Elisa's Journal

Well, I just bought me some new jeans at American Eagle, and I have this little, um, problem with them. Ya see, Every time I bend over, a three inch swatch of my underwear is brandished to the world for all to see (and chuckle at.) We're talkin "Hanes My Way" here, people. I'm one of those weirdo moms who hate shopping so much, that when my clothes starts to look like the wardrobe set to Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm or Tobacco Road, I run through Target like a damn McCormick Reaper gobbling up anything cheap, in my size, and on an endcap near the aisle. So underwear fashiion is a pathetic casualty of my aversion to shopping discriminately. Six pack of Hanes bikini briefs, why not. I love my low hip risers, but I have to make a serious choice here, Either I buy sexier looking underwear and toss all the mones that look like potato sacks or bedspreads, or I learn that special crouch that prevents any more than a 10 degree angle of waist bend. Decisions, decisions. What's a girl to do?

Posted by elisa at 07:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Lukas has incurred the wrath of the evil Mommy Monster, I'm afraid. His new obsessions for all things tech has disrupted alot of things. But nooooo, he isn't the least bit interested in playing games on the computer or going online. This 11 year old wants to experiment with my external hard drives, zip drives, backup programs, and so on. He wants to see if DOS still works or if he can see the Unix programming on my Mac. Hmmm. Problem is, he doesn't respect the time constraints we set for everybody for passive entertainment, so cyberspace becomes a giant black hole that sucks him away from his chores, school work and siblings. He gave me the usual "I know it all alreadxy" when I asked him to study for a big math test and the guy made a 70. This is a guy who shuld be making all A's (not that I care about grades: I don't like them anymore now than I did when I was a kid.) Plus, for the last three days he's forgotten to bring home the books and other materials he needs to do his homework. When I pointed this out, you'd think the kid just won the lottery. Zeroes for incompletes don't faze the guy. So, I removed his computer keyboard and told him he has to prove he can focus more dedication on school and other responsibilities to earn it back. I'm telling ya folks. The guy is just plain lazy! Some of my friends dismiss this claim, saying, "He's not lazy. He's just not inspired. He goes full steam on things that inspire him.) Excuse me, but isn't that just a euphemism for "lazy?" Hell, I'm not exactly inspired to get on my hands and knees to clean the grout with phosporic acid, but I do it. I'm not exactly inspired to put up the crap piles our min pin leaves on my carpets, but I do it. If Lukas is not inspired to do his chores and school work, he's lazy folks. L-A-Z-Y. Period. Anyhoo. This morning things cranked up a notch. I had to tell him 3 times to get out of bed and get ready for school. On the last warning, I told him if he doesn't come down in 2 minutes, I take away the thing that kept him up past his bedtime--his new PDA. He wasn't anywhere near awake by that time so I told him to give me his PDA so I can confiscated for 24 hours, and he refused. i said "You can either give it to me now and it'll just be 24 hours or you can make me take it from you and it can be longer." Grabbing his pocket (where the PDA was obviously concealed- not too well considering the huge rectangular bulge it was making) he said he didn't happen. I tackled him, pinned down his flailing arms and legs and dug that thing out of his pocket. I expect a call from the Patriot's coach any minute. So now he has no PDA until he wakes up without my having to give him more than one wakeup call--three days in a row. Weekends don't count because for some weird reason, the kid pops out of bed at 6:00 AM ready to take on the world and annoy sleeping parents. After this news, he pitched a pretty good fit. So it was time out--then a tardy for getting to school late. He says "Mommy, you're being mean!" to which I responded, "I know, Dear. That's my job." It's hard being an evil mommy but it sure works. Wish me (and Lukas) luck, folks!

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The other day, I noticed (gasp) that I had gone through my queue of books to read. I just gotta read every night before I go to bed or my brain withers to the size of a 100 year old peanut. So I got a few paperbacks at the grocery store (my first mistake...but I'm a firm believer in amalgamating errands.) I started one the other day and realized it was a tacky romance novel. I mean, who the hell reads these things? And how many times can a couple have sex in a 24 hour period without undergoing spontaneous combustion and winding up as two little piles of cinders on the floor? The guys who write these things either must not be gettin any and have to write sex into their lives, or, the more likely possibility--they know there's money in taking the public's hormones hostage. I felt like a puppet whose strings were being pulled every other sentence. Sure my lust factor went up a few notches (lucky for my husband) but I don't like being controlled like that. So, I tossed it in the trash this morning, disgusted. By the end of the evening, I'm sure my husband will have rummaged through the trash to recover it, but not without having to wipe off the coffee grounds and pasta sauce. I make my man WORK for it, honey! Do any of you guys feel the same about these Harliquin novels (should be harlot novels, but they didn't check with me before finishing up their incorporation papers. Oh well.)

