3 Pick-up Lines that DO NOT Work

Facebook can be a real dream.  But, it can also become a nightmare. Strange foreign men see any friendly profile pic and are compelled to hit on it.
    I've been married for a long time, been with Cade since I was 17. Some of these pick-up lines have shocked me.  Is this what the online dating scene is like?  God forbid.
    
    Let me tell you about three especially bad ones . . .

#1
I've always had a special feeling for my mother. 

STOP . . . 

Is this a pick-up--or an attempt to say they're STILL a mama's boy?

Resume . . . 

You remind me of her in face and heart. I'd like to meet and see if we have a bond. You smile tells me we do. Let's message each other.

Hmmm . . .  YOU smile tells me we do.  Well, my smile says that I'm married--his wording tells me he doesn't speakie English very well. AND in the picture he attached of  his mother . . . Well, I'm surprised he said our faces match.

#2
My wife died. You remind me of her.

This emailed called to me--the poor man!  But honestly, do I just have a familiar face, or what?  I continued reading, thinking this was just a kind email, not a pick-up.  Boy was I wrong. 

I think her spirit dwells in you. We lived a long life together.  I can see her joy in your eyes.
I would like to date online and know you more.

If a message like that won't creep someone out--I don't know what will!  My shaky hand clicked on his profile picture.  The guy was a highly decorated military man who was about 9,000 years old! 
 

#3
I like you. I think your a virgin.

I'm a writer, don't send a writer something with an obvious error like "your" vs. "you're"--unless you're approaching them for grammar lessons.   

    Now onto the obvious offense behind this facebook message.  WHAT THE HELL?  A virgin?  And to think, I thought my army of children clued people in.  Having a baby is like shouting from the rooftops--I've had sex--I lost my cheery, people!  It's actually a bit embarrassing at first--if you want to know the truth.
    But making a strange claim like this, made me feel as if he'd take me--a thirty-year-old--to the slave sex exchange!  Are they taking thirty-year-olds with no boobs, and lots of character?  If so, I'm terrified.


 Is this really what the dating game is like these days?

Idiotic & Funny Moments of the Week

Example #1

     Me: How'd golfing go? I prayed you'd score high.
     Hubby: Thanks a lot. It worked. Too bad the point is to score low.
     Me: Facepalm

Example #2

    Zombie Elf: I'm really sick with the pox.
    Me *freakin' out*: The chickenpox?
    Zombie Elf: No! I ain't no chicken. It's the human-pox for sure!
    Me *looking at his mirthful face*: Are you even sick?
    Zombie Elf: No. I just wanted to see you go bonkers.

Note to self: 

Stop saying, "I'm going bonkers," around the children.

And finally 
Example #3

    The Scribe *talking to her friend*: There's something that's been bothering me about life.
    Friend: Like What?
    The Scribe: I snuck downstairs and saw a movie my mom was watching. It was a completely real movie, not one of those fake ones. Anyway, they showed how if someone dies you can put a needle into their eye and bring them back to life!
    Me *dying as I drove past a cemetery--did I really just write THIS post about parents (and Netflix) letting kids watch terrible things*
    The Scribe *not realizing I was still listening*: Just think about all those dead people buried in cemeteries. People could have brought them back to life, but no one cared. . . .
    Me *with a lot of explaining to do*

    I racked my brain after easing her fears.  What show had she seen?
    Then it hit me like a fart in the night--she'd seen Lockout!  I LOVE that show.  But it's not the best for imaginative children. 

    To see what I'm writing about--IF you have a strong stomach--go to 4:30 on this clip.

 

    Anyway, it's only Tuesday and it's already been a long week.

    I might just watch Lockout again.  It's filled with so many wonderful cliches that I get to turn my mind off. If you watch it, I hope you'll enjoy the silliness and hysterical one-liners proper people refuse to laugh at.

Hoping for a calmer week, for all of us,
E 

A Movie Originally Banned from TV is now on Netflix for Kids!

A flying ship, Huck Finn, a stop motion adventure . . .
    Sounds like a great movie, right?
    And it really is except for one scene that left parents and critics balking.
   

    As a child, I watched this before it was banned from TV. Over the years I didn't retain much about the plot, just a vivid picture painted from the bit about Adam and Eve.

    But as an adult, one scene really shocked me. 

