Sunday, July 31, 2011

Marital Duel and The Great Race!

    Does your husband talk smack?  
    Mine sure does.  You'd think he could use one finger to lift a truck.  That he climbed Mt. Everest--naked.  That he went to the moon WITHOUT A SPACECRAFT!  That's how Cade seems . . . when he talks.  My kids think he's awesome.  The Zombie Elf told me yesterday, "The bad guys hate daddy because he has muscles."
    Well, I have news for my innocent children.  I have muscles too!  I want my children to think I'm awesome.  I might not be able to lift a truck with my pinkie, but I can change the oil!  I wouldn't climb Mt. Everest naked, but I'd watch a movie about it (Mt Everest, not me climbing naked)!  I can do the dishes, talk on the phone, feed a baby, AND make a cake all at the same time!  Sure, I'm not the coolest mother out there, but I like making cake.
    I know what you're thinking.   "Wow.  P. M. S., right?"  
    Wrong!  This is me having an issue with jealousy.  The ugly, green marital monster reared its head, blah blah blah--SAVE IT! Those children think they're daddy is amazing, and sometimes in comparison I feel like a schlub!  Wanna know what a schlub is?  Take a gander!!! 

    There's nothing worse than being a schlub, and they're normally pictured as dudes.  If that quadriplegic got reincarnate as a schlub
. . . he must have led a really bad life before.  Can you say, "Politician" or "Lawyer!"
    Anyway, we went to a party a few days ago.  Cade started joking around, riding a kiddy bike.  He talked smack.  "Women's legs are different then men's, so I bet it's impossible for you to even ride a bike this small."
    "Really?" I spat.  "I could ride that thing!  I could ride it with my eyes closed.  I can do anything that you can do!"  Wow, yeah me.       
    My kids giggled.  "It's okay, Mama," The Hippie said.  "You can't be good at everything."      
    Imagine my sadness, my horror at hearing her words.  I felt like a Schlub El Primo.  Something needed to be done and quickly.  That's when I challenged Cade to a duel--a race!  If I whooped his butt in front of the children, they'd love me more--HA HA!

Here's Cade riding the first time: 

    "Cade," I said after a moment of standing strong.  "I challenge you to a kiddy bike race.  We'll have it after The Hippie's birthday party in two days . . . in front of witnesses.  We'll each use a kiddy bike.  May the best spouse win!"
    We shook hands on it then and prepared for the craziest race known to husband and wife.  I dreamed about it, laughed in my sleep and even choreographed my victory dance.  Too bad things aren't always as you dream.

    This is how the real race went down:

    Who do you think won? 

Saturday, July 30, 2011

The Potion of Nastiness

    It's time to let you know.  The Scribe has been sneaking on my blog, reading posts and then reading comments.  She was especially thrilled with ALL of the comments on my post: Teacher of Doom!
    Are you having a hard time remembering?  Let me show you a couple of her favorites:

At 10:07 AM, Fishducky wrote: I'd like to adopt the Scribe but there's probably a long line ahead of me.

At 12:32 PM, Melynda wrote: Fishducky wait in line woman. I've got dibs on adopting any one of those kids! lol

   It's true that the Scribe has read too much of my blog and watched too much Star Trek.  I didn't realize what went on in her little mind until I came into the kitchen later that night.
    "What are you doing?" I asked.
    The kitchen looked like a potion emporium.

    The Scribe had pulled out all my spices and baking supplies. I saw milk sitting on the counter by some coke. She'd filled water bottles with strange mixtures.
    "Let me ask you again," I yelled.  "What are you doing?"
    "Getting extra credit, and making all those nice people on your blog happy."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Well, people on your blog wish they had someone like me, so I'm making a cloning potion.  I'll have The Hippie drink some first, just to make sure it works.  If clones appear next to her, then we know I made a cloning potion, if not, she'll probably just fall in love with the next boy she sees."


