Around our House, Josh Wears Many Hats

To state the obvious: Potty training is going really, really well. In the first picture, Josh is wearing his "Cars" underwear beret-style. I was there when he put it on his head. I wasn't there, obviously, when Josh decided to wear the toilet seat as a crown -- or a halo. I only came after I heard screaming. (Sadly, this happens a lot). I can only imagine the thought process went something like this: "This is so fun to sit on that I better put it on my head."
It tooks about 15 minutes for me to figure out how to get the thing back over his ears, and he was shrieking the whole time. A better mother would have started solving that problem immediately. I just grabbed a camera to document the humilation. Let the therapy begin.

If You're Reading This ...

I didn't actually write 43 blog entries in the course of a week. I've just posted all of my old newspaper columns from The Daily Herald to this blog (with permission, of course), so that I could have them archived in one place. The column that runs in the paper is called "The Skinny." It's a reference to the article's thin column width, not my obsession with body weight. (If the latter were the case, I'd call it "The Fat," no matter how many Weight Watchers meetings I attended. But I digress.) Anyone who takes the time to read anything posted after this entry will notice the columns fall mostly into three categories: 1) My obsession with plastic surgery and Britney Spears 2) How being a mom is, like, exhausting and 3) Complaints about snowmobiling, camping and pretty much anything else Dave enjoys (we make a great couple). If you can handle that kind of superficial rambling, read on (or make better use of your time and invest in TiVo). If not, Grandma, I promise not to take it personally.
-- Elyssa

America's Next Top Mother

Heaven knows, there are plenty of nipped and tucked models on the catwalk, but I don't think I've ever heard of a fashion show dedicated to plastic surgery itself. Still, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Dressed in designer duds, several patients of New York-area plastic surgeons took to the runway to showcase their new breasts, noses and tummies. The cosmetic-surgery fashion show debuted at the Carlyle on the Green manor in Farmingdale, N.Y., last Thursday. Much like well-enhanced country singer Dolly Parton, I have never embraced the idea of natural beauty. I love highlights, concealer, spray tans. I'd wear fake eyelashes to bed if I thought my husband would believe it. When I was 12, I slept in sponge curlers at my church's girls' camp, so I could, I guess, have my hair in ringlets as I hiked in the mountains and cooked over an open fire. It made sleeping in a tent that much more uncomfortable, but somehow I managed it. (Pretty much everyone at the camp rolled their eyes at me, even the leaders.) But until recently, I've never been comfortable with the idea of plastic surgery. Seems painful -- I'm a wimp -- and very permanent.
Still, after having children, you only have to stare at your stomach for about two seconds to see why tummy tucks are such a popular surgery. They are among the top five cosmetic surgical procedures performed by plastic surgeons in 2007 (along with liposuction, breast augmentation, rhinoplasty and eyelid surgery). And the number of tummies tucked has risen 137 percent since 2000, according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons. Call me Humpty Dumpty: After having two boys in two and a half years, I sometimes just want to be put back together again.
But if I do some day go for an extreme makeover, you certainly won't see me strutting my new stuff down the catwalk. I've learned a thing or two since girls' camp. Sometimes your beauty secrets are best kept ... secret.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This article appeared in The Daily Herald on June 18, 2008. See http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/270422/149/

Holy Hannah Montana!