    Now my own children have a chance to watch this movie through instant streaming on Netflix for children.  Although, I'm a big fan of claymation, I doubt I'll let my kids watch this.

What do you think about this scene?

Are you surprised it's on Netflix?

Do you think it was rightfully banned from TV in the mid-80s?

   

Two Choices: Forgiveness . . . or Damnation

This is a continuation from the past two days.

To read Part I, please go HERE.

To read Part II, click HERE.

I'd made a choice, picked a mortal man instead of an eternity in Heaven.  When push came to shove, the man picked money over me, and now I'd melted into a sobbing mess in the middle of a white room. . . .

The rest of my dream:

A blinding light entered the room.  "YOU feel betrayed?  How do you think I feel?  YOU traded an eternity in Heaven, for a mortal man!"
    I tried quelling my own sobbing, gritted my teeth and gazed up, hoping not to seem afraid.
    A figure stood there, glowing brighter than the sun. I slammed my eyes shut again and the glow brightened so that his presence still blinded me even behind closed eyelids.
    "Yes!" I yelled, even though I should have stayed quiet.  "I feel betrayed because I WAS betrayed.  What's it to YOU?" 
    "Oh, Elisa!  You have no idea what true love can be or what it should be."  The light levitated toward me and a searing-hot hand branded my shoulder.  "Let me show you love."
    Someone's memories shot through my mind, but nothing I'd fully remembered or been aware of.  I saw myself as a fetus, just a blob as time sped forward and I slowly took shape in my mother's womb.  
    Then I saw myself playing soccer as a kid.  Except that damn blinding light was in the stands, even right next to me as I scored a goal.   
    After that, time sped forward to high school exams and dances, even to a night when a guy almost raped me.  Right as I'd been about to scream, a cop knocked on the guy's truck window and saved me.  I saw the blinding light standing by the cop, there once again.  And the police officer made sure the guy drove me home!
    Then I saw myself as a homeless kid when I was 17.  I wore utter rags, playing my violin, hoping just to make a dollar and some change so I could buy a Big Mac.
    That light was there, guiding people to give me change!
    The moments went on and on.
    Through my good and bad times.  My wedding day.  The births of my babies.  All the stupid violin gigs I had where no family or friends had shown up--the light. Was. There.
    When my son died, and I had to pull the plug.  That light embraced my son's soul as he drifted toward the ceiling.  And to think, I never knew what happened to my boy's beautiful spirit.
    And I realized . . . I wasn't alone.  I was never alone.  And I've been so loved. We. All. Have. By the One who created us.
    I saw myself crying, deserted in my house, after my husband and I split and my kids were with him for the weekend.  I'd felt so desolate . . . but that light--that damn light was always there.
    Even when I dated a married man, wishing beyond anything that we'd work out. . . .  And I'd begged him to be with me. . . . behaving like a pathetic loser.
    Or when I felt so inadequate I got implants.  
    Or when I worked extra graveyards as a security guard, just to buy groceries and Christmas presents for my kids.
    The light didn't care about my failings or how many times I'd fallen.  That light, was love. And love . . . is God.
    The hand left my shoulder and I felt the glow of forgiveness lighting up my skin.  It didn't hurt like before, but rather healed ALL my sorrows.
    "Oh, God," I said to the Light of Understanding, that same Light still next to me in the room.  "I'm so sorry for choosing something, anything, or anyone, over you.  How could I forsake the One who made me?"
    A big breath left my chest.  More tears flooded my eyes as I stood and prayed for forgiveness.
    "Elisa, never forget this.  Never forget this love.  It's inside you, can be inside of everyone who lets God in."
    "But, God.  I chose a man over you!  How can you forgive me?"
    "Because I've always been there; I always will be. And I know your heart."
    Then the words from John 14:27 filled the air:

I am leaving you with a gift,

peace of mind and heart.

And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give.

So don't be troubled or afraid.     

~New Living Translation

  
    The light faded, leaving me in the dark, yet still brimming with hope. THAT was the end of my dream.  
    I've only had a handful of life-changing dreams in my life, but this was definitely one of them.  And although I know it might not speak to everyone, it spoke to me.  I hope it'll bless someone else's life as much as it's helped me see things in a different perspective.

Yeah, life can suck, but God's love will get me through.

Two Choices: A Soulmate or Money

This is a continuation from yesterday.  If you'd like to read the beginning, please go HERE.

Now, to the second part of my dream. . . .