    "Great."  I moaned. 
    She passed me one of the many potions.  "Smell," she said.  "And to think, The Hippie gets to try all of these."
    "O-kay, that smells disgusting.  What's in it?"
    "This." She smiled pointed to the milk, cinnamon, pickle juice, etc.!
    "You can't make her drink that."
    "I won't make her do anything," she said.  "The Hippie's excited to have a clone to keep and do chores for her anyway.  We'll sell the other clones to the bloggers."
    I scoffed.  "Sell them?  But aren't the clones real people?"
    "No," she laughed.  "They're more like pets.  Didn't you say the last time scientists made clones, the clones all came out as sheep."
    "Yeah, because they cloned . . . SHEEP.  Your clones will come out as people."
    She looked at me stunned.  
    Were we really fighting about clones?  I knew the potion of nastiness wouldn't work, yet I argued with her about it?
    "Fine," I said.  "If your sister wants to drink that, then let her.  I just hope it'll cure her leg."
    The point is that The Hippie has been hobbling around for TWO DAYS!  She skinned her knee and now she won't bend her leg.  I dropped her off for school and she struggled getting to her classroom.  They just started Tuesday; people probably think she's crippled.  That would be fine if she had a physical issue, but she doesn't!  
    She came up to me a couple days ago and said, "Mama, you know how I normally come in first when I race at school?" 
    I nodded.  
    "Well, I couldn't bend my leg, so I came in last."
    I snorted from the memory.  
    "Seriously, Scribe," I said.  "Maybe that cloning potion will get her leg working again.  Pickle juice can do wonders."
    I turned and watched as The Hippie hobbled into the room.  "Are the potions ready yet?" she asked, completely excited--maybe she thought the stuff might heal her leg too!
    "They're all ready," The Scribe said, "Just one last touch."
    I know it's terrible, but I started talking to The Hippie instead of watching The Scribe's every move.  That was a fatal "no-no."  Even at the bar, when someone prepares your drink, you should always watch what they're putting in it!
    The Scribe smiled like a crafty apothecary.  She handed The Hippie a drink and giggled.  "Drink up and we'll see your clones soon."
    The Hippie giggled back, the sound of innocence.  She took a sniff, plugged her nose and drank all the contents of the coffee mug.
    That's when disaster struck.  You see, I like cooking spicy things.  My mom is half Italian and she taught me everything she knows about cooking spicy!  So, my cupboards are filled with fancy spices, hot concoctions and fun bullion's.  As I watched, The Hippie's face turned from milky perfect to a blotchy red; I knew something was wrong.  She coughed, trying to keep the smile on her face.
    "Oh wow!" The Hippie said.  Although she didn't realize it, her leg bent as she sat down to collect herself.  "This is magic.  My mouth is tingling.  It feels like a magic fire is inside, like a dragon is in my mouth!"  A couple tears came to her eyes and I stopped her from rubbing them.  I realized then, The Hippie's never had spicy food, so she mistook it for magic.
    I gave her a bunch of cold water, which she refused to drink.  "I need to let the magic keep working.  I really don't want to clean my room all the time."  
    I'd never seen someone who could handle heat like that!  She really must hate cleaning.  
    After making sure she was okay, I pulled The Scribe aside and whispered, "What did you put in at the last second?"
   She shut her lips, trying to hold a laugh in, but the stupid sound came out like a spluttery fart!  She pointed at a bottle, the one I hoped she'd avoid.  It's stuff I use to make spicy spaghetti, or prize-winning pickled eggs.  She pointed . . . to the homemade mixture with ground cayenne red pepper and banana pepper seeds in it!
    "You're either grounded for two weeks, or you're drinking some of that too," I said.
    The Scribe's eyes got big.  "I'll drink it for five bucks."
    "NO.  You'll drink it and I won't make you clean the toilets while you're gounded!"
    That was the key to success.  Apparently both my girls hate cleaning.  
    So, to make a long story short, my girls' sinuses are clear.  They didn't get any clones, but The Hippie's leg can bend now (shocker).
    After they realized the potions stung to no avail, The Scribe looked at me.  "Those poor blog ladies.  And to think, they just wanted kids like me."
    I tried holding a straight face.  "Maybe we can pray for them.  They'll be all right."
   "I guess so, but that will be so hard."  Then she cheered up far to quickly.  "Didn't you said that Melynda has an Aux plant, that makes Aux Jus?"
    I nodded.  
Here's that link if you have no idea what she referred to:
    "Well, if we add some of that to this same potion, it will definitely turn from a cloning potion to a love potion.  Do you know if Melynda is home?"
    "We can see."  I called Melynda.  "My girls are makin' a love potion.  Do you still have that Aux Jus plant?" I asked.
    She laughed, catching on like a potion MASTER!  "Yes, indeed I do,"  she said.

     That's the end of the story about how The Hippie got healed, but the beginning of how she fell in love.
    For the rest of that story, please visit Melynda (the potion super star):

Crazy World

Friday, July 29, 2011

Guy's Secrets--Revealed!

    I turned to The Zombie Elf.  That three-year-old is such a ham.  But he's gotten to this phase where he loves peeing in the potty.  He shows off and tells me how awesome he is.
    "I have a pee gun.  Vroom . . . Vroom," he said.  "Do you pee standing?"
    "No.  Girls sit."
    "Oh," he said.  "Poor, Mama."  He wore a sad look, as if realizing I had no arms.  "You can't pee standing?"
    "I can, but I choose to sit!"
    Why do guys think we're jealous that they can pee standing?  It's an epidemic!  Even little boys think we're jealous.


    Later that morning, right before Cade ate breakfast, I looked over just as The Zombie Elf itched himself.          
    "I hope he won't do that when he's older," I said to Cade.
    "All guys do." 
    "But hopefully not in public," I told Cade.  "I went to school with a guy who itched all the time.  The kids ended up calling him 'Cherry Picker.'  No one wanted to date that kid.  If The Zombie Elf keeps this up . . ."
    "Well," Cade said, "all guys do that in public, but there are ways to go about it.  Ways to be discrete."
    "Are we really having this conversation?  So, every guy on Earth just sneaks around, itching?"
   "It's not called itching.  It's called readjusting.  A guy who itches is an idiot . . . a guy who readjusted, well, that's different." 
    Cade's comment cracked the hell out of me!  "So, itching is bad, readjusting is all right.  But every guy readjusts?" I asked.
    He nodded.  "Any real man does.  Like the guys who need to . . . get their cell phone.  Or grab their keys."
    My face paled.  I've met guys who like grabbing their phones and keys, right before shaking my hand!  I gasped.  "They're Cherry Pickers . . . Aren't they?"
    "Yep, but the good ones are so sly, you never even know when it happened."
    "Oh, my gosh!"  I looked from Cade to The Zombie Elf.  I felt surrounded.  My bubble, my dreams of a picker-free world had burst.
    I went to the store later that day and you know what . . . there were a lot of guys grabbing their CELL PHONES!  I nearly screamed.  It's like they wanted to suffocate me with their sneaking-ineptitude.  They thought they were suave pickers, but no, Cade had stolen my innocence!  I spotted each one of those fiends.  I knew their dirty secrets.  Sure they had the other women in the store fooled--not me though.  
    I knew they were more obvious than they hoped.  
    I knew they'd never land a job with the CIA for being debonair!
    One guy grabbed his "money" for a moment, before handing his payment to the cashier.  
    She smiled, that naive schmuck--ACTUALLY SMILED!
    So, when I got home at night, I had a long talk with Cade.  "You stole my innocence.  Everywhere I went, I saw Pickers!"
    He nearly spit out his coke, he laughed so hard.  "You should thank me.  I shared a big guy secret with you."
    "Fantastic . . . just phenomenal.  Now I'm scarred for life."
    Just then The Zombie Elf walked up to us and grabbed . . . his keys.
    "Ahhh," I screamed.  "Don't touch yourself.  The world is filled with guys who do that.  It's yucky, K?"

    "That not yucky," The Zombie Elf puffed with pride and pointed to his pee pee.  "That not yucky, Mama.  That's mine!"
    I tried saving the world from one more Picker, but I'd done a poor job.  Cade laughed, doubling in amusement again.  "You always wanted a boy," he said.  "Now you have one."   