Holy Hannah: I have a confession to make. I am 30 years old and I really like Hannah Montana. If there is anyone left in Utah County who missed all of this year's Stadium of Fire fireworks, here's a quick primer. Hannah Montana is the fictional alter ego of the very real and adorable 15-year-old Miley Cyrus. There is a Disney Channel TV show called "Hannah Montana," about a young pop superstar (played by Miley). Cyrus is, herself, a young pop superstar. Confusing? A little bit. But ask any 11-year-old girl, and she can work it out for you.
Organizers of the yearly Provo Fourth of July event Stadium of Fire must have promised to change the name of the state (a second Montana, perhaps?) to get Miley to come, but it's a huge deal. Huge. Her concerts routinely sell out in a matter of minutes.
I'm the oldest of 11 children, many of whom are still teenagers and pre-teens and religiously watch the "Hannah Montana" show on Disney. I, personally, became more of a fan of the show and of Miley when my son Tyler (now 3 months old) was born. Literally.
I was in labor and my husband -- sweet, considerate man that he is -- was watching the inane vehicle-makeover show "Trick my Truck" on CMT. When I realized that Tyler was about to be born, I started freaking out about bringing a child into the world with a bunch of big-rig mechanics yammering on in the background. I told my husband to start flipping channels, and he landed on the "Hannah Montana" show just as Tyler made his entrance into the world. Coincidence? I think not.
And Miley Cyrus will likely be Tyler's first concert. Through some stroke of dumb luck on the computer, my husband was able to get some tickets before they sold out. So Tyler and I will go, but my older son and my husband will likely stay home. There are way too many other people in my family fighting over the tickets. These are people who would never choose to watch "Trick my Truck" when they could be watching "Hannah Montana." They know what a good thing she's got going. They know.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This article appeared in The Daily Herald on April 9, 2008. See http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/261648/149/

The Skinny: The Fat

Christmas is coming, and I am getting ... huge: I asked one of our page designers to change the name of this column for this week because I just can't bring myself to write for something titled "The Skinny." I am about 100 months pregnant and as wide as I am tall, and there is nothing thin, slender, sleek or svelte about me right now.
I realize that being with child in the state with the nation's highest birthrate is nothing new or special. And I am sure that there are more than a few readers out there who can't see their feet anymore either. To them I say, "Have another milkshake."
Actually, I'm doing a little better with this pregnancy than my last. With my first child, I had a McDonald's Egg McMuffin nearly every single day of my pregnancy and put on a solid 50 pounds. At the time, I told myself that eating the 300-calorie slab of breakfast goodness was a sacrifice I was making for the baby. So was downing a nightly milkshake, and chasing that with a candy bar.
It took me more than a year to lose that extra 50 pounds, so I vowed that this pregnancy I would be better. For the most part, I've done OK. I've eaten healthier, exercised more, and severely limited my Egg McMuffin consumption. Yet, still, it seems like every part of my body is expanding to make room for baby. This includes my feet, arms and chin, all parts, which, last time I checked, don't actually house an infant.
I still have to make it through the Sundance resort's Thanksgiving buffet and plenty of holiday nibbling before Bundle of Joy No. 2 makes his debut. And as each day passes, my goal of gaining only 25 pounds this pregnancy seems more insane and laughable. In fact, I'm about to the point of throwing in the dietary towel and just embracing my Stay Puft Marshmallow Man moment. Pass the stuffing and pumpkin pie. It's all for the baby, I swear.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This article appeared in The Daily Herald on Nov. 14, 2007. See http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/243370/149/

Dave Don't Read This (Shoe vs. Snowmobile Spending)

