Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Switch

     My parents are amazing; I'd just like to say that right now.  They are a very defined, specific sort of people.  I'm not saying they're average by any means, it's just easy to see who they are.  
    Sometimes people have attributes that give you a clue about them.  For example, maybe a girl named Gretchen likes hopscotch.  Some people like hopscotch, but it doesn't necessarily describe them, but for Gretchen, maybe it does.  Gretchen might wear hopscotch jerseys to bed.  All she talks about is hopscotch.  She dreams about it; she lives to play it. Gretchen HAS PIGTAILS and could be the spokeswoman for hopscotch!
(This isn't Gretchen.  This is a picture of my dad and gorgeous mom.)
    Maybe my parents are a bit like that, well not with hopscotch, but with other things.  For example, my mom loves the Bible.  She's always talking about Jesus and scriptures.  She's classy, soft-spoken and kind.  Just by writing those things, I bet you have a clear picture of her.  Except that she can play the drums better than Animal on the Muppet's--that's another story.
    Anyway, my dad on the other hand is a character.  He owns a Harley.  He likes strong beer.  He tells wild jokes like I do.
    Here's another picture of him: 

    With all that in mind, I'd like you to envision me as a dorky junior high student.  I'd gone to the store with my mom and dad.  As we walked in, my mom waved sweetly to everyone.  (She used to be a beauty queen and she has "the wave" down.)  As we walked into the store, my dad tripped over the rug just inside and fell on the tiled ground.
    "Oh, God," my mother whispered, reverently.  
    Everyone in the produce section looked over at us.   I swear people who buy vegetables must care about their weight AND other people's health too.  The people in the deli section next door, didn't even give us the time of day!  I never want to shop in the deli section because of that!
    "Are you okay, Sir?" a carrot-stacker asked my father.
    My dad jumped up, faster than Pooh's friend Tigger.  "I'm fine.  Boy, people are falling just to get into this place."
    Everyone in the produce area laughed and went back to their business.  
    While we shopped, I thought about my hilarious dad.  He always has these one-liners that come out at the right time.  For example, once my sister drove through a sporting goods store--drove THROUGH.  She knocked the ski rack off the wall and everything.  She was really young, terrified to call my dad, but when she told him, he didn't even get mad.  He just said, "Well, didn't you tell them that you thought it was a drive-thru?" 
    During our trip at the store, my dad piled things into the cart.  We got steak, ice cream, popcorn and beer.  
   I grew up in Utah.  The area we lived in was full of very religious  Mormons.  Later, I even got stood-up to a dance when my date found out I wasn't Mormon.
    Anyway, as a few old ladies walked past the shopping cart, they saw the beer and threw their noses in the air as if it was required in their profession.  One old snoot in particular sauntered past in rumpled nylons and high heels.  She sneered at us, while pushing her cart as if she owned the whole damn store.
    I watched as my mom eyed the woman and then the beer.  My mom hated the stuff. So, after a moment, she threw some healthy things in--covering the beer with cheese, tortillas and peanut butter.  

    That's when justice was served.  My dad says it was an accident, swears it was, but part of me thinks he did it on purpose.  We went very close to the snooty woman in rumpled nylons.  She'd turned her back on us "beer buyers," while she looked at the eggs.  When her back was still turned, somehow my dad ended up taking her cart and leaving ours with her.  He must have noticed the same things lined the top of both carts!
    We walked away, and I barely contained my joy.  The snooty woman had taken the bait.  She looked at the cart, blinked a couple times, shook her head and then strolled away with it--that beer-loving prude!
    I peered into the cart my father pushed to the checkout; the resemblance was striking.  That woman liked buying the same healthy things my mom liked.
    As the cashier rang up our items, I watched the prissy old woman sashaying closer.  She rebuked me with her eyes, went to the checkout next to us and smiled greedily as if she'd go to Heaven and we would not.
    After a moment of further prejudice, she slid her cart so the cashier could ring up her items.
    Now, on our end of the checkout conundrum, our cart was filled with some very funny things like denture glue, wart remover and hemorrhoid cream.
    My mom looked at the cream and then my dad.  She shook her head and turned to the mint gum (my mom is way above "Big Red").
    It was about that time, when a scream echoed through the store.  "I did not want steak!" the old woman on checkout five shrieked.  "I'm a vegetarian." 
    I turned a bit shocked because I thought she'd hate the nice produce section.
    "And I DID NOT get ice cream!  I'm lactose intolerant.  My bowels could never handle that!"
    "Well, Ma'am, we can put it back for you."  The cashier paused.  His breath came slowly in that moment.  "Oh my . . . Miss Montgomery.  You've gotten a lot more than steak and ice cream . . . I never knew.  I'd never peg you for a . . . beer drinker.  You sure got a lot of it too, you must really like the stuff."
    The woman gasped.  "Beer!  Beer in my cart!  I'd never touch the stuff."
    I knew the cashier was having the best time ever.  I tried holding a laugh in, but it was too hard.  I suddenly burst like a hyena.
    My mom, that sweet religious woman looked at me, "Does she have our cart?"
    I nodded.
    "Of all the crazy . . . hilarious things!"  My mom laughed too.  Tears came to her eyes as she put her hand over her mouth and tried hunching so the woman wouldn't see her.
    We ended up switching carts with the woman.  I was so happy she got a dose of her own judgmental medicine.
    "I've never been thankful for beer," my mom said as we walked from the store.  "Today, I almost am." 
    My dad chuckled.  "Now she knows what drives people to drink.  Too bad she didn't buy our groceries, that woman could use a Budweiser!"