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Superstitious Mama

    I hate the fact that I'm superstitious in a bad way.  I never think something good will happen to me.  Like the time I won first prize in the sewing fair, I never thought, Oh, I should use that same thread because it will help me win next year.  NO.  I'm only superstitious about bad things.  
    Like right before we found out Zeke had problems and would probably die, Cade and I laughed on the phone.  "We're having a boy!" I said.  "I've never been happier."
    "I agree," Cade said.  "We'll have a girl and a boy.  I don't think I've ever been this happy either."
    The next day, the doctor told me Zeke would probably die in the womb or shortly after birth.  I rested on the floor in his baby room.  I hugged some damn blanket I thought he'd love and I cried myself to sleep. 
    I know it's silly, but I'll never say that phrase again.  Uttering, "I've never been happier," is like asking nature to strike you with lightning.  It's just something you shouldn't do unless you like extensive heat.  
    Word of the wise, even if you've never been happier, don't say it aloud--don't jinx it!  
    The rest of my kids are still with me because what I say now is, "Wow, life is good, but it's not lightning worthy."  And that's kept me trauma free!


    You might think I'm nuts.  Hell, other posts might have made you think that before.  
    Like when I posed on a toilet . . .


Went Sky Diving . . . 

Filled an invisible car with gas

    The point is that even though I don't say it aloud, I guess writing it might be okay.  Life is pretty damn good.  I'm not saying it's perfect, but it's how you see it.  I know today isn't a special day as far as Zeke goes, but I've been thinking about him.  When you lose a child, sometimes memories of them just hit.  You might be healed of certain things, but you still miss your baby.
    I keep thinking of this excerpt from my journal, "The Golden Sky."

    Jane (Zeke's nurse) took care of him when I got there. She's almost always there. I joked around, and said, “Woman! How in the hell are you, you good looking thing?”
    She gave me “the eye” then. Maybe she's been taking lessons from Cade. I think she suppressed a smile, but after a moment her serious demeanor conquered her resolve.
    “Elisa,” she said, “you need to wake up and realize what's going on around you.” She cleared her throat. “Your son is very sick, and you don't seem to be accepting reality.” Her eyes caught mine, and she peered at me steadily. “Why are you so happy all the time?”
    “I'm just happy he's still here,” I whispered. “As long as he's still alive,” I paused, suddenly sad in the moment, “there's hope.”
    She looked at me differently then, and sighed as if she was sorry for making me sad. “You're one of the strongest people I've ever met,” she said, and then filled the syringe she held in her hand, “and I've met a lot of people in here.” 

    Maybe that nurse thought I was strong, but I was just trying to be tough for my baby.  As long as I smiled and gave him all the love I could, I felt like his life wouldn't be quite so bad.

    Something triggered all these memories.  It might sound like a silly trigger, but it happened none-the-less.  You see, I have weird things happen to me.  Zeke was born on the same day Cade and I got married up in the mountains by that online minister.   
Here's that link:Rock Canyon (Entry 20)
    My uncle died in August.  My grandma died in August.  I found out my dad had colon cancer . . . in August.  That my son would die . . . in August.  August, it's not all it's cracked up to be.
    Zeke died, then we had a rainbow baby boy (The Zombie Elf) on Cade's birthday.  We had a rainbow baby girl (Doctor Jones) thirty minutes before my birthday.
    Anyway, there are some crazy things that have happened.  Those are only a few.
    So, the day before my grandpa fell off a roof, his cell dialed my mom at 10pm.  He'd just butt dialed her.  And we both thought it was strange until the next day when he fell off a roof.
    The reason I'm so freaked out today is because my grandpa butt dialed my mom on July 26th.  He fell from the roof July 27th and died on July 30th.  Well . . . guess who butt dialed me at 9:30 last night!  MY DAD!  Yesterday was July 27th (the day my grandpa fell from the roof).  I know you're telling me to calm down, but I'm freaked out. I stayed up praying last night.  I called my dad today and told him to be safe!
    I know you probably think it's just crazy odds, or maybe it was a reminder of my grandpa's amazing life . . .
    Anyway, freaky.   

    Do you have this kind of thing happen to you?  

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Learning from Star Trek

    I love how at this point in my life, with four children hovering around my every move, they're learning life values from The Brady Bunch and Star Trek.

    The baby boomers watched this stuff, and they turned out all right.  So, I figure my kids might be okay viewing Marsha Brady and Captain Kirk, but judging from this caption . . . maybe I should rethink my grand idea.

    Anyway, The Scribe and The Hippie came home last night, super excited because their teachers LOVED the notes and obviously aren't evil witches since they like reading.
    And honestly that was all we talked about.  After the kids did their minimal (first-day) homework, I made a snack in the kitchen and the kids went downstairs to watch Star Trek.
    We have Netflix, God's gift to mothers.  We've learned a lot about cloning, parallel universes, Captain Kirk's new love interests that always die at the end of the episode, Spock's logic etc. . 
    So, last night, we ate licorice and watched one episode where a
beautiful lady named Nancy is really a changeling.  I wasn't shocked when she turned evil and died, especially since Kirk had eyed her previously.  If I ever meet that man in person, I hope he won't eye me, that's worse than the kiss of death!

