I had boobs for a day!

One of my best friends called. She said, “My fourth-grader is wearing a bra now.”
    I pulled the phone away from my head and looked at it for a sec. “What?”
    “A bra.”
    Well, didn't that beat all.
    “But I didn't want to buy her one of those sex bras from Victoria Secret. So we went and got her a regular one at the kids' store in the mall.”
    That was as funny as Hell, how she called it a sex bra. “That's just insane," I said. "My kid's in third grade and she still looks like a baby.”
    “Well, just get ready for it. A girl in my daughter's class already started her period.”
    After I gathered the shock from my voice, I asked, “So, she's wearing a training bra. Looks like Santa came five years early . . . this year. He must a brought her her two front boobs and her teeth.”
    “Except it's not a training bra. She's in a size 32A.”
    My mouth jarred open. What the hell! That's the size I wear. I guess it's 'cause I'm so skinny. I don't look like I just escaped from a religious cult or anything, but still . . . “Flip, she's the same size as me. I'm no better than a board with water rings and that just proves it!”
    My friend paused, not knowing what to say. “Oh, honey. She doesn't look nearly as big as you do.” As if she's even checked out my boobs. So basically this kid has mosquito boobs like I do, but I shouldn't be sad because I look bigger—that's fantastic. I wonder what God was thinking when He made me. Maybe He thought, “Hey, I'll give this one an indentation. At least she'll have something in common with Goldie Hawn, and that can't be all bad.”
    I thought about all of this when a delivery man knocked on the front door. They were these big resounding knocks. Boom. Boom. Boom. Everything shook in the house except my boobs.
    "Is there an Elisa here?" he asked when I opened the door.
    "That's me," I said a bit stunned.  He handed me a huge box from Canada and I kinda felt like I'd finally made it in life.  After all, getting mail from Canada is epic.
    I took the box to the front room and looked at the return address.  Pat Hatt!  No way--that guy's part-genius, part Seuss!  You can see what I mean HERE.  What could he have sent me?
    I gingerly opened the box, not wanting to ruin anything that's been in Canada! Then I pulled out a package that read Miracle Product! Instant Breasts WITHOUT THE PAIN.  
    So Pat Hatt is a genius AND a saint.  I opened the package, thinking it was Miracle Grow.  Maybe I'd stuff it down my bra and become Aphrodite. But when I saw the actual product, I laughed out loud.  Mr. Patt had bought me a . . . Dun Dun Dun . . . blow up bra!
    He's hilarious and it was a pretty funny joke.  I bet they weren't really meant to use.  But I'm a curious sort of gal and I had to put the suckers on.  
    Can you believe it actually looked good?  They did, really!
    So, I was the Little Mermaid, finally getting legs instead of a tail.  Err . . . I mean, boobs instead of desert plains.  
    I wore my blow up bra all day--since magic does exist.  And can I tell you that after all these years of dreaming and scheming, hoping and wishing . . .
    I HATED having boobs! 
   
    #1 I could find all of the dirt bags in a mile radius, because they kept staring at my boobs.  (This made me giggle since I was just made of hot air!  Take that, creeps!)

    #2 Boobs are cumbersome.  I tried playing my violin and the boobs got in the way.   

    #3 I am a sporty chick. I like being able to jump and play, fit into tight spaces.  For instance, that day an idiot parked an inch from my van.  I almost popped a boob.    

    That was the bra's only flaw--fear of popping.  Oh and denting!  Cade hugged me and one side indented.  Can you see it in the picture below?  I tried pushing in the other side, but then it was dented and the other wasn't.  

Yep, the cycle of death.

Anyway, this whole thing got me thinking about the crazy,

       ridiculous expectations we put on ourselves.

Don't believe me? Look at this poor kid!

  

 

So back to the story, after having boobs for a day, I'm not impressed.
God made me who I am for a reason.  I'm not the cookie-cutter mold.  And maybe that's actually something to be proud of.
  And this doesn't go just for me.  We should ALL be thankful for who we are.
Life is short, why spend it wishing we could be different when the fact is, we're lucky to be alive.

So today I took a silly stand--which is really a big step for me.

This is me.  No makeup, not even a padded bra (shocker).  

