Elisa's Journal

Well, Lukas has graduated from taking apart everyone else's comuters, attaching all possible combinations of peripherals and systematically destroying all that is tech, leaving rubble in his wake to.....mastering Microsoft Excel. Actually, he's pretty good at it. Unfortunately, he seems to pick the weirdest variables for his spreadsheets and graphs like number of times his dog poops each day. You know--important stuff. I've commissioned him to graph the Amazon and Barnes and Noble rankings for all three of my books, hoping that will be a more suitable variable. Seriously, how long does it take some kids to get out of the scatalogical phase. Oh, and don't diss my spelling of that word.I just learned how to spell booger for gods sake. So cut me some slack people. If you really want to do me a favor, go by Hearing is Believing and write a stellar review for Amazon and B and N. If you do, I'll love you forever and I'll be your best friend.

Posted by elisa at 07:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, now that Hearing is Believing is fresh off the printing press, I've been working full gear--no easy task with a gimp leg and a severe case of cabin fever. Lately I've had about 4 radio interviews a day. One was super early--I think 5:30 AM or so. Plus it was my first one so I was alittle rusty. So wqhen the DJ asked me what the title of the book was, wouldn't you know I totally forgot the exact wording of the subtitle? I mean Jeez! He probably wanted to ask me to entitle my next book, Raising Authors Who Have a Brain. Hmmm. Well, I still pull the ol' "I'm a mother of 5 whose older than dirt," and will as long as it continues to sound reasonably believable. The weirdest thing about these radio "phoners": I have to put a sock over my receiver. Otherwise my spitting sounds make it seem more like a weather report than a book interview. The first time I did this it was also the crack of dawn and the guy asked me to recite Peter Piper picked a peck of, well, you know. Naturally I stumbled all over it. I was hoping the sock was meant to dampen my tongue clumsiness, but no such luck. Frankly, I really feel kinda silly talking into a sock. Fortunately, I do a sniff test first.

Posted by elisa at 05:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, I'm officially sick and tired of lounging around on the couch. In fact, I'm turning into a throw pillow as we speak. Any day now, I expect to sprout tassles from my ears and fringe from my fingertips. But everytime I move my foot it hurts like hell and swells up like the GoodYear Blimp. I miss driving!! Any out there try two-footing it with a cast? We're talking automatic transmission here. How hard could that be?

Posted by elisa at 08:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

All you wives out there, let me bend your ear. Is it just me but have you noticed we women tend to be more generous about sharing our possessions than the men in our households? Do we yield to their wishes and put ours on hold? Example: when it rains, all of a sudden yours is the only car that can go out on errands. Not only that, the guys buy themselves the sexy sports cars and leave us to buy the practical family car--the one that has to brave bad weather while the wimpy jaguar cowers in the garage. Example, our new laptop eventually metamorphoses into the family computer that suffers indescribable abuse at the hands of jelly coated fingers and showers of cracker crumbs, while the guys' precious laptops remain enshrined in bulletproof glass cases heavily guarded by armed Wells Fargo guards. I think it's because we've been trained to be protective of others' feelings more than guys have. We've been trained to nurture, soften blows, ensure contentment and become perpetual trash receptacles for chewed up gum, wadded up candy wrappers, straw wrappers and vomit. And ya know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.

Now on to serious matters. I stumbled on a cheery epiphany the other day. Breaking my foot into 3 million pieces isn't so bad after all. Sure I writhe in pain and suffer from terminal and unbearable cabin fever. Sure I have to endure heavy eye rolls from those whom I must beg to help me to the bathroom. But I am rewarded with one precious thing: 30 extra seconds in the day which would otherwise be spent shaving that leg. You heard me. One whole half a minute, folks. Think what I can do with that time:pick the lint out of my belly button. Count the stains on the ceiling. Count the gum wrappers in my hand. COunt my stretch marks and old age spots. Come up with new and exciting rating systems for pain. The downside, in a few months, I'm going to half to spend hours taking a hedge trimmer to that leg. But that's then and this is now. I'm sooo lucky, aren't I? Love you all. And I'm glad it's me and not you!