    Before she died, "Nancy" turned into a big blue monster at the end.  I thought she looked like the Abominable Snowman.
     "Nancy," The Scribe giggled.  "I'm so scared . . . of Nancy!"  She rolled on her side in merriment!
    "It's not funny.  She was really ugly."  The Hippie looked at me.  "Did she turn into an evil changeling because she lied so much?  Was Nancy a normal person, once . . . before all of the lying?"
    "She was always a changeling.  But it does go to show how yucky lying can be.  Lies can turn a great situation into something very ugly."
    Her lip quivered.  Her eyes bulged.  "Mama," she whispered in my ear.  "Can I talk to you alone?"
    I asked The Scribe to watch her youngest siblings (The Zombie Elf and Doctor Jones).       
    The Scribe cracks me up.  She can make anything look cool.  There she sat, her feet suddenly up on the side of the couch.  She ate red licorice, like it was really the black kind most kids don't like.  She ate it all lazy, as if it hung from the ceiling instead of her hand.  "No prob," she said.  "Take your time."
    I walked upstairs with The Hippie, and with each step she trudged slower and slower.
    "Are you okay?" I asked when we finally got to her room.
    "No, I'm not," she said.  "My heart's burning inside."
    "Burning?  That's serious."
    "You know how we gave the teachers our notes today?"
    I nodded.
    "Well, you didn't know it, but I asked The Scribe to write what I wanted on mine.  She has beautiful handwriting and I wanted the teacher to think I could write good too.  Anyway, I gave my teacher the note and she really isn't a witch.  She loved the letter and said I have amazing penmanship."
    The Hippie peered at me, so much concern in those six-year-old eyes.  "You know what I did?" she asked.
    "I told my nice teacher that I wrote the whole thing.  I said it was my writing and I worked so hard.  That woman loved me for it!  She loved me."  The Hippie bawled at this point.  "Then I couldn't eat lunch.  My heart burned inside all day.  I felt evil like that Nancy woman on Star Trek!  I bet she burned inside before turning yucky."
     "Oh, Honey."  I hugged her.
     "So," The Hippie continued, "I went up to the teacher after school."
    "You did?"
    "Yes, and I told her something brave.  I said, 'teacher, I wanted to tell you I forgot, but I didn't write that note.  My sister wrote my words for me.'  Then she smiled.  She said it was all right.  See, she really isn't an evil witch!  That proves it more than anything.  But she could be a good witch who knew I lied and made my heart burn."
    "But you told her you forgot, even though you really didn't forget?"
    "Well, when I say 'I forgot' it's kind of magical.  I use it on you all the time and it really keeps me out of trouble."
    I snorted.  My child confessed to a lie, by LYING AGAIN!  I guess that's what happens when you learn values from James T. Kirk.    


     Later that night, after we watched a another episode (one about cloning), we sat down for dinner and Cade said, “Hippie, you are so cute. What am I going to do with you? Should I call you Hippie or Sweetheart?”
     “Whatever,” she said carelessly.  “Just don't call me Nancy.” 

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Teacher of Doom!

    Today is the first day of school.  I love year round; my girls never have much time to forget anything. 
    I thought my kids were excited until I heard them telling horror stories about their teachers.


    This is how it started:
    Yesterday, I decided to treat my four kids to popcorn and a movie, but we celebrated mom style: we stayed home, snuggled up in our pj's and watched Stowaway (a classic Shirley Temple movie).
    The Scribe turned to The Hippie.  "See how this is black and white?" she asked.
    The Hippie nodded.
    "It's because this movie was made when people were stupid and everyone was colorblind."
    I'd taught her the word "colorblind" hours before, and her application cracked me up.  The Hippie soaked in her words and some more hand sanitizer--mystified.  I wanted to clarify, but the microwave beeped because the popcorn was done.
    "Don't worry about pausing it.  I'll be down in just a minute."  I headed up the stairs and smiled about my kids.    
    Now, one of the greatest things about my children is that they don't know the secrets of being a mom.  They haven't realized that labor is so painful, so absolutely horrific, it practically turns you into a super hero.  Some people get bit by radioactive spiders.  Some people fall into vats of acid.  But me, I chose to become a super hero by going through labor.
    So, as I got the popcorn and sipped on a coke in the next room, I heard every word those kids said.  The Zombie Elf (my three-year-old) whined about the girl movie.  My amazing-mother ears caught the baby cooing.  Then I heard The Scribe mute the TV.  "Listen to this." She giggled.  "My name's Shirley Temple and people love me because in every movie, no matter what it is, I never have any parents . . . ever. And adults LOVE kids with curly hair and no parents."
    I nearly spewed my coke everywhere.
    "So, you excited for school?" The Scribe asked The Hippie.
    "Yep.  I heard my teacher's really nice.  She even gave me a sucker when I met her."
    "Wow, those evil teachers are getting good at tricking kids."  The Scribe paused for effect.  "And you actually ate the sucker?"
    "Of course I did.  What do you mean?"  
    I imagined The Hippie using more hand sanitizer to keep the germs and bad thoughts away.
    "It's just that . . . Well, I didn't want to tell you, but I think your new teacher's a witch," The Scribe said.
    "It's true.  Real witches always wear gloves.  They wear wigs.  Remember that book we read?  What was it called again?"
    "'The Witches,'" The Hippie's voice shook.
    "Oh, yeah . . . 'The Witches.'  Well, your teacher wears skin colored gloves that do look like hands.  Her hair's too nice to be real!  Her face is too pretty; it must be a mask.  Once a kid didn't read when she told him to and he stayed in that chair for one-thousand hours, just reading.  The strange thing was, his parents didn't even miss him, even though he turned into an old man."
    "But Mama would miss me!" The Hippie said.
    "Not if your teacher's a witch."
    "Oh, bad guy!" The Zombie Elf suddenly joined in, terrified.
    "So, when the moon in full, like tomorrow night, your teacher will pick her first victim.  No wonder her class gets smaller and smaller as the year goes on!"
    "All right."  I finally came down the stairs.  My three oldest kids seemed as pale as milk.  There they sat, in front of a Shirley Temple movie, telling horror stories!  "Who turned off the volume?"
    "It just did it . . . on its own."  (Insert Twilight music)
     I raised a brow and The Scribe laughed.
    "Fine, it was me."
    So, after Shirley got adopted and the movie ended, I asked The Hippie what was wrong.  She looked really concerned.  "I think my teacher's a bad woman, maybe even a witch," she said.  "Will you ever forget me, if I read for too long?"
    "Of course not!" I turned to both my girls. "We better put both your teachers through a test.  Witches don't like reading letters.  They hate it because bad people don't like reading."
    "Even teacher-witches?" The Hippie asked.
    "Yep," I said.  "They hate children, real hair AND reading."
    "But that's silly," The Scribe (that bee in my bonnet) said.  "All teachers love reading."
     "Just like teachers never wear gloves . . . or wigs?" I asked.  "Some teachers really hate reading.  But you have to test them with the best thing ever.  You need to write a letter.  If you each write to your teacher, and she hates it, then you know she's a bad guy, or worse . . . a witch."
    "How do you know that?" The Scribe asked, making my head hurt.
    "I read it in the back of a book called 'The Witches.'  Trust me, it's true."
    They gasped.  If I'd read it in "The Witches," then it must be true.
    They both wrote a note before going to bed last night.
    Here's The Scribe's loooong note!

