Interview with an Elise

We caught up with Elise in her suburban St. George home on Wednesday night over a plate of nearly-burned wheat bread while her kids messed up her house. She was as classy, witty, and smelled as lovely as ever. In fact, there are many adjectives that end in "y" that would adequately describe her. Here's what she had to say:

Elise, your fans are dying to know how you spent your Christmas holiday. Was it as wondrous and sugar plummy as we have imagined?

Indeed.



Would you care to elaborate?


I suppose I cannot disappoint my public. First, Macey got us all in the Christmas spirit by challenging everyone to a grueling chess tournament every afternoon. It was rather competitive. I overheard Chancho tell Macey after she swiped his rook, "Ha ha, Macey...I have another wook!"



I see that you're having a difficult time bending your neck or turning your head from side to side. Have you been injured in some way?


Yes. I have debilitating stiffness in my spine due to sleeping with the leg of a three-year-old under my neck all night. Thanks for noticing.


That looks incredibly uncomfortable, not to mention ridiculous. Why don't you make Chancho sleep in his own bed?


Are you serious? How can I say no to this:




So, did Chancho get that bike for Christmas and does he enjoy riding it all over your cul de sac with his helmet on backwards and no shoes on his feet?


Yes, his aunt Sheree bought it for him, and yes, he rides around

and around the cul de sac.

What else did Santa bring your kids this year?

Barbie scooters and copious amounts of sugar. Santa can be such an idiot sometimes.

What is that thing stuck in Tess's hair?

An entire candy cane.


And what did Santa Claus bring for Tess this year?


A stroller and a doll that is "so fluffy [she's] gonna die!"


Of all of the presents your family received this year, which one is your favorite, not that you should have a favorite?


Hands down, my favorite gift(s) were the pictures that my parents had taken of my children. They borrowed my children one afternoon in November for a "play date," drove out to a creepy abandoned house in the desert, and had a photographer take pictures of them. It's a good thing my parents are not psychopaths, that scenario could have ended much differently.









Can you update us on the situation with your yellow cleaning gloves?

The warts are getting worse. I'd really like to get to the bottom of this, but I haven't gotten any further than taking pictures of them and thinking about them while I'm falling asleep.


Overall, what is the most disturbing thing you saw DJ eat this holiday season?


Canned oysters, which were a white elephant gift that he received. (How do you buy a funny white elephant gift for a man who is disgusted by nothing? The only thing I can think of that would gross him out is if I were to wrap up another man in a box and have him jump out and kiss DJ square on the lips.)


Why did DJ take part in Parowan High School's production of Grease his senior year?


He needed an art credit to graduate. Why do you ask?


Because it is so funny to me that DJ was in a high school musical wherein he had to dance around in cuffed jeans and a tight, white t-shirt. He even had a line: "Nice car!"


But Grease doesn't have anything to do with Christmas.


Neither do yellow cleaning gloves or chess. Last question. How many times did you end up hearing Drummer Boy this year?


Thirteen. I'm guessing they had a lot of complaints last year.

It's a miracle.

Yes, it is.

Everything from UFC to blind nudists

Can't stand: UFC. I'm not even going to pretend to be the cool wife who supports her husband in his desire to watch a UFC fight. Sorry. I don't like the hitting and the kicking, even recreationally. I'm mildly disgusted that my husband wants to see it. Tonight he's watching two grown men (who have no previous grievances with each other) pummel each other repeatedly, and what am I doing? Writing about it.

Like: She-ra. Macey and I discovered that it's instantly watchable on Netflix and our lives will never be the same. After all, she is the "princess of power! ower! ower! ower! ower!"

Can't stand: "Drummer Boy" I enjoyed this song until last year, when I heard 31, 652 versions of it on the radio. This year I've decided to keep track of how many times my ears are assaulted by "bah-rum-puh-pum-pum"s, so I have a tally sheet stuck to my fridge with a goldfish magnet. So far this season: six times. Six. That's counting Pandora and Star 98 FM. It's a Christmas miracle!

Like: Shannon Hale's books. I've never read one that I disliked.

Can't stand: When you're at the drive through and the person taking your order asks you "Will that be all?" after every item you order.

