ElizabethEsther.com

ISN'T IT TIME FOR SCHOOL YET????

In retrospect, not packing my summer schedule with scheduled activities was my stupidest idea ever.

Not having scheduled activities means that I've had to come up with new ideas every fifteen minutes.

NEWSFLASH: I'm out of ideas.

Worse, I feel like strangling anyone who throws fun, educational ideas at me. No, I do NOT want to make a homemade slingshot using only Q-tips and peanut butter. No, I do NOT want to spend more time at the local library. No, I do NOT want to pack a picnic for a lovely afternoon at the park. WE HAVE DONE ALL THAT LIKE 18 MILLION TIMES!

All I want is to send these children back to school. Where they belong.

And I want to send myself to solitary confinement.

[I can't wait to see the flood of unsubscribe emails that come after I publish this post!]

Well, since school is still a month away, I've resorted to sending them off to do hard manual labor. The kids come ask me what they should do and I'm all: GO EMPTY THE DISHWASHER! SWEEP THE FLOOR! MEND MY SOCKS!

My goal is to make them so sick of summer vacation that they'll start pining for Ye Old School Days of Yore.

Mwah-ha-ha.

I've even considered buying a little whistle that I can use a la Captain Von Trapp to summon everyone. From now on, I'm parking myself on the couch and blowing on my whistle to boss everyone around.

Look, I don't know what I was expecting but this summer has been anything but a vacation for me. There's no sleeping in. There's no lazy, breezy summer afternoons.

My days still start with a bang at 5:45 am. I'm up cooking and cleaning and chasing naked toddlers before most people open their eyeballs. You know you're a mom of 8 million kids when starting lunch prep at 8:15 a.m. sounds perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, starting my day so early means I'm a raving lunatic by 2pm.

My long-suffering sherpa/husband calls 2pm-5pm The Red-Zone. He has proof, too. The text messages I send him from 2pm-5pm read something like this: AAAUUUGH!! I'M DYING!!! I HATE EVERYTHING!! HELP! HELP!

Frankly, I don't know why people talk about solitary confinement like it's a punishment thing. That sounds like a vacation to me.

I got so desperate the other day that I hauled everyone out for 8:30 a.m. Mass. They were like: "Why are we going to church on a weekday?"

And I was all: BECAUSE IF MOMMY DOESN'T PRAY, THE WORLD IS GOING TO END!

They all behaved so well that afterwards I felt all apologetic and took everyone out for (overpriced) bagels. James was like: "Well, I guess since we just spent half an hour praying we don't even need to thank the Lord for our food."

Yes, friends. I'm doing a bang-up job of passing the faith on to the next generation.

Oreo & Julietano

Two households, both alike in popularity

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-blessed lovers take their life
And by giving birth to their own baby, do bury their parents' strife*

For never was a story of more love, yo
Than this of Julietano and her Oreo.

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*my apologies to Master Shakespeare, may he rest in peace.

Eat, Pray, Barf. One woman's search for every fling.

Eat, Pray, Barf. That's what I'll do if anyone drags me to that ridiculous book-turned-movie. All this New Age crapalapotamus makes my ashram hurt. 

I mean, the Twilight stuff is more tolerable than this gross fetishizing of pseudo-spirituality. I blame the celebrities, what with their little Namaste bows and their dithering on about "finding themselves" during their requisite pit-stops in India. 

How terribly convenient that while making these journeys of 'self-discovery,' they're able to ignore the crushing poverty and horrific oppression around them. It's just so typical of the rampant vacuity of celebrity faux religion.

If Elizabeth Gilbert's enlightenment was worth its salt, she'd have come home all fired up to ease the suffering she stepped over on the way to her precious little ashram. Instead, she came home all fired up to write her magnum opus: Eat, Pray, Love. Which is short for: Gluttony, Idolatry, Fornication. 

Anyway, forget helping others or relieving human suffering. That would require sacrificial love; the kind of love that smacks uncomfortably close to, I dunno, true religion. And there's no glamorous enlightenment in that. Borrrrriiiing!

Still, I get it. I understand why this sort of tripe is such a huge hit. Humans are searching for transcendence, for God. Apparently, a lot of Americans are in love with the god of self. I mean, how else did this book come to be such a "phenomenon"?

I'll tell you how. It's called: buy now, pay later. Minimal effort (look inward), maximum results (you are God)! What's not to love?

Plus, it's easy to look the part. Throw a few tribal face-masks up on your wall, maybe place a huge gong in the middle of your living room and pretty soon, you can be an enlightened guru, too.