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

The Fifth Side; Our Music

     Yep, I'm a musician.  Maybe you already guessed that because of my quirky sense of humor, or my strange way of viewing life.  People have told me that musicians and artists see things differently from everyone else.  I never quite believed them.  But back to the point, maybe you realized I'm a musician because you're physic . . . or possibly because I told you.  However you knew, the point is that I love music.  

     I think my musical bond with Cade has tied us together through the good and bad times.  We even wrote a song that has a line about how, "We're tied together in these musical strings."
    Anyway, for more along that mushy line, go here:

The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom: Memories of the Music

    But for today, I thought it would be fun to include an except from my upcoming book "The Golden Sky", and show you our favorite song from when we were homeless street musicians in Hawaii.

    Here's the excerpt:

     Cade and I continued to play, and at one point, when everyone danced to the music, I broke a string on my violin. I'm good enough that it didn't mess me up too badly, and I just went up an octave if I needed to hit certain notes.
     After the song was over, I said, “Cade, I just broke my G-string.”
    “That sucks! Do you have another one?” he asked.
    “I'm not sure, but I think—” I said, and then a little old woman, who had a very loud voice, interrupted me.
    “Where I come from, the young folks don't talk about G-strings in public! I can't believe you'd say such a crude thing in front of all these people,” she fumed, and everyone stared at me.
    “I was talking about the G-string on my violin,” I said, and the woman hobbled away as everyone laughed until they couldn't laugh anymore.

        Anyway, here's our music.
(The Scribe taped it so beware of her awesome . . . jumpy skills.)

Monday, August 29, 2011

Wanna Know What My Brother Looks Like?

    If you'd like to visit an AMAZING blog, and read a guest post I wrote, please visit:

     Now . . . on to REVENGE!
     If you remember these two posts,

     then you knew this was coming!
     My brother is awesome.  He's epic.  I've told you how he's an intellectual--one of the few people who can cross his legs and pull it off.  He also made me feel bad about lying to him--so I made a public confession on my own blog!  That guy can get away with anything because that guy, is my hero.  If he had a dollar for every time I've said that . . .  
    And even though it pains me to tell you, I need to open a can of whoop-ars on him.  (I'd write the real "A" word, but my nieces might be reading this and I don't want to be responsible for that!)

    So without further ado, I'd like to show you what my brother looks like.   

    This photo was taken back before people knew how to add colors to photos.  By the way, legend has it that there was is a hickey on his neck.


    But this single picture isn't enough.  Although I've just posted a picture of him in his (prehistoric) teen years, I wanted to show you more.  So, I've taken the liberty of visiting a photo progression store.  They were able to help me find out what my brother (and I) would look like in different times and racial scenarios.
    Please enjoy, I thought you'd have fun putting our names with our faces.

    We grew up in a small town and lived a good life.  Here's my brother at that time:

    Life was great. He'd tease me for hours, push me around on my trike.  Things couldn't get better.  That was around the same time my brother played a hairy primate in "Planet of the Apes."


    Anyway, my brother went to jr. high school, and never forgot about his little sister.  He was always there for me, to take me out for Mexican food, or teach me how to play soccer.

    Well, enough of that sappy stuff.  Here are the pictures the photo progression place helped me with.
    So, here's my Asian brother:

    Here's me:

    And . . . here's my brother:

    Here's me:

    Here's my brother as a woman:

    Here's me:

    Here's my brother:

    Here's me:

    Here's my brother's as Jay Leno:

    Here's my brother now:


    Here's my brother then:


    And this is me now:

I hope you've enjoyed this trip down memory lane. I know I sure did.

See ya later me hearties!


(P. S. This post is dedicated to my hero.  That scurvy rascal!)

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Time for Revenge

    I think it's time to address some of the comments I received on my blog last week.  

    The first ones I would like to tackle were posted on:  
    Remember how I wrote about the man who hates American, white women?

    Well, here are two comments I got on that blog:

Anonymous said...
BOYCOTT AMERICAN WOMEN! Are you a man who is interested in marrying indian women? Please visit, India's 1st International Marriage Bride Site:

    The comment nearly threw me into a fit of hysterics because it is so funny.  It's not what they're advertising, but the point that they're advertising on my blog at all.  I have received so many comments like this.  For example, I wrote about meeting the computer guys, and the other post about mowing my lawn. 
       Here are those links: 

     On both of those posts, I got spam comments: one trying to sell online computer repair support with a link from Dell or something, and one trying to sell lawn mowers.  If you're a blogger, I'm sure you've come across this type of thing before; it still cracks me up though.

The second comment is this one:

Anonymous said...
Well, American women still have two options:
1. become a lesbian or 2. get used to living alone with your 10 cats
No man wants to touch you horrible pathetic subhuman monsters called American women anymore, and the facts prove this: over 50 percent of American women are single.
But, you can still become a lesbian, so you still have at least that option available.