Sometimes I wonder what is out there,
but I know that won't change.
Doesn't matter what people say,
it still won't change.

I just feel like a cyclops
because I want to see everything.
And that won't 

Sometimes I won't get a move-on
but that won't change.

I go-got go-got go-got
the feeling,
but that won't change 
my personality.

I have something in my heart 
that they call personality.

And that won't change.

    I don't know if it turned into a song at the end or what, but I thought it was pretty cute, and that won't change!

    Here's The Hippie's note:
                       Dear Teacher,
I like you even though I don't know you.
By the way, do you know who made God? 

    So, I hope their teachers will like the notes.  If not, I'm in a heap of witchy trouble at school and here at home. 
    I hope I handled this right.  I could have gotten mad at The Scribe, except that she's serious.  She really thinks The Hippie's teacher is a witch.  She's told me about it since second grade.  
    Kids . . . they're better than the sunrise, or an iced mocha on a sunny day! 

  How would you deal with this situation?

Monday, July 25, 2011

My Little Hippie and OCD

    Remember two days ago when I wrote about The 
Toilet Paper Mystery?
    Well, I decided to take my oldest girls to the dollar store.  I told them they could both buy one item, any item.  That's the beauty of the dollar store; it makes everyone seem rich.
    "Any one thing?" The Hippie asked. 
    I nodded.
    "Wow, Mom," she said.  "Thanks."
    I felt better than Donald Trump!  I'd given them their choice of the entire store. We strutted around that place like we owned every made-in-Taiwan item.  I suddenly knew what Heaven feels like--cheap toys and easy dreams.  That's how much I love the dollar store.
    Anyway, I thought for sure, both my girls would pick batons.
    The Scribe went straight for the gag gifts (shocker I know, since she once put fake cat poop on her teacher's chair).  But I gave her "the eye" and she bought the baton of her dreams instead.
    That's when The Hippie surprised me.  She didn't even go to the toy aisle.  She went some place completely different.


    Now, I know you've heard about her before, but let me tell you again, The Hippie is hilarious. She's not like The Scribe though; she doesn't want to be funny.  She's very serious.  When she asked, "Who made God," she was serious.  When she told me, "I found eternal life, Mommy," she was serious.  That six-year-old is hysterical.  She has white-blond hair (that hangs down to her waist), bright blue eyes and the sweetest little personality.
    So, when she wouldn't even go near the toy aisle, I got curious.  "What are you looking for?" I asked.
    "You'll see," she said.  "It's very important that I find this, very important.  And if I tell you what it is, I might jinx things and then I'll never find it."
    I followed her around.  Maybe she searched for gum, candy, those little glass figurines.  The Scribe danced behind us and spun her baton so she kept "accidentally" hitting both The Hippie and me.
    "Be careful with that thing," I told The Scribe and she just smirked like Tom Sawyer.
    We continued looking, walking all around the store, until we came upon the last aisle and The Hippie screamed with excitement.  "I found it!  I knew if I didn't tell you, they'd have it!"  
    She hugged something to her chest and blond hair covered the item. I couldn't see a thing, and nearly died at this point, wanting to know what she'd picked.  When a child gets that excited, it isn't good.  They've either found a puppy, a fish or a tarantula to bring home, something to make their mother's life terribly hard.
    I swept her hair from the item.  I gaped and my mouth fell open.
    "Of all the things in this store . . . of all the items and you want a big bottle of . . . hand sanitizer?"
    She nodded vigorously, so happy with her find.  "I just knew they'd have it." 
    We went to the checkout, and things got completely out of control.  There's an eighteen-year-old who works there.  He's covered in acne like he's starting a acne farm.  I wouldn't make fun of him except that he's rude.  He glared at us as we happily bought our items.  
    "Hell-o," he said in a monotone only pimple-lovers can use.  "Welcome to the dollar store, where all your dreams come true.  Did you find everything you needed today."  It wasn't a question.  No inflection laced his voice!
    The Hippie squealed.  "Yes," she said.  "I found hand sanitizer!  My mom said I could get one thing, and that's what I got."
    He looked at me with concern.  He never cared about anything, yet now he worried?
    I paid for my stuff and just as we were about to leave, that kid called me back to talk to him.
    "Your daughter has a serious problem," he said.  "Have you heard of OCD?" he asked, and I nodded.  "Well, she has it, and it's best to deal with these things now."
    "She's only six, and she just likes being clean.  I swear she doesn't have problems."  I gave him a huge spiel, actually felt pretty good about it until I turned around and saw The Hippie smothering herself in sanitizer!
    "Your call," Pimple Boy said.  "But if I were you, I'd make sure she doesn't have OCD.  Some people with OCD, are criminals waiting to happen.  I've seen it on that show 'Bones'."
    "Well, Mr. Expert.  What do you think I should do?" I asked.
    "If I were you, I'd take her down the toy aisle and make her pick a kid thing!  That's what I'd do.  I hate the smell of hand sanitizer anyway."
    And from the look of it, he probably hates soap too!  I asked The Hippie, if I could have some hand sanitizer, right in front of that nosy kid and I rubbed it all over my hands and arms.
    "There's nothing wrong with my kid," I said.
    "Suit yourself," he said.  "I was just trying to help."
    Since when did he want to help?  That guy had never even tried being nice before.  Maybe all the pressure from his zits, was finally going to his brain.
    So, I think The Hippie's just going through a phase, an incredibly, cute phase.  Plus, people with OCD are not destined for a life of crime.  I never want to watch the show "Bones" now!
    But maybe The Hippie does have a touch of OCD.  Isn't that normal in our day and age though?  With hand sanitizer and bacterial wipes everywhere. 
    What do you think?  Am I being blind?  Should I look into this?  

