So, I originally posted the "I'm Blind" story in February. I brought it up earlier today because, last week, the Scribe failed her vision test at school AGAIN!
She really had me going this time. I thought she needed glasses for sure.
Anyway, we went to the eye doctor. To make things easier for her, I decided to get my eyes checked too. It turned out she doesn't need glasses, but I do.
And I thought my luck would never run out!
The Scribe left the room and the doctor (who happens to be the most professional and intelligent eye specialist ever) said, "I've seen this before. Your daughter doesn't really seem to need glasses."
I told him about my past experience with the glassless frames.
"All right. I think I know of something that will fix the situation." He called her back into the room and I really hoped his plan would work.
"Scribe," he said to my charming little girl. She's one of the shortest kids in her class, yet her spunk is over ten feet high. "You don't need glasses, but you do have what I like to call acute tenomelonitis."
He said it all so fast and with such a straight face, I had to blink just to clear my head! It was epic--seriously. Is tenomelonitis even a word? If it wasn't, it is now! I want to use it every day.
"I . . . do?" the Scribe said.
"Yes, you do. It's when your vision goes in and out. Sometimes it's good and sometimes it isn't. So, you know how I just dilated your eyes with the drops that stung?"
She nodded, eyes wide and pupils still bigger than Milwaukee.
"Well, I'm going to give your mother some special drops. Anytime you can't see, tell her and she'll put some of these drops in your eyes."
He gave me the drops and I smirked, because they were glorified Visine.
"Can you see all right now?" he asked. "Because if you can't, we can give you more drops."
She shook her head rather vigorously. "Actually, I can see just fine now. It must be one of those times when my eyes are working."
"Are you sure?" I jumped in on the fun. "Because I'm really great at giving eye drops. We can practice now and everything."
"I'm sure." She smiled weakly. "My eyes are feeling much better."
So, maybe those drops will keep her on the straight and narrow path for another six months. Honestly I hope they'll work even longer.
I still can't believe that I'm the one who needs glasses. I do have to admit though, it's amazing how beautiful and clear things can seem once you can see more clearly. Thank God we found a smart doctor!
As we drove home, the Scribe said, "There's nothing wrong with me, is there?"
I didn't answer directly and instead just asked the Scribe why she keeps dragging me to eye doctors. "It's because I wanted to spend time with just you," she said. "Things are always so busy with the babies and your books."
"I'm sorry. I'll make special time--I promise. Is that all, though? Is there anything else?" I asked.
"And because I'd look great with glasses." She smiled at me and started laughing. "I still can't believe you need glasses. You don't even want them like I do!"
"I know."
"Now that is funny! It's a good thing we look alike. At least you know you'll make those glasses look good."
That made me giggle. I'd felt bad about getting glasses, but my girl had cheered me right up. Maybe it won't be such a bad thing after all.
I'd gone to support her, but she'd ended up helping me.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
I'm Blind--reprise
This is an old post, but we had a follow-up to this yesterday. I'll write about it later today.
Here's the old post so you'll have some history:
My daughter who writes a lot, "The Scribe" informed me that she needed some eye glasses.
Now, let me tell you something about "The Scribe." She's always doing these crazy things to me. My second oldest daughter "The Hippie" is the most care-free little thing you've ever seen. Her hair could catch fire and she'd say, "Really? Wow? crazy stuff happens sometimes,"--then she'd elegantly douse the fire. Now if "The Scribe's" hair caught fire . . . Heaven help us, the rest of the house would probably ignite too. She's hilarious and EVERYTHING is dramatic. Those two girls are opposites and it's fun just watching them. They're best friends who can drive each other insane!
My oldest daughter, "The Scribe," came home from school and said, "Mom, I can hardly see. I think I'm going blind." She slumped down on the couch and put the back of her hand onto her forehead like life had ended.
"Calm down, honey. What's going on?"
"I can't see the board at school. I can't see anything."
I decided if she complained for a few more days, she really did need glasses. The complaints only got worse. She was mole-woman for all I knew. She couldn't see anything but the hand in front of her face. And it must have been amazing how she even got to school without bumping into walls and kids and things.
I took her to an optometrist. He was such a great guy, but had those weird "I created Frankenstein" glasses on his face. They reached out like two tiny telescopes and his eyes at the end of the glasses looked really strange. "The Scribe" turned to him and squinted. "I can't see you," she said. "But if I could, I'd bet that you look different."
He laughed. "I hear that a lot. Now look through this and tell me what you see."
"The scribe" blinked hard and then peered through the machine. "I can't see anything."
"Now surely you must see something," he said.
"The Scribe" pushed away from the machine and said, "I think I know what the problem is. I think you'll have to do it. This is horrible . . . terrible, really. I think I need glasses."
The strange eyes blinked at the end of the telescopic headpiece. "Let me take a look at your eyes."
"The Scribe" squinted again. "There's no use. I already know what's wrong. I'll be a four-eyes forever." She did sound forlorn, but the expression on her face showed anything but sadness. After a couple more little eye tests that had more to do with why "The Scribe" thinks she needs glasses, the doctor pulled me into the hallway.
"I think her eyes are fine, but for some reason that little girl wants some glasses."
The eye visit ended shortly after that. I guided "The Scribe" to the car because she had her eyes closed and acted as if she could hardly see. "There's a step there," I'd say. "Watch out. Oh and there, watch out there's ice." We finally made it to the car and I couldn't think of what to do except talk to the girl.
"Do you want glasses? Is that what this is about?"
She feigned desperation. "Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do. And that's what's happening now. I neeeeed glasses."
She went on and on about how she can't see and that's why she has a hard time reading at school. If she could just get some glasses, then she could read like a pro. "I met one girl who had a real hard time reading. She got those glasses and now she's the best reader in class."
As I listened to her talk, it suddenly hit me why she wanted glasses. She wanted to read better. Even though that child had made me drag her to the eye doctor, and she'd taken over ten minutes to get into the car, there was a point to her madness!
Instead of going home I took her to the dollar store. Have you ever shopped with a child who's just gone blind? It isn't fun. We knocked down a tooth paste display! Then this tiny employee, who informed me it was his second day on the job, came up and helped me pick up all the tooth paste. But of course "The Scribe" couldn't help. She was too busy feeling her way toward the toy isle. "Get back here," I yelled, before realizing she'd gone blind and deaf. After we'd put all the tooth paste back up, I heard another crash at the end of the isle and some coloring books skidded around my daughter's feet. "For the love of reading glasses!" I said and the tiny employee just tilted his head and stared at me like I'd lost a whole baggie of marbles.
As the employee and I cleaned up yet another mess, "The Scribe" slumped onto the ground (next to her favorite toys, ironically) and told the employee all about her ailments and how she'll be the best reader in class once she gets her glasses. I made sure to hold both her hands after that and we found what we came for. I bought her the cutest pair pf glasses and that felt awesome since they were all the same price--A dollar baby! When we sat in the car I poked the glass from the frames and "The Scribe" had no idea; she'd cinched her eyes shut and still leaned against the seat, "blind."
"Here are your new glasses." I put them on her and pure joy sprinted onto that kid's face.
"I can see! It's just like when Jesus healed lepers in the Bible. I can see."
I shook my head. What an actress! I don't think she has a clue what a leper is!
Anyway, we've been reading a ton lately and "The Scribe" wears those glasses to school and sometimes when she sleeps. She thinks she's reading better because of the glasses. It's funny though--kids aren't the only ones who can be fooled by a pair of glassless frames.
Her reading teacher called the other day and said, "I'm so glad she got glasses. You wouldn't believe the difference they've made."
Thank God I know how to help a kid read better. All you need is lots of practice and a glassless pair of frames!
Here's the old post so you'll have some history:
My daughter who writes a lot, "The Scribe" informed me that she needed some eye glasses.
Now, let me tell you something about "The Scribe." She's always doing these crazy things to me. My second oldest daughter "The Hippie" is the most care-free little thing you've ever seen. Her hair could catch fire and she'd say, "Really? Wow? crazy stuff happens sometimes,"--then she'd elegantly douse the fire. Now if "The Scribe's" hair caught fire . . . Heaven help us, the rest of the house would probably ignite too. She's hilarious and EVERYTHING is dramatic. Those two girls are opposites and it's fun just watching them. They're best friends who can drive each other insane!
My oldest daughter, "The Scribe," came home from school and said, "Mom, I can hardly see. I think I'm going blind." She slumped down on the couch and put the back of her hand onto her forehead like life had ended.
"Calm down, honey. What's going on?"
"I can't see the board at school. I can't see anything."
I decided if she complained for a few more days, she really did need glasses. The complaints only got worse. She was mole-woman for all I knew. She couldn't see anything but the hand in front of her face. And it must have been amazing how she even got to school without bumping into walls and kids and things.
I took her to an optometrist. He was such a great guy, but had those weird "I created Frankenstein" glasses on his face. They reached out like two tiny telescopes and his eyes at the end of the glasses looked really strange. "The Scribe" turned to him and squinted. "I can't see you," she said. "But if I could, I'd bet that you look different."
He laughed. "I hear that a lot. Now look through this and tell me what you see."
"The scribe" blinked hard and then peered through the machine. "I can't see anything."
"Now surely you must see something," he said.
"The Scribe" pushed away from the machine and said, "I think I know what the problem is. I think you'll have to do it. This is horrible . . . terrible, really. I think I need glasses."
The strange eyes blinked at the end of the telescopic headpiece. "Let me take a look at your eyes."
"The Scribe" squinted again. "There's no use. I already know what's wrong. I'll be a four-eyes forever." She did sound forlorn, but the expression on her face showed anything but sadness. After a couple more little eye tests that had more to do with why "The Scribe" thinks she needs glasses, the doctor pulled me into the hallway.
"I think her eyes are fine, but for some reason that little girl wants some glasses."
The eye visit ended shortly after that. I guided "The Scribe" to the car because she had her eyes closed and acted as if she could hardly see. "There's a step there," I'd say. "Watch out. Oh and there, watch out there's ice." We finally made it to the car and I couldn't think of what to do except talk to the girl.
"Do you want glasses? Is that what this is about?"
She feigned desperation. "Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do. And that's what's happening now. I neeeeed glasses."
She went on and on about how she can't see and that's why she has a hard time reading at school. If she could just get some glasses, then she could read like a pro. "I met one girl who had a real hard time reading. She got those glasses and now she's the best reader in class."
As I listened to her talk, it suddenly hit me why she wanted glasses. She wanted to read better. Even though that child had made me drag her to the eye doctor, and she'd taken over ten minutes to get into the car, there was a point to her madness!
Instead of going home I took her to the dollar store. Have you ever shopped with a child who's just gone blind? It isn't fun. We knocked down a tooth paste display! Then this tiny employee, who informed me it was his second day on the job, came up and helped me pick up all the tooth paste. But of course "The Scribe" couldn't help. She was too busy feeling her way toward the toy isle. "Get back here," I yelled, before realizing she'd gone blind and deaf. After we'd put all the tooth paste back up, I heard another crash at the end of the isle and some coloring books skidded around my daughter's feet. "For the love of reading glasses!" I said and the tiny employee just tilted his head and stared at me like I'd lost a whole baggie of marbles.