Dave don't read this: My husband, Dave, and I have a long-running financial argument, which goes like this:
Elyssa: "All our money goes to fixing broken snowmobiles."
Dave: "All our money goes to your shoe collection."
Let me state, for the record, that snowmobiles get rolled, crashed into trees and blown up every year, requiring hundreds of dollars for repairs each winter. My shoes sit quietly in the closet, minding their own business and bringing nothing but goodwill and happiness to my feet, home and life. Snowmobiles do none of those things.
You can imagine my dismay, then, when I received what some might consider a solid piece of evidence in Dave's favor.
MapInfo Corporation (www.mapinfo.com) is sending press releases to heaven knows how many people about the counties that spend the most money on women's footwear annually. Guess which county made the No. 1 spot? Utah County.
Yep, according to the press release (which I still have a hard time believing), women in Utah County outspent their counterparts in New York, Chicago, Florida and California on shoes. Utah County took the top spot, followed by Santa Clara, Calif., and San Mateo, Calif.
"While it may be no surprise that Santa Clara and San Mateo counties in sunny California would top the list with the array of sandal and flip flop styles available, who knew that women in the Beehive State of Utah had such a shoe fetish?" asks the press release.
Who knew? My husband, that's who.
According to a publicist for MapInfo, the company "took the aggregate dollars spent in each county on women's footwear between July 2005 and June 2006 and divided it by the number of households in the area. The data ranks average annual spending per household on women's footwear per counties with more than 100,000 households."
There could be a million reasons that Utah County ranked so high, namely that we have a lot of big households that require a lot of shoes. And my personal collection is more Nine West and Steve Madden than Christian Louboutin and Jimmy Choo, so it's not like each shoe is a snowmobile-repair equivalent. Or that I personally am driving up Utah County's average spending.
And did I mention that my shoes have never rolled, crashed into trees or caught on fire? Did I? Did I?
I'm still awaiting the press release on nationwide snowmobile-repair spending.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on Feb. 07, 2007. See http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/209168/149/

It's Hard to be Skinny During the Holidays

Caloric conundrum: It's hard to be skinny around the holidays, what with all the turkey and latkes and gingerbread houses everywhere you turn.
I've decided that no matter where you go, there is no escaping the siren call of inappropriate treats.
For example, the first thing I see every day when I go to the gym is a vending machine that sells candy bars.
These candy bars are, I would guess, about 250 calories each. This is the EXACT SAME AMOUNT of calories I burn in a given workout. (My exercise routine is as much about watching "Judging Amy" reruns on the TNT network as it is about running on the treadmill, but I digress.)
So, if, in a moment of weakness, I decided to eat one of those candy bars, my trek to the gym would be for nothing. I'd be at the same calorie total for the day had I just sat on the couch watching "Judging Amy" instead. Which is what I would rather do.
It takes some convoluted thinking, but one can almost justify not going to the gym based solely on the fact that it might also involve eating a candy bar -- and no one needs the extra sweets this time of year.
Another one of life's cruel ironies is that the delicious and decadent boutique Provo cake shop Channing's Bundt Cake Factory is located just doors away from a Jenny Craig weight loss center.
I always think that celebrity spokeswoman and former "Fat Actress" Kirstie Alley might just jump out of the poster hanging in Jenny Craig's window if she got a whiff of the lemon poppyseed bundt cake. Trust me, I've had it, and it's that good.
Which is exactly why it's hard to be skinny around the holidays. Or anytime else.
--Elyssa Andrus This story appeared in The Daily Herald on Nov. 29, 2006. See http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/201449/149/

My Dad Wears a Fanny Pack

Fanny-tastic: The fanny pack is back. At least, if you believe the company Pawpular Pooch (www.pawpularpooch.com).
Its executives are trying to revive the fanny pack for, of all people, owners of pampered pets. On its Web site, the company features a fanny pack-like contraption that has a place for treats, baggies and a cell phone. Publicity materials for the illustrious product are effusive in their praise: "It's stylish, FUNctional, and it fits right around your waist!"
I'm afraid that was what was said about the original fanny pack, perhaps the most unfashionable accessory ever created by man.
I know a thing or two about fanny packs. My dad, an emergency room doctor and father of 11, wears a fanny pack every time he comes to Utah to visit me. To give him credit, the man has always preferred function over form and could care less what people think of him. When you've got nearly a dozen kids and a TNT network-worthy job, you probably don't worry too much about finding the perfect stylish European carryall. And he's quick to say the fanny pack is a very handy way to carry around cash and important documents.
I've overlooked my dad's collection of novelty ties, his Club Med T-shirts, and the time he wore sneakers with a suit to my cousin's wedding. And I accept the fanny pack -- which, by the way, he only wears when he's traveling (read: every time he visits me) -- as part of his goofball charm. But to my pretty-boy brother-in-laws, the fanny pack is fodder for unending amusement and ridicule. I say, let them laugh.
Out of loyalty to a man who sometimes wears soccer cleats with his hospital scrubs, I salute Pawpular Pooch in its efforts to revive the fanny pack. For some, it never went out of style.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on Oct. 25, 2006.