Like: Michael Jackson's music. Tuesday night was my husband's siblings' Christmas party and we danced to Michael on the Wii. I danced to "Black or White" and discovered that in some areas it does matter if you're black or white, particularly in dancing. I'm genetically disposed to excel at dances that are performed in either a square or a line. I cannot dance like a Jackson. I did a decent impersonation of someone having an epileptic fit, though.

Can't stand: Cold weather and short days. You may have noticed that I'm especially unpleasant at this time of the year. Obviously I need to move to the Caribbean.

Like: When people I know drive by when I'm running downhill because I look fast.

Can't stand: Running uphill.

Like: The seat warmer button in my Tahoe. Not the button so much as what pushing the button accomplishes: warmed up bum.

Can't stand: Having a cold bum. I read once that it has something to do with fat not having as good of circulation as muscle. That can't be it. Have you seen my bum? Exactly.

Like: Using the seat warmer button to keep food warm when I transport it. Is that gross? Do I care?

Can't stand: The whole system of calories needing to be burned or else they turn into muffin tops. We need to do something about this. I'm tired of having to think about calories.

Like: Teaching primary. I'm learning a lot.

Can't stand: Clothes. I know that I'm supposed to wear them, technically. I hate selecting them in the morning, washing them, buying them, ironing them, coordinating them. I want out. I'm moving to a blind nudists colony.

Like: The idea that a blind nudist colony might exist somewhere.

Can't stand: The ants who live in my dishwasher. They are a stubborn bunch. We've had professionals spray them. I've sprayed them. It hasn't killed them. All it's done is tick them off and cause them to reproduce exponentially. In that way, they remind me of the early members of the Mormon church.

Like: Fantasy. I recently read a library book that had a purple sticker on the spine that had a unicorn kicking its feet (hooves?) in the air. It was a Fantasy book; that's what the unicorn sticker said. I felt silly reading this book even though I enjoyed it immensely. Like by just reading this book I was declaring to the world, "Reality is no longer sufficient. I want to live in a fantasy world. And this is what I fantasize about: Unicorns." But it was a good book, and I've decided that I enjoy living in a fantasy world.

Can't stand: Made-up fantasy book names. Or any made-up name, for that matter. I realize that all names were made up at some point, and it would be nonsensical for someone who was riding a unicorn under two moons to be named, say, Brittany. Nevertheless, the made up names annoy me. I know they are sort of necessary, but it doesn't make them any less irritating. Just like clothes.

Hang on, there's a Lamborghini at the end, I promise!

I've been busy lately, doing many important and influential things. At least, from what I gather from the pictures I've uploaded, I've been busy. With what, you ask? Well. Let's get down to business (to defeat! The Huns!).

First, I came home from my morning run (a.k.a. "I'mgonnadieI'mgonnadieI'mgonnadie! SomeonepleaseSHOOTme!" party) the other day and found Tess all suited up for a day of critical toddler business:
Pink felt frog jammies? Check. Blue lame and tulle skirt? Check. Teal cheetah print fairy wings? Check. All right! Let's go unroll an entire roll of toilet paper and then eat some lip gloss!

Next, my husband put this tree out of its misery:

And then we brought it into our home for further humiliation and torture:

We chose this tree for many reasons. 1. We were tired of looking and looking for a cone-shaped pinion pine 2. We are tired of our kids yanking the ornaments off of the bottom half of the tree. 3. I felt bad for it. 4. Maybe Santa can fit a beach house under there? 4. I wanted to go home. Voila!

Sometime undetermined amount of time after that, I found warts on my favorite yellow cleaning gloves. I then found my camera, went to the room in my house that has the best natural lighting, and took a picture of my warty gloves:

(Do you think household cleaners that give your gloves WARTS are bad for the environment? I can think of no other plausible explanation for these glove warts. I can tell you one thing, though, I'm calling those babies my GLORTS from now on.)

And now, the grand finale. I would like a drumroll, so if you don't have a snare drum handy you're going to have to do that thing with your tongue. Ready? And, DRUMROLL!

B-D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d......

If I had any delusions about being the coolest parent at my girls' school, I don't anymore. Not since I saw this little yellow humdinger parked in the kindergarten pickup zone. Who picks their kid up from school in a Lamborghini? Cool rich people, that's who. I bet it doesn't even smell like stale French fries.