I gaped behind glass, looking into an interrogation room.  You were there, standing all rugged and dirty, just like when you used to get home from work.  I could almost smell the dirt through the glass, that scent reminding me of sweat and skin.  Your beard set a fire in my heart and I longed to see your surreal eyes gazing into mine even if for only a moment.
    Two doors stood in front of you.  They each had big signs hanging on them.  The sign on the first door said: "LOVE (Your life with your soulmate)."
    The second door said, "MONEY."

    I knew then you'd been given the same choice I'd been faced with earlier.  You could only pick one--have one or the other, no regrets . . . Money or me.  My hand pressed against the glass that held the two of us apart.  I looked at my thumb; even that reminded me of you, how both of us broke that same thumb and had a identically old scar between our thumb and index fingers.  How we had so many things in common.  Maybe that was another reason I'd picked a life with you over an eternity in Heaven.  Our love meant that much to me, honestly.
    But . . . what would you choose?
    You walked up to the first door (LOVE) and touched the knob.  I saw the memories at the same time that they flooded your mind's eye . . .    
    You held me in your arms in the back of my van and told me you'd always love me, always dreamed of a girl just like me.  
    You smiled at me as we ran through a golf course at night, ducks quacking at us from the edge of the course's pond. 
    We laughed, hiding side-by-side in a schooner at a restaurant's parking lot.  Then hushed as a man passed, walking his dog.  As soon as the coast was clear, we busted with laughter again--I still wonder if he saw us!
    Country songs blared from your truck as you sang to me, holding my hand, telling me all the lyrics reminded you of "us" and our love.  
    Memory after memory flooded over you and me, at the same time and I couldn't help feeling hopeful.  We were so damn connected, not even the glass could keep our minds from touching through those memories of the past.  You would choose me, right; who would give that kind of chemistry and "kindred-ness" up?
    But then you let go of the knob . . . and the memories stopped.  You dusted off your pants and turned your back to the same door that meant more to me than eternal salvation.
    Tears filled my eyes and I bit my lip.  Somehow I knew you--I'd always known you and what your final choice would be--like we'd lived this exact moment a million times. 
    I took my hand from the glass.
    Maybe . . . I'd never see those slate eyes looking tenderly at me again.  
    I'd never feel your thick hands around my tiny waist.  
    I'd never smell your sweat mixed with dirt and liquor . . . never again.
    That's when you went to your second damn choice--MONEY.
    You didn't even wait for a moment . . . killing me with every movement, just reaching out and twisting that damn knob.  I felt like you murdered a part of me and no one even showed up to the funeral.
    But even as your actions siphoned my breath, I couldn't help watching you, so handsome and determined, as you walked through to your true love.  
    Instead of picking me and everything we'd shared, you chose wealth, and I thought, Why am I so surprised?
    You shut the door, a smile of greed and satisfaction still on your face, and I melted to the floor.

~~~

    "Oh, God," I cried out in my dream.  "Oh, God.  I feel so betrayed.  I traded eternity . . . for him.  I traded eternity . . . for nothing."
    At that moment a hot breeze barreled through the room.  My eyes remained shut, and I shook on the ground.
    "You . . . feel betrayed?" a voice, more commanding than the ocean, boomed.  "YOU feel betrayed?  How do you think I feel?  YOU traded an eternity in Heaven, for a mortal man!"
    I quivered again.  My eyes were still closed, but something was shining even through my lids.  Then I quelled my own sobbing, gritted my teeth and gazed up, trying not to seem afraid. 
    A figure stood there, glowing brighter than the sun. I slammed my eyes shut again and the glow brightened so that his presence still blinded me!
    "Yes!" I yelled, even though I should have stayed quiet.  "I feel betrayed because I WAS betrayed!  What's it to YOU?"

To read the final installment, please click HERE.

Two Choices: A Soulmate or Eternal Salvation

Remember how I have symbolic dreams?  Well, I had one about you two weeks ago.  And I can't get the damn thing outta my head, so I'm gonna air more dirty laundry here, for an online community to paw over and see, just so I can heal.

Here goes . . .

I'm walking the streets of New York, which is amazing, because I've always wanted to go there.  People stand, so crowded--all different walks of life smashed together just to get someplace that's momentarily important.