The Politics of "Law & Order"

This is my story: I have a hard time getting excited about most political elections. I'm a moderate who likes to vote for candidates based on individual qualities, not party affiliation. But for the upcoming presidential election, there are a lot of candidates to like. My reasons for liking said hopefuls range from shallow to ridiculous, and they have little to do with a person's ideas or platform.
Take Sen. Barack Obama (D-Ill.). If he's good enough for Oprah, he's good enough for me. Then there's Sen. Hillary Clinton (D-N.Y.). I'd really like to see a woman in the White House.
Or I could vote for former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney, a Republican who shares my faith, or Sen. John McCain (R-Ariz.), who represents my home state. But if the election were tomorrow, I might pick Fred Thompson. The former U.S. senator (R-Tenn.) is probably better known for his role as District Attorney Arthur Branch on NBC's crime drama "Law & Order" than his political career. I've faithfully watched "L&O" for a decade, and Fred Thompson has played the best district attorney on record. His character is thoughtful and tough, a man who is willing to compromise and play the political game but who still wrestles with his conscience. I'd like to see a leader like Arthur Branch in the White House. I bet a lot of "Law & Order" junkies would.
Thompson's political Web site makes little mention of his role on the hit NBC show and instead plays up his real political experience. Which I think is a mistake. Voters have shown they are only too happy to elect former actors. And "Law & Order" has, like, a lot of fans. The founding fathers knew that some voters would be idiots (hence, the Electoral College), but I will still grudgingly study up on actual issues before I vote. That is, if I can find a break between "Law & Order" re-runs.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This article appeared in The Daily Herald on Oct. 3, 2007.

Dr. McCool Takes out Josh's Tonsils

Paging Dr. McDreamy: My 2-year-old son, Joshua, snores like a chainsaw and needs his tonsils out. I recently took him to Primary Children's Medical Center in Salt Lake City for a consultation with an otolaryngologist, a fancy word for a doctor who has to look at ears, noses and throats all day long.
Josh, my husband and I waited in the hospital for almost two hours before being taken to a small room to see the specialist. Imagine my surprise, then, when The Youngest Doctor on Earth walked in to greet us. He had to have been about 20, and was totally cute in a "Doogie Howser, M.D." sort of way. I was shocked. And here is the kicker: The Youngest Doctor on Earth was really and truly named Dr. McCool. Visions of ABC's "Grey's Anatomy" flashed through my head.
When your 2-year-old is facing major surgery, you don't necessarily want the coolest guy in the room to operate. You for sure don't want the dreamiest (if you've seen "Grey's Anatomy," you'll know that there is barely any time for brain surgery with all the pouting, flirting and supply-room makeout sessions that go on at Seattle Grace). Nope, what you want for a sick toddler is Dr. McCompetent. Or McSkilled. Or McBrilliant.
Turns out, Dr. McCool was a resident, who, given his catchy name, friendly manner and gifted use of a tongue depressor likely has an illustrious career of tonsillectomies ahead of him. And the doctor we later met with was older than me and had a Mclabel-free name.
Still, come the day of the surgery, if the anesthesiologist is named Dr. McFun or McParty or McSexy, Josh and I are out of there faster than you can stick out your tongue and say "ahhh."
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on Aug. 22, 2007.