    My advice for this person is, yes maybe you talk with a lisp wisp.  But that doesn't mean you have to TYPE with one!  I'm sorry someone hurt you so badly.  
    Oh, and . . . Cats rock!

     So, I got those comments on 8/25, but the comments that absolutely stole the cake--the words which scream for revenge--I got those yesterday! 
    If you don't remember, yesterday I wrote about Adoption . . . and a Dog.  At a young age, my brother told me I was adopted, and that a dog was my mother.  Well, apparently he remembers it differently.  
Here are the comments I read last night!

On August 27, 2011 9:50 PM, Shane, my dear, sweet, charming, Manly-Leg Crossing brother wrote:

I remember it being a cow when I said that, a really ugly cow. How else can you explain that milky white skin of yours. Our mother IS Italian after all... But your first reaction was so priceless that it turned into an ongoing gag. Perhaps I am remembering a different instance with the cow. Watching realization that I was kidding dawn over your eleven year old mind was priceless, too good to let go of. I was just teasing my little sister, right? Or was I...?

    This comment did bring doubt to my mind again.  Like an ugly bat fluttering where it doesn't belong, my mind wandered through all the things that separate my appearance from that of my family!

    I suffered with those feelings, delving into a doubt long forgotten.  Then I read the following comment from anonymous: 

    My conscience is weighing on me, Elisa. All those years ago, when I said you were adopted, I was telling the truth. Your reaction was so dramatic at the time that I panicked. It wasn't my place to tell you anyway, so I did the only thing I could, I latched onto the first thing I saw and pretended I was making a joke. The whole family decided it should be a secret forever. But seeing your post today made me realize we were wrong. You deserve to know the truth of your origins. I think you're strong enough now and have the right to know. At first I didn't think I'd find her, your mother by blood that is, and then the most amazing thing happened. I found the following website. 

    Visit that site if you dare.  Witness the sacrilege unfolding before us.  But then, after visiting the site, I beg you to pity my poor brother because the time has come to open a can of literary whoop ass on that man.  Maybe I'm not as tall as him; maybe he can still beat me at Mario Kart and Smash Brothers online . . . maybe my mother really was a cow, but hopefully cows are good at taking REVENGE!
    Please tread carefully.  The last time someone made me mad, I arranged for a co-worker to hang blue balls from the back of the culprit's truck.  Don't believe me?  Read here:

The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom: The Best Prank Ever!

    So, in closing, does anyone have advice for me?  
(Beware of what you write here though, brotherly eyes may be watching!)

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Adoption . . . and a Dog

    I remember it well because I was eleven, and I keep telling myself, it wasn't that long ago.
    I sat watching the TV with my brother.  Some ugly dog walked across the screen.  It  wasn't thing ugly:

Or so ugly it was cute:

It wasn't a zombie:

And it wasn't Cerberus's cousin:

    It was still hideous though--at least "a one" on the beauty scale.  And I'm sure the the advertiser didn't make a dime off their product, just like when they used their own daughters to model.

I remember the dog looking more like this:

    So, anyway, I know the details well because every one is practically tattooed on my brain.  As we watched that stupid commercial, my brother decided to give me some devastating news.      
    "You were adopted, Elisa."
    "What?  Are you serious?"
    "Dead serious.  No one wants to tell you, but I figure it's time.  You're old enough, you're almost twelve."
    I nodded.  Twelve was pretty old.  I mean, when you're twelve, you can drive in four years.  You can't play with Barbies.  You can walk places alone.   
     I bathed in my own tears then, crying so hard.
    "Yep," my brother finally said nodding.  The commercial prepared to end, that's how fast it all happened.  "You were adopted."  He grinned again, pointing to the TV.  "And that dog is your Mama."

   On a side note, today we're leaving to a funeral.  Cade's grandma died.  
    Have a great day.  I'll check all your blogs when we get back.

Friday, August 26, 2011

From Nun to Nanny

You NEED to visit this blog:
Do it . . . now!  I'll wait until you get back.

I'm waiting.
Still waiting.

Did you go?
(insert your answer here)

GOOD ON YA!  Thanks.

    All right, now that you're back, let me tell you something.  Dee (from Coming Home to Myself) IS amazing!  I'm completely addicted to her blog, her writing, the inspiring person she is.
    After reading several of her posts, I decided to have my children watch "The Sound of Music."  Well, The Scribe loved it so much, she wouldn't even leave the TV for chocolate ice cream!  She sat there, mystified with Maria's charms.
    "Mom," The Scribe gazed up at me before Maria left the convent, "I want to be a nun."
    "Really?" I asked.  "Why?"
    "Because nuns are awesome!  You told me all about that woman Dee, who has a blog.  She sounds neat.  And Maria, if she had long hair, she'd be amazing too!"
     "What's wrong with her hair in the show?"
     "Nothing, I guess.  It would just be better long.  Does she ever grow it out?"
     "No." I shook my head.
     "Mom."  She suddenly said.  "What's a nun?"
    "Someone who dedicates their live to God.  Nuns don't get married."
    She sighed dreamily.  "That sounds romantic."
    "What?  How can not getting married, be romantic?  That's not the point of being a nun.  I don't think it should be romantic."
    "But it could be.  I just know it.  I'd spend my life, dreaming about getting married. But knowing I gave that up for God . . . " She sighed.
     The movie continued.  Soon Maria met the children.  They danced and sang.  They climbed on trees.  Tra-la-la. 
     The Scribe paused the movie.  "I don't want to be a nun anymore, Mom.  It's much more romantic to be . . . a governess."
    The idea made me snort.  The Scribe has a hard time watching the baby for more than ten minutes!
    Here's your average idea of a governess: 

     But I bet The Scribe would be a lot more like one of the romance novels that are so popular right now.