    When suddenly, there's this big blond guy standing next to me.  He's head-and-shoulders taller than anyone else and extremely handsome, reminding me of Saul in the Bible.
    So this huge guy, whisks me out of the crowd and pulls me into a massive, mirrored business building.  After a second I'm standing in an elevator with "Saul."  The mellow music and carpeted walls do anything but calm me.  Then Saul tells me that he's an angel, and that God picked me special, giving me a choice, wanting me to know what type of person I really am.
    I shake my head and laugh.  "You're a big dude, but an angel? Seriously?  And you're saying God is going to test me? I already know what type of person I am."
   "Do you!  You've been through a lot, Elisa, but one can always learn something new, especially after seeing how one reacts to different situations."  
    His words hang eerily in the air, and I have to admit that chills etch my spine as we walk into the hallway beyond the elevator.  After that, Saul pulls out the key to an executive suite. I gasp while entering the suite 'cause it's gorgeous beyond anything.  Fresh fruit and flowers scent the front room, near chocolates and candles.  But surprisingly the only furniture in sight is a mahogany table and a tan leather couch.  
    Saul maintains his no-nonsense attitude and points to the back of the room.  "You see those two doors?  They represent your choice."
    "Yeah, I see them," I say, a bit shakily.  They're strange doors, especially to be in an executive suite.

    "If you go through the one on the left, you can be with the man you believe is your soulmate--you'll be with him through this life IF he chooses you as well.  Walk through the door on the right, and you can go to Heaven when you die."
    "What?!  My soulmate . . . or eternal salvation?  What if I want both?"
    "Only one or the other."  Saul sits lazily on the leather couch, as if he does this for a damn living and could care less about my final choice.  Then he polishes a red apple on his yellow button-up shirt.  "Take my advice and touch each doorknob before making your decision.  This is eternity we're talking about.  Nothing to take lightly."
     I wait for a moment, thinking he'll leave.  Instead he just starts eating that damn apple, juices running into his perfect goatee, the apple looking miniscule in his large hands.
    So I walk to the back of the room.  "Left, love.  Right, Heaven," I whisper.  Then almost before I can think about it, I hold my hand to the left door and touch the knob just as Saul instructed.
    My eyes close and memories of a forbidden love fill my head.  
    I saw myself texting you some stupid message, it said, "Who cares what you'll think of me in the morning! When ya coming over, asshole?"  What followed that text, I'll never forget.  
    Then visions of us hiking in the mountains, you shushing me 'cause we were hunting "deer."  But when you turned and kissed me, I swear I knew what you'd been hunting all along.  
    I saw us jumping the fence at an amusement park, 'cause the damn place was closed.  Then we ran Mission Impossible-style and hid near the lions' cages not too far from the picnic area, but just far enough the guards couldn't see us holding each other for hours.  
    I remembered being on a lil' boat in the ocean, with only each other and a thin blanket to keep us warm as the Golden Gate Bridge's lights twinkled above us and in the waters around.  
    I remembered all that, and I instantly didn't give a damn about Heaven, or the consequences that could follow.  My eyes flung open, studying the doors as I shunned the choice Saul had given me, 'cause it really wasn't a hard choice, for me. . . . 
    I would've done anything for you--for our love.  
    So I opened the door--on the left--but when I went through to what should have been our perfect life together on Earth, I was shocked.  
    You were there, but you couldn't see me, and a choice awaited you as well.  What in the hell would you choose?

To read the rest of this story, please click HERE.

When I was an Idiot (Part 2)

Here's the second part to my post yesterday: 

When I was an Idiot (Part 1)

     (I hate this story, quite honestly, but I love how I'm still sharing it with you.  Please keep in mind that I was eleven AND I was . . . an idiot.)
    My mom bought me some bras. So, when we prepared to go to church the next day, she told me to wear my bra, knee-high stockings and some deodorant.  But the joke was on her--I didn't wear any deodorant!
    When we got to church early, I slumped next to the alter.  I should have been thinking about God, but instead I thought of itchy breasts.  I cursed my bra then, right in God's presence, because bras were obviously of the devil, just look at this couple:

(Seriously though, I don't know who these people are.)