 

I'm glad I got that blow up bra--thanks, Pat.  You made me realize, 

I know I have my flaws--we all do . . .

but I'm too hard on myself, and maybe (just maybe) I'm okay the way I am.

BUT I still have the blow up bra and if I regress, I can always put it on and remember why I hated having boobs for a day!

Signing off,

Elisa 

I Got Implants--in the Mail!

LOOK what I got for Christmas!

  

Now before you go thinking something that isn't, READ ON!

After all, these puppies came in the mail!

Have you ever felt like you aren't good enough? If you could just have this or that, maybe things would be better? I wrote about this last week here: Do you ever feel worthless?

    Well, I recently learned an amazing lesson--let me explain. . . .
 
Everyone who's read this blog for a while knows how insecure I am/was about my boobs. Here's a perfect example:

At the time, we’d been back in school for a week. I remember because I saw Sarah dressing in the locker room; she was the girl in high school whom everyone wanted to be.

    I always tried changing far in the back where no one would see me. The teachers made three classes change with each other in a big room. I’d rush to my corner, where rows of yucky green lockers stretched. Normally no one bothered me, but that day was different; it was horrible.
    Sarah saw me changing before I even put my shirt on. She pulled my skinny elbow and forced me to stand in front of everyone. I still had my polyester pants on—although it was the 90’s not the 70’s—but everyone just stared at my training bra. Sarah laughed so hard she bent over. I tried getting away, but her two friends, one who looked like a poodle and the other a giant of a girl, grabbed me, and held me there.
    “Hey, look at this,” Sarah sniggered. “Elisa’s got a training bra. She’s got the smallest tits I’ve ever seen.” 

     I felt really small inside AND out, but even though I wanted to hate her, I thought how beautiful God made her. You see, Sarah wasn’t your average beauty; no, she reached beauty queen status before even being a junior.
    As she made fun of me, in front of all those girls, I watched her hair. She had red hair, not Kool-Aid red like I dyed mine, but real red. It was cut into an amazing style, and as if that wasn’t enough, she had dark-tanned skin that almost glowed next to my whiteness.
    I zoned out then, as the girls continued ridiculing me, I focused on a memory of playing the violin at church.

    The Giant and Poodle-face pushed me back toward the corner and broke my trance. “Yeah,” the Giant yelled. “Bible Girl probably lost her virginity to her own finger.”
    A lot of the girls laughed at that one. I tried showing they couldn’t get me down. “Nice one,” I said to the Giant, and when she looked at me she rolled her eyes.

    I put my shirt on fast after that. Then everyone left, and I crumpled onto the cement by the lockers. The air from the vent blew cold on my cheeks and smelled like sweat. I put my face in my hands and sighed thinking I’d never understand people. I couldn’t figure why Sarah, the Giant, and Poodle-face had made fun of me. I’d been nice, but it was never good enough. No matter how much I had changed since junior high, or how many times I waved at them in the hall, it was always the same; they were always mean.
    As I sat there wishing to be back at church, I pulled my Bible from my orange backpack. I opened it and can you believe, the thing fell to the perfect place! Philippians 4:8.

Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things.

It made me feel better. Not that part of me stopped wishing Sarah and her friends might get hit by lightning but because I knew God was looking out for me. I just needed to focus on the good things.
    I stared at my Bible and smiled. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be called Bible Girl. God and my Bible were the only factors that got me through.
    The truth is, though, something changed that day. It wasn’t a drastic change, like going from Jekyll to Hyde. It was something small, but a step nonetheless. It was the first time I thought about running away.

That's the beginning of Bible Girl & the Bad Boy.

    This has been a big issue for me--not because I really want implants, but because part of me feels flawed without them.
    It wasn't until last week that I realized something.  I shouldn't be asking why God made me so flat. Instead, I should be asking why I can't be happy with the way He made me.
 
    I needed you to understand that to prepare you for what happened--it is a bit hilarious, involving a mysterious package I got in the mail.

    To be continued tomorrow in the story: I Had Boobs for a Day!

Prophetic Child! MUST WATCH as he predicts the end of the world.