As the employee and I cleaned up yet another mess, "The Scribe" slumped onto the ground (next to her favorite toys, ironically) and told the employee all about her ailments and how she'll be the best reader in class once she gets her glasses. I made sure to hold both her hands after that and we found what we came for. I bought her the cutest pair pf glasses and that felt awesome since they were all the same price--A dollar baby! When we sat in the car I poked the glass from the frames and "The Scribe" had no idea; she'd cinched her eyes shut and still leaned against the seat, "blind."
"Here are your new glasses." I put them on her and pure joy sprinted onto that kid's face.
"I can see! It's just like when Jesus healed lepers in the Bible. I can see."
I shook my head. What an actress! I don't think she has a clue what a leper is!
Anyway, we've been reading a ton lately and "The Scribe" wears those glasses to school and sometimes when she sleeps. She thinks she's reading better because of the glasses. It's funny though--kids aren't the only ones who can be fooled by a pair of glassless frames.
Her reading teacher called the other day and said, "I'm so glad she got glasses. You wouldn't believe the difference they've made."
Thank God I know how to help a kid read better. All you need is lots of practice and a glassless pair of frames!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
A Bag Full of Bugs
Today has been a busy day! Six seconds ago, to be exact, I chased down a dog who was carrying a bag of bugs in her mouth.
I'll give you some time to digest that knowledge . . .
I know this might not be the best place to start the story, but it's just what came to mind. Let's go back, to two hours ago, when things seemed normal.
I've been completing final arrangements for my journal which will be published in 30 days~!!! I smiled as I worked because this is one of my biggest dreams.
After wrapping up the last plans, it seemed like a good time to celebrate; the best way to do that is to wear fancy boots and eat pumpkin soup. I didn't have any cinnamon though, so I took Doctor Jones and the Zombie Elf to the grocery store. I don't like going there because it's worse than beer.
At that store, everyone shines in their best light. EVERYONE gets hit on. If you're single and looking for a date, it's impossible to leave the place without someone on your arm.
Don't believe me? Read this: He called me the "L" word!!!
Anyway, I'm not into the love connection thing. I just want my groceries NOT dinner and a movie. So, I messed up my eyebrows, rushed into the store and was about to leave when the Zombie Elf looked at me with sad, little eyes. "Cookie?" he asked as if that one word was the key to life.
"Sure," I said. Didn't he know we were in a hurry, though? Strange people lurked around us and I swear they hungered for romance!
As I wheeled my two babies and the groceries toward the bakery, my boy's face turned from red to white just like a fading flag. When I finally got to our destination, he bawled saying, "But I can't have a cookie."
"What? I thought you wanted a cookie." I was confused and I decided the store can turn even the best zombies strange.
My boy didn't have time to answer about the cookies though because a STUNNING, completely dolled-up baker came to help us. "You're darling," she said to my kids. "Would you like a cookie?" She handed one to Doctor Jones who gobbled it up in two bites.
"I would like a cookie too, but I can't," the Zombie Elf sobbed.
"Why?" she asked, torn with grief over the dilemma.
I was interested in their conversation, I really was, but I kept wondering how someone with a hairnet could look like a runway model. Maybe I should get a hairnet!
"I can't have one," the Zombie Elf said, "because I can't open my hands."
And it seemed true. Both of his hands were balled as if Poseidon's treasure lay within.
"What do you have there?" the super model asked.
That's when the Zombie opened his hands. I gaped at the infestation before us. I really didn't know what to say because in his hands . . . were about A POUND OF BUGS!
The woman screamed, dropping the cookie she'd held for my son. "Oh my gosh! There are bugs in the store! LIVE BUGS!"
We stood right next to the freshly baked bread. A couple of people looked up and then scowled at the bakery. I nodded to them and the gorgeous employee practiced her beauty queen wave.
"Oh there aren't bugs in the bakery, just in this kid's hands," she said passing the blame. So, she wanted to make us look bad? She'd been the one to force his hands open!
It was pretty mortifying; I won't lie.
"Beauty" got a bag for the Zombie Elf to put his bugs in, wiped his hands with special wipes, and gave him a new cookie. We went through the store and every time someone came close, the Zombie yelled, "There are bugs in THIS store. In-a-bag. Live BUGS!"
I put my face in my hands and shook my head at one point. Sure my boy saved me from the predators at the store, but it was still embarrassing!
Doc Jones giggled and laughed because she doesn't worry about anything. Heck, once that one-year-old even made a poopy in the store--good grief some people have no shame.
Well, it wasn't until we got home and I put groceries away, that I thought I couldn't take anymore. The dog yipped, wanting food. Doctor Jones needed her morning nap. The Scribe called from school because she'd forgotten her homework. And the Zombie Elf started yelling.
"The bugs aren't moving!" he screamed. "They are . . . not . . . moving."
He stared at them, completely bewildered. He shook the bag, threw it on the floor, and was about to pick it up again when the dog took off with it.
I saw everything in slow motion. The day I graduated from college, I never knew that one day, I would have the honor--the privilege--of chasing a puppy, who had a bag of bugs in her mouth.
Crazy music played in my head as I ran. I yelled. I snarled. My babies ran after me, the Zombie hollering about dead bugs and Doctor Jones squealing with delight.
We finally got the bugs and ended in a pile of madness on the floor. I felt like I'd just won "capture the flag."
As the dog distracted my babies, I ran outside, dumped the dead bugs out on the lawn and grabbed two potato bugs who happened to be passing by.
"Hold out your hand," I told the Zombie as soon as I came back in. I placed the bugs in his hands and you would have thought it was the rapture.
The Zombie Elf hugged me; it was a huge hug. Doctor Jones jumped into my arms as well and the dog stuck out her tongue and smiled.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad morning after all. Weirdos didn't bother us at the grocery store. I got to see a super model scream. I won at "capture the flag," and my boy thought his bugs had come back to life.
All in all, I think it was a good start to the day. Now I just need to put some boots on and make pumpkin soup. It should be fun!
I'll give you some time to digest that knowledge . . .
I know this might not be the best place to start the story, but it's just what came to mind. Let's go back, to two hours ago, when things seemed normal.
I've been completing final arrangements for my journal which will be published in 30 days~!!! I smiled as I worked because this is one of my biggest dreams.
After wrapping up the last plans, it seemed like a good time to celebrate; the best way to do that is to wear fancy boots and eat pumpkin soup. I didn't have any cinnamon though, so I took Doctor Jones and the Zombie Elf to the grocery store. I don't like going there because it's worse than beer.
At that store, everyone shines in their best light. EVERYONE gets hit on. If you're single and looking for a date, it's impossible to leave the place without someone on your arm.
Don't believe me? Read this: He called me the "L" word!!!
Anyway, I'm not into the love connection thing. I just want my groceries NOT dinner and a movie. So, I messed up my eyebrows, rushed into the store and was about to leave when the Zombie Elf looked at me with sad, little eyes. "Cookie?" he asked as if that one word was the key to life.
"Sure," I said. Didn't he know we were in a hurry, though? Strange people lurked around us and I swear they hungered for romance!
As I wheeled my two babies and the groceries toward the bakery, my boy's face turned from red to white just like a fading flag. When I finally got to our destination, he bawled saying, "But I can't have a cookie."
"What? I thought you wanted a cookie." I was confused and I decided the store can turn even the best zombies strange.
My boy didn't have time to answer about the cookies though because a STUNNING, completely dolled-up baker came to help us. "You're darling," she said to my kids. "Would you like a cookie?" She handed one to Doctor Jones who gobbled it up in two bites.
"I would like a cookie too, but I can't," the Zombie Elf sobbed.
"Why?" she asked, torn with grief over the dilemma.
I was interested in their conversation, I really was, but I kept wondering how someone with a hairnet could look like a runway model. Maybe I should get a hairnet!
"I can't have one," the Zombie Elf said, "because I can't open my hands."
And it seemed true. Both of his hands were balled as if Poseidon's treasure lay within.
"What do you have there?" the super model asked.
That's when the Zombie opened his hands. I gaped at the infestation before us. I really didn't know what to say because in his hands . . . were about A POUND OF BUGS!
The woman screamed, dropping the cookie she'd held for my son. "Oh my gosh! There are bugs in the store! LIVE BUGS!"
We stood right next to the freshly baked bread. A couple of people looked up and then scowled at the bakery. I nodded to them and the gorgeous employee practiced her beauty queen wave.
"Oh there aren't bugs in the bakery, just in this kid's hands," she said passing the blame. So, she wanted to make us look bad? She'd been the one to force his hands open!
It was pretty mortifying; I won't lie.
"Beauty" got a bag for the Zombie Elf to put his bugs in, wiped his hands with special wipes, and gave him a new cookie. We went through the store and every time someone came close, the Zombie yelled, "There are bugs in THIS store. In-a-bag. Live BUGS!"
I put my face in my hands and shook my head at one point. Sure my boy saved me from the predators at the store, but it was still embarrassing!
Doc Jones giggled and laughed because she doesn't worry about anything. Heck, once that one-year-old even made a poopy in the store--good grief some people have no shame.
Well, it wasn't until we got home and I put groceries away, that I thought I couldn't take anymore. The dog yipped, wanting food. Doctor Jones needed her morning nap. The Scribe called from school because she'd forgotten her homework. And the Zombie Elf started yelling.
"The bugs aren't moving!" he screamed. "They are . . . not . . . moving."
He stared at them, completely bewildered. He shook the bag, threw it on the floor, and was about to pick it up again when the dog took off with it.
I saw everything in slow motion. The day I graduated from college, I never knew that one day, I would have the honor--the privilege--of chasing a puppy, who had a bag of bugs in her mouth.
Crazy music played in my head as I ran. I yelled. I snarled. My babies ran after me, the Zombie hollering about dead bugs and Doctor Jones squealing with delight.
We finally got the bugs and ended in a pile of madness on the floor. I felt like I'd just won "capture the flag."
As the dog distracted my babies, I ran outside, dumped the dead bugs out on the lawn and grabbed two potato bugs who happened to be passing by.
"Hold out your hand," I told the Zombie as soon as I came back in. I placed the bugs in his hands and you would have thought it was the rapture.
The Zombie Elf hugged me; it was a huge hug. Doctor Jones jumped into my arms as well and the dog stuck out her tongue and smiled.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad morning after all. Weirdos didn't bother us at the grocery store. I got to see a super model scream. I won at "capture the flag," and my boy thought his bugs had come back to life.
All in all, I think it was a good start to the day. Now I just need to put some boots on and make pumpkin soup. It should be fun!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Just a Rotten Pumpkin!
The Scribe (my nine-year-old) is a lot like me. She told me one of her theories yesterday, and I swear it's made of gold.