    "Can I be a governess when I grow up?" she persisted.  "Is it hard to be one of those?"
     "You could be a nanny."
     "Yeah." She nodded.  "A nanny.  Like when The Zombie Elf was bad and that lady asked you where his mother was and you said, 'she's at work, I'm just the nanny.'"
     My head hung in shame.  "Yes, exactly," I mumbled.  "A nanny."
     "Why did you lie to that woman?" The Scribe asked.
     "Because I felt like an idiot.  Your brother peed IN THE SAND,  at the play digging area of the dinosaur park!"
     She scolded me with her eyes.  "Well, no wonder you didn't become a nun."
     I rolled my eyes--I'm such a sinner--then I hit "play."  The movie continued on.  The motherless children had a puppet show.  They laughed and giggled, growing closer to Maria.
     The perfect time came when Maria married the Captain.  At that point, my middle daughter (The Hippie) paused the movie.
    "Scribe.  Do you still want to be a nanny . . . a governess?"
    "Yeah," The Scribe said.  "Why?"
    "Because then you'll be a step-mom.  Haven't you seen any movies or read any books lately?  All step-moms end up sending their kids into the forest, casting spells on them, making them eat yucky things.  I don't care how awesome Maria was before.  No one can stay good after becoming . . . a step-mom."
    The Scribe gasped.  "But she was so nice."
    "Yes," The Hippie said.  "Was!  Too bad she didn't know.  She shouldn't have married that captain."  
    They talked for a while.  Apparently being a step-mom is worse than being a zombie.  According to my girls, Maria should have gone back to the convent because like The Hippie said, "Maria will really need God now."
    "That was my dream, though," The Scribe said.  "All I've ever wanted is to be a nanny who will marry a rich man." She fell into a stuffed pillow on the couch.  "I watched this show and finally realized what my dreams are!  I've been looking for those dreams my whole life."
    Why is it that you get more for your money when you have girls?     
    "Mom?" The Scribe continued.  "Are all step-moms really bad?"
    "No." I laughed so hard.  "Melynda (from Crazy World) is a step-mom."
    "Wow!  I learn something new about that woman every day!" The Hippie said (even though I swear she already knew that).  "Maybe all step-moms aren't bad.  But it must take someone amazing to still be nice after going through something like that."
    "Yeah, no kidding," The Scribe agreed.
    "Both of you would make great step-moms," I told my girls.
    The Scribe sat up, smiling really big.  "You think so?"
    "Thanks, Mom.  As soon as I graduate, I'm going to find a nice man who has a dead wife and a ton of kids . . . well not a ton of kids.  Maybe four kids AND a cat.  But his dead wife can't be cuter than me, that would just be weird.  Do you have to be a nun before becoming a nanny?"
    "No," I said.
    "Good, because I'd make a great nun; I'd hate to break all the old women's hearts when I left and got rich."

    So, The Scribe is resolute in her decision to be a nanny and The Hippie (even after watching the end of the show) is still worried that if The Scribe becomes a nanny, she will eventually become a step-mom.
    "Will we still have to be nice to her if she sends her kids into the forest?" The Hippie asked as I tucked her into bed.
    "There's nothing wrong with step-moms," I said.  "You're thinking about this way too much."
    "Fine, but I might have nightmares tonight.  Becoming a step-mom is like taking the ultimate test.  You either become wonderful like Melynda, or you become a witch like that lady in Snow White!"
    "One or the other?" I asked.
    "Exactly."  She folded her hands.  "God, please protect me from bad dreams about evil step-moms.  Please, God.  In the name of Jesus, Amen."
    The whole thing still makes me giggle.  The ultimate test . . . becoming a step-mom.  I learned two things today:
    I would not have made a good nun and I'm glad I'll never have to take the greatest test known to man. After all, according to The Hippie, "It's shocking which people can turn bad!"

Thursday, August 25, 2011

He Hates White Women!!!

    Have you heard of John Rambo?
     Well, he hates American Women!  He used to have a blog.  I went to comment today, but his blog is gone!  It used to be:

On his blog he wrote:
"Why I Hate American and Western Women

I am a white American male, and I hate white women. In a nutshell, white women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money, don't know how to cook, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with a white woman?

White women are generally immature, selfish, and extremely arrogant and self-centered. The behavior of most white women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.

This blog is my attempt to explain why I feel white women are inferior to all other groups of women, such as Asians, Middle Easterners, Mexicans, Blacks, etc.


    I know this might seem terrible, but I miss his blog.  It was hilarious!  EVERY SINGLE post was dedicated to the stupid reasons he hates white women.  I loved leaving comments.  It's the first time I've used the name "anonymous."  I know other people were offended by my comments, but not me.  I'm a white girl, and apparently I need a conscience.
    My thoughts are:
    What's the difference between white women and women across the world?
    Why would a white woman only steal HALF of his money?
    How many times did his ex-wife cheat?
    How much weight did she gain?
    Why was there a link to on his site?
    So, I visited ""  I can't imagine any wife beating her husband. I'm sure it happens, but even the thought of me kicking Cade's A-S-S is hysterical.  Are we talking about those weird couples where the huge woman marries the tiny man?  Maybe I'm being stereotypical--it's just hard to imagine any other way. 

