Elisa's Journal

I swear I am so sick and tired of fighting to get my kids out of bed. I know why they have such trouble, of course. They see me as their human snooze button who'll always yell upstairs in another five minutes with an ever-increasing note of panic and frustration in my voice. What the hell, I'm not the one that's giong to get a tardy. So I told them all: "You guys are on your own. Since I'm not about to invest in a block and tackle to hoist you out of bed every morning, and since my voice is on its last legs, and since I'm not going to get in trouble with the principal, I hereby resign from my position as the family's snooze button. You must wake yourself up or face the ugly consequences." Naturally, it's Friday so this will all probably dissipate from their gnat-embryo sized memories, but odds are, the tardies will mount. As for my two home-schooled kids, if they finally stumble out of their beds by ten, they'll be no breaks between courses and a very late night of drudgery. How sad. As for me, I'm sleeping in 15 minutes later!

Posted by elisa at 11:39 AM | Permalink

Some people are borne to make decisions. And they do it like a kitten batting a ball of yarn around the house--deftly, intensely, and confidently. Me, I've had a lifetime of decisions, so much so that my now overwhelmed life is a path strewn with future decisions, big and small, that loom like land mines ready to explode.

This all occurred to me as an epiphany in the checkout lane at Whole Foods. You know. The sacker did the whole "paper or plastic?" routine. Once given the choice, my thoughts groped frantically for facts that would help me decide without coming off as an anti-environment, rainforest slashing, national park littering, PCB and mercury emitting terrorist. "OMG, didn't I hear that incinerating paper causes more pollution than plopping plastic bags into a landfill? And without those landfills, how could we possibly find all those dead bodies that help solve those ever-increasing missing persons cases? Or wait, was it the opposite? Does plastic slowly leak benzene into the ozone layer dooming us all to die of terminal tans? If that's the case, why the hell are suntan lotion bottles plastic?" After 30 second of frenetic ciphering behind the glazed over, wide-eyed stare of mine, the sacker hands me a valium and says, "Here, I was going to get wiped with my friends later, but it looks like you need this more than me." I pay, gather my purchases and carry them in a sling fashioned from my shirt, and scurry out as fast as humanly possible. All I can say is I'm sure as hell glad I didn't make the fateful decision to wear a halter top.

Of course the whole paper or plastic question isn't the only decisional dilemma. Other metaphorical forks in the road spring up throughout the day. Take eating breakfast at IHOP, for instance. Holy crap, order for a family of seven is no less daunting than constructing a prime factorization tree for a 13 digit number. How would you like your eggs? Sausage or bacon? Crisp or floppy? Hash browns or grits? Biscuit, toast or english muffin? White, wheat, or rye? Decaf or regular? Cream or black? Strawberry or grape jelly? Arrgghhh! Then my husband usually tortured the unsuspecting waitress with his 20 question routine: "Can you add tomatoes and onions to my eggs? How about some salmon? Is the salmon fresh? Is it Scottish or Norwegian? Farm raised or wild?, etc. etc. After she politely answers all of his annoying questions, he naturally ends off with, "Okay. Sounds good. I'll have pancakes." Arrgghh!!!!

Seriously, I use to make decisions--hundreds of them--every day, ever since my days as an intern. I've scribbled so many orders on patients' hospital charts that my handwriting has permanently deteriorated to a style that can only be described as a cross between an toddler's scribbling and Babylonian heiroglyphics. Damn why don't they have spell check on this thing? (I guess that's a decision someone's been avoiding.) That said, why do decisions come harder to me now? As soon as I've decided on the answer, I'll let you know.