"When you make something, art or music, part of your soul goes into it," she said.
I nodded; I've told her that many times. When I really play my violin, or when I sit down and write something important, I might as well just pry open my ribs and show people what makes my heart beat. (Sorry for the visual, but Halloween is coming after all!)
"Well, that's why I'm worried about my pumpkin," she said.
"Why?"
"Because, I drew the face on it, and even helped with the carving. I loved that stupid thing and now my soul went into it."
"When I said your soul went into your work, I didn't mean it like that."
"But, Mom, I can feel my soul IN the pumpkin! I bet that's how Voldemort felt with those horcruxes. He spent loads of time making them, when all he needed was a few pumpkins."
I managed to hold a straight face. "You know, if you can feel it . . . maybe you're right." I didn't want to ruin the moment because she obviously felt very smart AND proud to be even more intelligent than a famous villain. I looked at her then and smiled feeling proud too. The Scribe is such a tomboy.
She stood like the toughest baseball player and folded her arms. "I'm just worried. My soul went into that thing. When the pumpkin starts getting old and rotting, if it still looks happy, that means I'll have a good soul. If it rots and ends up looking scary or sad . . . well, that means I've always had a bad soul."
"Scribe, that isn't how it works."
"Don't try to make things better now that I know," she said. "I'm old enough to see what kind of soul I'll have when I grow up. I've seen it time and again. Tommy is a great kid; his pumpkin smiled when it rotted. But Tawnie, I don't want to spread mean things, but her pumpkin looked worse than a grumpy, old frog."
"She has a bad soul?"
"Not yet, Mom. That's what her soul will look like when she grows up. It's kind of shocking since she's so nice now, but you never know how kids will turn out unless you have a pumpkin, or time to just watch 'em grow up.
"Anyway, all kids have good souls. Didn't you know that?" she asked.
"It makes sense."
"Of course it does," she said. "All true things make sense. So, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens when my pumpkin rots. I hope it'll still be smiling. I'd hate to be an evil adult. I'd probably be a bad driver if that happens and then people would roll down their windows and yell at me all of the time, like in the movies."
So, last night we googled "Rotting Pumpkins." I've realized, when it comes to pumpkins, The Scribe can spot a bad soul from a mile away.
"See," she said pointing, "whoever carved that one was really bad. And whoever did that, is an angel in waiting."
Here are some of the pictures we saw:
"When you make something, art or music, part of your soul goes into it," she said.
I nodded; I've told her that many times. When I really play my violin, or when I sit down and write something important, I might as well just pry open my ribs and show people what makes my heart beat. (Sorry for the visual, but Halloween is coming after all!)
"Well, that's why I'm worried about my pumpkin," she said.
"Why?"
"Because, I drew the face on it, and even helped with the carving. I loved that stupid thing and now my soul went into it."
"When I said your soul went into your work, I didn't mean it like that."
"But, Mom, I can feel my soul IN the pumpkin! I bet that's how Voldemort felt with those horcruxes. He spent loads of time making them, when all he needed was a few pumpkins."
I managed to hold a straight face. "You know, if you can feel it . . . maybe you're right." I didn't want to ruin the moment because she obviously felt very smart AND proud to be even more intelligent than a famous villain. I looked at her then and smiled feeling proud too. The Scribe is such a tomboy.
She stood like the toughest baseball player and folded her arms. "I'm just worried. My soul went into that thing. When the pumpkin starts getting old and rotting, if it still looks happy, that means I'll have a good soul. If it rots and ends up looking scary or sad . . . well, that means I've always had a bad soul."
"Scribe, that isn't how it works."
"Don't try to make things better now that I know," she said. "I'm old enough to see what kind of soul I'll have when I grow up. I've seen it time and again. Tommy is a great kid; his pumpkin smiled when it rotted. But Tawnie, I don't want to spread mean things, but her pumpkin looked worse than a grumpy, old frog."
"She has a bad soul?"
"Not yet, Mom. That's what her soul will look like when she grows up. It's kind of shocking since she's so nice now, but you never know how kids will turn out unless you have a pumpkin, or time to just watch 'em grow up.
"Anyway, all kids have good souls. Didn't you know that?" she asked.
"It makes sense."
"Of course it does," she said. "All true things make sense. So, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens when my pumpkin rots. I hope it'll still be smiling. I'd hate to be an evil adult. I'd probably be a bad driver if that happens and then people would roll down their windows and yell at me all of the time, like in the movies."
So, last night we googled "Rotting Pumpkins." I've realized, when it comes to pumpkins, The Scribe can spot a bad soul from a mile away.
"See," she said pointing, "whoever carved that one was really bad. And whoever did that, is an angel in waiting."
Here are some of the pictures we saw:
"A really sweet person carved that," the Scribe said about this picture, "probably an old lady."
"Because all old ladies are nice?"
"Most of them," she said, "the ones who like baking."
"What about this one?" I asked.
"That's a perfect example of someone who has a bad soul. Poor kid, I bet they don't even know what's coming!"
"And this?"
"That's one of the angels in waiting I told you about. The kid who carved that is probably even nicer than I am right now!"
"That person was okay, not really bad or good," she said.
"Why?"
"'Cause it's not smiling or frowning."
"Like a fence-walker," I said.
"What's that?"
"Well, imagine a big desert where all of the good people are on one side and all of the zombie-ish, bad people are on the other side. Picture a big fence going between the two sets of people. Someone who doesn't know if they're good or bad is a fence-walker."
"I don't like fence-walkers. If someone can't decide if they want to be good or bad, they probably aren't good at all. Nice people want to be that way just because it's right.
"Can a bad person hop the fence and become good?"
"Sure," I said.
"Wow, I hope a bunch of the bad guys will hop the fence. That would be terrible to just be mean and yucky all of the time."
"So it's better to be bad and turn good, than to be a fence-walker?"
"Oh, yeah," she said, "at least the bad people knew what they wanted."
It was a deep conversation I didn't want to get into, so we continued looking at more pictures of pumpkins souls.
This picture showed up under the "Rotting Pumpkin" search. While with the Scribe, I scrolled past it as fast as I could. Then, after finding it this morning, I had to laugh because it's real name was: "Evil Two Leg." Wow, now I'm really scared--not!
"And that," the Scribe hushed when she saw this last picture, "was carved by the most evil soul around."
"Seriously? Why?"
"It doesn't even have a face! The thing fell in on itself because the evil was too strong."
I suddenly felt ill. This same thing happened to my pumpkin LAST YEAR! I'd carved the sweetest little face. The mouth only had one tooth. It looked goofy and happy, but then it crumpled after a few short weeks and I was very sad.
I didn't want to tell the Scribe any of that though, so I smiled at her, praying all of our pumpkins will end with smiles.
I love her cute theories and the fun way she looks at life. There was no way I could set her straight. I guess we'll just have to wait and see. I looked outside this morning, and our pumpkins are already starting to rot. Wish us luck! Like the Scribe said, "I'd hate to be an evil adult."
So, can you remember what your rotten pumpkins looked like last year? What does your soul really look like?
Monday, October 17, 2011
A Dare and a Scare
My brother pranked me.
Don't believe me? Fine . . . click here: Udder Prank Failure
So, something needed to be done. A few ideas came and went. Cade thought of hilarious things, but they were far too risky or absurd.
Finally, while we shopped for Halloween outfits with the kids, Cade picked out a scary outfit and started giggling like a high-voiced banshee.
"I know how we can get Shane," he said. "I'll wear THIS black outfit, hold a pie and then knock on his door!"
I had to agree; the concept was epic.
I smiled from the first real excitement I'd felt in HOURS. "Yes," I said in a cruel voice. "Let it be done!"
We drove over to my brother's house and prepared to accomplish the crime of a century.
If you want to read my brother's side of the story, please visit his blog post:
Anyway, here's the video if you don't believe me.
Oh and that second half is because we decided to go back for more--just watch it and you'll know what I'm talking about. (Cade wanted to hit my brother with the pie.)
My brother tries opening the door, but Cade holds it shut and knocks again.
Cade finally lets him open the door, although it looks like my brother was struggling with the lock.
Cade screams and my brother jumps out, screaming back at him because by that time he knew it was us.
Section #2 BACK FOR MORE (maybe to throw the pie this time) second 1:26
Cade knocks.
Elisa: I can hear them in there . . . There's Shane.
Cade: Ta da!
Cade *presenting the pie*
Section #3 second 2:07
Shane: Now, start with the left leg.
Then Shane and Cade do the Can Can and I CAN NOT stop laughing--even now!
Don't believe me? Fine . . . click here: Udder Prank Failure
So, something needed to be done. A few ideas came and went. Cade thought of hilarious things, but they were far too risky or absurd.
Finally, while we shopped for Halloween outfits with the kids, Cade picked out a scary outfit and started giggling like a high-voiced banshee.
"I know how we can get Shane," he said. "I'll wear THIS black outfit, hold a pie and then knock on his door!"
I had to agree; the concept was epic.
I smiled from the first real excitement I'd felt in HOURS. "Yes," I said in a cruel voice. "Let it be done!"
We drove over to my brother's house and prepared to accomplish the crime of a century.
If you want to read my brother's side of the story, please visit his blog post:
Anyway, here's the video if you don't believe me.
Oh and that second half is because we decided to go back for more--just watch it and you'll know what I'm talking about. (Cade wanted to hit my brother with the pie.)
Here's the dialogue in case it's hard to hear:
Cade: This pie thing isn't going to work so well.
Elisa: Just hurry.
Elisa: Just hurry.
Cade: What about the pie?
Elisa: Just leave it there on the railing. Hit the doorbell!
Cade knocks ominously and I hide in the bushes.
My brother tries opening the door, but Cade holds it shut and knocks again.
Cade finally lets him open the door, although it looks like my brother was struggling with the lock.
Cade screams and my brother jumps out, screaming back at him because by that time he knew it was us.
Section #2 BACK FOR MORE (maybe to throw the pie this time) second 1:26
Elisa: We're at my brother's house again. All right, Cade.
Cade has a pie and I'm in the bushes.
Cade has a pie and I'm in the bushes.
Cade knocks.
Elisa: I can hear them in there . . . There's Shane.
Cade: Ta da!
Cade *presenting the pie*
Section #3 second 2:07
Shane: Now, start with the left leg.
Then Shane and Cade do the Can Can and I CAN NOT stop laughing--even now!
Like I wrote above, if you want to read my brother's side of the story, please visit his blog:
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The True Point of Fighting
Side note: before the story of the day, I had to tell you, I'm walking on air! I hit 1000 followers. And how cool is that since my first book will be published in a little over 30 days?!
To celebrate the 1000 followers, I've decided to share another embarrassing story.
Several years ago Cade and I were having problems. Marriage isn't easy. Even if you marry someone who's wonderful, every day IS NOT a frolic in the park. Cade knows that I'm a constant tease. I know he needs non-blogging attention from time to time.
The list goes on, but we love each other (at least I hope he loves me even when I make him be in vlogs).
