Elisa's Journal

Okay, it's bad enough that my former aspirations of being zit free by the time I'm fifty have been tragically shattered. Now, at 49, I struggle with all the pitfalls of "fixing my (aging) face" in the morning. Long gone are the days when I made myself up in hopes of garnering a few catcalls, even if only from construction workers perched high on the beams of a skyscraper whose opinion might change if closer than 300 yards away. Now, I make up my face as a humane gesture. I mean, there are others out there--others, perhaps, with delicate sensibilities. Anyway, back to the pitfalls. Am I the only one out there who applies anti-acne creams in some areas and spackling compound in others? Am I the only one who must wrestle with all that excessive and drooping eyelid skin to apply mascara only to have a row of black hash marks stamped across that skin the moment gravity reclaims it? Am I the only one who must use a spatula to fill my lip cracks with lipstick and go outside the lines just a tad so my lips aren't as thin as those of a toothless white trash woman in the midst of a PMS frenzy in her double wide trailer's living room? Am I the only one who tries, in vain, to pull my cheeks upwards recalling those years I didn't have sagging jowls that made me look like a marionette and toying with the idea of a face lift because, after all, a college education IS highly over-rated. Not all the kids have to get one, right? Am I the only one who must squint her eyes to make my face blur a bit so I don't see the glaring fallout of the passing decades when I lean close to the mirror to put on my mascara? I bet not. And for you under 40 girls shaking your heads with delight, just you wait. You bitches will be in the same checkout line with me at Walgreens with a cart full of anti-wrinkle creams, Clearasil, and Bondo. Ha!

Posted by elisa at 08:03 AM | Permalink

Next to Desperate Housewives, Super Nanny (otherwise known as Desperate Parents) has become my fave show. The kids behave so atrociously that Frost, the nanny, is left shaking her head, widening her eyes, and gasping in disgust and horror during the observation period. Then, she whips those kids and their parents into shape. I mean INTO SHAPE!! The last two shows have mainly been about helping the parents regain control--teaching them how to be the boss, so to speak. Personally, I think the world of parents has become hopelessly infected with the mamby-pamby gene. But Jo Frost has just the gene therapy they need. I love seeing those kids and the family transform before my eyes. Incredible stuff. Of course I pitched this show to my publicists for the last three years, but they didn't bite, dammit. I guess it takes a british accent. Jolly good, what? Oh buggers.

Posted by elisa at 08:39 AM | Permalink

Okay, folks, it's official. I've had my two boys on Omega 3 fatty acids for almost three months now and over that time (with my heart in my throat and a finger hovering over the 911 buttons on the phone) I have been slowly decreasing their ADHD medicines. Yesterday was the first day off meds completely and, I'm happy to say, no one was swinging from the chandeliers (that includes me), double parking in La-La Land, or wearing grooves in the kitchen tiles with incessant pacing. I give them something called OmegaRx. Two tsps per day gives them 1800 mg of DHA and 3600 mg of EPA, the two essential fatty acids that most of us, especially those with neurological syndromes like ADHD, LD, autism, etc, have here in the US and other industrialized nations with over-processed diets. Keep your fingers crossed for me, folks. Our next option: straight jackets and martinis.

Posted by elisa at 07:55 AM | Permalink

If you don't already have kids, beware of one disadvantage parents don't often share--once they can talk or even draw, no family secret is safe. And to all those skeletons hiding in the closet, better run for cover cuz your days are numbered.

SOme of you may come to this realization at your first teacher parent conference when the teacher shows you the family picture your 3 year old drew where you're holding a martini glass and your husband is wearing a shirt with a marijuana leaf emblem clearly emblazoned across the front. Or she may voice her concern that your child expresses daily worry about the funny voices coming from behind your bedroom door at night (for some, that's a concern you may only have to worry about on your birthday and anniversary, but then that's yet another pitfall for having kids. We'll open that can of worms later on.) Some of you may have to field calls from the school or (gulp) CPS when your kid announces every spanking and verbal lashing or brings your packet of birth control pills and your copy of The Naked Ape to show and tell. Some of you may come to realize complete strangers know about your impending divorce before you've had a chance to ring the lawyer. Your friends and acquaintenances will confront you with "So, I'm an obnoxious pig, am I?" or "Katie tells me you think I should have gotten a volume discount from the plastic surgeon." or "Do you really think my butt looks like 2 hogs fighting in a gunny sack?" Everyone will know everything from your balance sheet to how often you get your roots done. Although there have probably been others much worse that my id or ego or superego or whatever the hell has shoved to the abysmal depths of my subconscious, one of my most embarrassing moments was when my the 5 year old approaches me as I sit in the living room chatting with the in-laws and presents my diaphram to me in her grubby outstretched hand. "What's this, Mommy," she asked. I did the only thing any decent and upstanding mom would do. I said, "It's a soup bowl for midgets, Sweetie." She bought it, but I don't think the in-laws did. Of course I made sure to clear the pantry of all soup cans lest I see her giving the funky soup bowl her own test drive. All I can say is thank the lord I remembered to clean it the night before.