Posted by elisa at 06:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The other day, I noticed (gasp) that I had gone through my queue of books to read. I just gotta read every night before I go to bed or my brain withers to the size of a 100 year old peanut. So I got a few paperbacks at the grocery store (my first mistake...but I'm a firm believer in amalgamating errands. Damn, I sound smarter than I am when I use big words like that!) I started one the other day and realized it was a tacky romance novel. I mean, who the hell reads these things? And how many times can a couple have sex in a 24 hour period without undergoing spontaneous combustion and winding up as two little piles of cinders on the floor? The guys who write these things either must not be gettin any and have to write sex into their lives, or, the more likely possibility--they know there's money in taking the public's hormones hostage. I felt like a puppet whose strings were being pulled every other sentence. Sure my lust factor went up a few notches (lucky for my husband) but I don't like being controlled like that. So, I tossed it in the trash this morning, disgusted. By the end of the evening, I'm sure my husband will have rummaged through the trash to recover it, but not without having to wipe off the coffee grounds and pasta sauce. I make my man WORK for it, honey! Do any of you guys feel the same about these Harliquin novels (should be harlot novels, but they didn't check with me before finishing up their incorporation papers. Oh well.)

Posted by elisa at 06:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, Howdy, ya'll. If enny ya'll city slickers are fixin' to come down hear to our fair state of Texaws, lemme warn ya, it's a whole new lingo here. Ya gotta say that you wanna "getta holt" of some tickets to the NFL experience. Ya gotta say, "This here's my little lady and my two kids." Ya gotta say "That Patriots cheerleader is cuter than a spotted pup under a wagon wheel" (but not in front of your wife, otherwise, she'll come back acha with "You're lower than a snakes belly in a wagon rut.") When you are about to do something, you're "fixin to do it" or better yet, "fittin to do it." Those of you who have spent the last 3 1/2 years lisning to ol' George talk on tv might have a jump start on you diehard democrats, but don't let that hold ya back. You come hear and you'll eat some of the best BBQ in the country. Messican food is to die for too. But the best thing about your visit to Texas is going to be the people here. You're going to find them very warm and friendly. There's no glitz and image, what you see is what you get, becuz we Texans are sincere and open--the genuine article. Hope ya'll have fun, now, ya here?

Posted by elisa at 06:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

No, ths isn't about falling into a perpetual coma during the first trimester, although I've been through all that--at least I think I have. I was asleep during those three months of each pregnancy, so who knows. This is actually about the hypnotic effect snuggling has on moms. Okay, so Monday's have never been easy for me anyway. My kids have no easier time than I do, but Annika, my 9 year old, slinked down the stairs from her bedroom to eat breakfast, all cocooned in a blanket, hair sticking out in eery direction, eyes closed supported only by the bags underneath them. She must have navigated by some internal GPS homing system to keep from tumbling down the stairs, I dunno. Anyway, she made it and collapsed on the sofa for another snooze. "Annika" I say, "This is not what I call getting up. This is just relocating from one bed to another." Reluctantly, she did get up and eat breakfast. She looked so adorable that I couldn't resist scooping up all 48 pounds of her, blanket and all, taking her back to the sofa and lying down beside her. She was so warm and soft. Her hair and skin smelled so sweet (thanks to having bathed the night before, but only after a great flurry of protests) and her snuffling sounds all put me to sleep too. We snoozed and snuggled for about ten minutes, then off to school we went. The minute I got home I was overcome with drowsiness, as if I had just received a huge dose of tryptophan just by lying next to her. I couldn't help it. I trudged up to her cozy bed, reveled in her smell that hung sweetly in the crumpled sheets and dozed happily for another 30 minutes. Hell, I spent for the rest of the day. How can I recover from that and kick myself into my usual tornadic energy level. Being a mom is exhausting when you put your all into it and trance inducing when you just go with the flow. Either way, I love (yawn) my sleeping moments. Goodnight all. (Ooops, it's only 9:30 and the roosters are still crowing. Um, so good mornign ya'll.) Tomorrow: teh Superbowl in Houston!!!! Yay!!!!