Examples:
Anyway, several years ago, we were having a not-so-lovely bump in our marriage. A friend from high school somehow got my number, and I was delighted to hear from him.
"How are you?" I asked.
"Wonderful," Jerry said. "I just got married to the most wonderful girl. We don't know many couples though and we're wondering if you and Cade would like to go on a double date with us."
"Oh . . . how nice. We would love to." But the truth was, Cade would rather rip off his own toenails, than go on a date with me.
"Don't you just love being married?" Jerry asked rhetorically.
"Oh, yes," I said, which I did. But I didn't tell him about any of our problems because when someone is first married or dating, you don't want to be the Grim Reaper. When their spouse leaves the lid off the toothpaste for the first time, then they'll understand. When their spouse leaves the toilet seat up . . . when their spouse leaves hair in the sink--enough said.
So, I hung up the phone and went to church later that week. I stayed after the service and spoke for awhile to the FREE marriage counselor. Things hardly ever get better than when they're free!
"I need some help," I told him. "Would you have time to talk with me and my husband?"
"Sure," he said. "But from what you've told me, I don't think your marriage needs counseling yet."
"O . . . kay," I said.
"But you can have my number just in case. My name is Jerry." He held out his hand and smiled. He was free and nice, wow I could see why he's going to Heaven.
Well, the week progressed. Cade and I got to the boiling point. He packed his bags and so did I. The kids had no idea what was going on. The whole time though, I kept hoping we'd finally talk, patch things up and have some make-upsex time. After all, what's the point of a good fight if you don't make up?
But we didn't make up and I just wanted to cry. In a moment of confusion, I pulled out my cell phone and scanned down to "Jerry's" number.
"Hello?" a pleasant I'm-going-to-Heaven voice said.
"I'm in trouble." I sobbed. "My marriage is failing. My husband probably found someone else. He packed his bags and is ready to leave . . . Do you have any advice for me?"
"Ummm . . . I've never dealt with something like this before."
"Sure you have, just tell me what to do."
"Actually, Elisa. I just don't know what to say. I'm not good at things like this."
"Just tell me! You're a counselor aren't you?"
"Well . . . not exactly."
"Is that why you're free?"
"I'm not . . . free."
"You're not?" Maybe the man wouldn't go to Heaven. He'd lied AT CHURCH--that's the worst thing ever! "Wait a minute," I said. "Who is this again?"
"Jerry," the guy said a bit confused. "Jerry from high school."
I turned into soup. I wanted to die.
"Elisa, I know we were good friends in high school. But you've changed. This conversation scares me. We haven't talked in such a long time and now you call me about this."
I was so embarrassed I hung up the phone and called Cade.
At the end of the call, he laughed so hard I thought he'd split open. "I miss you," Cade said. "I miss this. Do you want to go to dinner tonight?"
"Sure, I guess," I said, so excited, because I knew we were about to make up. After all, like I wrote above, isn't that the whole point of fighting?
For info on that, and if you'd like to be involved, please go here: "The Golden Sky" Blogfest!
To celebrate the 1000 followers, I've decided to share another embarrassing story.
Several years ago Cade and I were having problems. Marriage isn't easy. Even if you marry someone who's wonderful, every day IS NOT a frolic in the park. Cade knows that I'm a constant tease. I know he needs non-blogging attention from time to time.
The list goes on, but we love each other (at least I hope he loves me even when I make him be in vlogs).
Examples:
Monkey Man
Ask Your Spouse
Anyway, several years ago, we were having a not-so-lovely bump in our marriage. A friend from high school somehow got my number, and I was delighted to hear from him.
"How are you?" I asked.
"Wonderful," Jerry said. "I just got married to the most wonderful girl. We don't know many couples though and we're wondering if you and Cade would like to go on a double date with us."
"Oh . . . how nice. We would love to." But the truth was, Cade would rather rip off his own toenails, than go on a date with me.
"Don't you just love being married?" Jerry asked rhetorically.
"Oh, yes," I said, which I did. But I didn't tell him about any of our problems because when someone is first married or dating, you don't want to be the Grim Reaper. When their spouse leaves the lid off the toothpaste for the first time, then they'll understand. When their spouse leaves the toilet seat up . . . when their spouse leaves hair in the sink--enough said.
So, I hung up the phone and went to church later that week. I stayed after the service and spoke for awhile to the FREE marriage counselor. Things hardly ever get better than when they're free!
"I need some help," I told him. "Would you have time to talk with me and my husband?"
"Sure," he said. "But from what you've told me, I don't think your marriage needs counseling yet."
"O . . . kay," I said.
"But you can have my number just in case. My name is Jerry." He held out his hand and smiled. He was free and nice, wow I could see why he's going to Heaven.
Well, the week progressed. Cade and I got to the boiling point. He packed his bags and so did I. The kids had no idea what was going on. The whole time though, I kept hoping we'd finally talk, patch things up and have some make-up
But we didn't make up and I just wanted to cry. In a moment of confusion, I pulled out my cell phone and scanned down to "Jerry's" number.
"Hello?" a pleasant I'm-going-to-Heaven voice said.
"I'm in trouble." I sobbed. "My marriage is failing. My husband probably found someone else. He packed his bags and is ready to leave . . . Do you have any advice for me?"
"Ummm . . . I've never dealt with something like this before."
"Sure you have, just tell me what to do."
"Actually, Elisa. I just don't know what to say. I'm not good at things like this."
"Just tell me! You're a counselor aren't you?"
"Well . . . not exactly."
"Is that why you're free?"
"I'm not . . . free."
"You're not?" Maybe the man wouldn't go to Heaven. He'd lied AT CHURCH--that's the worst thing ever! "Wait a minute," I said. "Who is this again?"
"Jerry," the guy said a bit confused. "Jerry from high school."
I turned into soup. I wanted to die.
"Elisa, I know we were good friends in high school. But you've changed. This conversation scares me. We haven't talked in such a long time and now you call me about this."
I was so embarrassed I hung up the phone and called Cade.
At the end of the call, he laughed so hard I thought he'd split open. "I miss you," Cade said. "I miss this. Do you want to go to dinner tonight?"
"Sure, I guess," I said, so excited, because I knew we were about to make up. After all, like I wrote above, isn't that the whole point of fighting?
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Ask Your Spouse
Have you ever been nervous to ask your spouse something?
Well, I was.
So, I decided to ask him and catch his reaction on video.
Here it is:
Elisa: Well, we just wanted to see if you have any questions you've always wanted to ask your spouse.
So tell me, do you?
Well, I was.
So, I decided to ask him and catch his reaction on video.
Here it is:
Also, here's the dialogue in case it's hard to hear:
Elisa: We're here to talk about questions you're scared to ask your spouse. So, I have a question for Cade that I've always wanted to ask him, and I'm going to catch his reaction on camera.
Are you ready for this?
Cade nods, completely nervous, but trying not to act like it.
Elisa: When you're home, why do you always line the toilet seat with paper even though you're home?
Cade: 'Cause I don't like a cold toilet seat on my butt.
Elisa: And a tiny piece of toilet paper will warm it right up for you?
Cade: It'll take out the shock of the contact.
Elisa: How cold do you think it is in here?
Cade: Well, it's more habit than anything else. When you're on a construction site and it's thirty below, go sit your butt on a cold toilet.
Elisa: Ya, but this isn't a construction site. This is just our family.
Cade: The other thing about construction is, you don't know about other people's hygiene. Putting your butt where their butts have been . . . you might as well pull down your pants and stick your butts together.
Elisa: I'm not talking about construction sites. I'm talking about our house. Why do you put toilet paper on the toilet?
Cade: It's more than habit and plus, it's not like we're the only people who use the toilets in our own house.
Elisa: So what you're saying is that you have something against the company we invite over to our house. You think . . . you think they have The Clap!
Cade: Ummm . . . no and you just learned what The Clap was after I embarrassed you at that restaurant.
(Here's that blog post: The Clap.)
Cade: Your face was redder than your shirt.
Elisa: It is not! But now I have to talk about The Clap in everyday conversation because I'm so proud I really know what it means.
Cade: Back to the point. Just think about it; do you want to sit down on a toilet seat and put your butt where everybody else's butts have been?
Elisa: Well, if you invite company over and it's okay to be their friend, then ya you assume they'll sit and it's okay if your butts touch the same thing.
Cade pulling a mortified face.
Elisa: I don't mean it bad.
Cade: Woah!
Elisa: But I clean the toilet seats.
Cade: After every time someone uses them?
Elisa: No, but at least once a day.
Cade: Well, and if you also think about it, if you put toilet paper on when you use the bathroom, then when someone else comes, they aren't putting their butt where yours has been.
Elisa: So what you're trying to do, is save everyone else from yourself?
Cade: No. But people wash their hands and it's the same sort of thing.
Elisa: What a generous, sweet soul you carry in that handsome body.
Cade: A-huh.
So tell me, do you?
Friday, October 14, 2011
You know you're a writer when . . .
You know you're a writer when . . .
You close your eyes and see yourself typing words before you speak them.
You find yourself laughing out loud at things you write.
One of your ancestors had a tragic end and you think it would make a great book.
Your child goes to the principal's office, and you can't wait to blog about it.
Better yet, one of your children does something wrong and immediately you know the main plot and all of the subplots that linked them to the crime.
Everyone's SUPER nice to you, for fear of going on your blog.
Your dreams get so complicated with twists and turns, you even surprise yourself!
You cried when you wrote the last line of your book.
Anyway, I'm still in Vegas and I don't have much time, so can you help me out? Would you add to this list for me?
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The Panda and a Mystery Fart
I asked my kids to tell me a story today. It turned out crazy!
"Once upon a time there was a panda bear. He went into the forest and started running faster and faster," The Scribe said.
"He was very lonely and wanted to look for friends," The Hippie said.
"He had so much to offer, though. He was cute; he would love any BFF and he liked to eat cupcakes and rainbows."
"Ewe!" The Zombie Elf said, "that's yucky. Not rainbows."
"While he was running, he ran into a wise old man," The Scribe continued. "He had white hair and was caring something special deep inside himself."
"Yeah," The Zombie Elf interjected, "A fart."
"It wasn't a fart," The Hippie said, "it was something great like wisdom."
"No it wasn't!" The Zombie stood from his seat and balled his fists.
"Yes . . ." The Hippie's voice turned low. "IT WAS."
If there's anything The Zombie Elf should know, it's that NO SANE PERSON messes with a hippie.
The Hippie's eyes turned to flames. Her mouth pulled with mischief. "Fine, Zombie. Maybe it was a fart. The wisest fart known to man!"
"A wise fart?" The Scribe wrinkled her nose.
"Yeah," The Hippie said, "I have 'em all the time, since I'm filled with awesomeness."
"Wait . . . that was you?" The Scribe asked as if understanding the universe.
That's where the story ended and although it didn't really have a plot or any climactic moments, I'll never forget it because now I know where those strange smells have been coming from . . . it was The (wise) Hippie all along.