Spice Girls and Diet Coke (These are a Few of My Favorite Things)

Spiceworld Plus: There has been a lot of good news to report of late. Without further ado, here are some highlights:
1) The addition of Diet Coke Plus to the Coca-Cola family. Although I gave it up when I was pregnant, I was a faithful Diet Coke drinker for many years. I'd start each morning off with a 32-ounce serving from the convenience store (and, while I am confessing, a Tootsie Roll). I'd have a 20-ounce bottle for a nightcap. My husband referred to Diet Coke as the "Devil's Juice," and my healthier-than-thou father-in-law would routinely throw it away if I happened to leave it on the counter at his house.
Coca-Cola must have wised up to the barrage of criticism that Diet Coke is, like, bad for you because Diet Coke Plus features cola enriched with zinc, magnesium, niacin and Vitamins B-6 and B-12. It's like my favorite snack and a multivitamin rolled into one. I'm not totally ready to embrace Diet Coke again (I'm too old and the caffeine keeps me up past my bedtime), but if I ever do, I'll count it with eyebrow waxing and watching aerobics programs on TV on the list of health-conscious things I'm doing for my body.
2) The Spice Girls Reunion Tour. Geri Halliwell, Emma Bunton, Mel Chisholm, Mel Brown and Victoria Beckham (or, as I like to call them, Ginger, Baby, Sporty, Scary and Posh) have announced plans for a globe-crossing reunion tour in late 2007 and early 2008. Lest you think I was a Bristol preteen in the 1990s when the Spice Girls were big, I wasn't -- I was finishing up college right here in Utah County. But one of my great strengths as an entertainment journalist, I think, has always been my ability to keep my taste in movies, music and books right in sync with 11-year-old girls everywhere.
Need a great book? I'd recommend the young adult vampire-love story "Twilight." Great movie? How about the epic cheerleading drama "Bring it On"? Never mind the kid, the mortgage, the passably grown-up career, if anyone is going to be on the front row singing "Wannabe" in a rhinestone Union Jack dress when the British pop stars take the stage, it will be me. Now, that's girl power.
-- Elyssa Andrus

This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 July 25, 2007.

Moms Never Get a Sick Day (But Dads Do!)

Over the borderline: My husband, Dave, and I came down with strep throat one day apart last week. He got it first and was so sick he had to take a day off from work. On that day, he laid on the couch watching TV, while I worked, then watched our child and brought him soup, sandwiches and popsicles at regular intervals.
The next day I got sick and Dave went back to work. I tried laying on the couch and ordering my 2-year-old son to bring me popsicles, but it didn't work out as good for me as it did for my husband. Moms never really get a sick day.
I had to alternate my TV watching with my very patient child, who was happy with half-hour intervals of "Bob the Builder," eating an entire box of fruit snacks, and running his train back and forth over my head for hours.
In between "Bob the Builder" shows, I caught up on episodes of "Snapped" -- the one great show on the Oxygen network.
Mostly the Oxygen network (for, like, women) has been a huge dissapointment, with stupid reruns of "Xena: Warrior Princess" and trashy original programming like "The Bad Girls Club." But "Snapped," now there is a show I can get behind.
The show retells true crime cases where women murder their husbands or lovers. The storyline is always the same: Beautiful, ruthless esthetician/nurse/stripper falls in love with rich, older casino boss/drug lord/doctor and begins a relationship. When said sugar daddy takes another lover or tries to cut her off financially, sugar baby does him in. Scorn, ruin and jailtime typically follow.
I'm a sucker for crime shows, especially cheesy, over-the-top ones like "Snapped." Part of the fun is wondering just what it was that put the girlfriends or wives over the edge. Was it infidelity? Abuse? Or was it something more subtle like too little help around the house, too many requests for popsicles? I had an entire sick day to think about it.
-- Elyssa AndrusThis story appeared in
The Daily Herald on page B1 on June 17, 2007.