    Well, back to John "Rambo."  If I could picture him, he suffers from small man syndrome.  I'm thinking of a short, wisp of a man. No hair.  Yucky eyes . . . big teeth.  He's not a nice man AND it shows.  I guess the face I envision is Voldemort's. 
But when I picture him, I must then envision his new girlfriend, he did after all just delete his blog.
    (This makes me think about the offspring of Voldemort and Ape Woman;
not a pretty idea but maybe a sequel to the Harry Potter series!)    
    Yet, after all the terrible, and quite scary Ted Bundy-ish things he wrote, I still feel bad for the man.  What really happened to Rambo boy?  Something wretched must have inspired him to start that blog.   
    Your thoughts?

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

A Doctor, A Zombie, and a Sorcerer's War

    I guest posted today on Mamawolfe.  Please check her out if you have a chance.  She's amazing!  Here's that post:

So, on to a silly story; yesterday I witnessed a Sorcerer's War!
     Candiss (from yesterday's vlog) made each of my kids a nursing, scrubs shirt.  

    Well, whenever The Zombie Elf (my three-year-old) puts his adult-size shirt on, he thinks he's better than Potter. 
    He wields string cheese (the expensive kind).  He jumps around casting spells on the cat, on the couch. Boom, boom, poof! The kid can even change channels on the TV!  
    What a descendant of Merlin!  
    All that went great, and he thought he was amazing until meeting his match.  Doctor Jones (my one-year-old) stumbled from the shadows in our front room.  
    You see, she wore an adult scrubs top too.  Sure she struggles walking in it because it's long.  Sure she can only say a few words and prefers to make a popping sound anyway.  But when she wears scrubs AND holds string cheese, watch out!  She has brilliant blue eyes that seem to know all the spells in the world.  She has wild curly hair--like a scientist--and everyone knows to watch out for people like that.
    The two babies faced-off in the front room.  The Zombie Elf circled around Doctor Jones because she was far too powerful.  Doctor Jones stayed strong, but something flickered across her cherub's face; I sensed her fear.
    The Zombie Elf laughed then.  "I have you.  You're a bad guy.  Ha ha ha."  The laugh was fake, very pronounced and theatrical.
    Doctor Jones nearly shook in those scrubs.  She turned to me as if pleading for a moment.  She didn't say a word though.  She didn't even make a popping noise.
    The Zombie Elf laughed again.  He grabbed Doctor Jones's wand of string cheese.  He threw in on the ground and stepped on it.  I felt like it was my heart he stepped on because that cheese cost twenty-five cents!
    "Any words?" The Zombie Elf asked.  He pointed his freshly unwrapped string cheese at her.  She stumbled backwards, slowly until he'd backed her against a wall.  "I said," The Zombie Elf screamed with insanity only a magician can know, "any words before I turn you into Rosie the choo choo train?" 
    That's when Doctor Jones turned spicy (like when I wrote about Doctor Jones and the Sucker Raid).  She sealed her mouth tight.  She squinted her eyes.  Then, when I least expected it, she popped her lips. 
    The Zombie Elf pointed his wand closer, knowing he needed to act fast.  (Every time Doctor Jones pops her lips, something crazy happens!)  
    "I will turn you into a choo choo!  Boom, boom . . ."  He waved his wand and prepared to say the final, inevitable POOF!  
    I thought of how much I love the way Doctor Jones is.  I knew she would make a cute choo choo, even though I'd miss her curls.  She appeared nervous, backed against that wall and hope seemed out of reach.
    "Poof!" The Zombie Elf said, but just as he pointed his wand, the spell never made it out because Doctor Jones leaned forward like a snapping turtle and bit off a fourth of the string cheese wand.  
    It was a victorious moment for women everywhere.  You should have seen the pride and happiness on my girl's face. 
    The Zombie grimaced at his wand and dropped the thing.  The female Doctor picked it up and started nibbling on the rest.
    "I lost," The Zombie Elf said sadly.  "I still have this wand though."  He picked up Doctor Jones's old wand, the one he'd stepped on.  He put it in his mouth and took a big bite of nastiness.
    "Yum," The Zombie Elf said as I cringed.
    "Yum," Doctor Jones smiled and giggled.  "Wand!"  That was the first time she said wand!  I told you string cheese is magical.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

How Gum Represents Hell

    It all started with Jill.  Do you remember Jill and the break-in?
    Here's that link if you need it:

    Anyway, Jill ran into some trouble the other day.  She met a male blogger (from the other side of the country). They shared a trail of e-mails, which she thought were a bit strange.  Jill didn't worry too much about it though--not until her husband came home and read the e-mails.

    The first e-mail read:

    Dear Jill,
        Do you have any plans today?

        No plans.  I just need to go shopping for milk, bread and gum.
        Gum.  Oohh.  I hope you're getting "Big Red" because I like it spicy.