Sunday, July 24, 2011

A Fantastic Adventure

A glimpse of what’s to come . . .

  It was a terrible time. Zeke had passed over three years earlier, and still Ruby couldn't come to terms with his death. She sobbed in my arms. Thunder shook our tiny apartment, and the lights went out. I lit the stove, and hoped that would keep us warm. Pacific Coast Highway had flooded the day before, and I'd seen a man canoeing down the street.
    Cade worked late again, and I wished he were home. He’d grown up so much from years before, and really turned into the person I hoped he’d become.

    I sat and held Ruby again as I begged the storm to not wash us away.
    “Why did he leave us, Mama? Why?” I couldn't believe how she could ask such hard questions, even at the age of four.

    “He wasn't meant for this world. But we have a new baby now. We have little Sky and everything will be okay.”

    “I love Sky. I love her, Mama, but I love Zeke too.”

    “Hush.” I held her closer, and she clung to my arm. “How old would he be?”

    “Almost three.”

    She cried hard. I think it hurt her more since they would have been close. “I don't understand. Why didn't he wake up?  Why did he go away?”

    I wanted to tell her it's because life is hard, because life isn't fair. It's because I couldn't keep my baby, no matter how hard I wanted to. But, even though I wished I could tell her all that, I didn't. I remained quiet for a long time. We listened to the rain, and saw the shadows the flaming burners cast on the walls. I thought of telling her the truth, about pain and sadness, but instead I didn't. I cooed to her, sang into her golden curls. That's when I told her Zeke's story one more time.

    “Once, in a faraway land, there was a strange castle. It had painted walls that changed, animated message bottles, passageways that led to the enchanted ocean. In that castle lived some very special children. They were named Ruby, Zeke and Sky.”

    “Were Ruby and Sky pretty?” she asked.


    “And Zeke . . . did Zeke love us?”

     I nearly choked on a sob. “More than he could say.”

    “I like this story. Can Zeke stay with us this time?”

    “I wish he could, but that's not how the story goes.”

    She hesitated. “Well, then, I want to go with him.”

    That made my heart tighten. I hugged Ruby. I couldn't imagine her following her brother. I couldn't comprehend losing her too.

    “Tell me the part about when the witch comes,” Ruby said.

    “Well, one day, a deadly, powerful witch found the castle. She was cunning and wise. She knew how amazing all of the children were, and that's when she decided to take one of you.”

    “But I was too smart.”

    “Yes, you were,” I said. “You outwitted that witch. She tried to take you, but you could draw things that came to life. That's how you tricked her.”

    “And Sky did too?”

    I nodded. “Because Sky could see her own future.”

    “But Zeke?”

    “He had to go away.”

    “Why, Mama? Was it because the witch was too smart for him?”

    “Oh, no,” I said. I always had to breathe deeply when I got to that part. “Zeke let her take him.”

    “But why? Because he fell in love?”

    “Maybe, but mostly because he knew how to really defeat the witch. He knew if he went, he'd bring about her doom. You see, she thought she'd take his life, but he knew better. He knew that, if he went, he'd get to meet pirates, mermaids. He'd have sword-fights and battle sea creatures.” I looked at the stormy sky. It reminded me of my conflicted emotions. Somehow, every time I told the story, I saw something symbolic to Zeke's months on Earth. “Adventure awaited him.” I sighed. “If he went with the deadly witch, then, and only then, could he truly live.”

    “I want to go with him.”

    I almost cried.

    “I want to go! Get to the part where I see him again, Mama. Tell me that part. I know it's coming. I just know it!”

    I wanted to see Zeke, too. Couldn't she understand how much her words stung. “We'll get there someday, Honey, but you have to be patient. It's not our time yet.”

    “But, Mama, I want to see him, too.”

    “So do I, Honey.”

    “I'll fight that witch if I have to.”

    My heart stopped at her words. “Really? You're awfully brave.”

    “Zeke's worth it.”

    I don't know what overcame me, but for the first time, the story changed. I sat up straight and wiped my eyes. I knew I could be brave like my little girl. I couldn't hold onto her and protect her forever. “You want to meet the pirates and mermaids? I asked. “You want to save your brother from that witch?”

    She nodded, more excited than I'd seen her in weeks.  “Well, one day after Zeke left, you knew you had to go after him. You drew yourself a boat, one that had talking sailors painted on the sides, and a glass bottom that let you see into the ocean. You took Sky and that boat, then you went to find Ophyrus, the orange sea dragon.”

    She grasped onto every detail, ready to save her brother and defeat the witch of death. So, that's how the tale about “The Sword of Senack” really began. I told Ruby the story every night, then I told Sky, when she got old enough. It was scary because I never knew where the story would go. It got so perfectly plotted and detailed, one day I wrote the whole thing down, and turned it into a full-length book. For years, I read the story to my kids almost every night. They loved everything about it, except that I couldn't tell them the end.

    They'd always grow quiet, and clutch onto every word. When it was almost their time to meet Zeke, they'd stay perfectly still.

    “But the deadly witch was there too,” I said the last time I read it. “And, even though you'd both mastered your gifts, she had the confidence of immortality.”

    “And we couldn't meet Zeke unless we defeated her first,” little Sky said.

    “That's right.”

    “So?” Ruby asked. “Do we beat her? Do we finally get to see Zeke?”

    I smiled, knowing the ending had changed again; I'd just finished editing my journal, and I'd finally healed. “You'll have to wait 'til tomorrow, Sweethearts. I'll tell you all about it then. You might meet Zeke this time.”

    “Really?”  They were both so excited.


    “But Mo-om.”

    I tucked them into their beds, and sang their favorite songs because, somehow, I knew everything would be okay. I couldn't wait to read them the ending. I knew it would be something they'd never forget, something I was finally ready to let go of.