This is Only a Text

This is only a text: On any given day, I get three or four text messages from my 10-year-old sister, Julie. Very few make sense, and very few seem to be written specifically for me. The first one she ever sent me said, "idk means I don't know." Frequently she just texts the word "hi," but sometimes I'm lucky enough to get nonsensical text forwards promising bad luck if I don't immediately pass on the message that "girlfriends r like diamonds cuz u always want more than 1" to 10 people.
Or whatever.
A few months ago, my toddler dropped my cellphone on the ground and broke it in half. Instead of shelling out $100 to buy a new one, I wrapped the phone back together with masking tape (so very retro!) and decided to make due. The one problem is I can't see the letters on my phone to text replies. So even though Julie hasn't heard back from me in months, she continues to lol with me like I'm her bff. The best part is that she is texting me during the day, so I know she's using her phone during school.
I taught at Brigham Young University a few years ago, and from what I could tell none of my students were sending text messages during class. But they probably were. Heaven knows they were surfing the Internet on their wireless laptops while pretending to take notes. And my two high school-aged siblings assure me that all their friends have the keys memorized and can send texts blindly from phones hidden inside pockets and books. Any idiot can do it, they say.
Really, it's a skill the older generations could use. Think of how much more fun Friday management meetings could be if you spent the entire time discussing the previous night's "Grey's Anatomy" episode via text. You could while away the hours in traffic school, Sunday school, PTA meetings, work -- all while catching up with your closest friends.
Sure, like me, it may take you an hour to compose each line of the text message. But is that better than the alternative of paying attention to the task at hand? Waiting until later for actual face-to-face communication? Idk folks, idk.
-- Elyssa AndrusThis story appeared in
The Daily Herald on page B1 on May 9, 2007

Whiz Kids

Urinal ban lifted: Even editors occasionally go on vacation, and leaving the section in someone else's hands is a bit like asking someone else to baby-sit your children. It's heavenly, but you still can't help but worry.
The one and only time I've truly been mad at the people in my department happened a few years ago. I came back from a trip to find that a designer had run a giant picture of a urinal -- with a yellow background, no less -- on the cover of our entertainment magazine, UV. In his defense, the cover story was about the sublimely absurd musical comedy "Urinetown," (www.urinetown.com) which was making its way through Utah.
In hindsight, I can see how that particular -- and very talented -- designer thought that a urinal was an appropriate way to illustrate a very silly theater production. But I thought it was in incredibly poor taste to run a picture of a giant man-toilet on the cover of a newspaper section. And I told him so. And anyone else who would listen, for some time.
In fact, it prompted me to issue what has been a standing mandate in the features section for some time: No urinals.
You can imagine my dismay, then, when a wire service distributed an interesting and tastefully done South Florida Sun-Sentinel story about this very subject -- running on this same page. According to the article, a new trend in some higher-end homes is to include a urinal in the master bathroom. Also according to the story, the trend has been reported by such illustrious papers as the New York Times and the Financial Times in London. The New York Times even said urinals are becoming "a definite must for luxury homes."
Now, if the New York Times and the Financial Times in London jumped off a cliff, would I? (Probably.) If they can report on urinals, I guess I can get off my high horse, and wade through the sewage (so to speak) of urinals and other topics I prefer to never think about: camping, snowmobiles, bees.
Let the ridiculously rich do as they please in their own homes. As long as I don't have to ever clean or look upon said man-toilet, I'll admit that the designer who put the urinal on the cover of UV was ahead of his time. A true whiz kid, you might say.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on April 4, 2007.

No Place Like Arizona for the Holidays

No place like home: Every time I go home to Arizona over the holidays, I start to feel like I'm trapped in the 1990 movie "Home Alone." Except that no one is going to Europe. And there are, hopefully, no robbers lurking about. Mostly, it feels like the beginning of the movie, where there are a million family members rushing about, ordering pizza and fighting over who has to sleep with the bed-wetters.
I am the oldest of 11 children, and the house was pretty chaotic when I was young. That chaos has only multiplied exponentially as the children have grown up, gotten married and had children of their own.
This year, we have five children under the age of 2 running (or crawling!) wild. And, while there are no pet tarantulas in the house like on "Home Alone," there are two dogs and a guinea pig. This year, I have to share a room with the guinea pig. I always have to share a room with the guinea pig.
I'm sure many of you readers are experiencing the same holiday joy of free-for-all mealtimes, too few bedrooms, too many contagious illnesses, not enough hot water and way too much noise.
Whether your family is big or small, the best part about the holiday season is generally reuniting with the same bunch of loons that share your red hair and passion for crime dramas. Or your broad shoulders and addiction to Hostess cupcakes.
Whatever.
The worst part is that in a week, I really will be home alone, with only my husband and baby, missing, I'm sure, the cold-water showers and steady hum of noise.
The guinea pig, however, is another story. I won't miss it one bit.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on Dec. 27, 2006.