    She immediately called me after her husband read the e-mails.      
    "He just left the house," she said.  "He stormed out screaming, 'You're having an affair.  Do you like it spicy?  You do like it SPICY!'"  Jill took a sob break before continuing. "I'm not doing anything.  Xxx lives across the country, and I'd never do something like that anyway!"  She paused.  "Elisa, I don't like it spicy.  I hate 'Big Red,' really I do."
    That's when a new theory hit me; cinnamon gum is of the devil.  Just look at the packaging if you don't want to believe me.  That little flaming dude--he's bad news!

    So, poor Jill still suffers.  They're trying to work it out, but her man claims she likes it too spicy for him!  He's obviously a fan of spearmint.

    Without further ado, I'd like you to watch this video and learn more:
     Oh and in order of appearance: Melynda (from Crazy World) is on the left, Candiss (from Through the Wringer) is in the middle, and I'm on the right.
    Enjoy . . .

Monday, August 22, 2011

The Girl Fix

    I asked The Hippie (my seven-year-old) if she'd like to have a sleepover on my bedroom floor.  "It's your turn." I smiled.
    "A sleepover with you and Daddy?" she asked.  "The Scribe got a turn last night.  I thought you'd never ask me."
    "Of course we would.  So, will you have a sleepover?  Daddy and I will let you stay up later than the other kids.  You can watch a movie with us and have popcorn."
    She giggled, so completely happy. "A princess movie.  A Barbie movie?"
    I knew Cade would hate me, but I nodded anyway.  "Sure, Daddy loves those . . . Barbie movies."
     Anyway, everything seemed right with the world until later that day, when she'd locked herself in my room.
    "What are you doing?" I asked, knocking.
    "I'm fixing up your room.  If I'm moving in, I better make a few changes."
    Moving in?  I worried, until she came out and my fears were confirmed.  I've decided I hate locked doors.  I hate it when children are so deathly quiet you know they're doing something terrible!
    My room, CADE'S ROOM looked like a fairy princess had come to do her magic and then exploded.  Stuffed animals rested everywhere.  All of my writing things and books WERE HIDDEN.  All of Cade's favorite guy things WERE GONE!
    You ask a girl to have one sleepover--ONE--and all hell breaks loose.

    "Why did you put all those girly blankets and stuffed animals on my bed?  I asked you if you'd like to have a sleepover on the floor."
    "But the floor, doesn't look as nice as the bed.  So, I set up your stuff right there."  I looked.  My nice comforter, the beautiful one I'd gotten for my birthday, rested where she'd made my bed ON THE GROUND!  I knew Cade would not be pleased.

      Now, before I go on with this gem of a story, let me take a detour.  What is the deal with girls who barely date a guy, and then think they're moving in with them?  Let me explain:
    One of Cade's best friends, let's call him "Big T.," keeps dating psychos.  Just last month, he dated a girl for two weeks.  After those two weeks went well, he had to go out of town, so he asked if she could check on his house for the next week while he was away.
    When Big T. came home, the girl had practically moved in.  She'd brought her two cats to live there.  She'd redecorated the bathroom.  She'd done up the kitchen and put fluffy pillows on the bed. 

    I remember seeing a scene like that on "How to lose a Guy in 10 Days;" I just never thought people like that actually existed.
    Poor Big T flipped out.  He's allergic to cats and they'd peed everywhere.  He'd just wanted her to make sure his house was okay a couple times, not move in from her parents' house. 
    What is the deal with these women?  Are they trying to strike while the iron is hot?  Maim while the poor guy can't get away?  What happened to playing hard to get.  That's way better than acting like a freak woman.

    So, back to my story about The Hippie.  She did end up telling us where all of our things were.  She'd hid Cade's paintball gun in her room.  She'd put my books under my bed.
    We moved all her things back into her bedroom and set-up her bed on the floor.
    After we ate popcorn and watched a Barbie movie, Cade asked The Hippie, "Why did you decorate it so nice though?  You should do that to your own room."
    "Are you kidding?" she said.  "I share a room with The Zombie Elf.  He hates all that girly stuff.  That's why I've decorated our room with cars."
    Kids are hilarious!

    So why do you think women do that to men anyway?

Sunday, August 21, 2011

We Pulled the Plug (Part 2)

    This is a continuation from yesterday.  Here's that link:

     Like I wrote yesterday, we have two amazing trees behind our house.  One reminds me of my son who passed away because it's weak and small.  The other tree is a weeping willow--huge, healthy, willing to do anything to shade the smaller tree.  It reminds me of how I was when my boy was alive.
    So anyway, a windstorm came, the likes of which our town has never seen.  I stood, staring through the back window.  I couldn't pull my eyes from the little tree, which whipped about.
    I finally couldn't take anymore, so I ran upstairs and rested next to Cade.  I fell asleep after a while, having fitful dreams that Zeke was on life-support, but when we took him off, he grew into a seven-year-old and screamed at me through a storm, "I didn't want to die.  I didn't want to!"
    I sat up then, sweating from the nightmare.  The house practically rocked from the power of the winds outside.  Cade sat up too and splayed the blinds with his fingers.  "Holy, cow," he said.  "I think our little tree's gonna fly out of the ground or snap in half." 
    I knelt beside him.  As I looked outside, my heart stopped beating.  My breath stilled like the day Zeke died.  Our little tree's branches wept in the wind.  The trunk bent so far, the upper branches touched the ground.