Available for purchase February, 2, 2012

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Toilet Paper Mystery

    All the toilet paper went missing.  Not some of it, not just the paper, but the dozen rolls as well. 
    I knew it was The Scribe.  Why is she always guilty?


    "Can I have a baton?" The Scribe asked.
    "Not today . . . you'll have to play with something else."  I paused.  "Did you notice that all the toilet paper is gone?  Even the rolls?" I asked her.
    "No." She shook her head.  "But I knew you'd say I couldn't get a baton.  I haven't noticed anything about toilet paper though.  I've been too busy cleaning the house."
    "Really?"  She has chores, but they aren't something she'll just volunteer to do.  "Like what?"
    "Doing the dishes.  I put all my clothes and The Hippie's clothes away.  Then I-took-out-the-garbage.  I cleaned my shelves. I--"
    "O-kay.  You took out the garbage?  Did you happen to throw away TWELVE ROLLS of toilet paper?"
    "I don't know what you're talking about."  She smiled.
    So we sat across from each other.  I told her we'd stay there, until she told the truth.  
    Have you ever had a showdown with your own kid?  It's wild, like facing the other side of yourself, one who anticipates your every move!  I blinked, then she would.  I moved my left arm; she'd move her right.  I didn't expect it to go on as long as it did, but suddenly The Scribe got bored and ended it.  "I don't know what you're talking about, but I'd like to go play now.  Sorry you like toilet paper so much."
    "All right, but if you had something to do with this . . ."
    She ran outside, hid near the lamb's ear bushes and worked for hours.  The funny thing is, that she did clean a bit of the house.  I knew because she'd put all the books away, closed the book shelf door and taped a note to it.  The note read, "This took forever to clean.  Please do not use ever again!  I don't care if you like reading."
    She'd left out one book for each of us.  Apparently the only books I can ever read again are Spiderwick, Junie B. Jones (for The Hippie), a couple touch and feel books for the kids, my Bible and Lord of the Rings. 
    That cracked me up.  I guess, I should consider having a funeral for the other books, since I'll never open them again!
    I looked out the window at that point.  I couldn't figure what she was doing, until she finally came in and said she had a surprise.
    "I've prepared a show for you," she said.  Then  she pulled out two homemade batons and I almost fainted.  "I knew you might get mad, but before you do, know this was the plan the whole time.  I wanted to make you happy.  I'm not just trying to get out of trouble."  
    The batons were ingenious, in a red-neck sort of way.  She's put a water bottle at each end, and about four empty toilet paper rolls in between.  She'd duct-taped the rolls, so water would slosh through as she danced.

    Before I could say a word, or cry about my lack of two-ply, extra soft toilet paper, The Scribe passed a baton to The Hippie and my two girls started dancing.  They flitted across the yard, laughed and giggled.  They sang some rhythmic beat, and after they finished, they gave me a card.
    "Mom," I read aloud, "We just want you to know how much we love you.  That's why we cleaned the house and everything.  Sorry about the toilet paper.  It's in the big smelly garbage can.  Maybe you can get it out sometime."
    I turned the paper over and saw where The Hippie had written.  "I love you, Mom," it read.  "Plus, who made God?"
    I laughed until I cried.  I hugged them both so hard.  They're sweet, and I've never been that happy to be out of bathroom supplies.
    "I love you two," I said.
    "But you didn't answer my question," The Hippie said.  "Who did make God?"

    So, do you think The Scribe was just trying to get out of trouble?  Even if that was the case, she sure did a good job!

Friday, July 22, 2011


    This is for those of you who read my romantic memoir about how I fell in love with Cade.
    Sorry that this isn't one of my regular posts, but I just had to share some fun facts with you.

    *    *    *

    While writing the memoir, I received three e-mails from very nice people who wanted to tell me they remembered this time.  
    One person said that until now, they never understood why I left.  They wished they would have known the extent of what I went through.  I thought it was pretty neat my memoir explained things.
    One person was an amazing friend from the library.  That was awesome hearing from him, and getting his thoughts on this time.
    The other person said they heard the gossip at one point and didn't stand up for me.  They wanted to apologize for not saying anything.  
    Some of the confessions in those e-mails took a lot of guts.  Very impressive. 
    Thank you to those people who sent the e-mails, those meant more than you know.

    *    *    *

    Even though it sounds ridiculous, I always felt bad after the exorcism.  I knew I wasn't evil, but still wondered why they'd thought I had SO many problems.  After reading the memoir, someone came forward and told me what happened to the church after I left.              
    Apparently their was something akin to a church split.  The two men who did the exorcism, ended up leaving the church.  The main exorcist started his own church, and the lead pastor (who wasn't at the exorcism) left completely and went Back East to his old congregation.

    *    *    *  

    A few years after I ran away, The Boarder did find a great girl.  But he caught her making out with The Understudy at a party.  They broke up shortly after.

    *    *    *

    Remember when Cade and I went to that dance?  Well, one of the other couples in our group got married.  They have three kids and are extremely happy together.  The other couple in our group, dated for a long time, never married but are still amazing friends.  Kind of neat.

    *    *    *

    Once Cade asked my dad, "Why did you take me to breakfast even though Elisa broke up with me?  We weren't even together." 
    My dad smiled.  "I knew you two kids would end up together somehow.  There's no sense fighting fate." 

    *    *    *

    Yesterday I told Cade I finally felt closure after writing this. 
    It's interesting because I edited my journal, ("The Golden Sky" which is coming out November, 18, 2011), and I had such a hard time reliving some of those moments.  Sure, I used humor as a way of dealing with death, but it was still hard to relive the first section of that book before things got better.
    This memoir was the exact opposite in some sections though.  I felt as if I got the chance to meet Cade all over again, to remember what it was like falling in love.  I told him that and he laughed.
    "You know what's funny," he said, "I thought the exact same thing."
    So, now that this blog has turned into a therapeutic tool, I'm pretty happy about it.  I dealt with issues I didn't even know I had.  Writing may not pay the bills, but it sure feels great.