   Christians flooded into the main room after that.  I stood and watched as my mother sat in the second pew from the front.  I swore everyone looked at me differently.  They knew my secret--I wore a bra--and the knowledge almost killed me.
    Now, the worst thing, the absolute most embarrassing thing, is that until maturation class (which I took shortly after this episode) I seriously thought people had sex with their boobs.  Please forgive me for being crude and under 70, but that's what I thought.  I mean hell, a lot of teens got pregnant and they always seemed to be hugging when I saw them.  I didn't know how it happened, but it seemed reckless and complicated on animal planet.
    Needless-to-say, I hadn't thought too much about boob sex, not until my mom made me wear that bra to church.  I figured it was the first step toward the dark side.  Maybe it meant I was a blossoming young-adult.  If I hugged any young man, it might be the hug of doom.  Did I have to hug him, or hug and fall asleep--I didn't know!  I didn't even like sleeping with stuffed animals anymore, let alone people.
    The pastor's voice suddenly woke me from my thoughts.  "I'd like to share a few announcements before we greet each other, hug and shake hands."
    Hug.  I knew it.  I'd died and gone to Hell.  I had my bra on, I was prime meat.  I couldn't let anyone close.  I'd make a terrible mom. I'd been the one to tie my friend and myself to The Moving Dolly.  I was the reason we'd crashed at the bottom of the hill.  I was too young for all this stress, too young to hug!
    I nudged my mom; I had to get out of that bra.  If I just took it off, I could go back to being a kid, that carefree one who didn't worry about bras, boob sex or color TV.
    I nudged my mom again.  "I need to use the bathroom," I whispered.
    "Right now?" she asked.
    "Yes, now."
    "Just wait until he let's us greet each other."
    With a hug?  Did she want grandchildren that badly?  Didn't she know, people would probably try hugging her too?  She was walking a very fine line, that woman who smiled at me like she had no idea why I'd turned red.
    "Now, fellow brethren.  Stand and talk in the love of God.  Look at the person next to you.  Hug them and say, 'good morning.'"
    Who was he, Simon Says?  He wasn't the boss of me.  But my mom sure was.  She had me stand up and shake hands. Some homely seventh grader inched closer.  Him and his pimples almost greeted me, when I ran to the bathroom.
    Why is it, that when it rains, it pours?  I went into the bathroom, took off my dress, but couldn't manage to get my bra off.  I tried imagining how people reach behind themselves to unclasp their bras.  I fought with the thing, bumped into walls.  A woman hushed in the stall beside me.  "Is everything okay?" she asked.
    Who was she to judge?  I'd just heard her toot like a fog horn.      
    "I'm fine, just fine."  I pulled my arms out of the straps, and shimmed the vile, lacy thing over my head.  I think it was at this point, that I smelled something.  It wasn't from the do-gooder on my right; it pulsed from my armpits.
    I waited until all the gossipy, fart-loving "women of the church" left the bathroom.  That's when I knew Meet and Greet Time had ended.  
    I put on my bra-less dress and felt alive once again.  My bra and knee-high stockings rested in my left hand.  I figured I'd go without stockings too since I was making a real stand against society.
    I peered around, outside of the bathroom door.  No one was in the hall, no one except the male usher.  I felt safe.  Nobody would come into the bathroom.  I smiled with glee.  Maybe my mom had told me to start wearing girly deodorant.  Maybe she'd forced me to wear stockings and a bra, but I'd proof that woman wrong.  Sure I'd shunned deodorant (a mistake I'd never make again) but I'd get away with it, no matter what!
     I pumped the soap into my hand, smeared it on a paper towel and then used the best deodorant ever known--that cheap pink soap they have in Christian bathrooms.
    I smelled great.  I really did.  The only problem was that pink had stained my white dress, right near my pits.  I scrubbed the dress with water, stood under the dryer and hoped that would help, but nothing took the stains away.  
    I put my arms to my sides and nodded.  If I didn't move my arms, I'd be okay.
    Only one problem remained.  
    I could throw my bra and stockings away, but then my mom would kill me and probably have me buried in a black bra.  I searched the bathroom.  I could hide the things and come back when church ended, but there was no place to hide stuff!  Didn't they know, every bathroom needs a cabinet under the sink?  Then I remembered Mark 4:22, 
    "There's nothing hidden that won't come out into the light."  
    That bathroom decorator had skipped a step.  You can't find something in the light unless it's hidden!