Posted by elisa at 07:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

One of my boys, currently 14 and homeschooled, is samrt as a whip, but the way he learns is kinda quirky. He doesn't process things sequentially. His whole file cabinet of thoughts is filed in a disordered 3-D way rather than in a straight little line that rivals a queue of obsessive compulsive Type A people waiting to get into the latest Lord of the Rings Movie. Hmm. I feel your confusion. Okay, go look under your kid's bed. That's what it looks like in Erik's brain. He knows every nanomolecule in every object under that bed, but he can't quite figure out where it is--at least not right away. So I was surfing the web in my never ending search for an answer to his struggles when I stumbled upon a couple of cognitive training programs: One is Brain Builder and the other is called PACE. I think I'm going to give it a whirl. What am I thinking? I need the training worse than he does! Who, in their right mind, requires a Palm Pilot to run their life, puts her daily to do list on an index card for backup and even enters things like "bathe kids and self," "open mail," "Write in blog"? So sad. And I've been that way since I was 18, so I can't blame senility. Saints preserve us and Holy mother of God I hate to think what'll happen when that sets in. I think God got bored one day and started experimenting with different materials in his quest ot hone his material engineering skills, and used Teflon when he made my brain. It's a miracle I remember to breathe. So, Erik, my apologies for passing along that defective genetic material. Palm Pilot buddies to the end! Let's just hope we can remember to look in it from time to time.

Posted by elisa at 07:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

One of my boys, currently 14 and homeschooled, is samrt as a whip, but the way he learns is kinda quirky. He doesn't process things sequentially. His whole file cabinet of thoughts is filed in a disordered 3-D way rather than in a straight little line that rivals a queue of obsessive compulsive Type A people waiting to get into the latest Lord of the Rings Movie. Hmm. I sense your confusion. Okay, go look under your kid's bed. That's what it looks like in Erik's brain. He knows every nanomolecule in every object under that bed, but he can't quite figure out where it is--at least not right away. So I was surfing the web in my never ending search for an answer to his struggles when I stumbled upon a couple of cognitive training programs: One is Brain Builder and the other is called PACE. I think I'm going to give it a whirl. What am I thinking? I need the training worse than he does! Who, in their right mind, requires a Palm Pilot to run their life, puts her daily to do list on an index card for backup and even enters things like "bathe kids and self," "open mail," "Write in blog"? So sad. And I've been that way since I was 18, so I can't blame senility. Saints preserve us and Holy mother of God I hate to think what'll happen when that sets in. I think God got bored one day and started experimenting with different materials in his quest ot hone his material engineering skills, and used Teflon when he made my brain. It's a miracle I remember to breathe. So, Erik, my apologies for passing along that defective genetic material. Palm Pilot buddies to the end! Let's just hope we can remember to look in it from time to time. So...anyone know anything about these two programs or any others? I'm kinda desperate here. If I don't act soon I may forget there's a problem with our brains to begin with.

Posted by elisa at 07:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, the hubbie's gone. He left this morning on a boy's ski trip. 'Course a miss him alot already, but his being out of the picture has it's advantages. First, it gives me all sorts of ammo when I plan my own trip with my girlfriends. I'd hate to scrimp so much that the poor guy feels guilty about his indulgences. Can you say B E L L A G I O? Another advantage, the kids and I can do all sorts of things that would ordinarily drive him nuts. For instance, Erik's friend, Sean, set up his new drum set in our game room. Now, Rune, my husband, is one of those freaks of nature that can hear someone fart in a sound proof room from 5 miles away...with earplugs on. And he will waste no time pointing it out to the offender. He can hear bills slipping out of his wallet, fruit ripening, and snow falling. The sad thing about all this is that he can't stand noise! Why the hell he had five kids is beyond me! Oh well. Too late. So the drum set is going to make hay while the sun shines! Also, I love going out to eat with the kids to all those unhealthy places: donuts at Shipleys, burgers at Sonic. Yum. And they all pile into my bed at night so we can watch cartoons and eat snacks. I usually whip out the ol' Dustbuster just in time to suck the 3 pounds of cracker crumbs and chips on his side of the bed. Like his hearing, his sense of touch is honed to a fine edge, so he usually finds us out. It's nice to walk around with, (gulp) no mascara on, to not make the bed in the morning (who am i kidding, I never do anyway, even when he's home,) and to belch with abandon. But of course they'll be that part of me anxiously counting the days, hours, and minutes before he comes home. (How else would I be able to get all those naked men out of the house in time?)