Well, I'm just getting ready to leave for Vegas. I can't wait!
"Once upon a time there was a panda bear. He went into the forest and started running faster and faster," The Scribe said.
"He was very lonely and wanted to look for friends," The Hippie said.
"He had so much to offer, though. He was cute; he would love any BFF and he liked to eat cupcakes and rainbows."
"Ewe!" The Zombie Elf said, "that's yucky. Not rainbows."
"While he was running, he ran into a wise old man," The Scribe continued. "He had white hair and was caring something special deep inside himself."
"Yeah," The Zombie Elf interjected, "A fart."
"It wasn't a fart," The Hippie said, "it was something great like wisdom."
"No it wasn't!" The Zombie stood from his seat and balled his fists.
"Yes . . ." The Hippie's voice turned low. "IT WAS."
If there's anything The Zombie Elf should know, it's that NO SANE PERSON messes with a hippie.
The Hippie's eyes turned to flames. Her mouth pulled with mischief. "Fine, Zombie. Maybe it was a fart. The wisest fart known to man!"
"A wise fart?" The Scribe wrinkled her nose.
"Yeah," The Hippie said, "I have 'em all the time, since I'm filled with awesomeness."
"Wait . . . that was you?" The Scribe asked as if understanding the universe.
That's where the story ended and although it didn't really have a plot or any climactic moments, I'll never forget it because now I know where those strange smells have been coming from . . . it was The (wise) Hippie all along.
Well, I'm just getting ready to leave for Vegas. I can't wait!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
My Hips Came In
The Scribe, my nine-year-old stood preening in front of the mirror.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Just admiring myself," she said breathlessly. "Mom, this is one of the best days of my life."
"Ummm . . . Why?"
"Because my hips came in, and that means now I can have a boyfriend."
Where did that logic come from? I've never heard anything like it!
What? When you're five you start school. When you're sixteen, you drive. When you twenty-one, you can drink. But when your hips come in, oh that's all the rage because it means you can start dating.
Plus, how do hips come in anyway? That sounds awfully painful--far worse than when my milk came in. In fact, I think my hips finally appeared when I was dilated to a ten on the delivery table! And let me tell you, that pain WAS NOT worth beauty!
To top things off, the whole "hip thing" made me a bit sad.
If I'd never had kids, I wouldn't have hips . . . and if I didn't have hips, I should NOT have been dating. And if I should NOT have been dating, I wouldn't have kids. And if I didn't have kids, well, that sounded like the cycle of death!
I felt positively sinful then. I'd broken a rule, something The Scribe thought was important. I had dated WITHOUT HIPS!
"Wow, those are great hips," I said, even though I couldn't see them, "but you still can't date until you're sixteen."
Her big lip pouted. "But Mo-om. There's a really cute guy at school."
A guy--they're in fourth grade!
"He's sweet and nice," she went on. "He's even funny and he has a mohawk." What a bonus--seriously. "And he reminds me of . . . of Daddy!"
Oh, now I knew she played with fire.
"That's dangerous. Once a girl like you falls for a boy like your daddy . . . there's no looking back."
"Really?" She giggled, and I realized the conversation had gone the wrong direction.
"No boyfriends," I said.
"But he's in a band."
"No boyfr--. Wait, what?! He's nine."
"Ten," she corrected with so much pride, I couldn't help myself.
"Oh, an older man."
"And he plays the guitar."
"You still can't date him. If you date, then you'll have to break up."
"But you just said there'd be no looking back."
I rolled my eyes. I hate it when kids use my own words against me.
"Fine," she said, sweet like mud pie. "I won't date him. I'll tell him you said 'no,' but that I wish we could. Our love with be something people write about, like Ang and Katara in The Last Airbender."
"Maybe I'll let you date when you stop comparing your burning love to a cartoon romance."
"Mo-om, you know what I mean."
"Plus, you've forgotten the other rule about hips. If you date him, your hips might go away."
"Seriously?" she asked and I nodded.
"Wow," she said. "Are you lying?"
"No. I wouldn't lie about this."
"I don't know if he's worth it." She finally decided.
"Well, you better be sure."
"Yeah," she said. "Maybe having a boyfriend isn't all it's cut out to be. A life without hips, well, that wouldn't be fun at all."
"I agree," I said. "Because I've been there."
"I love you, Mom. Are you still happy my hips came in?"
"Of course," I said. "But I'm a little worried you're growing up too fast. I hope you'll always know how much I love you, girl."
She hugged me tight, and inside I cackled like a mad--yet youthful--witch.
I couldn't help smiling as I thought, "The Scribe loves her hips more than that ten-year-old boy. Problem adverted, until another day!"
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Just admiring myself," she said breathlessly. "Mom, this is one of the best days of my life."
"Ummm . . . Why?"
"Because my hips came in, and that means now I can have a boyfriend."
Where did that logic come from? I've never heard anything like it!
What? When you're five you start school. When you're sixteen, you drive. When you twenty-one, you can drink. But when your hips come in, oh that's all the rage because it means you can start dating.
Plus, how do hips come in anyway? That sounds awfully painful--far worse than when my milk came in. In fact, I think my hips finally appeared when I was dilated to a ten on the delivery table! And let me tell you, that pain WAS NOT worth beauty!
To top things off, the whole "hip thing" made me a bit sad.
If I'd never had kids, I wouldn't have hips . . . and if I didn't have hips, I should NOT have been dating. And if I should NOT have been dating, I wouldn't have kids. And if I didn't have kids, well, that sounded like the cycle of death!
I felt positively sinful then. I'd broken a rule, something The Scribe thought was important. I had dated WITHOUT HIPS!
"Wow, those are great hips," I said, even though I couldn't see them, "but you still can't date until you're sixteen."
Her big lip pouted. "But Mo-om. There's a really cute guy at school."
A guy--they're in fourth grade!
"He's sweet and nice," she went on. "He's even funny and he has a mohawk." What a bonus--seriously. "And he reminds me of . . . of Daddy!"
Oh, now I knew she played with fire.
"That's dangerous. Once a girl like you falls for a boy like your daddy . . . there's no looking back."
"Really?" She giggled, and I realized the conversation had gone the wrong direction.
"No boyfriends," I said.
"But he's in a band."
"No boyfr--. Wait, what?! He's nine."
"Ten," she corrected with so much pride, I couldn't help myself.
"Oh, an older man."
"And he plays the guitar."
"You still can't date him. If you date, then you'll have to break up."
"But you just said there'd be no looking back."
I rolled my eyes. I hate it when kids use my own words against me.
"Fine," she said, sweet like mud pie. "I won't date him. I'll tell him you said 'no,' but that I wish we could. Our love with be something people write about, like Ang and Katara in The Last Airbender."
"Maybe I'll let you date when you stop comparing your burning love to a cartoon romance."
"Mo-om, you know what I mean."
"Plus, you've forgotten the other rule about hips. If you date him, your hips might go away."
"Seriously?" she asked and I nodded.
"Wow," she said. "Are you lying?"
"No. I wouldn't lie about this."
"I don't know if he's worth it." She finally decided.
"Well, you better be sure."
"Yeah," she said. "Maybe having a boyfriend isn't all it's cut out to be. A life without hips, well, that wouldn't be fun at all."
"I agree," I said. "Because I've been there."
"I love you, Mom. Are you still happy my hips came in?"
"Of course," I said. "But I'm a little worried you're growing up too fast. I hope you'll always know how much I love you, girl."
She hugged me tight, and inside I cackled like a mad--yet youthful--witch.
I couldn't help smiling as I thought, "The Scribe loves her hips more than that ten-year-old boy. Problem adverted, until another day!"
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Do I have bad luck?
Do I have bad luck, or in some strange way, is it good luck?
Yesterday I took my girls to tumbling, and just as I left the parking lot, The Zombie Elf (my three-year-old) said he had to pee.
"Seriously?" I huffed and turned back toward the shopping center with the tumbling building, a mechanic shop and a gas station.
On a side note, do you remember me writing about that mechanic shop and the guy who almost died? Here's that story if you want to check it out:
"I can't make it," The Zombie Elf screamed like Brave Heart. "I have to go peeee peeee real bad!"
There were only a couple options. He could pee his pants, or I could let him go in the parking lot.
We were close to a lone parking spot by the second bay of the mechanic shop. And sometimes when you're a mother, risks must be taken.
I lurched to a halt, opened The Zombie's door, told him to take off his Incredible Hulk underwear and pee from the van--at the same angle as the wind!
But although I waited awhile, the poor kid wouldn't pee. I did a typical mom thing then. I talked to him about rushing rivers. I made a "pssst" sound to make the passing easier. I sang about raindrops and roses. I danced--I pleaded!
It got so bad that I needed to pee, and kept thinking how we could have made it to a toilet. Worries cluttered my mind. After all, we waited by the second bay; when I'd been a mechanic, that was always THE WORST bay in the whole damn place.
I looked up into the sky and refused to turn around, I just had the feeling some person was there.
Now, the funny thing is that when I looked up, The Zombie Elf finally peed. I guess he'd just needed me to look away the whole time. Now I know!
I helped him put his pants back on. I sang again, this time about super zombies and children who make my heart shine.
Mid-song, I turned around, and that's when I decided I might have the craziest luck in the world. Another truth hit me as well; the second bay really does suck!
Would you like to know who stood watching me as I sang and danced, as I whispered and cried for my son to pee in A PARKING LOT?
It was the waiter who thinks I have The Clap!!! If you haven't read that story--and you're curious--here it is:
"Seriously?" I huffed and turned back toward the shopping center with the tumbling building, a mechanic shop and a gas station.
On a side note, do you remember me writing about that mechanic shop and the guy who almost died? Here's that story if you want to check it out:
Wrong Place . . . Wrong Time?
"I can't make it," The Zombie Elf screamed like Brave Heart. "I have to go peeee peeee real bad!"
There were only a couple options. He could pee his pants, or I could let him go in the parking lot.
We were close to a lone parking spot by the second bay of the mechanic shop. And sometimes when you're a mother, risks must be taken.
I lurched to a halt, opened The Zombie's door, told him to take off his Incredible Hulk underwear and pee from the van--at the same angle as the wind!
But although I waited awhile, the poor kid wouldn't pee. I did a typical mom thing then. I talked to him about rushing rivers. I made a "pssst" sound to make the passing easier. I sang about raindrops and roses. I danced--I pleaded!
It got so bad that I needed to pee, and kept thinking how we could have made it to a toilet. Worries cluttered my mind. After all, we waited by the second bay; when I'd been a mechanic, that was always THE WORST bay in the whole damn place.
I looked up into the sky and refused to turn around, I just had the feeling some person was there.
Now, the funny thing is that when I looked up, The Zombie Elf finally peed. I guess he'd just needed me to look away the whole time. Now I know!
I helped him put his pants back on. I sang again, this time about super zombies and children who make my heart shine.
Mid-song, I turned around, and that's when I decided I might have the craziest luck in the world. Another truth hit me as well; the second bay really does suck!