    I peered out the door again.  I had to use plan C, my last resort.  I could put my bra and stockings in between my thighs.  If I walked like Marilyn Monroe, with hips swaying and knees together, I could make it to my mom.  I'd stick the items in her purse (the front zipper she never looked in) and then get them back out before we headed home.
    So, that's what I did.  I stuffed the items in between my thighs and prepared to walk like a runway model to the very front of the congregation.
    "It's wonderful to see you here today." The usher held out his hand to shake mine, but I couldn't move my arms--that meant I couldn't shake hands OR HUG! Ha ha!
   "Everything okay?" he asked as I sauntered a few steps away, arms down to hide the pink stains, hips swaying and knees practically glued together.
    "Oh, everything's great, just great."  I nodded, like a queen of the waddling penguins.
    "Well, the sermon started.  You'll have to walk in while he's talking."
    I wanted to prepare myself a bit more.  It was a long way to the second row, but that stupid usher opened the door and a bunch of people looked back.  I started walking, slowly at first, but then my girly bra and stockings moved and shifted until they bunched up and made me look like I packed a frontal load.  I nearly died, knees still touching, arms down, hands out.  I waddled more, hoping the mass bump in front of my dress would go away and no one would notice.
    "Dear Jesus," I prayed inside.  "I know I suck at being a dainty girl.  I haven't asked you for anything except salvation.  So, can you help me now?"
    That's when one of the bra straps swung down and tickled my ankle.  Maybe God did that since I used the "suck" word.  I heard an ancient lady giggling about how she remembered being my age.  I turned; it was Old Agnes.  She was ugly and bitter.  I suddenly knew what awaited me in my future if she'd been just like me.  Poor woman, she must have been a beautiful child. And she never slept with her blanket pretty-side up! 
    I  waddled faster after that, and jumped in the seat next to my mom.
    I was even sly enough, my mom didn't see the strap dangling.  I tucked it under my leg--like a dainty ninja--a Dinja!  After the service ended, I held all the girly crap in my hand and decided to run to the bathroom first chance I got.  Most people had already left and my mom still visited with the piano lady.
    Agnes kept trying to talk to my mom, but thank God, my saint of a mother was too busy laughing about music. Creepy Agnes waited for a while, but finally went away like a bad fart.
    I put all my stuff back on after that, accomplishing the crime of a century.
    We drove home, then I hid all my bras and stockings under my dresser.  I suddenly felt like a spy, the kind who does a bad job at first, but then becomes a Spy Master!  
    I'd tried walking like Marilyn Monroe, but failed miserably, just like a beginner spy would have!
    I still remember laughing as my mom searched for my bras.      
    "That's so weird.  Where did they go?" she asked.  "And do you smell soap?"
    I smiled into my mirror.  Maybe I'd turn into an ugly adult, but at least I'd be a smart one!  
    That's the day I knew I'd become a Dinja.

When I was an Idiot (Part 1)

    As a kid, I was a goofball--so much has changed.  Maybe I was the backward cousin no one wants to claim.  Maybe everyone loved me.  Who knows . . . what's obvious is that I wasn't normal.    
    When I was a kid, I thought messed up eyebrows were the ultimate "no no." With messy eyebrows I'd look terrible and boys would leave me alone.  I could live a life of celibacy, become a nun, be happy reading books to homeless children and dogs.
    I didn't like regular TV.  And even though I was born in the 80's, I INSISTED on watching Doris Day, Ginger Rogers, Katherine Hepburn, and The Inn of the Sixth Happiness.
    I had a fuzzy blanket.  One side was gorgeous, but the other side remained hideous with frays and fuzz balls.  If I wanted to be an ugly sweetheart the next day, I'd sleep with the beautiful side of the blanket toward me.  If I wanted to be a mean beauty queen, I'd sleep with the gorgeous side up.  I'm embarrassed to say that the nice side stayed up more than it should have.
    When I got into fourth grade, I shunned all my toys for a dolly.

    Not this kind of dolly:

    This kind:

    I'd push my best friend everywhere in that thing.  Who needs a car, when you have a dolly?  We put a lawn chair cushion in it.  One time we even tied each other to the thing and went down a huge dirt hill.  She cut her finger really bad--didn't even cry--and we had the best time ever, laughing in the dirt.

     When I was in sixth grade, I decided I was getting ugly.  That's when I knew, ugly kids turn into beautiful adults, but gorgeous kids (like I thought I was) turn into the homeliest adults known to man.