What I'm wondering, though, is if Julia Roberts is questioning this stuff. During her Oprah interview, she seemed a bit--um,--detached from the "spell" of Eat, Pray, Love. Oprah kept asking what the book meant to her and Julia kept talking about her kids. Bad move, Jules.

Julia even said (GASP!) she would easily pick her kids over her work. What? What? That's blasphemous talk in the religion of narcissism.

More of that kind of talk and before you know it, everyone will be pulling aside the curtain and discovering that the Great and Wonderful Self-Guru is really just a little old man working some cranks and levers.

Sheesh, Julia. WAY TO STAY ON MESSAGE.

Amusing histrionics and why the iPhone spell checker sucks

I've been shuttling kids all over town for two hours (baseball drop-offs and pickups) and am finally in the drive-thru line when he texts me.

Making casadias.

WHAT? Casa Dios? Casa de diaz? Oh, wait. Quesadillas.

Apparently, our iPhones don't spell-check in Spanish.

[sidebar: the iPhone spell-checker bugs the heck outta me. Mostly because I like to invent words. The spell checker is always correcting these words. Also, it doesn't understand the plethora of nicknames I have for my family members. It keeps offering suggestions like: Honey? Lover? And I'm all: NO! NO! HIS NICKNAME IS SHINDER McLENDERSON THE 53rd! IS THAT SO WRONG? So, yeah. iPhone spell-check. Annoying. But, I digress.]

Anyway, I couldn't respond to his text because I was already in line at Taco Bell. Plus, I had my taste buds fixed on taco supremes and raspberry iced tea. You can fall off the diet wagon once in awhile, right?

And then he leaves me a voice message. Except it's nothing but background noise. And yelling toddlers. DELETE.

An hour later, after baths, homework, sorting, etc. I'm crashed on the bed. He comes in and I'm all: "Sorry about not getting that text."

"No worries. When I didn't hear back within two minutes I knew you were in a drive-thru line. And so I quit making the quesadillas."

This makes me laugh so hard I almost choke.

"How did you know that?"

"Because I know you."

"I hate that you know me so well!"

He just grins. 

"Where's the mystery? The intrigue?" I wail.

He grins again. He genuinely enjoys my histrionics.

Dude, I love this man. My very own Shinder McLenderson the 53rd. Take that, iPhone spell-checker!

edited to add: Please note that my blog doesn't always happen in real time. Sorry for the whiplash! The "deadpression post" was a culmination of several weeks' thought and feeling, ending with Saturday's 'breakthrough moment." I finally set it to future publish last night at midnight. Tonight's post was just me being spur-of-the-moment silly. Sorry for any confusion.  :)

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I'm a mommyblogger and I'm dang proud of it!

There's been some "negative press attention" regarding moms who blog. It's almost like they're trying to make MommyBlogger a bad word. 

This always happens when women find and use their voices. Someone always swoops in to reprimand or slap them on the wrist. Or to mock, condescend. Zip it, little lady.

It's like when someone suddenly started calling high-waisted jeans "MomJeans" and suddenly there was this collective ewwwww. Like Mom-Jeans were the epitome of unsexy. Uncool. Like if you wore Mom-Jeans and sprayed your bangs with AquaNet you were so 2000-late.

Spare me. 

If a woman wants to wear Mom-Jeans, more power to her. If she wants to write about cooking or homeschooling or share pictures of her kiddos, MORE POWER TO HER.

If a woman at the end of her long day derives a special joy from publishing a post about her gratitude list or how she burned the crockpot dinner but at least the dog enjoyed it, MORE POWER TO HER.

I'm so sick of critics who want to muzzle women's freedom of expression. As if the only form of acceptable speech is the kind that rivals an academic thesis or a scientific journal. Or if a woman starts making money off her writing, she needs to be smacked down a peg or two. 

I'm proud of the women who can make a full-time living off their blogs. I'm proud of the stay-at-home-mommies who write and see their articles published in print media. MORE POWER TO THEM.

But who says you have to be a published writer with a thriving freelance career in order to be taken seriously? The answer is: you don't.

Some of my most favorite blogs are the tiny, undiscovered ones. These sweet women who openly and happily share pictures of their farm or backyard, swap recipes or talk about potty-training ideas. I love these gals.

And frankly, I'm a little protective of them. I would be so sad if they stopped publishing stuff because they felt intimidated by some lame-ass writer who felt all empowered because she picked on the littler writers on the playground and got everyone to laugh with her in that sort of self-congratulatory, patronizing tone.

Please. Blogging is not a competitive sport. It's self expression. It's art.

And anytime anyone tries to squelch freedom of expression, things tend to backfire. My suggestion? Quit.