Would you like to know who stood watching me as I sang and danced, as I whispered and cried for my son to pee in A PARKING LOT?
It was the waiter who thinks I have The Clap!!!
If you haven't read that story--and you're curious--here it is:
I waved and smiled, trying to be the bigger person, but that man just groaned and turned around. What a jerk--maybe he's served one too many crabby salads!
So, that was the extent of my excitement yesterday.
I keep wondering though, why do these things happen to me?
So, that was the extent of my excitement yesterday.
I keep wondering though, why do these things happen to me?
Someone once said I have a flashing sign on my forehead, and all I need to do is turn it off. Could it be that simple? The off button does sound delightful, but just a little too boring for my taste anyway.
When it really comes down to it, I'll take my luck the way it is, even if I never know what to expect. Sometimes luck is like beauty; it's all in the eye of the beholder.
When it really comes down to it, I'll take my luck the way it is, even if I never know what to expect. Sometimes luck is like beauty; it's all in the eye of the beholder.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Udderly Senseless; The Blog War Continues
First off, let me show you . . .
Here he is: 
So, now that you have faces to put with the names, let the madness begin.
At approximately 1pm on Saturday the 8th, I (the victim) talked to my brother (the culprit).
"Shane, I have a real problem. Ruby's been bullied and now things are getting out of control. How would you handle a bully?"
My guru of a brother--that gift to humanity--responded quite wisely.
And it was an amazing response considering I didn't give him all of the details about how The Bully pranks us when The Scribe can't play. Or how she'll doorbell ditch our house after her mother has gone to sleep!
It's so aggravating when I finally get my children to sleep and someone DOORBELL DITCHES us and wakes everyone up! Ahhhhh! Plus, her poor mother doesn't even know where her nine-year-old kid is late at night.
Anyway, the day went on and I couldn't believe all of the crazy problems we're having with the bully. I ran into a couple of my neighbors and they've apparently heard terrible rumors about me and The Scribe. My neighbors said The Bully's mother had talked to everyone, saying wretched things.
I ended up talking to my brother again, since he's practically my best friend. But while on the phone, the conversation changed. "Elisa," he said. "Can I come talk to you? You've just been working so hard on your books and I want them to have the best chance possible."
"O . . . kay," I said. I didn't know why he'd want to come over at eight o'clock at night, but who am I to argue with a guru?
So, my brother arrived shortly after that. The whole time we visited I kept worrying about The Bully and if she'd doorbell ditch us while my brother was there.
Then it happened! We hadn't been sitting there five minutes, when someone actually POUNDED on the door.
I couldn't contain my rage. No one messes with me in front of company--NO ONE! I opened the window, "Get the heck out of here!"
Then, Cade, who's half ninja, ran outside and attempted to chase the person down. "They left something on the porch," Cade said.
I went after him and indeed, there was a package on our top step.
A dilapidated note rested on the top. "I know what you've been up to. Watch out!" the note read and was signed by The Bully's mother.
I became irate. Seriously, what have I ever done to her, and now she's gossiping about me and leaving bombs on my front porch?
I immediately picked up my cell phone. "That's it," I said. "I'm calling the police." Since I love them oh so much. "I'm not putting up with this crap anymore. She's said terrible things about my kids, teachers at school, some of my friends and their kids. She's tried getting people fired and I, for one, WILL NOT be bullied anymore."
But then my brother snatched my phone. "Don't call the police," he said with a silver tongue. "Why would you call them, when you haven't even opened the package?"
It was confusing, and looking back, I wonder if that's how Eve felt before the fall.
"I don't want to tamper with . . . evidence," I whispered because when I turned, he had a camera in his hand--a PINK camera.
"What's going on with the camera?"
"I had some pictures to show you, but while I have it here, why don't we videotape this for your blog."
Oh ye, unsuspecting readers, see how crafty brothers can be! Why was he pressuring me to open the box--the same man who adverts danger at any cost? Normally he's quite cautious, treading softly, talking quietly. Yet, this time, he pushed me to shun the police and open . . . the box of doom? Like Lindsay Lohan and her crazy decisions, it just didn't make sense
So, being a naive sap, I trusted him. I pulled off some tape, opened one of the box's flaps and let my brother videotape the whole thing.
But when I opened the first flap, a hissing sound dismantled my composure. "It's a bomb," I thought. "This woman is nuts, and she's sent me a bomb."
So many solutions crossed my mind. I could throw the box and look away--that might fix things--or I could grab the box and run toward The Bully's house. Sure I might explode in the process, but maybe the villains would get their just rewards and my own family would be safe.
Just as I'd made up my mind and was about to run with the heavy box of doom, my brother said something strange, "Damn it!"
I turned to him, completely surprised, udderly senseless. "You did this?" I asked and waited for his response . . .
For the answer AND the video, please visit:
Good thing I have a new prank in store for my brother! Ha ha, this should be good.
The culprit!
Here he is:
And here he is again!
(Trying to look INNOCENT.)
On the other side,
since there's usually more than one side to every story,
since there's usually more than one side to every story,
here's . . .
The victim
The victim
And again:
I really like those jeans she's wearing; I bet they cost $1 at a garage sale, seriously (they did)!
So, now that you have faces to put with the names, let the madness begin.
At approximately 1pm on Saturday the 8th, I (the victim) talked to my brother (the culprit).
"Shane, I have a real problem. Ruby's been bullied and now things are getting out of control. How would you handle a bully?"
My guru of a brother--that gift to humanity--responded quite wisely.
And it was an amazing response considering I didn't give him all of the details about how The Bully pranks us when The Scribe can't play. Or how she'll doorbell ditch our house after her mother has gone to sleep!
It's so aggravating when I finally get my children to sleep and someone DOORBELL DITCHES us and wakes everyone up! Ahhhhh! Plus, her poor mother doesn't even know where her nine-year-old kid is late at night.
Anyway, the day went on and I couldn't believe all of the crazy problems we're having with the bully. I ran into a couple of my neighbors and they've apparently heard terrible rumors about me and The Scribe. My neighbors said The Bully's mother had talked to everyone, saying wretched things.
I ended up talking to my brother again, since he's practically my best friend. But while on the phone, the conversation changed. "Elisa," he said. "Can I come talk to you? You've just been working so hard on your books and I want them to have the best chance possible."
"O . . . kay," I said. I didn't know why he'd want to come over at eight o'clock at night, but who am I to argue with a guru?
So, my brother arrived shortly after that. The whole time we visited I kept worrying about The Bully and if she'd doorbell ditch us while my brother was there.
Then it happened! We hadn't been sitting there five minutes, when someone actually POUNDED on the door.
I couldn't contain my rage. No one messes with me in front of company--NO ONE! I opened the window, "Get the heck out of here!"
Then, Cade, who's half ninja, ran outside and attempted to chase the person down. "They left something on the porch," Cade said.
I went after him and indeed, there was a package on our top step.
A dilapidated note rested on the top. "I know what you've been up to. Watch out!" the note read and was signed by The Bully's mother.
I became irate. Seriously, what have I ever done to her, and now she's gossiping about me and leaving bombs on my front porch?
I immediately picked up my cell phone. "That's it," I said. "I'm calling the police." Since I love them oh so much. "I'm not putting up with this crap anymore. She's said terrible things about my kids, teachers at school, some of my friends and their kids. She's tried getting people fired and I, for one, WILL NOT be bullied anymore."
But then my brother snatched my phone. "Don't call the police," he said with a silver tongue. "Why would you call them, when you haven't even opened the package?"
It was confusing, and looking back, I wonder if that's how Eve felt before the fall.
"I don't want to tamper with . . . evidence," I whispered because when I turned, he had a camera in his hand--a PINK camera.
"What's going on with the camera?"
"I had some pictures to show you, but while I have it here, why don't we videotape this for your blog."
Oh ye, unsuspecting readers, see how crafty brothers can be! Why was he pressuring me to open the box--the same man who adverts danger at any cost? Normally he's quite cautious, treading softly, talking quietly. Yet, this time, he pushed me to shun the police and open . . . the box of doom? Like Lindsay Lohan and her crazy decisions, it just didn't make sense
So, being a naive sap, I trusted him. I pulled off some tape, opened one of the box's flaps and let my brother videotape the whole thing.
But when I opened the first flap, a hissing sound dismantled my composure. "It's a bomb," I thought. "This woman is nuts, and she's sent me a bomb."
So many solutions crossed my mind. I could throw the box and look away--that might fix things--or I could grab the box and run toward The Bully's house. Sure I might explode in the process, but maybe the villains would get their just rewards and my own family would be safe.
Just as I'd made up my mind and was about to run with the heavy box of doom, my brother said something strange, "Damn it!"
I turned to him, completely surprised, udderly senseless. "You did this?" I asked and waited for his response . . .
For the answer AND the video, please visit:
Good thing I have a new prank in store for my brother! Ha ha, this should be good.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
My Husband MADE ME CRY!!!
If you've read Bible Girl & the Bad Boy, then you already know part of this story, but just bear with me; it'll get new AND crazy in just a minute.
I didn't feel hungry anymore. "Yes," I said. Who could forget? It was the same day our son was born with defects two years later.
After we'd taken our vows, Cade's cousin drove us back to their apartment.
"So, are you excited to consummate the marriage? Are you ready?" his cousin asked.
I paled. I'd been so stupid. I hadn't thought of that.
"We can wait, Man," Cade said. "We're not in a rush."
"Oh, yes you are," the cousin said and I hated him for those words. "If you don't have sex tonight, then the marriage isn't binding. You have to do the deed. You have to do it tonight."
My insides shook. Marriage sounded like a fun fairytale, full of Godmothers, snowy veils and excitement. Sex, well that sounded horrific.
The point is that things went horribly.
Cade led me into his room. Sex lasted for a moment before I burst from the room, my hair wild and makeup smeared with tears. Cade's cousin saw me and started clapping. They were big, resounding claps that killed my ears. "Good job. Way-ta consummate the marriage."
I pulled myself from the memory and looked at Cade. It's been almost eleven years since that awkward moment, but it still bothers me.
I was so innocent back then. Hell, people still think I'm innocent now, and I hate it. I want to look like the tough chick no one messes with. Maybe if I join the Navy, it would do the trick.
I even plucked my eyebrows last year, hoping I'd come off with an air of mystery, but no . . . people just thought I was more religious--and then they asked me to watch their kids!
No one thinks I swear. No one thinks I like vodka. No one knows I'm good at playing pool or that I've been invited to sew outfits for strippers! Why? Because I look too innocent.
I was glaring at Cade by then, mad about my innocent face, so upset it seemed like everything was his fault!
I pushed the chips and salsa farther away from myself.
A bunch of people had cluttered into the restaurant. I heard their happy conversations clearly, but none of that mattered.
"What do you remember most about the night we took our vows?" Cade asked before shoving chips into his mouth.