    I remember staring in my mirror, waving my beauty "goodbye."  I even fixed my messed up eyebrows one last time.  
    That night, I slept with my blanket pretty side down--there was no point in longing for beauty when even my blanket couldn't save me!  I nearly had a funeral for my beauty then.  I was bound to grow ugly.  It was a fact.  After all, I thought I'd been an adorable kid, that meant I'd be worse than this dude when I grew up!

    So, I woke up the next day.  The blanket had worked.  I seemed sweeter and uglier than ever.  My mom pulled me aside.  "Are you okay?" she asked.
    "Yes," I nodded, reconciling that there are much worse things than ugliness.  After all I could have died, been blind or crippled like the ladies in "An Affair to Remember" and "Magnificent Obsession."
    So with my pubescent face, I gazed up at my mother, hoping she'd see the sweet spirit that rested beyond my ugliness.
    "Today's a big day," she said.
    "Why?"  I couldn't understand it.  I'd just planned on taking The Dolly for a spin with my friend.
    "Today is special because me and your sister are taking you bra shopping.  It's time to get your first bra!"
    I crumpled.  I didn't want a bra.  Wasn't it enough that God had turned me ugly.  "Really?" I asked sweetly, remembering kindness was all I had.
    "Yes."  She squeezed my hands and giggled.  "Let's go right now.  We'll get you a few nice ones and you can wear them to church tomorrow."
    I trudged out the door.  I didn't mess up my eyebrows because it was unnecessary.  
    I vowed then, I'd never wear a bra.  Nuns don't wear bras!  Cool people in the old movies DIDN'T WEAR BRAS!  (At least Rock Hudson didn't!)  
    And if my mom tied me down and MADE me wear a lacy boob catcher
. . . I'd never--ever--shave my legs!  I'd never be nice again.  I'd be homely AND bitter, the worst combination around!

      I think all of that is why church the next day became such a horrid thing.  I'll tell you about that tomorrow.

How to Break into a House

Before starting, let me tell you, this post was so touching it made me cry: Author Spotlight: EC Stilson

Now, onto the story about breaking into a house. . . .

    Have you ever been locked out of your house?  Well, yesterday my neighbor was.  
    I sat eating a cream-filled donut when suddenly my neighbor came over and told me everything. We called a locksmith. The cheat said he'd come out and charge more than my life's worth! So, my neighbor and I made other plans. We both jumped the fence--even though I'm thirty now and my best years are behind me.  After checking the back door and several windows, my neighbor, who's half runway model half fashion photographer, had an idea.  "I think that window's unlocked."
    "Really?" I looked up at the window, about seven feet from the ground, and suddenly remembered my wild teenage years.  
    Two friends and I had this crazy obsession with going into icy drains where the run-off from the Wasatch Mountains flows.
    The clear water would rush past, smelling of spring.  You never knew when it would flood the chamber. Brushing death (or whatever that saying is) really got to me.  "Most girls wouldn't have done that," my friend The Boarder confessed on various occasions.  Anyway, we never died, obviously.  And I should probably stop writing about this because my mom never knew and if she reads this . . .  Well, that's scarier than a storm drain.
    

Back to my runway neighbor . . .    

    I kept staring at the window, thinking I'd fit through worse. 

    "With a ladder, I bet I could fit through there," I said.

     "Really?" the runway model asked.     

    "It'll be tight, but yeah."

    So she climbed up a ladder and discovered the window really was unlocked.  That woman even took off the screen before tag-teaming me for this:

      
 
     

    It looks fun, right?  And it was, until realizing my butt hung over a bathtub several feet below me and my legs were stuck.

    "Are you okay?" my neighbor asked.

    "Oh, fine." I smiled.  "Fine."  My legs were practically glued on top of each other. Should I go in, or out.  In? Or out?  Or just cross my legs and smile?  I could even wave to the people congregating in the yard across the way.  Too bad that donut really went to my thighs.

    I shimmied then, remembered being a kid, playing on a playground and hanging from monkeybars by my knees.  Yeah, that almost happened.  Almost.

    I suddenly pulled my right leg to my chest, leaned,  and swiveled like a freakin' ninja. I balanced into the house, AND THEN SLIPPED ON THE TUB'S EDGE.  

 . . . It's the little things that'll kill ya! . . .

    A good rule to know when breaking into a house--through the smallest window--is that one should never wear slippery shoes.