Posted by elisa at 09:16 AM | Permalink

It never fails. As soon as I leave the house to go on my ritualistic Wednesday night date with my husband, little fingers pry open my makeup drawer and rearrange its contents until it looks like the aftermath of a typhoon. When I come home, there’s the usual barrage of denials, but one glance at my youngest daughter’s eyebrows, and I knew just where to cast the blame. Uh huh. A huge swash the size of Connecticut was missing from her eyebrow. It looked like she was trying to plow the back forty with a McCormick Reaper only she mistook her brow for a cornfield. The tiny red hairs on my eyebrow trimmer did little to let her off the hook, however. She was pretty persistent with her denials. She claimed she accidentally cut her eyebrow when she was cutting chives with a chef knife for me the night before. Wow, I guess that knife really got away from her! Or she tends to express her zeal for cooking with dramatic arm gestures. Hmmm. I had my doubts. Anyway, the truth finally spilled forth when I told her I was not going to give her a ride to school until she set the story straight. Barely in the “nick” of time, too!

Posted by elisa at 09:12 AM | Permalink

My husband and I have such different tastes in TV programs, it's no surprise we end up watching very little TV. But seriously, how can I possibily sit still in front of the racing channel watching those noisy little cars go around in circles for hours? How can I bear watching another custom chopper being assembled? How can I sit through another rerun of Midway or D-Day on the History Channel? (Personally, I don't do black and white. It's synonymous for BOORRRRINNNNGGGG.) I Love Lucy is a worthy and notable exception.

Me, I like the light stuff like King of Queens, Seinfeld, Desperate Housewives, Forensic Files, Extreme Plastic Surgery, and Trauma: Life and Death in the ER. I don't understand why Rune doesn't. I mean, just as we get to the good parts like finding a badly decomposed body in a steamer trunk or peeling someone's face off to reconstruct facial bones he actually gets up from the couch and leaves the room (making little gagging sounds caused by something I've yet to comprehend.) By the way,how come they always find "badly decomposed" bodies? Are there any "good" ones? Can't they just say they're ripe?

The good news is that our conflicting tastes translates to less time in front of the boob tube and more time actually talking (yep, you heard me right, folks) with one another. What a concept.

Posted by elisa at 08:43 AM | Permalink

Is it just me or does everyone else have questions about just how much to talk to hairstylists? I love Zenko, my stylist from Manchester, UK. Maybe it's his crazy accent. Maybe it's his quirky personality. Maybe it's his talent for taming the wild beast that is my hair.

Last week, I was struck by the same epiphany I have every 6-8 weeks! TIME FOR A HAIRCUT. My hair reaches this critical mass that sends waves of panic through my body as I live in fear that a talent scout will try to recruit me as a Donald King impersonator or that a murder of crows will ordain my do as a bonifide nesting ground (yes, it's "murder" not "flock." Weird, eh?)

Anyway, as I sit in his chair, I did what I always do with any stylist--I fret over just how much to gab. Do those silent pauses imply disdain, leveling a deep blow to his self-esteem or are they respites of peace and tranquility that spare him the annoyance of yet another superficial conversation requiring him to come up with a suck-uppy reply? Does he need that quiet to keep his mind focused lest I lose an ear or two? Will he think I'm a snob if I stay quiet? Will he think I'm a bore if I yak?

One day, I'll get up the courage to ask him but til then, I usually strive for meaningful topics: asking him about his health like has he had his prostate checked recently (he really appreciates questions like this one) or discussing childrearing philosophies (which in his case, as he is childless, involves doggy discipling and nephew neck-wringing.)

In the end, all everyone wants is love and acceptance. So as I, in my spastic quasi-dyslexic way, try to wield the hand mirror to give the back of my head a final inspection (as per his insistence), I can tell by his facial expression that the beam of joy (and yes, relief) in my eyes is all the conversation he needs.

Posted by elisa at 08:33 AM | Permalink

The Chalet

View from Front Door

Lukas Silliness

Blowing Snow

More Blowing Snow

Christmas Dinner

Rabbit Tracks

Shopping Journey

Skiing Family

Skiing Wilderness

Sledding

Snow Anyone?

Waiting for Santa

Still Waiting

Winter Wonderland

Skiing Family

Posted by elisa at 11:52 AM | Permalink

Boy, we had such a great time in Norway. We actually got to see our new mountain cabin in a way other than digital pictures and it's so awesome and cozy. We visited relatives, went cross-country skiing, endured frightful blizzards, ate plenty of delicious Norwegian food and had just about the most Christmasy Christmas you can imagine. Feast your eyes on these pictures to get my (snow) drift!

Posted by elisa at 11:37 AM | Permalink