  COMPLETELY unscripted.  Because let's face it--being four makes it hard to remember endless dialogue!    Really though, the Scribe and Hippie are training the Zombie Elf to be an actor. Don't believe me? Watch this.
    His single word "SUCKS" was so well-timed and perfectly cued. He did a great job, but I have to admit that my favorite parts were the outtakes--all nine of them because they all ended the same and made me laugh so hard I could have peed my pants.    Yes, I'm terrible.    Take 2  
  Take 5

Well, I'm taking off to play my violin and speak at another school today. I'm so glad the world didn't end. ;)

Can you watch this video without laughing?

    This video makes me smile.  I love it when kids get the giggles.  The Zombie Elf is such a ham!  We took this shortly after they woke me from my nap the other day.

All I Want for Christmas--Featuring the Scribe

    You've heard about her crazy antics, now you get to see her in person--and the Zombie Elf who always likes being the star of these videos.

Look what else I found on the camera. . . . 

(I LOVE his little reaction after she hugs him.  AND I'd still like to know who gave him gum!)

If you'd like to watch another video like this--where these darling hooligans play a prank on me, please go HERE.

Should my kids get coal for Christmas?

After this video, I discovered my four children hooligans have been making videos with our camera.
    They made me smile--even if this particular video shows how devious they can be.
    I'll post one each day for this week.
    I hope you'll enjoy.

 

Get Published--an opportunity--in the Myths & Legends Anthology

Ever wished to be like Zeus so you could live forever, lounge around all day, send your demigod kids to vanquish monsters, live through a boat ride down the river Styx?  Isn't it a bit annoying how flawlessly good-looking the gods are?  How Aphrodite just happens to have everything: beauty, love, A JOB?  Poseidon always get the girl.  Ares still wants war—after centuries of it.  Hestia would never dream of burning a homemade meal or eating fast food!  Pandora is as nosy as an aspiring reporter and Hades continues to be 'the next best thing.'

    Well, that's all about to change. . . .

    

 

In November 2013, Wayman Publishing will release Open Doors: Monstrous Myths and Legends in which authors write their own hilarious, unique, or even tragic versions of myths and other well-known legends.  

If you'd like to submit a 2,000 word (or less) story or poem for this YA/Adult project, please go HERE.

Feedback on the symbolism of a dream.

This is a continuation from yesterday's post: Do you ever feel worthless?


After a long day of once again searching for a sense of worth, I had a dream. . . .
 
Doctor Jones (my two-year-old baby girl) called to me from the front room.  "Mama.  Mama.  Look!"
    I ran into the glowing room.  A window rested open and the wind danced through, making my baby's curly brown hair sway.  The maroon and golden curtain swept the floor next to her tip-toed, chubby feet.  The hardwood floors seemed a bit misty from the dust particles the sunrays illuminated.
    "What are you doing, baby?" I asked, because she held an arrangement of sorts up to the light streaming through the window.

This is the exact arrangement she held in my dream (without the vase):

 

    "What are you doing?" I asked again.

    "I'm making art," she squealed, so very proud of herself.  The arrangement looked ordinary until it hit the light, then it glistened so only the best parts gleamed.
    But as I looked at her, the arrangements she thought was so beautiful was not the art.  It was her.  She looked like an angelic figurine, tiptoed and straining toward the sun.
    I watched her for a long time, wondering over the deeper meaning, then I woke up.

    I know this dream could mean so many things.  My daughter could represent the person I want to be inside, striving for the sun, thinking I'm making something that will transform my worth--when (like everyone) worth is already inside.  Or it could show how the arrangement was always exceptional, it just needed to be near the window.  We can take the good instead of focusing on the bad.
    It also made me reflect on how special each of us are.  God has given us gifts and talents, sometimes it's just hard to realize that no matter what we do, we are God's art--and that's one of the greatest things I can imagine.  Remember Pandora, created by Hephaestus? That tale always made me wonder, how would it feel to have been created for a purpose?  But we all are--entertwining, fitting into a puzzle we often don't understand until much later.  Even my son Zeke, who lived a few short months.  We all have a purpose.  Without Zeke, I would have never pursued my dream of writing.  I would be a completely different person.  His life had meaning.
    What do you take from this dream?  Do you see any deeper symbolism here?
    I look forward to your feedback.

A Connecticut Shooting Shocks a Nation to its Core

Earlier today 27 people were killed at an elementary school northeast of New York City.  At least 20 of them were children.  The shooter killed his own mother--a kindergarten teacher at the school.  I've heard several reports say that his father was also found dead at a home in another city.  And that the shooter killed his mother as well as the 18 students in her classroom.  
    Reports are still coming in, and although the reports are changing slightly, it's obvious that this is a tragic day no one will forget.   
    You can read one of the many articles on this HERE.