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I don't know about you, but we mom's are alot like benevolent Sadaams (excuse the oxymoron--actually, I say this only because I love that word.) Our instruments of torture aren't as wicked, mind you, although i'll have to say my nagging can put the bamboo livers under the fingernail trick to shame. The whole martyrdom Joan of Arc wannabe thing is also pretty bad. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah: What we do alot of is spout out orders. Most of us are pretty nice about it, but a directive is still a directive whether you say, "Erik, go get your jacket" or "DAMMIT ERIK, GET YOUR FRIGGING JACKET ON OR YOU'LL FREEZE YOUR LITTLE ASS OFF!" Mind you, if I told my best friend, "Go get your jacket" she'd come back with, "Ex cuuuuuuuuse me?" with all the necessary head bobbles that say "you gotta be friggin kidding." But we mouth off orders right and left like Captain Blye (or General Patton for you moms prone to seasickness.)I don't know what came first, the chicken or the egg. Do we start with our husbands or do we start giving them orders after we warm up on the kids? A rhetorical question, I'm afraid, because we're all so swamped by our relentless directives we can't distinguish one tsumani or orders from the other. (My sincerest apologies to those of you moms now turning various shades of green). I went to Target (which my husband lovingly refers to as the Black Hole because the gravitational pullfrom that store is so great even me and his money can't escape) and while I was going to the rest room (yep, to rest. Shopping for worthless stuff you're going to toss in the trash within the month is such grueling work) I heard a young mom talk to her daughter of about 2 or 3 years old. She said "Okay honey, take your pants down. Alittle more. No that's too much. Now get on the potty. Slide back alittle more. That's right. Now pee. Anymore. Try to squeeze out the last few drops. Okay now try to go poo. Good job. Let's wipe now. Get some toilet paper. Nope, get alittle more. Okay now wipe back to front. Good. Alittle more. Okay. A tad more. Okay now lets pull your panties up. Good. Now flush. Push harder. Okay lets wash up. Put some water on your hands. Now some soap,......" and it went on and on. the kid probably has a pound of cobwebs in her brain from lack of use. Zombie in training. My advice, after being a supremest of all order givers in the mommy world: try to rephrase directives. Example: "Erik, it's cold outside. What do you need to do to make sure you're comfortable at school today?" I can just see those cobwebs flying off in every direction."

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Unbelievable. My 4th oldest son is headed for middle school next year. Of course, his being in 5th grade, this should come as no surprise, but I have been the ol' ostrich (why the heck isn't that spelled "ostrige," I'll never know.) with its head buried in the sand. No make that concrete. Lukas is so innocent. He's barely getting over his obsession with rainbows, still loves "twirlies" (meaning he loves twirling around til I vomit from the spectators' stands) and believes fervently in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. On the latter, I'll have to say he's been testing the situation, trying to slip me up, but either I'm a hell of a good liar or he's alittle slow. But recently, he's talked about the visits of various middle schools to his grade school and that infamous "sex talk" that they all look forward to with delight and disgust. (When Erik was in 5th grade, he spoke about how gross sex ed was. About that same time, Michelle was in Driver's Ed. So, Lukas, after a stint in deep cerebral space, asked, "Who is this Ed guy, anyway?" Hmmm. See what I mean.

Sure he asserts himself really well, thanks to the mental kickboxing sessions he's had with four sibs, but he still may be a bully magnet on the basis of his innocent thought processes and his (and I use the term loosely) fashions (you know, same shorts and shirt 24/7 until they have their own personalities and the government sends them their own social security card.) Is "Lukas Hunting Season" just around the corner. Will he have the metaphorical target rings on his forehead after coming home the first day? Will he have "kick me, I'm a pussy" post-its on his back?

That's not the worst of it--yep, you heard me. The guy is totally disorganized. He focuses only on things that inspire him. He forgets to bring materials to class, neglects to turn in assignments, and, well, basically lives in La-La Land from the opening bell to the closing bell. He's too busy thinking about how things work, why things are, and so on. Again, trapped in deep cerebral space. So how the hell is he going to manage several classes, long term assignments, managing a student planner, and so on? His mental file cabinet has all the appearance of a paper factory in a windstorm as it is. And teachers won't baby the guy, nor should they. I guess I'll be there to help lick his wounds, but part of me wants to move away to Outer Mongolia for the next three years and return only when it's all over. Wish him (and me) luck, people!!!