    "Ahhh." I clasped my hand over my mouth, moon walking like Michael Jackson before clutching onto a beautiful towel that saved me.

    "Are you okay?" my amazing neighbor asked again.  

    "I'm fine," I croaked still hugging the towel.  "Fine."   

    But the truth is . . . I'm GREAT!  I have to say that I kind of loved it.  What an adventure!  Sure it wasn't a life-threatening drain, but I still did something exciting . . . I did the origami AND the moon walk!  Like someone said last week, maybe 30 really is just a number.

P.S.  If you want to know more about my time as a crazy teenager, please go here.

Have you ever broken into someone's house? 

How to Build A Writer's Platform

Interested in building a writer's platform?  There's an upcoming workshop on EVERYTHING you need to know about blogging. And I'm one of the instructors.

Find out more here:  http://voiceboks.com/workshop/

Cade's Surprise: I could be a detective!

First of all, THANK YOU, everyone for wishing me a happy birthday.  That meant so much to me.  And it really did make my birthday wonderful.

Now, onto the story . . .

Cade's Surprise 

Not to brag, but I could be a detective.  I listened when Cade whispered to my parents in the other room.  "Do you think she'll like it?"
    "I'm sure she will," my mother said.  And I heard every word.
    But then my four-year-old son started yelling next to me, "Mommy! Mommy!  What are you listening to?
    "Elisa!" Cade said, a bit disappointed as he rounded the corner.  
    What had I done wrong?  He was the one hiding things from me.  Having a private party with my parents on my birthday!  He shut the door and talked so softly, I couldn't hear them clearly after that. 
    I strained, and before nearly giving myself a migraine, I gave up and decided to do something truly smart, interrogate my children.  
    My four children gathered around.  I promised them candy and treats.  Extra allowance for a month if they'd just spill the beans.  The baby (my three-year-old) stepped forward and nodded.  I handed her some candy and she started babbling at once.  "Ponies, Mama.  I want ponies!  Daddy wants ponies too."
    "We're going horseback riding?"  She nodded and I giggled with excitement.
    My older girls smiled wickedly at each other.  "She wants to watch ponies on TV," they said.  "You just paid her that candy for nothin'."
    My boy was next.  "Give me candy," he said.
    I handed it over.  "What has your father been planning?  What do you know?" I asked him.
    "I don't know anything," he said. "Daddy won't tell me. He said I'd tell you."  My boy--that theif--turned around and started playing with some trains on the floor while he chewed a HUGE mouthful of treats.
    "Girls," I said to the Scribe and the Hippie.  "You're my last hope.  What is going on?"
    "Nothing.  We won't ever tell you.  I don't care how much candy you give us, or how much money . . . " the Hippie said.
    "Wait," the Scribe said, ever the opportunist.  "How much money?"
    "Five bucks!" I said.
    She snorted.  "No deal."
    "Six?" I whispered, pulling the money from my pocket.
    "That's only three dollars each." The Scribe's nose wrinkled sceptically.    
    "That's all I have.  Come on, girls!  It's my thirtieth birthday."
    "Fine." The Scribe inched closer.  "But it won't buy you much."  She snatched the money.
    I know the Hippie wanted to walk away.  She lives by a code of honor few eight-year-olds understand.  "Scribe . . . but Daddy said we can't tell."
    The Scribe winked.  "Like I said.  Six bucks won't buy much.  Don't worry, Hippie.  Here's the deal."  Her green eyes sparkled with mischief.  "You'll be with Grandma most of the day."
    "And?"
    "And what?  That's all you get for six bucks," the Scribe said.
    I was about to take my fortune back when Cade hugged me from behind and kissed me on the cheek.  "Ready?  Your mom's taking you out really quick.  Get ready for a great time."
    They ushered me through the door, while the Scribe waved 'goodbye' still holding those bills in her left hand.  The Hippie tried smiling, but looked too guilty to be truly happy on my big day.  As if witnessing that one confession, would be the end of her.

    Long story short, my mom took me for coffee.  Then at noon--when I thought we'd go home--she brought me to a hair salon.  Cade had found the best streaker in town--wait, that came out wrong.  I mean "hair streaker."  I had my hair actually done for once.  Then when I got home, all of our parents waited in the front room.  Cade put his hand over my eyes and led me to this!

A new curio with figurines!!!

My new hair

So, I may have lost six bucks, but I got something much better--a curio with beautiful figurines, an awesome family and fantastic friends (bloggers and otherwise).  I feel like the luckiest 30-something in the world.