    
    This news is so devastating . . . so deeply sad that it brings to mind Columbine.  I was sixteen years old at the time, a happy-go-lucky kid.  The news came in slowly.  We turned on the TVs at my own high school in Salt Lake City, and I cried.  I knew kids who went to Columbine.  They were Christians, good people.  None of them died that day, though I worried, wringing my hands in front of the TV at the corner of the classroom, for once not caring what anyone thought of my hair or teenage-like clothes.
    A woman from church called me that night.  At the time I was a devout Christian.  I'd been sitting in a car with my boyfriend, both of us greiving over the kids who'd died just one state away.  I guess it hit us extra hard since we'd gone to camp with kids in that town.  "I've got to take this call," I told him.  "It's a lady from church and she never calls. Something must be wrong--maybe to do with Columbine."
    "I'm proud to know you," she said after I answered the phone. "When I heard about the shooting, the reporter said how the gunman asked the students to stand up if they believed in Jesus.  You would have stood up and died," she said.  "And that makes me proud."
    I sat dumbfounded.  I still don't know what I would have done.  I told my boyfriend what the woman had said.  He dropped out of school a week later, convinced our school would be next and he'd be forced to stand or go to Hell.
    There were many days throughout the following year that our school received bomb threats.  Brighton High was evacuated various times and the students were told to wait in the parking lot while police inspected classrooms, lockers, the works.  Many kids didn't react as my THEN ex-boyfriend had.  His reaction embarrassed me so much that I couldn't stand dating someone spineless enough to drop out of school.  He asked me later why I broke up with him and I said, "I won't date someone who's afraid to live."
   But the truth remains, this IS a scary world.  I don't think we should walk around with bulletproof vests on or carry machine guns, but we should mourn and reflect.

    I just got back from the grocery store.  I'm always smiley and congenial with the cashiers and staff there.  But today I wasn't.  A manager walked from across the store just to ask what was wrong.  He doesn't know me.  He had no idea how sad I've been, broken-hearted for the families who have lost loved ones and children today--just before Christmas.
    I started crying right next to the medicine aisle, like I'm the damn person who needs some happy pills.
    He looked at me--that manager who doesn't get paid to ask how customers are doing--and he just nodded like he knew why I was sad.  Tears filled his eyes and he simply asked again, "How are you today?"
   "I'm fine," I sobbed.
   "Me too," he replied, in a strained voice.  Then I left the grocery store knowing this is a day America will never forget.  It's a tragic moment when two strangers can cry in a grocery store and know exactly what's wrong without spelling things out.

My condolences to those who have lost loved ones today.

I'll continue my post from earlier tomorrow.         

Do you ever feel worthless?

For years I've dealt with something I hate talking about: never being good enough.  I'd fly to the moon if I could, just to gain some self-worth. I'd become a politician, if I felt it would earn me some award in Heaven.  I'd do nearly anything just to feel worth something.  
    I've shown this tendency in the past, playing the violin until people actually paid me to play, becoming a female mechanic (in training) despite the odds, having a clothing business that turned into a booming success.  Or now . . . writing books until my fingers have nearly fallen off.
    At moments through all of these accomplishments, I've felt worth something--honestly.  But then things always make me depressed afterward.  Maybe none of it was worth anything?   I'm a jack of all trades, master of none, just trying my hand at everything until I feel satisfied.  That reflects on me.  How insecure and vunerable I can be.  At least through my books, I've realized more about myself--especially while rereading my own journal, The Golden Sky, after my son died.
    I realized all of this again yesterday as I gave a friend a copy of Homeless in Hawaii.  "I hope you'll love it," I said. "And now a trilogy--after all the sweat and tears, I'm finally done!" 
   She clutched the book and didn't even smile.  "What a nice thing to add! You could have just given me the book and not said a word." She stared at me.  "When will you realize that I'm just as great and accomplished as you are?  Just cause I can't give you something I've been working on, that doesn't make you better than me."  
    I stayed gape-jawed, then I drove home and cried.  I've always thought she was wonderful. But after her cruel words, she didn't seem quite so fantastic anymore.  I'd just wanted her to have my book because she's my friend.
    My thoughts came back to my boomeranging problem-- since it always comes back to haunt me--that issue of self-worth.   
    Every time I've felt good about myself or something I've done, certain people in my life have hurt me. This has only happened because I've put my self-worth in them instead of where it should be, in myself. 