    Cade shook his head and lay back in bed, but I couldn't.  After he fell asleep again, I tiptoed down to the back door.  I still don't know why (maybe it's because the tree is eight, like Zeke would have been), but I decided to go outside.
     Now, when I watched the news earlier, the winds were expected to hit 80/85 mph.  When I opened the door, it swung back so hard, I jumped away before it hit me.  The wind rushed past.  I went to the side of the door and hung onto the jamb, just so I could pull myself outside.  I struggled for a second, put my hip along the siding and managed to pull the door shut.  
    I've never been in winds like that, ones which make people question or gain faith.  
    Nature pushed me straight against the house.  As I closed my eyes, I got vertigo and remembered sky diving.  I thought of when I'd fallen through the skies, when the air ripped my face, carving it into a jackal's smile.  My teeth had frozen then too.
    But I wasn't falling this time, I was watching my baby tree die.
    I opened my eyes.  Branches flailed like a man being tortured.  Leaves hit me in the face.  The winds changed direction every so often and so did my tree.
    I tried running forward, to hold my tree strong, but I slammed into the house again, unable to go anywhere.
    I almost screamed then, begging the weeping willow to do something--anything.  Hadn't it represented me?  Hadn't it always protected the baby tree. Maybe it still symbolized my actions and that's how I was, useless, helpless against nature and God's control.      
    I just wanted my tree to live . . . I'd just wanted Zeke to live.
    I've always wondered how people could watch martyrs die, but now I know.  Instead of trying to go back inside, I stayed there and watched.  Even though death might come close, snatching someone or something you love, sometimes being a witness to the sacrifice means almost as much as the death.  I pictured Jesus on the cross, the sacrifice He must have made.  I pictured my son dying in my arms. 
    My baby tree cracked; one of its limbs flew against the house.  I cried then, lamenting over far more than the storm.  As I sobbed, the wind stole my tears and my face stayed dry as I wept.
     The tree cracked again, another branch twirled oddly, barely hanging on.  That's when I couldn't take it anymore.
    "God," I screamed, praying into the night.  "Don't let it die.  Please don't.  It reminds me of Zeke, like part of him is still with us as long as this tree's here.  Please save it, God!  You had to take my son, but don't take this symbol of his life too!"
    I waited a moment, held my breath . . . and the wind changed.  Although it rushed harder than before, it came from a different direction.
    The willow, that strong, peaceful willow bent over, wrapped it's branches around Zeke's tree.  I sobbed harder, watching as the big, healthy tree, got the brunt of the attack.  Willow branches flew around the yard.  It took a harder beating than the baby tree ever had because the new winds sought death. 
     The baby's branches swayed, then tilted up to a regular position.  It danced slightly, but remained unscathed as the willow continued whipping about, fighting with everything it had.
    I turned my attention to the huge tree.  It was a painful sight, something I'll never forget.  Because the willow started dying so the baby could live.
     As I stared, watching the willow whose strength went beyond anything, I stopped.  It seemed to hug the baby.
     Something profound struck my heart.
     The willow hadn't represented me.  The willow represented God.  And the little tree, the one who had such a hard time standing alone, had been me.  
     I got an overwhelming feeling then; some things happen for a reason to better other people, to give us thankfulness, gratefulness for things we still have.
     A voice ran through my mind softer than silk,  "I love you, Elisa.  I've always been there for you, and I'll never leave you."
    The battle raged on, but I found lasting peace through the storm.
    God saved my tree that night.  He saved both trees, and I realized He'd been looking after them the whole time, just like He's looking out for me 
. . . for all of us.

    Learn more about Zeke's story here:

Saturday, August 20, 2011

We Pulled the Plug (Part 1)