Posted by elisa at 04:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Yes, the terrorist I refer to is my 11 year old son. I've mentioned him in many of painfully written blog. I grieve over my losing him forever, the child that once actually saw the light of day, smelled flowers on the way to school, giggled with his friends and---WHOA--cut the Hallmark crap and get on with it lady. OK. I've pulled myself together now. I just needed a moment. Seriously, the kid is spending every dime he has on Atari's and other old crap that frankly, wasn't that great at the time. He thinks DOS is cool. He loves Donkey Kong. He covets the first Pac Man games. I think his reincarnation from the 80's hung up somewhere. His millenium mind is stuck in a worm hole in time, forever writhing to the torturingly long ballads, forever frying in the light from monochrome screens, forever pelted by cheesy synthesied sounds from ping (or pong, hell I don't know.) ANyway, he spends his money on one thing, figures something is broken like a joy stick (duh, it's has a million miles of finger thrusts on it, whaddya expect?) and he asks for something else. Sure he spends his money on it, but we're talking eBay people. What a damn hassle. Especially if you have a foot that's been tossed around in a McCormick Reaper, then run over by a Peterbilt tugging a double wide mobile home. Last night he begged me to buy him the Windows Millenium edition. (So I don't know how to spell millenium, Ya wanna pick on a girl when she's down? Huh? Huh? Hell, I have trouble pronouncing the damn word.) By now he's broke anyway so I'm not lifting a finger. "But Mom," he says, "You have plenty of money. How 'bout you help me alittle?" "How 'bout no?" I reply. "I'll make a deal with you," he announces, you pay half and I pay half." Of course with the new math and all, that translates out to 20 bucks to him and 40 to me. He would have done better to say, "I won't take a sledgehammer to your foot if you spot me a Franklin.") I ask, "WHere you gonna get the 20$? You have zip, little brother." "But you can take it out of my allowance," he retorts. "Sorry, no advances." Why?" he whines. "Because Mommy can't spend money she doesn't have then tell the credit card company to take it out of my postdated check, so why should you be able to?" (Believe me, I tried and Amex was none too happy.) ANyway, when I nonchanlantly continued reading the paper after telling him I wasn't going to continue going in conversational circles without a double dose of Dramamine, he went ballistic. Last I heard before Pappa tossed him over his shoulder and carted him away to bed was "BUT (thump--as in head banging) YOU'RE (thump)MULTI (thump) MILLION (thump) AIRES (thump). If he were within an earshot I'd tell him that even if we were that lucky we sure as holy crap wouldn't be stupid multimillionaires. I bet the really mega rich didn't get that way by buying more than they could afford. And certainly not by buying Atari games. Hmmm. OK. I've vented now. Thank you. You can all go back to your comfy painfree lives now.

Posted by elisa at 11:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Had surgery yesterday and all I can say is 'bring on the IV Versed again.' That stuff really makes you loopy. It was pretty complex. They had to put in a cadaver bone graft (naturally Annika, my nine year old, asked what his name was. Probably wanted to send him a nice thank you card.) Then they put in a titanium plates and screws. I thought it was kinda funny that the surgeon wrote "NO!" on the left leg and "YES!" on the right. Seriously, wouldn't that be a pisser to have the good leg operated on?

I'm probably the worst possible candidate for a pair of crutches. First off, I trip over them all the time. Rune dropped me off at the specialist's office so he could park in the parking garage. Naturally I fell, so when he looked behind me he saw nothing. He felt the panic rising until he raised himself up to see arms, ass and crutches writhing around on the pavement. Second, I have all sorts of trouble asking people to help me. Makes me feel guilty. You know--the Mommy gene and all. So I got up to get me a couple of NutterButters and, gripping them and the crutches, made my way to the sofa. By the time I got there, the cookies were pulverized and a trail of crumbs lie in my wake (with two greedy dogs after them in hot pursuit.)

I actually feel fortunate. In the ortho hospital, I say all sorts of patients with external pins--basically these giant metal cages made of metal rods, some of which go through the skin into the bone. One guy had his on for nine months and his leg still looked like it belonged to a spent Stretch Armstrong abused by kids raised in the wild. Heck, if I had to wear a dang cage like that for nine months, I'd stick a canary in it. Sorta pretty it up and keep me company. Plus, I could get a job in a coal mine if times got tough.