We're Mommy-Bloggers. We're dang proud of it.

And we're not going anywhere.

[for more inspiration--and a prettier analogy--go read Heather of the EO's similar musings (she gave me courage to post my own thoughts)]

Historical Accurassy

After suffering a minor physical breakdown last week, I fled to the bookstore. Because this is how I drown my sorrows: in the pages of a book.

And it would have been perfect  if not for the noisy meeting of Future Bestselling Authors Who Wear MuMus Covered In Cat Hair. They had spread their fat massuscripts all over the middle of the coffee shop and were criticizing each other's work at full volume.

YOU CAN'T FEEL YOUR TEARS IF YOU'RE UNDERWATER! I MEAN, WHO DOESN'T KNOW THIS??

I hazarded a glance at the poor old lady whose novel-in-progress was being decimated by Balding Critic. I wanted her to stand up for herself, like HEY, have you ever tried crying underwater?

But Balding Critic wasn't done.

THIS IS 1945 WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! YOU HAVE TO USE THE APPROPRIATE RACIAL EPITHETS!

Then Balding Critic started listing them out--for the entire store to hear. 

I was like: oh, crap. My geographical proximity to this is making my whiteness feel guilty by association.

After an agonizing moment, another member of the group spoke up, timidly: "Well, do you think someone will buy a book that has [racial epithet] on the first page? I know I wouldn't."

I was about to cheer for Timid One when Balding Critic shook her head vehemently: "NO! NO! THIS IS ABOUT HISTORICAL ACCURACY!"

Well, at least, her version of it.

Which was more like historical accurassy.

And that's when I moved camp to the far end of the store.

Dude, no wonder I gave up on graduate writing seminars. What a joke those were, all us unpublished authors sitting around slamming each other's writing. Or trying to come up with brilliant analysis of some guy's story about a dinner party where the main entree was Poop Loaf (I'm not making that up).

Now I just blog. And people send me hate mail.

Know what? It's way better. Dude, I love the Internets.

Going to the movies is a big waste o' cash--not to mention, annoying

We used to go to the movies all the time. And then Hollywood quit making good movies.

I mean, the last movie I really enjoyed in the theatre was Gladiator. And that was like 10 years ago.

It's all been downhill since then. Well, OK, Lord of the Rings was pretty good. But that's it.

Still, my hubby keeps asking me to go to the movies with him. But here's the problem: I'm not a nice person at the movie theatre.

It all starts with me getting huffy for having to pay the equivalent of a month's worth of Starbucks for two cheesy tickets. Then, when we sit down, we inevitably sit in front of The Worst Mannered Teenagers on Earth who throw popcorn, laugh, talk, hit the back of my chair and burst into laughter at Inappropriate Moments because they just got a text that said something important like: Waddup widdat, suckah?

This is when I start embarrassing my husband because I am the hisser, the "SHHH"-er, the tapper of shoulders, the person who stalks out and informs the manger. Or better yet: just gets her money back.

We tried Netflix for awhile. But I got sick of that because I kept forgetting to update my queue. Plus, every time I wanted a movie, there was like some waiting list.

We used to live really close to a Blockbuster, so that worked for awhile. But I always got the heeby-jeebies in Blockbuster. Like WHY do they have to display the goriest, foulest movies right at kids' eye-level? Every time I went into a Blockbuster I felt like I had to rush, rush, rush and then I would end up renting a movie I didn't even want to watch because I was just trying to get out of there.

I realize I'm beginning to sound like a whiny, entitled you-know-what. I also realize there are BIGGER PROBLEMS in the world. Fine. 

But I think you'll be happy to know I've resolved my little problem. It's called: DVR.

Oh, my, my, my. Have you heard of this wonderful invention? I just pre-pick all my favorite shows and upcoming movies and hit RECORD. Then I pop my own popcorn (cheaper and healthier!), cuddle up on my own couch (comfier and cleaner!) and watch Dan in Real Life or Rachel Getting Married for like the 50th time.

I may never go to a movie theatre again.

And I'm just fine widdat, suckah.

Sleeping in the valley of the shadow of bad breath

It was a subtle decline. A slow surrender. And at first, my husband thought I was to blame.

"Roll over," he would whisper, in the middle of the night--gently nudging me. "Scoot over. You're hogging the bed."

It became a sorta mantra he repeated every night. Roll over, roll over, scoot da booty right over.

Out of nowhere I had become a bed hog. Or, as he called it, a heat seeking missile.

"Are you cold or something?" he asked one morning. "Maybe you should start wearing long pajamas to bed."

