Sugar pie" or "Sweetie." (Okay, so I didn't mind.) But the years, they just kept a comin, along with my greying hair and saggin wrinkles. First, you look in the mirror and wonder, "Christ, who's that old lady staring back at me." You're in real trouble when you reflexively say, "Hi Mom" to your reflection. Even worse, as in my case, when you say, "Hi, Dad." You see the fine lines around your eyes and lips. Your eyelids begin to droop. The bags under your eyes look like their packed for a long weekend in the Hill Country. And your jowls start to sag below your jaw line like two bushels of peas. Your but looks like two hogs fighting in a gunney sack when you walk. Of course there's that awkward not-young-anymore-but not-ancient-either phase that precedes the "old as Methusala" one. For me, it was that age purgatory when I had to pick up my prenatal vitamens and my Grecian Formula from the drugstore at the same time. Now, I'm flagrantly older. There's no doubt. Guys don't look at me with that special look that flattered and annoyed at the same time. Worse yet, I look at the hotties thinking "Aw, what a cutie. I bet his Mommy is so proud" instead of thinking "What an ass on that hunk!" Now, it's not about fighting wrinkles with moisterizer; it's about covering them with spackling compound or Bondo. The only think that has persevered from my youth is that annoying occasional zit. I've lost all hope of getting rid of them. Now, it's not whether I'll be able to cover it up for the prom; it's whether I'll carry them to my grave, giving the mortuary cosmotologist the challenge of a lifetime. Yep, it's hell getting old. Wait a minute. Did I already mention that?

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Let's face it, there are certain things that family members react to by burying their heads in the sand. How about that toilet paper roll with the last frayed sheet clinging on for dear life--just in time for your coffee to kick in. Or that last tablespoon of milk in the milk carton. Or why is it that every cereal box always has a quarter of a bowlful that just lingers for months unless it's Fruity Pebbles, Cookie Crisp or some other brand loaded with chemicals that make our kids glow in the dark, spin like a top, and get fat? And seriously, is it just me or do you all find empty oatmeal, fruit roll-up and other boxes in your food cabinets? What's so hard about tossing it in the trash? I have three dogs who, ike Ozzie's played hookey when we covered the whole housebreaking thing. But my family will give a wide berth to every turd and yellow puddle, even if it's on our finest silk carpet. Roaches, the same thing. It's like these things have become lepers or nuclear reactors ready to blow. I've done all sorts of experiments to see how long these things would remain in a state of ostracism and they al may as well have become permanent household fixtures or adopted family members. I say this all, because there's a roach by my chair right now. An ugly brown fat one with his legs all curled up in a disgusting death pose. I can't look to closely at it or I'll throw up. I hate cleaning vomit out of my keyboard. So I squint when I look at the creature, deciding whether to give it the old burial at sea, toilet e-ride. You are now witnessing that final decision. I will not touch the hideous thing. I can't stomach it. So I'll just wait until it decays into a pile of dust that is no longer recognizable as a disgusting disease ridden pest, because maybe someone will actually suck it up in the vacuum cleaner, or I'll wait until my husband gets home. I can just shoult "roach" and he comes in running like Sir Lancelot on a might white steed, crushes it if it's still writhing (I have to cover my ears because I hate that crunching sound) and swoops it up in a paper towel to dispose of it. My hero.

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Girl to girl, when your significant other asks, "What do you want for Christmas, Baby?" NEVER, and I mean NEVER make the grave mistake of saying, "Oh, nothing, Sweetie. I have everything I need." You and I know that this is our way of saying, "Yes, I want something, but I want it to be expensive and beautiful, requiring at least two of your paychecks and a second lein on your mortgage to pay for. My words are only meant to convey "I haven't a selfish bone in my body." Of course you and I know that this is a pack of bald faced lies, but how else can we expect to get on Santa's nice list? Tragically, men don't understand this secret code, so tehy'll take you literally. WHen my husband came up empty handed on my 30th birthday, I wept openly while he stood in front of my completely flummoxed (I love this word. Just found it while reading The Hobbit to my kids. Makes me seem a lot smarter than I really am.) Moving on: So, he told me he'd run out to McDonald's to pick me up some dinner (like tht would help--talk about the last straw--that sent the wailing to a higher decibel level altogether!) Fortunately, the tears were a good investment, because when I opened up my quarter pounder, out fell a mustard slathered diamond ring.) Poor Rune. Think about the poor guys name, after all. Rune. Pronounced "Runah." That's a major handicap in right there. He's Norwegian and most of these Norwegians are born with this setback of having weird names. Dagfin. Aslaug, Bente. Knut. My favorite, though is Odd. Seriously. Isn't that an odd name? ANyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So my final advice to you girls: Be specific about what you ask for. In fact, order it or go pick it out yourself, wrap the present, and shove it into his hands saying, "This is from you to me." If you answer, "Oh, any little thing is fine with me," you are in grave danger of getting either a pair of hot mits, and electric skillet, an annual subscription to Sports Illustrated, or a new set of golf clubs (and you don't play.) If he does bring you a dud (or worse yet, nothing)engage in a prolonged sulking stint punctuated by quiet, but tragic sobs and nose blowing. When he asked, "What's wrong, Dear," answer, "Nothing" then push the sobbing up a notch. Eventually, he'll admit that whatever it is is totally his fault and he promises to kiss your feet and become your personal love slave forever.(Actually, most of us are too exhausted for tha. Better opt for a month of sex free nights, instead.) Then, beat a path to the nearest Neiman Marcus as fast as your Prada shoes can carry you, and max out his credit card without mercy.