Posted by elisa at 07:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I can't believe it. Last night I slipped on the last couple of steps of my staircase (running downstairs to finish making a vocabulary test for my homeschooled kids during a commercial break from Sarah, Plain and Tall) And I not only twisted my ankle, I shattered the bones in my right foot! My driving foot, people! Here I am, lying down flat on my back, sweating profusely, screaming for someone to jusst shoot me and get it over with. Now that DID get a response. Whoa. Rune offered to pick me up and flop me into the back seat of the car, but the very thought of my legs swingling like the pendulum in a grandfather clock, banging into doorjams and catching on car doors made me want to vomit. SUppressing all fantasies to rip his jugulars out with my teeth, I yelled out for himn to call a friggin ambulance---like yesterday, please. Poor guy. Shades of childbirth. Actually, this pain was worse than childbirth. Worse than giving birth to a Mack Truck double wide, in fact. So the ambulance arrived, neighbors all came out to see who had died, and off we went--poor shocks and all, the the ER.

Thw local ER confirmed my suspicions. It was bad enough that they wouldn't touch it--sent me to a orthopedic doc the next day. That doc said it was too bad for hinm to deal with (and this was the doc that took care of Kerry Scruggs!) so he sent me to an orthopedic doc specializing in feet. To make a long story short, I have surgery scheduled for 6:00 AM tomorrow. Pins, plates, and all. My birthday is the following day. My thoughts--Well, I am getting expensive jewelry, it just happens to be on the inside rather than the outside. During all this, my husband was truly attentive. He even carried my purse all over the place, plast throngs of injured biker dudes, no less. Poor guy. Now that's courage.

SOme weird things happened before all this. First, Annika found a pair of Michelle's old crutches in the attic and started playing with them the day this happened. Second, that morning when I was about to wake up, I kept dreaming I was trying out to be place kicker for the Rice University women's football team--kicking over and over and over with that same foot. I shudder to rewind that dream in my mind now. Plus, I didn't make the cut and that sucked. Hell, I don't even KNOW ANYTHING about football.

The worst part is not being able to drive for several weeks--I have five kids, a list of errands that would put a Chinese menu to shame, and a book tour coming up in the next two weeks for Hearing is Believing. Sucky, eh? The very worst part: handing Rune the grocery list and hoping against hope that he comes home with more than a bushel of banana chips and a gallon of pickled igs fee. We can dream, right?

Wish me luck tomorrow, ya'll!

Posted by elisa at 03:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

OK, I don't know what I've gotten myself into. My 14 year old son has made up his mind that his mission on this planet is to teach me to play the electric guitar. Let me back up. I've always had a secret fantasty to become a whiz on the guitar--shredding the fret board with wall shattering riffs, tooth loosening power chord sequences and mind numbingly complex palm muting. Part of me wonders if I was truly a famous rock guitarist in a former life. Hopefully not one of those who drowned face down in their own puke, but beggars can't be choosers. The more believable reality is that I was one of those bums on the street playing an old guitar with three strings missing just to get a couple of bucks for a beer. But a girl can dream can't she? Anyway, moving on. I did take up the guitar 20 years ago--bought myself a candy apple red Peavey that brought me all the way to songs like Red River Valley and Row Row Row Your Boat. My fingers had callouses the size of cow patties But with doctoring, five kids coming one after the other and other activities building up on my Palm Pilot over the years, I just couldn't find the time to continue. I got to that level where teaching myself wasn't going to work. Besides, I didn't want to play stupid folk songs, man! I wanted to play Dire Strait's Telegraph Road solo. I wanted to play Lynyrd Skynrd's Freebird solo. So I quit. Now, I'm even busier, but Erik has his heart set on reforming my priorities. Not that he's super good, mind you, but he's a damn sight better than me! We had the first lesson yesterday. He's actually a patient teacher with good teaching techniques. He had me plying something from Jimi Hendrix's repertoire within 30 minutes. Of course my fingertips are still oozing blood, but he says they'll heal and toughen up with more shredding. Wish me luck, folks.

