Elisa's Journal

Hmmmm. I'm kinda nervous today because I saw a furry speedbump lying in the middle of Echo Lane onto which my street opens. Yesterday, the little squirrel babies that Annika and I rescued, raised and released were visiting us. They were so tame that they would even crawl into our laps for food. This morning, one of them comes into the house for a walnut treat. And I stress the word "one." I'm so worried that its sibling is destined to be scraped off the road shortly (who the heck gets that helluva job, anyway?) I could see its very white belly, something my little sweetie had. I got as close as I could without puking and noticed its eyes (thankfully still in their sockets) were pretty familiar. Lastly, I noticed one of the squirrels had begun to venture from the backyard into the front, so it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for it to wander onto Echo. Jesus, as if it didn't get enough squirrel food from us, the greedy little fart. Oh sadness. I hope my suspicions aren't true. No mother wants to outive her children. Pray for my baby, folks.

Posted by elisa at 11:34 AM | Permalink

You're in for a big surprise. Today, I'd like to take a small departure from my usually self-deprecating entries to brag. Yes, I know, it's weird because everyone knows moms don't brag, right? Call me unique (or weird if you're in a bitchy mood.) Yesterday, my daughter Kristina became one of the finalist in a photoblog award! She wields her digital camera with a Da-Vinci-esque (a word I created to sound smarter than I am) flair and she has an eye for aesthetics that's uncanny beyond belief. I urge you all to cast your vote (5 days left) at http://www.photobloggies.org. Look for her site http://www.eightyfour.net under finalist for abstract photography. You'll get an email sent to your address as soon as you vote. Be sure to click on the link they send to validate your vote! If you have a lazy streak, keep in mind that if she wins, she'll go on to become a famous photojournalist capable of putting her mom up in the finest nursing home this side of the trailer park. Just kidding. It pays zip but if you don't vote, don't come crying to me if a black and white of your ass appears on her site within the week.

Posted by elisa at 08:54 AM | Permalink

Some people are just slow learners. They really are. I KNOW I'm a klutz who barely (and I mean barely) can manage her Shadow Aero 750. I know I'm a natural only when it comes to contact sports like shopping and high performance sports like coming up with dinner plans for the family at the last minute. But I'm not a natural when it comes to anything with wheels. Hell, the cogwheels in my brain barely turn for all the cobwebs in the way. But what do I do? I buckle under the pressure from my husband to buy a second bike--a Ducati Monster 620. "It's a beginner bike. Lot's of women buy these," he insists. "We'll be twinkies," he says. (Okay, I'm kidding about that one. He's NEVER be caught dead saying something like that but revenge is sweet.) Mind you we're at a big special event at the dealer's--free hotdogs, Red Bulls (yuck), demo rides, and an appearance by world champion Ducati racer, Neil Hodgeson. Never heard of the guy, but seeing what a hottie he was conjured up fantasies of having every square inch of my naked body (uh, I mean naked bike) autographed personally. "Maybe I should try it out first," I reply. "Nope, it's too busy around here. Too dangerous," my hubbie says. That should have been my first indicaton. Anyway, I assented, bargained, and signed the necessary paperwork so that Neil could autograph my new bike before he left. He signed my tail (yeah, the bike's dammit) "Lot's of Love XX" and then alot of Sanskrit that may have been his name. Rune drove my new baby home and I couldn't wait to drive it around the block. I was alittle nervous as I got my gear on, but proceeded with abandon. I straddled my bike and turned the igntion on, then, perturbed by a million critical eyes burning a hole through my helmet, I shouted, "Everyone stop staring at me!!!" Then off I went to the intersection of our street and Echo Lane. As soon as the traffic would allow, I pulled out, stalled, and laid the thing down within the first 2 minutes of getting on the damn thing. You know those slo-mo situations when you scream inside your head "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo." That was me. Fortunately, that gave me alittle time to manuever part of my body underneath the bike to cushion the blow. THe part I chose, my right foot. The one that has all the pins and plates in it from tripping down the last two steps in my house. I heard the snap and knew it was broken. Towards me come the throng of onlookers, half laughing half worried. I brushed myself off, and, despite pleading from the crowd, insisted on driving it around anyway. I did okay, even though it felt like my foot had just been dragged through a threshing machine. The next day, Annika and I went to the Suburban Physician Center so I could get my foot xrayed. I wasn't sure if it was the surgical site or just my toe that got broken. As soon as we drove into the parking lot, Annika asks, "Where's the drive-thru?" "Drive-thru? What do you mean?" I asked, befuddled even beyond baseline. "You know, where you drive up your Suburban and the doctor comes out to check you." Hmmmm. Next, let's talk about the effectiveness of the Public School system. Here's some pics.