A Chaotic Year

Baby, one more time: Say what you want about one-time pop princess Britney Spears, but I have to hand it to her.
Sure, I don't approve of her embarrassingly trashy husband or the train wreck that was her 2005 TV series "Britney and Kevin: Chaotic." But anyone who has two children in one year deserves a whole lot of credit.
Spears, 24, gave birth to a second son, reportedly named Sutton Pierce Federline, at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles on Sept. 12 -- two days before her oldest son Sean Preston's birthday.
Even if you have a nanny, personal trainer and army of assistants to care for your child after he or she is born, pregnancy and childbirth are no walk in the park. Having two children in one year is a super-human feat (this includes you, mothers of multiples), and I have nothing but respect and awe for anyone who can manage it.
And, if the baby's name really is Sutton Pierce, Britney is proving that being a mom of two under 2 has made her extremely pragmatic.
With the boys sharing the same initials, the monogrammed designer baby jeans and booties will make wonderful hand-me-downs.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on Sept. 20, 2006.

National Underwear Day

Mark your calendars: One of the great joys of my job is sifting through the inane and sometimes insane product pitches publicists send me each week. On any given day, I might come across a sample of doggie toilet paper or a fact sheet about exploding dentures.
Slow news day? There is always a "month" or "day" dedicated to someone or something to write about. And, apparently, if you are in the retail clothing business, you can just make your own holiday up.
I recently received a press release telling me that underwear retailer Freshpair.com founded a national underwear day. On Aug. 9, the illustrious undie manufacturer will be hosting its fourth annual National Underwear Day celebration.
And how does one celebrate National Underwear Day? By roaming the streets of New York City clad only in one's skivvies, according to a press release.
In the release, Michael Kleinmann, president of Freshpair.com, predicted that New Yorkers would take their boxers and briefs to the streets, saying: "On National Underwear Day, underwear finally gets the recognition it truly deserves."
Indeed. But will National Underwear Day be observed anywhere but New York? What if the residents of Utah County want to shed a layer or two in observance of this special event? If the Victoria's Secret window displays at the mall are too hot for some Utahns to handle, what about a live underwear fashion show?
Far be it for me to tell anyone what to wear (unless you are still wearing gaucho pants, then STOP IT!), but might I suggest we not follow New York's lead on this one? National Underwear Day can come and go, for all I care, without anyone in the Beehive State shedding a T.
I'll save my cake and fireworks for National Make Up Your Own Day Day, or, better yet, a day celebrating the office shredder and e-mail delete function.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1.