Posted by elisa at 08:12 AM | Permalink

Okay, you wives out there, I want the honest truth. Your husband goes out and buys a big purchase: a $750 dollar leather jacket, a $5000 deep sea fishing pole and reel, a 2005 Corvette, or, in my case, a Ducati 999 motorcycle. What do you do, smile sweetly and chime in "Oh well, don't worry honey. I don't need anything for my anniversary or birthday?" Do you clip coupons as you gaze proudly at your husband as he applies the first coat of wax to his new baby? Do you dutifully cut your credit cards into a million tiny pieces and scatter them ceremoniously throughout the Target parking lot to the tune of a solemn funeral dirge? If your answer to any of these questions is yes, then more power to ya, girl. You're a bigger person than I am. Me, I immediately engage in a flurry of mental activities, furiously sorting through my purchasing options. Do I need any new clothes? Yes, but I'm a slob at heart and not ready for an identity crisis. Do I need a new car? Why? After all, I'm just now getting accustomed to the 5 year old gummy bears that have melted permanently into the drink holders. I've even named them. Do I get a new computer? Maybe. Annika just dropped my laptop (and actually came to confess, can you believe that? Hell, at that age I would have put it back on the desk and scurried away, whistling a tune of nonchalance.) But then there's the horrible headache that goes along with setting up a new computer. A veritable hell built solely of ones, zeroes, and frayed nerves. Instead of all these options, I decided to buy my kids little pocket bikes to use in the cul de sac. Sadly, my neighbors are buying stock in earplug companies and calling for bids from moving van companies, but at least their outside, thumbing their noses (metaphorically speaking, of course) at Pappa as he revs his little Italian mistress in the garage. He's freaked out that they may fall and hurt themselves, but I think it would take a Chinese acrobat to do much harm from a distance of 2 inches off the ground. Anyway, the coup de grace was when Rune's Ducati got a flat tire after his first ride. Poor guy, he's in mourning. Waaah Waaah. I'm soooo sad for him. Now, off to Microcenter to look at laptops! Bye now!.

Posted by elisa at 11:33 AM | Permalink

I'm so sick of this drizzly, rainy, humid weather. I'm starting to sprout mildew from my wrinkles. This, of course, is a tragic disadvantage because it only draws more focus on them. Plus my hair won't cooperate on days like these. It's like each strand is kicking and screaming as it slowly drowns in the 150% humidity. I look like a member of the Mod Squad, sans afro comb and weak on pigment. And the dark dreariness that has become my new reality makes me so damn tired. I roll out of bed feeling more exhausted than when I collapsed into it. Whenever anyone asks me how I am (a question usually prefaced with looks of pity normally reserved for death row inmates) I answer, "I'm okay. Just recooperating." "Recooperating from what?" they ask, probably because it's only 8:43 AM. "From sleeping" is my reply, demonstrating my true nature as a slug burdened by extreme levels of lethargy and laziness. I look out of the window through the thick condensation and into the dismal grayness and ask myself, "I have HOW many hours before me of lugging around this lazy sack of cellulite ladened with 3 pounds of mildew?" If you hear me say this out loud, for the love of God, please don't answer. It may send me into a tailspin, spurring me to plunge myself into the smothering fog to drown. You don't want that on your conscience now, do you?

Posted by elisa at 10:52 AM | Permalink

I bought Erik a new pair of jeans since his one pair is worn in places that are indisputable clues to his rearranging his boxers every five seconds. I bought them completely unaware that he had a drawerful of jeans Rune had bought him at Target--all of which still had the tags and stickers attached. My hope was that my magnanimous purchase would give my eyes a break too, cuz I can't stop staring at the worn places, which I'm sure must give him the creeps. But nope, my eyes would be denied that resite because he decided to proclaim himself an expert tailor by holing himself up in my bathroom, armed with nothing more than a sewing kit, to change those new jeans to his liking. He turned his new jeans inside out and put safety pins along the sides of each let to make them very narrow. Then he sewed them up (for at lease two hours) going up and down the seams many times. Afterwards, he paraded in front of us, modeling his achievement with all the pride of a peacock in a harem of 50 peahens. It was all I could do to smile, bite my lip, and say something noncommittal like, “Wow, you put a lot of effort into those.” Rune, however, had no problem pointing out the fact that his legs were now two little toothpicks stuck into tennis shoes rather than olives. He also (helpfully) pointed out the giant bulge along the inseam of his right leg that would leave anyone wondering if he had some freaky disease plaguing him with random subcutaneous fat deposits the size of Rhode Island. After all these pointers, which Erik didn’t seem to find the least bit helpful, he was commanded by the Ayatollah Rune to undo the damage immediately by ripping out the two miles of thread and unfastening the 157 safety pins. At the very least he should be made aware of the fact that metal detectors the world over would scream in alarm as soon as he got within a one-mile radius of them. Well, so much for Erik St Laurent.