    Two trees stand at the back of my house, guarding it through the days and nights.  One is a massive willow, with branches reaching all the way to the ground like overly-long warriors' arms.  It's the heart of my town; I swear that tree is powerful and endless like time.
     The second tree is a wisp of a thing; it causes me to worry that the winds might take it away.  It's over eight years old, and still struggles to grow.  
    Anyway, I stared at those two trees, devised and weighed the differences between them.  The little tree has always reminded me of Zeke because there's something wrong with it, and it will never be like other trees no matter how hard I hope and pray.  The big tree reminds me of myself, because it's always encouraging the little tree to be strong.
    I blinked back tears, willing anything to take the pain away. 
    "Why is he hooked to all those machines?" The Hippie asked, breaking me away from my thoughts.  Somehow she'd found a bunch of pictures of Zeke, and she wanted answers.
    "He only had one good lung."  I turned to her, putting my back to the trees beyond the window.  "He wasn't well, Honey, so the machines helped him breathe."
    "Why did they stop working?  Machines hardly ever stop."
    "It's not that they stopped.  Daddy and I decided . . ." A knot formed in my stomach, how could I explain my actions to a seven-year-old?  "We had to unplug the machine.  People call it 'pulling the plug.'"  The moments flashed through my mind.  I remembered his death, his life.  How I had to be strong even though I was only nineteen.  I almost need to read my journal again, just to remember the amazing things that happened to confirm we'd done the right thing.  Every once in a while, I just need to remember the miracles God brought our way.
    But still, why did she have to ask so many questions, and why after eight years, does it still hurt?
    The Hippie's face grew red.  She balled her fists.  "What?  He could still be here, but because of you, because you wanted him to die, you took him away from me!  I wanted an older brother, always have.  But you took him away from me."
    She didn't understand.  I know a seven-year-old is too little to know about life, pain and death.  She couldn't understand how fast I had to grow up, feeling like an old lady in a teenage body.  Yet her words stung deep.  
    She ran into her room and threw herself on the bed.  "I'm so mad at you," she said.  "I wanted an older brother!"
    And I wanted to keep my son!
    "He was in so much pain.  If you were hurting everyday and always would be, would you want to stay alive. . . on machines?  Like when you have to poop really bad?  Imagine feeling that pain forever."
    (Sorry for the graphic-ness, The Hippie just hates pooing, so it was the perfect reference.)  
    "Yeah, I'd rather be alive. And Zeke felt that way too.  You took his life
. . . you did.  And you didn't even give him a choice."  I closed her door, and my baby Hippie, the healthy, rainbow baby I'd had after Zeke, fell asleep in her clothes.
    How can I explain how much her words hurt me? How my own latent fears, came to the surface again?  
    After I got all my other kids to sleep and even Cade, I went to watch "Wings."  I'm addicted to that show, and more than ever, I felt like I should watch it to help cheer me up.
    But before I watched it, I knelt next to the couch.  "God," I prayed.  "I'm so sad.  I know you've already given me a million confirmations that we did the right thing, but can you give me another sign?  Even something small, just to help me know we did the right thing?  I love you, God.  Thanks for everything you've given me, even if you had to take some things away."
    I sat down and clicked on the next episode of "Wings."  Netflix is a beautiful thing.
    You'll never believe what happened; here's what I watched:
    Go to seconds 1:07-1:50

    I cried then; the words hit me so much.  Everything they said went straight to my heart as if God Himself spoke to me.  The point is that Zeke did take a turn for the worst during the night.  That's when the nurse called to tell me we should let him go.  He probably would have been a vegetable if we kept him on machines.  And if by some stroke of luck, he wasn't a vegetable after everything he'd gone through, he would have been miserable for the rest of his life.
    I rewound to those words again, "You did the right thing . . . you did the right thing."
    I turned down the TV's volume and gazed through the back window.  Maybe it was a sign.  I smiled with tears skirting the edges of my lips.  
    I noticed then, it was dark outside, even though the porch lights shone on my special trees.  Light danced across the leaves.  The branches drifted back and forth in what seemed like the beginning of a storm.
    I scrolled to the weather channel and gaped as the news paraded across the screen.  Our city was about to have the worst wind storm of the century.  Winds were predicted to get up to 80/85 mph.  
    I looked at my little tree and death rode on its branches.  That tree reminded me of Zeke.  I couldn't imagine it toppling over and leaving me too.  
     As I stared, the winds worsened. The trees rocked and shook.
    "Oh, God," I cried.
    You'll never believe what happened next.
    To be continued tomorrow . . .

    On a side note, I'm thinking of doing a blog tour for "The Golden Sky" coming out on 11/18/11.  If you're interested in letting me do a serious or humorous guest post, interview me as an author, or review my book on your blog, please contact me here: ecboutique05(at)gmail(dot)com

Friday, August 19, 2011

Top Ten Torture Devices For Women

Would you rather be tortured with this:

Or One of These:

    I say, "Give me the Iron Maiden!"

    Before continuing, let me tell you that today's post is dedicated to:
Grandma Gertie who said...
 It had to be a man who invented the bra!
fishducky who said...
To GRANDMA GERTIE--It probaly was a man who invented the bra. I KNOW that a man invented the boob squisher--aka mammogram. Can you even imagine a man putting his privates in a torture device like that?

And to
Padded Cell Princess who said...
In response to Grandma Gertie and Fishducky about feminine things that are made my men, how about the Pap Smear?? Can't you just see a couple of male doctors looking at the woman in the stirrups saying, "Well, how are we going to test this area??" "I don't know but let's poke it with a stick!" Thus a medical 'procedure' is born!
Anyway, the three of you got me thinking.  
I decided to find my top ten torture devices for women.  
These products are still used. 
  Here they are in no specific order: 
#1  "Nose Up" 
For those of you who want to   
turn your "Nose Up" at the world.
#2 Waxing . . . seriously, isn't there a better way?
        #3 "The Lip Pumper"     What the heck?  This sounds painful! If you want a big lip, get in a bar fight.     You might get some beer out of the deal too!
#4 Exotic Acne Treatment--you read that right.  
These little guys are guaranteed to   
remove pimples AND moisten your skin-what a deal! 
#5 Top Charming  

#6 Whatever they're doing to her:

#7  Yet another Acne Product.


#8 The "Nose Hair Remover"

#9 The Eyelash Curler
Once my friend used one of these.  
While curling, she went to rest her elbow 
on the counter and missed.  
Needless-to-say, she looked very funny 
with only one set of eyelashes.

And #10
Either Hideous Lingerie
Like this:
  And this:

Or the worst, deadliest torture device
ever known . . . 
small men who are obsessed with tall women.


Do you have anything you'd like to add?