For more information on my upcoming book please click here:
(My Journal About Zeke) 

Death of Tall Man; Reprise

I only had three kids and all of them screamed in the backseat of the car.  

"She's touching me!" the seven-year-old Scribe said.

"Well, she won't play with me!" The Hippie yelled back and stuck out her lip.  I saw her chubby cheeks and couldn't believe she'd start kindergarten that next month.  But with all the fighting, maybe school wouldn't be such a bad thing.  "And the baby threw his truck at my nose!  And . . . And . . . " The Hippie's mouth ripped into a cry and tears shot across her cheeks.  "My baby doesn't love me and my sister doesn't want me touching her!"

I strangled the steering wheel.  Driving is supposed to be a pleasant, SAFE thing--Hell, some people go driving JUST FOR FUN!  I shook my head and sighed.  It's not fun when you're in the car with a million kids who cry for a living!  All I wanted was to jump from the vehicle and go to a day spa.


I looked in my rear view mirror.  My boy's mouth vibrated with seismic activity.  He'd opened his chompers so wide, I almost saw into he squash-loving soul!  The Scribe swatted The Hippie's arm and my daughters started a game of chicken, right in the middle OF THE INTERSECTION!  

That's when I knew the situation had gone from bad . . . to apocalyptic!  It was time to do the only thing I could.  It was time to summon Tall Man! 

Have you ever sung Where is Thumbkin?  If you have, then this story is for you.  If not, you might want to watch this video:

When you sing Where is Thumbkin, you hold each finger up in turn and then sing about it.  It's a cute song--one that had saved my life several times.  Too bad it almost killed me on this particular day.  As I sat, waiting at the light to the freeway, I started singing this song.

"Where is Pointer?  Where is Pointer?"  My kids wiped their eyes.  They practically changed from Hulk-ish terrors to darling human children with empathy for their mother's feelings.  My boy sniffled and all seemed right with the world.  He cooed.  My girls sang with me--even harmonized.  It was pleasant--I even thought the car ride was turning . . . fun.  

"Here I am.  Here I am.  How are you today, sir?  Very well I say, sir."

I smiled.  Is that what Heaven's like?  I was so happy, I didn't even notice the light was about to change.  "Where is Tall Man?"  I stuck my middle fingers up and let them dance all around.  I'm sure I looked like a seventies dancer with disabilities.  I watched my fingers moving all around my head and my kids laughed.  "Where is Tall Man?  Here I am.  Here I . . . "  My voice trailed off.  I still kept my middle fingers up, but next to me, in a HUGE TRUCK, sat the meanest looking man I've ever seen.  I swear that lightning cracked in the sky.  Clouds clustered above our cars.  The feeling around went from orangy-peach to a dank gray!

The man looked liked Colonel Sanders, only deep fried and smothered with hair.  He glared at my tall fingers and then my face.  I felt my cheeks go as red as his blood-shot eyes.

Seriously!  Was this seriously happening?  I'd just gotten my army of kids to stop crying only to discover some jerk thought I'd flipped him off!  I rolled down my window and laughed really loud as I stuck one Tall Man out for him to see.  "Oh no.  This is Tall Man!"  He revved his engine and scary music thundered around us.  I'd just taunted an angry bull--maybe a bull with a gun.

My kids stopped singing . . . they got very quiet and listened to the music.  "Black, death and doom.  Heavy power crashing through the night."

He turned down his music--at least that was a small miracle!  "You're gonna pay for that, B*@!*&%!  No one flips off The Undertaker!  No one!"

"It's Tall Man!"  He revved his engine.  "I was singing . . ." my voice faltered.  "A song."  Had he just called himself "The Undertaker?"  I had to admit, the name fit.  But anyone who refers to themselves in third person is a narcissistic fool!  I still worried about the gun thing, but at least I didn't call myself "The Undertaker!"

The light turned green, but still the death on wheels refused to move.  He motioned forward in a "ladies first" motion.  That's when I hit the gas and started the scariest freeway chase I've ever been in.  I know it's horrible because I had kids in the car, but what was I supposed to do?  I didn't have my cell phone.  All I had were a few kids and some Tall Men who'd gotten me into trouble in the first place!

The truck got so close to my bumper, I thought he'd plow me off the road.  Still, that stupid Undertaker didn't know who he'd messed with!  He'd enraged a Mama.  I swerved, weaving my way into a mess of traffic.  I cackled, actually cackled--like a villainous witch--it would be nice to see him get past those cars!

"Who is that man?" The Hippie asked.  "He looks mean and he said a bad word."

"He is someone who's about to lose!" I said, but I was wrong.  My victory was short lived.  He hauled past the traffic and pulled right next to me.  I worried he'd jerk to the right and send me into the old driver next to me.  I saw it in The Undertaker's thirsty eyes.  I knew what he wanted--he wanted the death of Tall Man.

That's when I caught my opening.  An exit rested two lanes over.  Dozens of cars clogged my path to freedom, but I knew I'd get there if I remembered my driving skills from high school.

I took a deep breath, hit the gas, then slammed the brakes and just barely made it in time to swerve onto the exit.  I watched The Undertaker's truck speed past.  I flipped him off that time--actually flipped him off and laughed.  He had a set of balls hanging from the back of his truck and a sticker that said "I love dark Opera."

Well, let me say, those balls should have been blue and I HATE Opera even more than I did before seeing that sticker.  We drifted off the exit and after getting to a safe location (one I knew The Undertaker would never find,) I got out and leaned against the car.  I thanked God we were all okay and prayed that He'd forgive me for singing about Tall Man, getting in a high speed chase with children and for flipping the bird!

I looked at my darling children who sat quietly in the back of the car.  They didn't fight; they didn't whine; they sat staring with big orbs of amazement.  That's when I knew the truth!  There are two ways to get children to stop crying.  You can either sing about Tall Man, or simply get in a high speed chase with an opera-loving undertaker!  Thank God for Undertakers!

Thursday, July 21, 2011

The Final Entry (Entry 34)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .


    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

The Locker (Entry 33)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .


    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?