Posted by elisa at 02:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I adore MLK and his legacy--I do. I for one, was all for replacing Columbus Day with MLK Day as a federal holiday what with Columbus turning out to be a lecherous rapist and all. And beside all that equal rights stuff and all, MLK sure has saved us a lot of trouble coming up with names for new highways. But it really bunched my thong in a twist (see earlier thong entry) to hear that Bush was booed while laying a wreath at MLK's grave.Scuse me, but Bush has hired more Blacks (yes, I did say "blacks") than Clinton--and during nonelection years. Scuse me, but the Iraq war you guys were also booing about: weren't millions of mentally, physically, and emotionally enslaved people liberated durng all that? Isn't it in part about equal rights and freedom? (and don't give me that crap about us being after their oil and all. If you believe that, you can go shove a Prius up your liberal ass.) Blacks fought their own war, led by MLK--all for thier own liberation, so why the hell would you deny that of others? Makes me want to put the "flesh" crayon back in the box. On that ever distracting note, why did they take that crayon out? Every time I color with my kids the faces in my picture look like hepatitis victims, end stage alcoholics or people in serious need of Geritol.) I vote to have these new crayons added to the pack: Caucasian, African American, Latino, Native American, Indian, Asian, and Eskimo. (On this last one, the Native American color would do, but I'm going to ALaska this summer and the last thing I want is a herd of angry eskimos after my ass.) I guess I've filled my daily quota for offending people, so I'll stop. Happy birthday, Marty.

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Nearly every day, I go through the McDonald's drive-thru after dropping the little hellions off at school. Call it a celebratory tradition, call it a lame attempt to pamper myself, for once (you moms will understand this) or call it an obsession, but I just have to have my medium Diet Coke in the morning. It just doesn't taste the same from a can. So naturally, I've befriended the drive-thru staff over the years. I know them all by name, who their boyfriends are, how their kids are doings and even what their hopes and dreams are. In turn, they call me "Mom." (God, I feel old.) On Easter I bring them a huge basket of candy. On Christmas I bring them chocolates and candy canes. And so on. Ya see, I think we spend too much time adulating the rich and famous, politicians and even scoundrels. We extol doctors and lawyers (okay, I'm sure that happens in some places in the world) and sing praises for celebrity gurus. But what about the people that affect our lives everyday? What about the crossing guard that keeps me from plowing down kindergarteners when I turn into the carpool lane at school? What about the postal carrier that keeps promising to leave the mail order catalogs and dump the bills? What about the paper delivery person, the dry cleaning staff, the grocery store sackers and cashiers? I mean, they have more of an affect on our lives than the other guys! So let these people know how important they are in your life!!! Tell them how life wouldn't be the same without them. Adopt a couple of them as your surrogate child, for god's sake--anything. Everyone needs a little love.

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Maybe it's a mom thing, I don't know. I just am not a spa woman. You can tell from a mile away, too. My fingernails have never seen a manicurist. Enron could have used them as paper shredders. And why bother when minutes later I'm going to be digging Gummi Bears out of the drink holders of my SUV? My feet... Well, what can I say. My husband rightfully claims they're the ugliest part of my body. Personally, I could think of other body parts as better contenders for that title, but, that's a blog entry unto itself. At this point, they're beyond a pedicurists touch. In fact, sandblasting might not make a dent. Fortunately, there's always socks. Yep, even with sandals. As for nail polish for either fingers or toes, it never lasts more than 5 hours on me because it's soooo satisfying to peel it off. I'm the kid in grade school that loved covering her fingernails with Elmer's glue and peeling it off after it had dried.

What about facials, you say? Forget it. I have no time or interest in listening to some shrimpy Vietnamese woman count my zits and take note of my extra hairs. As for my wrinkles, I'm holding out for later on when the grooves are deep enough to plant a potato crop. You never know in this economy...