Posted by elisa at 10:40 AM | Permalink

If anyone out there questions the existence of the Black Hole, Steve Hawking and I have a news flash for you. Of course Stevie and I disagree as to the exact definition of the Black Hole since his theories (definitely disadvantaged by not being a mom) are so much more antiquated than my own. The Black Hole (drum roll please) is actually in the form of a scantily clad teenager whose number of piercings is only matched by the daily tally of eye rolls, mumbles, and "whatever's." Yep,if any type of money--plastic, paper or coin--of any demonination, gets within 50 yards of the teenager's gravitational field it hurtles helplessly toward his or her open hand, unable to escape the enormous pull. Seriously, a parent can get nickel and dimed to death with just one teen in the family. Imagine the financial strain of having 3 and a half of them in your galaxy. They need movie tickets. They have to have the cute little black shirt they saw at Rampage because tomorrow is "Black Shirt Day" at school and they'll get a zero on their daily grade if they come to school in dark gray. (Black shoe polish is not an option. I know this because I tried with little success and even less enthusiasm from the teen in question.) They need the cute little pair of red Jimmy Choo's from Neiman's because the next day is "Cute Little Red Jimmy Choo Shoe Day" at school and their grade point average is in jeopardy. They need their Star Bucks Double Shots, their monthly allotment of gum from Walgreens, more eyeliner and lipstick (their makeup expenditures alone rival the entire budget of some third countries), lunch money cuz they'll starve to death and they forgot to make their lunch at home and anyway it's embarrassing to carry a paper sack around at school with a picture of Taz or Bugs Bunny on it. If you think you're a step ahead of them by denying them their own set of wheels, dream on. Those car and insurance payments are a bargain compared to the constant stream of bills flowing out of your wallet to help defray the gas costs for the friends that cart them from pillar to post. You could circle the globe seven times in one week with what I distribute to various teenage strangers. That said, I advise anyone with a child anywhere close to being a teenager to hire a top notch financial advisor, start a savings program by hoarding all coins trapped beneath sofa cushions, and practicing the following phrases in front of the mirror three times a day:

NO

GO AWAY

WHAT? IT'S NOT CHRISTMAS IS IT?

IT'S CALLED A JOB. DUH.

Good luck, folks,

Me

Posted by elisa at 09:29 AM | Permalink

More than any kid in the universe, Lukas hates taking a bath. I guess it cuts into the precious time he needs to take apart and methodically destroy everything in our house that possesses a microchip. Lately, he's been faking his baths by just hanging out in the bathroom doing nothing for 30 minutes. If he were already a teen stud, I'd have an inkling of what he'd be doing instead of bathing, but he's an extremely prepubescent 12 year old, so he's probably just picking the lint out of his belly button--new standards for cleanliness, I guess. The other day, it was more like an hour. In fact, I had forgotten all about his bath until I heard sounds that conjured up sounds of a waterfall deep in the lush tropical rainforest of the Dominican Republic. After that lull, I snapped myself into whatever questionable level of awareness I ordinarily inhabit and realize, 'we're in Houston, Texas, man! Ain't no dad blasted waterfall here, I don't care how humid it gets here.' Rune, of course, is the first to respond to my eldest daughter's comments ('Um, what's that weird sound?') Her ability to conduct armchair crisis intervention is unrivaled. So Rune does his "panic walk"--arms stiff and out about 12 inches from his side, body pressed forward 30 degrees, stride like a bowlegged elephant). The object of his panic: a flood of water pouring over the balcony and through my bathroom ceiling to the first floor from the overflowing bathtub Lukas forgot to attend to. My thoughts: 'maybe if I wait long enough, this irate elephant will clean up the mess.' Rune was pretty impressive banging down the locked door, turning off the faucets and diving for the largest wad of bathtowels he could find to clean up. I was so mesmerized I briefly fantasized about contacting the Olympic Committee to see if they might consider it a new event.

Anyway, the whole water phobia puzzles me, because when he was still in diapers and then Pullups, Lukas loved water. He'd drag a chair to the kitchen sink, crawl up, turn on the cold water and create various waterparks with cups, saucers, and small animals trembling in fear. Same thing with the garden hose outside. This activity would captivate him for several hours. Why would you let your kid do that? you might ask. Sure, the water bills exceeded our mortgage payments for a while, but a captivated Lukas is a happy Lukas--something we fought long and hard to achieve in his early moodier years. Hey, better trembling small animals than trembling parent!

Posted by elisa at 12:33 PM | Permalink

I don't know what it is with kids in our society, the minute they hit their 13th birthday, they develop this strong yearning for an intimate relationship with VISA or Mastercard. Personally, I think some evil entity from a parallel universe broadcasts subliminal messages through rap music, heavy metal, and violent cartoons. But that's just my theory. Take it or leave it.

What chaps my ass is the fact that I've been trying for about a decade know to put some emotional distance between me and my credit cards. I mean, the lust and romance is no longer there and it's just become burdened with unrealistic pressures (they actually want to be paid every thirty days, the demanding little plastic bitches,) and high maintenance (half of my day is spent retracing the strings of retail outlets to find where I abandon the little suckers so no one else uses and abuses them.) Needless to say, it's a love hate relationship I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, much less my own flesh and blood.

So Erik's been begging on bended knee (adding to the overall diameter of the fraying hole in his jeans) asking me for his own credit card. "I won't use it except for dire emergencies!" he pleads. Unfortunately, it doesn't take long for a new skateboard and a Starbucks latte to take on emergency status because the old skateboard might make him a paraplegic with a monkey feeding him through a straw and the latte will keep him sharp enough to minimize that risk. I counter with "I've always wanted a pet monkey." If the Rolling Eyes Indicator of Enthusiasm is any sign, he was thrilled with my response. Sure they start out using those little plastic demons as a status symbol (bringing to mind that little Pullup's jingle, I'm a big boy now.) but good and superficial intention soon lead way to bankrupt parents who must sell their children into slave labor in order to make the payments on the trailer home. I give him the choice--trailer home, credit card that I won't let him spend. Again, he's thrilled with his newfound freedom of choice. I close with a simple warning to all parents. If you must give your child a credit card, either give him one that debits bucks out of his own savings account, give him one that's expired and thoroughly demagnitized, or move to Florida where the choice in trailer homes is plentiful. Don't forget those cute little plastic flamingos. Don't worry if they're too expensive. You can always charge it so your kids can work off your debt when you die.

Posted by elisa at 11:23 AM | Permalink