I thought of his cousin clapping. It made me so angry, I raised my voice. "You want to know what I remember?" I asked, and everyone around hushed. "I remember, that on our wedding night, your cousin gave me The Clap."
Everyone gasped, actually gasped. I couldn't understand what they were staring at, unless they'd been listening, and knew how terrible the clapping had been!
You should have seen Cade's face. He started choking on his chips. His right hand turned into a fist and he hit himself on the chest. I've never seen someone so masochistic--in all my life! He whispered then, "He didn't give you The Clap, Sweetheart."
"Oh, yes he did! Don't you remember when I ran from that room? He was clapping like mad. He wouldn't quit clapping. It went on and on--like it was in his damn job description!"
Cade's look of horror suddenly turned to whimsical delight. "Ummm, Elisa. Do you even know what . . . The Clap is?" He looked so roguish, so absolutely handsome as he mocked me.
Yet, how could he be so degrading to his own wife? "Sure I do," I said, puffing up with the type of pride only an education can boast. "It's when someone gives you an atta-boy, a pat on the back. You've been given . . . The Clap."
"Wow . . . so, that's not what it means. The Clap . . ." He held my hand and squeezed it. "Now, get ready for this. The Clap, is an STD."
I gaped at him. Did he really think I was that stupid? He'd have to come up with something much better if he wanted to fool me! "No it's not. You re so full of crap." I knew his tactics. I wouldn't fall for his suave deceptions or his tingly touch!
"Seriously," Cade said. "You still don't believe me?"
"No," I said.
That's when Cade decided to call for reinforcements. He motioned for our waiter to come over.
"Oh, my gosh, Cade. Don't talk to our waiter about this. Please . . ." But he wouldn't relent and as the waiter came closer, I thought I could hide under the booth. Or, I could put the napkin over my head and shut my eyes really tightly. Out of sight, out of mind?
The waiter sauntered over. He held fancy drinks on a platter. He'd tied his apron just so. The man was educated, probably attending The U of U, and he wouldn't believe my husbands lies about The Clap.
"Sorry to be such an inconvenience," my sweet, charming husband said. "But we've had a disagreement and I'm hoping you can solve it for us."
"Absolutely Sir," the man said with so much pride I could have melted into my leather chair.
"Can you kindly explain to my wife, about what The Clap is."
I looked up expectantly. Here it was, the moment of truth, but instead of the man saying the REAL meaing, his face looked skidish, like a white-faced mime. His once sophisticated eyes, darted around seeking an escape. His lips turned dismal and thin!
"The Clap," he cleared his throat, "is gonorrhea."
"Ummm, excuse me?" I said.
"Yes, Ma'am. Why, what did you think it was?"
"Well, I thought it was an . . . atta-boy," my voice sounded far away.
"The waiter laughed so hard. "Seriously? You're kidding."
"Nope. I'm really not."
"That is funny . . . but why were you talking about The Clap anyway?" he mumbled, but didn't give us time to answer.
He wouldn't come near us after that. He didn't refill our drinks. Even at the end, when he asked if we'd consider having dessert, he talked from about fifty feet away.
"Cade, I can't believe I didn't know what that meant."
He laughed and I couldn't help it anymore. I laughed too--so hard I cried. Everyone stared at us again, like we'd gone insane.
I saw my mom and brother when the clapping date had ended. "Do you know what The Clap is?" I asked my mom.
"Yeah," she said. "It's a slang for getting an STD."
I turned to my brother. "Why in the Hell didn't you ever tell me what The Clap was?"
"Because." He smiled. "If you never knew what it was, we figured you'd have less chance of getting it."
"No wonder people think I'm innocent."
"Yeah, " my brother laughed, "it's probably because you are."
Yesterday Cade and I went on a date. We bought coffee at Barnes and Noble. We walked around the city, laughed and joked. But suddenly things got serious. Both of us sat at a restaurant, and talked about the past.
"Do you remember the night we took our vows?" Cade asked.I didn't feel hungry anymore. "Yes," I said. Who could forget? It was the same day our son was born with defects two years later.
After we'd taken our vows, Cade's cousin drove us back to their apartment.
"So, are you excited to consummate the marriage? Are you ready?" his cousin asked.
I paled. I'd been so stupid. I hadn't thought of that.
"We can wait, Man," Cade said. "We're not in a rush."
"Oh, yes you are," the cousin said and I hated him for those words. "If you don't have sex tonight, then the marriage isn't binding. You have to do the deed. You have to do it tonight."
My insides shook. Marriage sounded like a fun fairytale, full of Godmothers, snowy veils and excitement. Sex, well that sounded horrific.
The point is that things went horribly.
Cade led me into his room. Sex lasted for a moment before I burst from the room, my hair wild and makeup smeared with tears. Cade's cousin saw me and started clapping. They were big, resounding claps that killed my ears. "Good job. Way-ta consummate the marriage."
I pulled myself from the memory and looked at Cade. It's been almost eleven years since that awkward moment, but it still bothers me.
I was so innocent back then. Hell, people still think I'm innocent now, and I hate it. I want to look like the tough chick no one messes with. Maybe if I join the Navy, it would do the trick.
I even plucked my eyebrows last year, hoping I'd come off with an air of mystery, but no . . . people just thought I was more religious--and then they asked me to watch their kids!
No one thinks I swear. No one thinks I like vodka. No one knows I'm good at playing pool or that I've been invited to sew outfits for strippers! Why? Because I look too innocent.
I was glaring at Cade by then, mad about my innocent face, so upset it seemed like everything was his fault!
I pushed the chips and salsa farther away from myself.
A bunch of people had cluttered into the restaurant. I heard their happy conversations clearly, but none of that mattered.
"What do you remember most about the night we took our vows?" Cade asked before shoving chips into his mouth.
I thought of his cousin clapping. It made me so angry, I raised my voice. "You want to know what I remember?" I asked, and everyone around hushed. "I remember, that on our wedding night, your cousin gave me The Clap."
Everyone gasped, actually gasped. I couldn't understand what they were staring at, unless they'd been listening, and knew how terrible the clapping had been!
You should have seen Cade's face. He started choking on his chips. His right hand turned into a fist and he hit himself on the chest. I've never seen someone so masochistic--in all my life! He whispered then, "He didn't give you The Clap, Sweetheart."
"Oh, yes he did! Don't you remember when I ran from that room? He was clapping like mad. He wouldn't quit clapping. It went on and on--like it was in his damn job description!"
Cade's look of horror suddenly turned to whimsical delight. "Ummm, Elisa. Do you even know what . . . The Clap is?" He looked so roguish, so absolutely handsome as he mocked me.
Yet, how could he be so degrading to his own wife? "Sure I do," I said, puffing up with the type of pride only an education can boast. "It's when someone gives you an atta-boy, a pat on the back. You've been given . . . The Clap."
"Wow . . . so, that's not what it means. The Clap . . ." He held my hand and squeezed it. "Now, get ready for this. The Clap, is an STD."
I gaped at him. Did he really think I was that stupid? He'd have to come up with something much better if he wanted to fool me! "No it's not. You re so full of crap." I knew his tactics. I wouldn't fall for his suave deceptions or his tingly touch!
"Seriously," Cade said. "You still don't believe me?"
"No," I said.
That's when Cade decided to call for reinforcements. He motioned for our waiter to come over.
"Oh, my gosh, Cade. Don't talk to our waiter about this. Please . . ." But he wouldn't relent and as the waiter came closer, I thought I could hide under the booth. Or, I could put the napkin over my head and shut my eyes really tightly. Out of sight, out of mind?
The waiter sauntered over. He held fancy drinks on a platter. He'd tied his apron just so. The man was educated, probably attending The U of U, and he wouldn't believe my husbands lies about The Clap.
"Sorry to be such an inconvenience," my sweet, charming husband said. "But we've had a disagreement and I'm hoping you can solve it for us."
"Absolutely Sir," the man said with so much pride I could have melted into my leather chair.
"Can you kindly explain to my wife, about what The Clap is."
I looked up expectantly. Here it was, the moment of truth, but instead of the man saying the REAL meaing, his face looked skidish, like a white-faced mime. His once sophisticated eyes, darted around seeking an escape. His lips turned dismal and thin!
"The Clap," he cleared his throat, "is gonorrhea."
"Ummm, excuse me?" I said.
"Yes, Ma'am. Why, what did you think it was?"
"Well, I thought it was an . . . atta-boy," my voice sounded far away.
"The waiter laughed so hard. "Seriously? You're kidding."
"Nope. I'm really not."
"That is funny . . . but why were you talking about The Clap anyway?" he mumbled, but didn't give us time to answer.
He wouldn't come near us after that. He didn't refill our drinks. Even at the end, when he asked if we'd consider having dessert, he talked from about fifty feet away.
"Cade, I can't believe I didn't know what that meant."
He laughed and I couldn't help it anymore. I laughed too--so hard I cried. Everyone stared at us again, like we'd gone insane.
I saw my mom and brother when the clapping date had ended. "Do you know what The Clap is?" I asked my mom.
"Yeah," she said. "It's a slang for getting an STD."
I turned to my brother. "Why in the Hell didn't you ever tell me what The Clap was?"
"Because." He smiled. "If you never knew what it was, we figured you'd have less chance of getting it."
"No wonder people think I'm innocent."
"Yeah, " my brother laughed, "it's probably because you are."
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Thor is the God of Thunder, and The Oracle is My Little Girl
Despite my constant silliness, several of the children in the neighborhood love me. They'll come over to ask advice about writing, making friends, and avoiding trouble. I've read many of their stories which have the most brilliant ideas.
Those darling children eat zucchini bread and talk to me about plots. We discuss holes in stories and how the characters need to be "real." The kids have learned fast, and I swear they're wiser than Hera.
So, yesterday, when a cute little trio of children walked up my driveway, I had to smile.
I knew two of them. One is a gorgeous girl with long black hair and blue eyes that see subplots from a mile away. She reminds me of Snow White. Her brother walked beside her. He's very quiet, but extremely smart. He's good at telling stories, but mostly just interested in zucchini bread.
As they came closer, I noticed the siblings walked with a new girl and I felt curious, wondering why they would bring her.
Could it be to meet the puppy?
Did she like zucchini AND bread?
Did she have a story she wanted to share?
That was when the boy stopped at the back of my van. His eyes bulged from his face. He couldn't quit staring, and then his sister rolled her eyes and tugged him along.
Every time people stop by my van, I think of how I need to remove the bumper stickers. I guess I put them there because I live in a VERY religious area and I want everyone to know I'm not religious, and they shouldn't try converting me.
It's hilarious when snooty people see the stickers because they always pale and walk away. I guess it's since I have two stickers. One if of a very voluptuous Betty Boop and the other is of a half-naked fairy. It doesn't show anything bad, not really, and it does make for some amusing moments when judgmental people walk past with their fancy dogs and nice fur coats.
I thought all of that as the children knocked on my door. I might replace those stickers with some of Thorbecause he's good looking for the sake of the children.
After all, Thor is the god of Thunder--that can't be bad, right?