    

    I talked with another friend about this several years ago.  "But you're so talented," she'd said.
    "Anyone can be talented if they work at it," I said. "It doesn't make me valuable to anyone, especially God.  It just makes me a hard worker."
    "Well, if you feel like this, imagine how others feel, the people who haven't worked to be good at anything. The people like me."
    I grabbed her hand and told her about the many gifts and talents she obviously possessed.  It shocked me, but she had no idea what an amazing person she was!  And after that day, I saw a change in her, as if I'd shone a flashlight on something that had always been there--her significance.  

    Last night, after crying about my friend's words--and to be completely honest--my lack of self-esteem, I had a symbolic dream that still has me a bit confused.  
    I'll tell you about it tomorrow.  Maybe you'll be able to help me see its deeper meaning?

P.S. Have you ever felt like this--struggling to find self-worth?  If you haven't, please don't say 'no.'  That'll just make me feel like a turd on the ground, really.

Thanks for all of your kind comments on my last post.  Your friendships have bolstered me and encouraged me to keep writing this blog.

Homeless in Hawaii has been Officially Released!

I still can't believe this day is finally here.  The Golden Sky Trilogy is complete.  These have been some very emotional books to write, but very rewarding as well.

Here's where the story starts.

Quote from the book:  

“Have you ever felt like your world’s falling apart just because you put yourself together with the wrong pieces?” I asked. “And that maybe, if you looked hard enough, you could find the right parts to put yourself together again?”

 

It explains what led a "good girl" to run away (with a bad boy) to be:

(Click the picture to see it LIVE on Amazon!)   The Trilogy ends with The Golden Sky.  

My journal, about my son who passed away and helped me see everything differently.

All of these books came from my heart, but Homeless in Hawaii has a special place because it's a coming of age story about love and a struggle to survive--maybe that's why I wrote it last.
    Here's an excerpt toward the end of the book.  This is after I came back from being a homeless.

The strangest thing about going back home was realizing life had gone on without me. It had been less than six months, yet no one remembered the rumors or the Bible girl who ran away from high school. People waved when I ran into them. They didn’t talk much about my senior year and most of them were incredibly nice.          

I tried getting a few musical gigs and several people said they would have hired me if I just had a guitarist to play with. I tried jamming with a few guys, but none of them even compared to Cade. We didn’t have the same spontaneous transitions or the synchronization so important with Celtic and acoustic music.

I finally broke down and decided that without Cade in my life, playing music had become depressing. I got the first job I applied for and started working at a disco themed bowling alley where everyone knew one another. The people who worked there treated me kindly, and the elderly customers who came in the early morning and night always told the best stories.

One day, as I worked at the register, I saw a girl I’d known from church. “You were always such a fake,” she said and her words took me off guard because everyone else from my past had forgotten about my teen dramas.

“Don’t you know?” I replied, slapping her size of bowling shoes on the counter. “I’m old news. People like you are gossiping about other things now.” She gasped. “You really have no idea who I am or what I’ve been through. Next!” I yelled to the people standing in line behind her.

She didn’t even touch the shoes. Instead she moved aside and, without another word, left the building.

“When you stood up to that girl, I was impressed,” a fellow cashier said later. “I could never do something like that.”

“Yes, you could. You’re stronger than you think—and that means something coming from me because people have told me I can see things about people.” I winked at her and she smiled. As we talked, I sprayed bowling shoes with Lysol, tucked in laces and arranged everything nicely in cubbyholes. “Can you believe I couldn’t stand up for myself in high school? I had to become a homeless street musician just to find out I’d always had strength inside of me.”

“Oh, Elisa! You’re a hoot. You really weren’t homeless? Were you?”

“Yeah. I was.”

For another excerpt from Homeless in Hawaii, please go here: Coming Home to Myself

Homeless in Hawaii

 

Barnes and Noble Paperback on sale for $7.46

Amazon Paperback on sale for $7.64

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