Posted by elisa at 08:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Have I lost my mind? (If you really love me you will consider that question a purely rhetorical one.) Why the heck do I make the same mistake and load my kids up with sugar every blasted Easter? About a week before, I go to Target (with all the best and innocent of intentions)to get enough supplies to fill 5 Easter baskets. "I'll go easy on the sugar this time," I tell myself as drool pools in the corners of my mouth. I linger in front of the Snickers Eggs, the Milky Way eggs, the chocolate truffles, the chocolate eggs filled with mini M and M's, the malted milk eggs, the Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs...O' Saints preserve us I feel my thighs expanding by the second. Nevertheless, I scoop several bags of each and place them in my cart. "I've got to get them stuff I can't stand," I think, "so I won't be tempted to raid their baskets for the next two weeks." What self-discipline. What prudent planning. So I head for the marshmallow aisle where sickening brightly colored Peeps are stacked two stories high. Yellow ducks. Pink bunnies. Blue bunnies (someone was on drugs when they came up with that one.) Purple ducks. All disgusting enough to satisfy me and my kids. Peeps, breakfast of champions. I load up because these also take up alot of basket real estate. Oh-oh. Those cute little chocolate covered bunnies are staring at me with those evil eyes sending subliminal "eat me, eat me, eat me or die" messages. I want to live, so I gather up ten boxes and toss them in my cart. Better head for the toy aisle. Big toys. Basket fillers. Candy replacers. Sadly, the Easter toys really sucked this year. Those "magic" drawing pads with the plastic covers that rip day one. Parachuting bunnies that tangle in the least little clear air turbulence. Chalk eggs so they can scribble all over the furniture. Hmmm. Let's check out the giant bunnies made of chocolate. I can't exactly sneak that from their baskets and it DOES take up lots of precious space. Yep, the solid ones. In the go. What about a stuffed animal? Those are really huge! But the ones i like are too big to fit into the basket, so they'll have to be doled out alongside instead. My purpose defeated. How sad. Still need some filller. But I'm exhausted and--thank you very much--starving to death, so I load up with Butterfingers, Laffy Taffy, Kisses and, well, hell, I lost count. Half crazed from chocolate fumes. I leave with 349 bucks worth of stuff that'll take 1256 hours at the gym to get rid of. The sad thing is that my kids will be so excited to find there baskets, only to pick through a couple of pieces after which the things sit for months. Moldy jelly beans and lint covered malted eggs. That would be sooo tragic. I have to save the poor little innocent candies the only way I know how. Can you say elephant thighs?

Posted by elisa at 09:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Seriously folks, do you all have problems with everything breaking at once? This week, my washing machine broke--I mean that's the kiss of death for our 5 kid family! Okay, it does work on everything but the delicate cycle, but now my thongs are rolled up in a ball and for all the world looks like a shredded cat toy. Yesterday I resorted to taking my undies outside to pound them on the curb with a rock. Worked pretty good. And hey, I watch National Georgraphic. I know how those Ugandans wash. I'll have to say I kept my top on. No since pinching a nipple, cuz that's what mammograms are for.

Anyway. moving on. My dishwasher is also fried. We've had it for two years and it always had problems from day one. We spent 9 months out of those 24 eating out of paperplates, drinking from Dixie cups, and cutting steaks with plastic utensils. Oh, now THAT'S an unfrustrating experience (I KNOW I made that word up, so don't go on with your "Ooooo she's an author and she doesn't even know her words" however true that is.) So we're putting in a Bosch today. My husband is so excited because they're so quiet. Ya see, in Norway, where he's from, they run everything on 220 (240?--okay, I never said i was a genius) and so things are so much quieter there. You can hardly hear the vacuum cleaners unless they suck up a cat. I chuckle to myself because, I mean, QUIET?? Who the hell can here how quiet a damn dishwasher is in OUR house. Seriously. I can hardly hear myself think most of the time. So I've decided to stop altogether. Frankly, I'd like to hear the dishwasher running. It means it's working. It means NO paper plates, broken forks, or Dixie cups stained with red wine.

Last but not least, one of the phones went kaput. I think a teenager overloaded its circuits. As I see it, one less channel through which a telemarketer will repeat, "but wait..." or "30 day refund if your not entirely satisfied." They know me too well on this last one. I would completely forget I ordered whatever it was, much less to call in for the refund.

Does that mean my brain is broken, too? I think it is. but I blame it on either solar flares or mercury in retrograde. It could happen, right?

Posted by elisa at 08:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I went to Colorado Springs on a Brainskills seminar Friday through Sunday and the hardest thing about coming back--the aftermath of my absence. Undone chores and errands (despite a detailed list), and empty tank of gas, kids who survive on cereal alone, and a milkless household (gasp). My husbands idea of taking care of the kids and house while I'm gone is getting away as far as possible, drinking beer with his across the street neighbor friend and lamenting on the burden he must bear. If I hadn't have called, he wouldn't have taken my 17 year old to her Testmaster's appointment. What is it with guys that they get so easily overwhelmed? Why do they see the things we do, like feeding the kids healthy foods instead of letting them forage for themselves like a herd of antelpe, as trivial? Are our honey do lists as unpalatable as an owner's manual? Frankly, next time, I'm hiring a live in to take care of all six kids--the ones under 18 and my husband.

Posted by elisa at 07:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)