Posted by elisa at 09:01 AM | Permalink

Rune and I saw Sideways the other night on our usual "Date Night." It was okay. But I was not happy with how they portrayed his being a middle school English teacher as a testament to his being a failure in life. Okay, so he didn't get his stupid novel published. Waaah Waaah. Cry me a river. So being relegated to a life as a teacher means you're a loser? EX CUUUUUZZZZ ME! I think being a teacher is one of the most powerful and important jobs in the world. (Oh yeah, I forgot. It's not a job. It's an adventure.) Seriously, you have these little moldable minds...empty vessels for you to fill (or better yet, to teach them how to fill on their own.) Teachers, not novelists, not doctors, not lawyers, and not even scientists, have more influence on the world's future than any other. That said, Sideways gets a F-. Back to first grade, turkeys.

Posted by elisa at 09:02 AM | Permalink

I was in the line at McDonald's today getting my usual large coffee, being the creature of habit that I am, when a cop pulled up in line behind me. And no, I wasn't afraid he's start flashing his lights and running my plates for outstanding warrants (although I DID get a ticket for forgetting about the school zone 5 minutes after it started because at that point I had NOT ordered my large coffee...) Where was I? Oh yeah. Anyway, when I got to the window to pay, I asked the cashier, Maribel (scary that I'm on a first name basis with all the employees there) to let me pay for the cop's order too. She looked at me kinda funny and complied. $3.56. Thank god he wasn't ordering for the entire station. But hey, I throw caution to the wind. A real risk taker. Anyway, where was I again? Oh yeah. So I pulled up to the second window, watching warily as he received the news from Maribel. Usually, I like to make it totally anonymous, meaning I have to hurry like Hell, squealing tires notwithstanding. I mean, it loses it's punch if the recipient of my generosity knows it's me. I don't want him to think I'm trying to buy him off, butter him up, etc. But damned if the woman at the second window didn't engage in a lengthy McDonald's rendition of twenty questions! "Would you like cream or sugar?" "Cream please." "Do you want 2 or three?" "Just one, thank you." "Like a stirrer with that?" "No, I'll use my friggin fingers if I have to but get me the hell out of here!" The cop is pulling up to me. Jesus. I duck in my seat, hoping against hope that he'll think my car is one of those new experimental unmanned vehicles under the complete control of a remote NASA station in Cape Canaveral. "Napkins, miss?" "Yes, give me a whole stack so I can have my choice of either stuffing them in your mouth to shut you up or fashioning a Berka to disguise myself." Long story not so long, I got out of there in the nick of time, pulling away just as I heard the honking pleas from his patrol car. First time I've had to flee from the law. Awesome. All that excitement for only $3.56.

Posted by elisa at 08:46 AM | Permalink

I think most of us moms lose part of our identity the moment the OB puts that first stitch into our grade 4 episiotomies. You know what I mean, people. We no longer are the individuals that have their own tastes, hobbies, and ideas (other than those revolving around controversial issues like "paper or plastic," "breast or bottle," and "cloth or disposable.") For instance, in the BK (before kids) period of my life, I actually loved to stay out all night dancing and partying with my friends. Now, I have a reputation of a staunchly diurnal animal who must prop her eyelids open with toothpicks by dusk. I used to take rock guitar lessons with my screaming red Fender. Now, that Fender (minus the two inch dust collection) belongs to my 15 year old son, Erik. On the plus side, at least he's gotten past songs like Row, Row, Row Your Boat and Red River Valley.) I use to run every day around the Rice U campus--five miles total. Now, the only running I do is chasing after my kids when they're carrying sharp objects or love-abused pets or racing to the bathroom lest my 5 kid drooping bladder misbehave. No, mothers lose their identities and become a conglomerate of other things. We're the bullhorn for moving comatose troops into action. We're the angels perched on our kids' shoulders, whispering in their ears that, no, they shouldn't set the backyard on fire. We're the Franklin Day Planners that ensure our kids (and husbands) do more than pick their noses all day. We're the shuttle busses that cart everyone from pillar to post and, sadly, that bus is seldom a Porsche 911 or Corvette. We're the hankies that dry tears. We're the trash receptacles for depositing old gum, fuzzy lifesavers, and booger-infested tissues. We're the emesis basins that accept all projectile vomiting without warning or hesitation. We're the burr in everyone's saddle that has honed skills of nagging to a sharp edge, bringing new meaning to the concept of annoyance. We're the waiters, chefs, maids, doormats, lackeys, security officers, teachers, fashion consultants, doctors, nurses, and whipping boys. Most importantly, we're a pair of open arms they need when things get rough. Well, I guess that's not too bad. And maybe it's better that the unsuspecting public not experience my questionable rocker talents.

Posted by elisa at 09:03 AM | Permalink