Lately, I have tried to vamp up my sex appeal, though. Ever since I watched Calendar Girls, I renewed my faith that middle aged women like me still have a place in this world--that we can still turn heads. This meant actually wearing something other than jeans and a ratty t-shirt. It meant changing my Hanes Your Way underwear to, yep, thongs. I admit I resisted the idea for years. I mean, did I really want to pick at a permanent wedgie? The first time I wore one, every time I walked it felt like farm animals were grazing in my crack. Plus, I had a hell of a time figuring out how to put the blasted things on! Naturally I put them on backwards. A couple of times I walked out of the house with my legs through a hip whole and my hip through one of the leg holes. I walked around like a walrus with a corncob stuck up its butt. But, I'm happy to report it's getting easier for me. I just hope I don't get crack blisters when I work out on the Ellipticizer today.

Posted by elisa at 09:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sometimes we need to remember WHAT the REAL Rules of Life
really are. Are the rest are merely imposters created to make sages and philosophers feel important and seem alot smarter than they really are:

1. Never give yourself a haircut after three
alcoholic beverages of any
kind.

2. You need only two tools: WD-40 and duct tape. If it doesn't move and
it should, use the WD-40. If it moves and it
shouldn't, use the duct
tape.

3. The five most essential words for a healthy,
vital relationship are
"I apologize" and "You are right."

4. Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.This, sadly, includes husbands.

5. When you make a mistake, make amends immediately. It's easier to eat crow while it's still warm.(That's just giving me gross visuals.)

6. The only really good advice that your mother ever gave you was: "Go! You might meet somebody!"

7. If he/she says that you are too good for him/her - believe them.

8. Learn to pick your battles. Ask yourself, "Will this matter one year from now? How about one month? One week? One day?" For you guys that have short term memory problems like me, skip to #9.

9. Never pass up an opportunity to pee. This is EXTREMELY important for us moms who, after aving several kids, keep tripping over their cervixes while they walk.

10.If you woke up breathing, congratulations! You have another chance! (Even if you don't deserve it.)

11. Living well really is the best revenge. Being miserable because of a bad or former relationship just might mean that the other person was right about you. Sure miserable feels good sometimes and it gives us plenty of martyrdom material but...

12. Work is good, but it's not that important. (There's always food stamps, right?)

13. And finally; Be really nice to your friends and family. You never know when you are going to need them to empty your bedpan.(Was this list created by a urologist. Hmmm. I wonder.)

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Getting men to cough up the details is just about as easy as yanking those annoying little stickers off a new CD or opening up a package of peanuts on Southwest Airlines. If you plan on doing any of these, may I suggest first arming yourself with a crowbar and some industrial tongs. For instance, the other day, my husband spent an hour talking to his family in Norway. Eager to know the current scoop, I asked, "Well, what did they say?" His reponse: "Oh, nothing much." How in the hell can 'nothing much' translate into 60 minutes of lively banter. Were they speaking in some Norwegian version of Pig Latin which lengthened every sentence to the equivalent of the word count in the MN volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica? Was he suffering from short term memory? (Oh, that's right. That's my job.) So I pressed on, "Nothing? You mean the phone now translates sign language? Pretty cool." He replied, "Oh, well, they all said "hi." Tell ya what, they sure put their all into their greetings if it took that long. Can't imagine what would have happened had Lincoln been a Norwegian. The Gettyburg address would just now be winding down to a finish.

It's so infuriating and unrequiting. My girlfriends and I can embellish our three minute conversations into a three hour recap. So now, I try to listen in on the conversation. Rune hates this because I'm always interjecting with various questions and telling im to relay important information from me. It's hard for guys to listen to two people at the same time. ( After all, these are the same beings who must turn down the radio to find their way around in a car.) Us girls, on the other hand, can talk and listen and compose our next thought, file our nails, review the grocery list and help the kdis with their homework all silmultaneously. I think all females mustbe related to those guys in the magic shows who spin 25 different plates on those tall skinny poles. ANywho, moving on: So, he invariably hollers out some snide remark about me and cue cards. I dunno. I wasn't listening.

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

My daughter, the one who has supplied me with more than her fair share of material for my books, finally confessed that she broke our family rule and got a tattoo. She's 17, so she's still without a brain. Wanna know what I did beside blow a gasket? I told her I expect her to pay for its removal by laser. Yep--$700 smackers. The place that dared descrecate her body is paying for 200 of it (because, hey folks, it's against the damn law to tattoo a minor without parental consent, duh. Plus they did it because she slipped them extra dough, not because she had some phony ID.) I'm also having the schmuck who suggest the place and drove her there pay 200 bucks too. What friend encourages a friend to break the law? I know I could just wait and let my daughter reap the consequences of regret later on like 80% of tattoo recipients do, but I want her to learn NOW that breaking rules have consequences. Anyway, I know that when she gets older, that 2 inch dragon'll look like a cross between a big, fat, wrinkled leper and the incredible hulk on a bad hair day. Course, when your tits start sagging so much they look like homing devices for the Earth's core, changes in the tattoo might not have the impact you'd expect.