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

IS it my imagination or do husbands get off easy, especially when their wives are home moms? You can call it domestic engineer if you want, but let's not glorify it, because dammit, it doesn't need glorification. It's the most important job in the world. Besides, what's glorious aabout changing a diaper full of crap and picking up old underwear from the floor, trying hard not to get too close to the racing stripe on it. Oops, back on trap: Some husbands come home and grope their way to the nearest sofa, complaining about the horrible day they had that day, asking for a beer or massage, and the wives are hovering over kids and thier homework like a lion tamer takes a whip and chair to a pack of disgruntled lions. Then there's dinner, washing up and the bedtime routine. We go grocery shopping, take the kids to their doctor's appointments, take them to their practices, go to their conferences, book fairs, and daytime school performances,shop for their clothes, handle the neighborhood things like arranging block parties and stuff, get their dry cleaning, take the dogs to the vet, get the kids to do their chores and homework, read the bedtime stories,do the Christmas shopping (thank god for that, cuz if my husband were in charge, the kids would each get a pair of socks and a CD,)fill out and mail the Christmas card, do the holiday baking and roasting, clean up after the kids and them, and so on and so on. Most of us get to our boiling point, because we're raised not to stir up conflict. When we do lower the boom, unleashing the wrath of Mommy on our husbands, complaining that they don't do enough to help us out, they counter with, "I'm the one making the money for this family!" Well, moms, when they say this, we need to tell them that money is not the only way to measure productivity. If we were to put a dollar amount to every thing we do, we'd beat most guys salary-wise hands down!

Actually, I've trained my husband for the last 20 years, and he's pretty helpful, now. He cooks (no one likes the weird stuff I cook, because it isn't all beige and it has more than one texture) and he pays the bills. He still is upstairs watching the racing channel while I'm working away til 11 each night, but I gotta take what I can. Gotta love guys. They're like cute little puppy dogs stumbling along in their relationship with us, trying to anticipate the next ambush, practicing their, "I know, Honey. I'm a real asshole" reply and, well, that's all I guess. Is it just me or do you other women think Jack Nicholson is gross and sexy at the same time? I wonder if he every picks up his dirty socks and underwear? Ugh, I'm not getting a pretty visual right now. Scuse me while I go throw up.

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, what's with you mayo lovers? I saw in the newspaper today that one lady was so upset that she didn't get mayo on her burger that she threw the meal and the drink at the lady in the drive thru window. Personally, my thighs and I abhor mayo. Half a teaspoon means an extra hour on the treadmill. But to go ballistic over it? I mean, come on people, pick your battles. What now, do drive thru clerks have to come to work in protective armor, face shields and riot gear? That stupid lady who sued McDonalds because SHE spilled hot coffee in her own damn lap already has made a few lawyers richer, our burgers more expensive and the cups more cluttered with warnings. Seriously, do you take the time to read the fine print on your paper products? Do you read the warning about how the coffee is hot and think to yourself, "Omigosh! I'm so glad they pointed that out! I guess I'll have to use something else as a body splash this morning." Try mayo. I hear it does wonders for the skin. ANyway, if you DO read your paper products, you have WAY too much time on your hands. Or you have major paranoia or anxiety problems. Write back: How many of you think the coffee fumbler should have been the one sued for being so damn clumsy in the first place?

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

What's the deal? While society's become harder and crueler, it's also become very sensitive about what we say. Seriously, in my day, we didn't have homeless people; we had bums. So what's next, "outdoorsmen?" People weren't "vertically challenged," they were shrimps. People weren't "large," they were fat. Actually, come to think of it, mothers always use to call their fat kids "big boned." Does that still happen, guys?

Hmm. That makes me think about my fat thighs. Is it just me, or can thighs expand a few inches after Thanksgiving? Seriously, when I've stuffed my face for a few days, I look at my naked body in the mirror (squinting, of course, so things are a little out of focus. Don't know what the full affect might have on my psyche) and I look tons fatter. I turn around to look at my butt and with a horror tinged frown, I silently mouth out, "Oh...My...God." Then I diet for a few days and, voila, I look in the mirror and I'm a svelte sex goddess. I'm I the only one out there that imagines ten pound gains or losses within days? I know it can't really be true, but the mind works in mysterious ways, I guess. Anyway. Moving on. How bout those Yankees?

Anyhoo, if you have some cool euphemisms, send them my way. If you don't know what the hell that word means, please go away. (Jes kiddin.) I leave you with this: SOme organization of wheelchair bound folks is suing a realty association for using the term "walk in closet." So what's it to be, roll in closet? Jesus. And this amid record numbers of Ectasy abuse, violent crime, etc. Hey guys, can't we worry about bigger things? Like my thighs?

Posted by elisa at 07:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Is it just my family or do most kids talk in video clips? At first, their dialogue is composed largely from lines from Disney movie. For instance, any time the number 66 is mentioned, they whistle "Sixty-six percent" just like that beaver on Lady and the Tramp. When they're looking for me, they bleat out "Mother" just like Bambi did after his mom died (naturally, my husband follows in his deepest "Come with Me, my son.") Then it's on to Dumb and Dumber. When the word both is required, it's "Both of 'em?" Also, "That John Denver is full of crap," and "DOn't worry, I'm a Limo Driver!" and so on. Now, it's movies that are R rated (for my teenagers, at least.) SOme of them, I haven't even seen, which leaves me sort of ostracized--you know, like you accidently crash a party for the Third Annual Convention of Nuclear Physicists. I guess our kids are submerged in so much they don't even learn how to talk on their own. My kids couldn't count past 12 for the longest, and it had to be that catchy "One two three foouuur five six seven eight niinne ten, eleven twelve" song from Sesame Street. Anyone out there experiencing the same?

Posted by elisa at 07:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)