"I'm not trying to be a heat seeking missile," I said.

"I know," he said. "You're a cute, midnight cuddler. But it's uncomfortable."

I tried my best to stay on my side of the bed--I mean, as hard as a person can try while dead asleep. I wore long pajamas. I threw on an electric blanket.

Nothing worked. I always ending up rolling into the middle of the bed, smashed up against his back.

We were on the verge of calling it a night and buying twins beds (not really) when it happened.

He crash-rolled into the middle of the bed, too.

"Dude," he remarked, "I think our mattress just caved in."

It was true. Our beloved mattress had given up the ghost. Strung up the white flag of surrender and collapsed. And there were were, rolled up together like two hot dogs in a bun.

"See, I'm not a heat seeking missile!" I crowed, triumphant.

My triumph was short-lived. Now we had to figure out a way to sleep in that cursed valley.

So, we girded our loins and hiked our way back up our own sides of the bed. I claimed my territory, planted my flag and tried to sleep.

But it's tough to sleep when you're clinging to the edge of a cliff.

Inevitably, we rolled back into the valley of the shadow of bad breath.

"We could try flipping the mattress," he offered.

But we've already done that. Twice.

"We could buy a used mattress on Craig's List," he offered.

Ewwwww. 

Oh, well.

Life as a heat-seeking missile isn't so bad. Especially if you ditch the long pajamas.

All he wants for Christmas is a nose-hair trimmer

As long as we're talking practical gifts--I'd like a year's supply of deodorant. I'm serious.

How awesome would it be to open my medicine cabinet and be all: YES! The Senate has unanimously voted to give my armpits universal coverage. For an entire year. Holla!

I mean, who wants a kiss that begins with Kay's when instead you can get a brand-new water heater? Now, that's my kinda romantic.

Except, sometimes even practical gifts go awry. My husband kept talking about how great it would be to have a fogless shaving mirror. He was tired of "shaving blind" in the shower. So, two years ago I got him one.

He still hasn't opened the box.

"Real men shave without mirrors," he explained.

Dude. Maybe real men can use tweezers to yank out their nose hairs, too.

I mean, what's the point of buying a practical gift if it's not gonna get practical use? 

Even those dopey Christmas sweaters are better than unused practical gifts. At least you can get a good laugh over that one Christmas when Great Aunt Marge bought everyone matching reindeer sweaters that sang. In harmony.

Not so with the unused nose-hair trimmer. Just seeing its unopened box will make me feel all depressed. Like an underachieving gift-buyer. Like I need to apologize. Do penance.

I dunno. Gift-buying is fraught with emotional landmines. Should I stick with the gift cards this year?

That way if he doesn't use it, I can use it.

'Cuz I still want my year's supply of deodorant.

Where's my Man-Soap?

My husband just wants soap. Or better yet, "An all-in-one deal. None of this separate shampoo and conditioner whatevers."

But every time he goes down the personal hygiene aisle, he's overwhelmed by beauty bars and SPF. He wants soapdarnit, not "whaddya-call it? Potpourri? Perfume?"

Perfume? Well, I know what he means. He doesn't want to emerge from the shower smelling like a flowery cloud bomb. He just wants to be clean. Is that too much to ask?

I've tried buying everything from Body Wash ("Body-What? Why can't they just call it soap?") to all-in-one shampoo/conditioners to plain, white bars.

Either it's too complicated or it's too smelly.

When I try to introduce a new product, he'll take one cautionary sniff and then stagger back a few paces. "What is this stuff?"

He'll squint at the label, "Moisturizing rain?"

He'll hand it back, muttering about "false advertising" and quackery. Scams. Conspiracies.

He does have a point. It's been so difficult to find a basic soap that it seems like cosmetic companies are solely targeting women. Almost like they've jumped on the Discriminate Against Masculine Men bandwagon.

It's a shame, too. I like it that my man is suspicious of my bath salts and body oils. I'm thankful that he looks askance at this whole "metrosexual nonsense."

It means I don't have to compete for bathroom space. Or ever wonder who's prettier.

I'm also thankful that one day he arrived home, triumphant. He'd discovered the holy grail of male hygiene. We like to call it "Man Soap."

It's a triple all-in-one: soap, shampoo, conditioner. It's packaged in a thick, man-shaped bottle. The label is written in ALL CAPS BOLD FACE--you know, for ease of location in the hygiene aisle.

It's convenient and uncomplicated. It doesn't require multiple steps. None of that "rinse-n-repeat stuff."

And best of all, it smells like a man. A clean man.

Maybe it's not such a conspiracy, after-all.