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's official. I'm hopelessly depressed. Why, you ask? (If you don't you sick in the compassion department, but I still love you.) I'm depressed because I was struck by the epiphany htat I'm a failure as a human being. Why, you again ask (this is your secnd chance.)? Because despite countless hours of tutoring by my children, I still can't burp on command. Yes, I know. It's shameful. My four year old can do it, why the hell can't I? Think of the disgrace. Think of the lost opportunities to put that extra zing into parties. Think of the humiliation to, not only me, but my entire family.So, what's an untalented mom like me to do? My kids think I'm a weird reject because of this horrid flaw, but sadly, my warranty expired decades ago. Can an anomaly like me survive the cruel streets alone and unarmed by eructations? Will I be shunned--worse yet, banished to a lepper colony? Any words of encouragement would be appreciated. I'm at the end of my rope, seeking for a reason to live. Tomorrow: the miserable saga of my whistling woes. I hope you have the stomach for it. Send good thoughts my way.

Posted by elisa at 06:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

This holiday season I thumbed through so many catalogs I have road rash on my fingers. And I am totally overwhelmed by how many assanine (as in someone needs to assassinate the ass responsible) by how many silly products they have for sale out there. What about that little credit card case that has a differetn slot for, like, five different cards, each with a button that, when pushed, slides that card out. Um, okay. How 'bout, IF YOU'RE SO LAME YOU CAN'T FIND AND FISH OUT ONE OF FIVE DIFFERENT CARDS IN A LITTLE CASE ON YOUR OWN YOU REALLY HAVE NO BUSINESS HANDLING MONEY--OR EVEN GETTING BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A CAR TO GO SHOPPING. I would be okay about it if the contraption paid my bills for me, but I know THAT ain't happening anytime soon. (I know this because I called the company. The hysterical laughter was answer enough.)

And how 'bout those little deals you put on things you tend to lose so you can click the corresponding button on some transmitter so it'll beat until you hunt it down? Excuse me, but what if you lose the damn transmitter? Do you have to buy a transmitter to find the transmitter. I say either hire a posse or throw some stuff away, because seriously, you have WAY too much crap.

Anyone fall for those little gadgets you put in your mouth to exercise your face muscles? I'm a doctor, and although I secretly wish ther was a product that could airbrush my face rather than the photo taken of it, these things just don't work! Face it, that's time better spent at the gym or spa.

Seen those little vacuum cleaners that suck up bugs? Hey, wake up. That's what husbands are for.

What about that little 3-D pitch fork gadget that scratches your scalp. Looks more like a medievel instrument of torute ( or a sex toy for the S and M crowd) than a useful product (farmers in the middle of haying season excepted.) Anyway, wake up. That's what husbands are for.

Yesterday I saw a little contraption that looks like a trash can, only when you sweep a pile of dirt to it, it sucks it up. Hey, it's called a "vacuum cleaner" people. (Or for you third world inhabitants, a "dust pan") I'd only buy one of those suckers it it'd suck up my teenagers the minute they hit thirteen. Otherwise, no deal.Again, too much crap.

I should know all this because our family is the reigning crap collection group. I have so many pizza cookers, water purifiers, dog obedience machines, and, well, I forgot what else because it's so much, the US Department of Transportation has given me a handsome offer if I'll let tehm get there hands on it. They need the materials to construct a bridge across the Atlantic.

If you ask me, that bridge might be the best idea of all. Gives us a means by which to cart all these silly products to some other unsuspecting fools with more money than sense.

Posted by elisa at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, the first day of school dragged my sad ass out of bed today. Three hours earlier than I've been getting up every morning for the last couple of weeks. As I reflect on the torment, I see my shirt is on inside out and my eyes look like they're packed for a monthlong vacation to Outer Mongolia. (Athough I think that country has been written out of the geography books since I went to school.)

My kids seemed eager to go, but I know it won't be pretty tomorrow when the excitement about seeing their friends again wil have worn off.