"Hello," I said. "You've brought a friend?"
"Yes," Snow White said. "She's here to speak with Doctor Jones."
Snow White is very theatrical. She always talks like she's a queen at the renaissance fair. I LOVE it.
"Doctor Jones?" I asked, thinking about my one-year-old. "She's sleeping, but it is time for her to wake up. Can you wait here while I check?"
The boy's eyes turned questioning.
"The zucchini bread is on the counter. I'll be back in a minute."
They all made themselves at home and munched on homemade bread. The Scribe, The Hippie and my Zombie all sat with them. I made sure they were completely happy before going to check on the baby.
It wasn't a surprise that Doctor Jones was awake because even from the hallway I knew she'd made a poopy. Oh how glorious a mother's job can be. Cleaning buns, scrubbing floors and making porcelain thrones shine. I drew Miss Jones from her crib and as I changed her diaper, I heard Snow White talking.
"There's something strange about that baby," she said. "Remember the book with the oracle? Well, I think this kid is a real one. When Elisa wasn't looking, I've asked the baby all sorts of questions. I even asked if Tommy liked me. She said 'yes' and he did! When I asked if I'd fail my class, she said 'no.' She was right both times! So, I think Doctor Jones . . . can tell the future!"
The children hushed. I held in a giggle as I thought about The Scribe and The Hippie. This could be golden!
"Are you still sure you want to ask her your question?" the boy mumbled, obviously eating.
"Yes," the new girl said. "I can't wait."
So, I brought Doctor Jones to meet them. She has dark brown, curly hair and when she wakes up, it is WILD. She won't let me put anything in it, maybe it cramps her seer-like powers. She looked like Einstein after being electrocuted. And her big blue eyes did seem strange amongst that mess of dark hair.
Snow White's friend gaped at her and sighed. Apparently, Doctor Jones was even more impressive than she'd hoped!
Now remember, the children had no idea I'd heard them, and after we'd talked a moment about Snow White's story, she said, "Elisa, I've told my friend all about your fantasy book. She'd like to read it when it's published. But, I hope you don't mind, can you show it to her now?"
"Ummm . . . sure. I'll just take Doctor Jones with me."
"Oh, no," Snow White said a bit too quickly. "You're always so busy. Why don't you let us hold her while you're finding the book?"
So she was a crafty sort! No wonder her stories keep me reading breathlessly.
I left the room then, but stayed around the corner so I could hear every word.
"Hold her on your lap when you ask the question . . . if you don't hold her, she'll give the wrong answer."
The Hippie spoke first. "If I would have sold mints at school, would I be a millionaire?"
"Yes." Doctor Jones giggled.
The Scribe went next. "Are you really a powerful oracle?"
"Ya." Doctor Jones said.
It must have been the boy's turn because he asked, "Will any of my future girlfriends . . . look-like-the-stickers-on-Elisa's-van?"
"No!" Doctor Jones yelled and everyone laughed.
Then, I heard the new girl's voice. "Hold her like this?"
"Yes," Snow White said. "Go ahead, we came all this way; just ask her."
The new girl spoke so quietly. I strained to hear. "Will my parents still love me, even if they do get divorced?"
Silence for a minute. I worried my baby would give the wrong answer. I clutched the book in my hands. This could be tragic!
"Will they still love me?" the girl asked, louder this time.
"Yes," Doctor Jones said so seriously no one laughed. "YES!" she said again.
I came up the stairs shortly after that. What do you say to a kid who's going through something so hard? What?
Well, although I thought about it, I didn't know what to do, so I told about a million cow jokes--some that I learned from you. I got her laughing and smiling and just before she left, I gave her a copy of my book.
Everyone else stood in the driveway, but the girl came back to the house and thanked me one more time.
"You know the great thing?" I whispered to her. "I heard you talking to Doctor Jones. And . . . I want you to know she really can tell the future. And if she says your parents will always love you, then they will. Plus, look at you--you're amazing! God is looking out for you. He always has and always will."
She walked away and smiled every time she looked back. She and Snow White waved 'goodbye' before pulling Snow White's brother away from the back of my van.
I thought of those stickers again. I may not be religious, but I sure do have faith in God. Regardless though, it might be a good idea to switch those stickers out; I've always loved thunder AND biceps anyway.
I smirked because it was a happy moment. That's when I heard The Scribe and The Hippie interrogating their sister in the kitchen. "Well, will we get iPads for Christmas? Yes or no?"
Silence.
"Answer us," The Hippie coaxed, speaking in a tone even sweeter than Thor's outfit.
"Jones, say 'yes.' Come on, Baby. Say 'YES.' One little word. Come on, Baby," The Scribe said.
I walked into the room and watched as Doctor Jones took a big breath. She looked at me, smiled, and then said, "NO . . . way."
It was hilarious. Plus, maybe Snow White was right. That kid might be an oracle!
Those darling children eat zucchini bread and talk to me about plots. We discuss holes in stories and how the characters need to be "real." The kids have learned fast, and I swear they're wiser than Hera.
So, yesterday, when a cute little trio of children walked up my driveway, I had to smile.
I knew two of them. One is a gorgeous girl with long black hair and blue eyes that see subplots from a mile away. She reminds me of Snow White. Her brother walked beside her. He's very quiet, but extremely smart. He's good at telling stories, but mostly just interested in zucchini bread.
As they came closer, I noticed the siblings walked with a new girl and I felt curious, wondering why they would bring her.
Could it be to meet the puppy?
Did she like zucchini AND bread?
Did she have a story she wanted to share?
That was when the boy stopped at the back of my van. His eyes bulged from his face. He couldn't quit staring, and then his sister rolled her eyes and tugged him along.
Every time people stop by my van, I think of how I need to remove the bumper stickers. I guess I put them there because I live in a VERY religious area and I want everyone to know I'm not religious, and they shouldn't try converting me.
It's hilarious when snooty people see the stickers because they always pale and walk away. I guess it's since I have two stickers. One if of a very voluptuous Betty Boop and the other is of a half-naked fairy. It doesn't show anything bad, not really, and it does make for some amusing moments when judgmental people walk past with their fancy dogs and nice fur coats.
I thought all of that as the children knocked on my door. I might replace those stickers with some of Thor
After all, Thor is the god of Thunder--that can't be bad, right?
"Yes," Snow White said. "She's here to speak with Doctor Jones."
Snow White is very theatrical. She always talks like she's a queen at the renaissance fair. I LOVE it.
"Doctor Jones?" I asked, thinking about my one-year-old. "She's sleeping, but it is time for her to wake up. Can you wait here while I check?"
The boy's eyes turned questioning.
"The zucchini bread is on the counter. I'll be back in a minute."
They all made themselves at home and munched on homemade bread. The Scribe, The Hippie and my Zombie all sat with them. I made sure they were completely happy before going to check on the baby.
It wasn't a surprise that Doctor Jones was awake because even from the hallway I knew she'd made a poopy. Oh how glorious a mother's job can be. Cleaning buns, scrubbing floors and making porcelain thrones shine. I drew Miss Jones from her crib and as I changed her diaper, I heard Snow White talking.
"There's something strange about that baby," she said. "Remember the book with the oracle? Well, I think this kid is a real one. When Elisa wasn't looking, I've asked the baby all sorts of questions. I even asked if Tommy liked me. She said 'yes' and he did! When I asked if I'd fail my class, she said 'no.' She was right both times! So, I think Doctor Jones . . . can tell the future!"
The children hushed. I held in a giggle as I thought about The Scribe and The Hippie. This could be golden!
"Are you still sure you want to ask her your question?" the boy mumbled, obviously eating.
"Yes," the new girl said. "I can't wait."
So, I brought Doctor Jones to meet them. She has dark brown, curly hair and when she wakes up, it is WILD. She won't let me put anything in it, maybe it cramps her seer-like powers. She looked like Einstein after being electrocuted. And her big blue eyes did seem strange amongst that mess of dark hair.
Snow White's friend gaped at her and sighed. Apparently, Doctor Jones was even more impressive than she'd hoped!
Now remember, the children had no idea I'd heard them, and after we'd talked a moment about Snow White's story, she said, "Elisa, I've told my friend all about your fantasy book. She'd like to read it when it's published. But, I hope you don't mind, can you show it to her now?"
"Ummm . . . sure. I'll just take Doctor Jones with me."
"Oh, no," Snow White said a bit too quickly. "You're always so busy. Why don't you let us hold her while you're finding the book?"
So she was a crafty sort! No wonder her stories keep me reading breathlessly.
I left the room then, but stayed around the corner so I could hear every word.
"Hold her on your lap when you ask the question . . . if you don't hold her, she'll give the wrong answer."
The Hippie spoke first. "If I would have sold mints at school, would I be a millionaire?"
"Yes." Doctor Jones giggled.
The Scribe went next. "Are you really a powerful oracle?"
"Ya." Doctor Jones said.
It must have been the boy's turn because he asked, "Will any of my future girlfriends . . . look-like-the-stickers-on-Elisa's-van?"
"No!" Doctor Jones yelled and everyone laughed.
Then, I heard the new girl's voice. "Hold her like this?"
"Yes," Snow White said. "Go ahead, we came all this way; just ask her."
The new girl spoke so quietly. I strained to hear. "Will my parents still love me, even if they do get divorced?"
Silence for a minute. I worried my baby would give the wrong answer. I clutched the book in my hands. This could be tragic!
"Will they still love me?" the girl asked, louder this time.
"Yes," Doctor Jones said so seriously no one laughed. "YES!" she said again.
I came up the stairs shortly after that. What do you say to a kid who's going through something so hard? What?
Well, although I thought about it, I didn't know what to do, so I told about a million cow jokes--some that I learned from you. I got her laughing and smiling and just before she left, I gave her a copy of my book.
Everyone else stood in the driveway, but the girl came back to the house and thanked me one more time.
"You know the great thing?" I whispered to her. "I heard you talking to Doctor Jones. And . . . I want you to know she really can tell the future. And if she says your parents will always love you, then they will. Plus, look at you--you're amazing! God is looking out for you. He always has and always will."
She walked away and smiled every time she looked back. She and Snow White waved 'goodbye' before pulling Snow White's brother away from the back of my van.
I thought of those stickers again. I may not be religious, but I sure do have faith in God. Regardless though, it might be a good idea to switch those stickers out; I've always loved thunder AND biceps anyway.
I smirked because it was a happy moment. That's when I heard The Scribe and The Hippie interrogating their sister in the kitchen. "Well, will we get iPads for Christmas? Yes or no?"
Silence.
"Answer us," The Hippie coaxed, speaking in a tone even sweeter than Thor's outfit.
"Jones, say 'yes.' Come on, Baby. Say 'YES.' One little word. Come on, Baby," The Scribe said.
I walked into the room and watched as Doctor Jones took a big breath. She looked at me, smiled, and then said, "NO . . . way."
It was hilarious. Plus, maybe Snow White was right. That kid might be an oracle!
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