The only bright spot, aside from the fact that I'll be able to get some actual work done, is that I read in the paper that drinking 6 or more cups of coffee a day will reduce my risk of getting diabetes. Thanks god. I made a beeline for McDonalds and threw myself at the coffee dispenser lavishing it with kisses and singing it's praises. I think I'm going to offer one of my dogs in sacrifice. Probably the one that dragged a baby squirrel into my house. No, I think it'll be the one that traipsed in with three pounds of crap in its pawa. But then, these decisions are just too much for this weary brain. I'll solve such crises when I've had cup 7 and after the sun crosses the yardarm, thank you very much.

Hats off to all moms who have booted their kids on the school bus today. Meet ya at Starbucks, sista!

Posted by elisa at 07:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I'm not sure how I feel about the whole Michael Jackson thing. Personally, he seems like a sad little man whose been deprived of a healthy childhood. The fact that he changes his face as often as my teenage daughter changes her haircolor makes me think he's not happy with who he is. Deep inside, I feel he's trying to give boys the affection he never got. I don't think it's about sex or molestation. I truly think he feels a platonic love for children. Unfortunately, in our society, men arent' allowed to show affection to kids other than their own. If they do, they're immediately suspected of being sexual predators. Sure, there are freaks out there who get pleasure out of getting it on with prepubescent boys (gross.) But boys and girls need adults in their lives who aren't afraid to show platonic intimacy and affection (and this includes Michael). This is how children learn to love back, to not be afraid of expressing emotions that leave them vulnerable. If we had a society that allowed that, if we had a society free of pervert, and if we had adults with the courage and compassion to extend affection to children of either gender, maybe we wouldn't live in a world conducive to bringing up molestors. Maybe we wouldn't have the testosterone driven criminality, war, and so on. I also think all males convicted of committing aggressive crimes of any sort should be given prolactin injections for the rest of their lives. Prolactin, the "hormone of motherly love" might make them feel maternal affection for their fellow man. The alternative, an all female society--how fun (or possible) would that be?

Posted by elisa at 10:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Kids are taught political correctness at school, right? I mean, when one of my younger ones reported that one of the teachers was getting fatter (I mean, not fat as in "maybe putting on a few punds," more like, "400 pounds that you can't hide behind a moo-moo" fat. My son, who's a couple of years older, chastised her with: "She's not fat; she's large." Okay, what's that supposed to do, hide the fat that she's morbidly obese? Is it a way of saying, "Yes, she's heavier than most, but ya never know, who's to say that extra 275 pounds isn't all bone, muscle, and 3% body fat. Yeah, right. Face reality people. It doesn't bite. Ignoring is does. And while I do want my kids to be polite and sensitive to other's feelings, I don't want them to grow up being so PC that they can't grasp reality.

Posted by elisa at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I think you'll all agree that women are pretty good when it comes to multitasking. But when they become moms, they sharpen that skill to a fine edge. I can take my five kids out on several errands with no problem, but when my husband goes to the Black Hole that is called Home Depot, he enters a sublime state of panic at the mention of those five little words: "Take one of the kids." Men have to turn down the car radio to find their way when they're lost. (Oops, I forgot. Men don't get lost. They just take the scenic route, right?) The most multitasking tehy're capable of is handling a cold beer and the remote at the same time. In the heated moments that follow their realization that the football game started ten minutes ago, though, they're liable to push frantically on their Budweiser's imaginary buttons.

We girls, however, can juggle mnay things simultaneously. We can balance our checkbooks, pay the bills, discipline the kids, put on eyeliner and have sex all at once with out so much as batting and eye. Our brains are just wired that way.

I do have a mini crisis, here, though. I heard from a self-proclaimed expert that multitasking causes brain damage or at least dulls the wits a bit. Is that why I keep doing weird things like putting on two different shoes, wearing my blouses inside out,forgetting where I parked the car and entering a room like a woman of purpose only to wonder what the hell I was there to do or what I was going to get? Is that why I forget my kids names and rattle them all off in series like; Anni-, I mean, Erik,- I mean Lukas--I mean Kristi- I mean Mich-I mean, Oh for Cripes sake, what was you name again? I love it when the kid responds with his or her name in a most somber tone like I actually could forget one of my own.

Well, that's all for now. I just finished darning some socks and changing the kitty litter. On to making lunch and plowing the back forty. Adios.

Posted by elisa at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)