The Official Minivan of Motherhood

Queen of the road: As a mother, I've learned to let a lot of things go. I no longer wear cute shoes to grocery shop, my eyebrows are unplucked, and there are streaky baby handprints on most of my shirts. But despite my permanent commitment to the disheveled-chic look, I've always prided myself in one thing: I don't drive a minivan.
I've always considered minivans the ultimate symbol of parental dorkiness. (Moms who drive minivans, don't get mad yet. Stay with me here.) To me, driving a minivan is like waving the white flag of surrender. It's like saying that the kids have totally taken over, that you'll never again go to a movie alone or sit through all of church or eat at a restaurant that doesn't have plastic cups.
But when my car was in the shop and I borrowed my mother-in-law's minivan, I had a total change of heart. Her Chrysler Town & Country was so comfortable, so luxurious that I didn't want to give it back. That must be why the minivan is the official car of motherhood. Once you have kids, it's so much easier to drive than any other vehicle. Gone is the need to contort yourself into totally weird poses while trying to either lower (for sedans) or raise (for SUVs) your child to the appropriate carseat level.
And most of them are so loaded now that you can have leather seats, a DVD player and a gold-plated hot tub installed, if you wish.
As if to cement my conversion to the minivan cause, celebutantes Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie have been cruising around in said vehicle on their reality show "The Simple Life." In the fourth season of the show, broadcast on the E! network, Paris and Nicole attempt to out-ham each other with laughable and appallingly fake ineptness as pretend housewives. They may not be able to cook a lamb, or vacuum up Cheerios, but they do have one part of domestic life nailed: their sleek, shiny Toyota Sienna minivans. Now that's hot!
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on June 21, 2006.

The Skinny on Bathing Suit Shopping

Suits me: Now that spring is here and the weather has (finally!) warmed up, it's time to participate in the yearly humiliation ritual known as bathing suit shopping.
I was pregnant last summer and didn't even bother with a swimsuit, so I forgot just how awful those first few minutes in the department store dressing room can be.
In fact, I think I blocked out most of the horror of suit shopping, because I set off a few days ago to find new swimwear feeling wildly optimistic. I wanted a stylish, modest suit that cost less than $50 and looked fabulous on me. Thirty swimsuits later, I'd dropped all those requirements for something simpler: I wanted a suit that didn't make me immediately shield my eyes and start sobbing when I saw myself in the mirror. Basic enough, you'd think, but still tricky.
If you're like me and would prefer wisdom-teeth removal to swimsuit shopping, check out the article on figure-flattering swimwear in Friday's Life & Style section. It may not make the process easy, but it may make it endurable.
That said, there is a bright note in summer fashion: The evil retailers who are busy turning out bathing suit bottoms the size of cocktail napkins have, for some reason, embraced long shorts. For years, finding a pair of modest shorts to wear in the summer meant scouring specialty stores for hideous-looking items that could make supermodel Tyra Banks look hippy. Now, nearly every store in the mall carries half a dozen styles of tasteful, flattering shorts that hit at the knee or lower. It's the answer to one of the biggest fashion challenges of my adult life, and it couldn't have come at a better time.
Now if only I could wear those shorts in the pool.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on May 10, 2006.

Party People (in Cedar Hills)

Party people: Their may be meth at some underground gatherings in Utah County, but the biggest party scene in Cedar Hills seems to promote an entirely different kind of high.
Shopping.
In the few months that I've lived in this tucked-away part of the state, I've been invited to a dozen or so shindigs where entrepreneurial souls hawk everything from tank tops to greeting cards to expensive cookware to designer jeans (my personal favorite).
It's the next generation of Tupperware parties, only instead of microwave-safe containers you can by 7 for All Mankind jeans at almost half price.
(In fact, if you go to a denim party, a jewelry party and a tank top party, you can get yourself a nice little outfit, as well as a meal of cookies and fruit slices. But I digress ... )
Now because Cedar Hills has no real industry or shopping to speak of, enterprising neighbors and friends have schlepped these wares up the mountain and into their homes.
In Tucson, Ariz., where I grew up, parties were either the kind with Chex Mix and board games or the kind with drunks standing around a bonfire in the desert. Neither featured elaborate wall stencils or $20 spatulas for sale.
And the saddest part was I didn't even know what I was missing. But now, with a closet full of extra-long Shade T-shirts and a kitchen drawer that's home to a very fancy measuring cup, you can bet I do. You can bet I do.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on April 5, 2006.

Taking a Bite out of Cookie magazine

One tough Cookie: As an editor, I love pretty much anything that has words printed on it, from chemistry textbooks to novels to Chinese takeout menus. As a mother, I have less and less time to read said products with printed words, and am (sadly) more likely to look at the takeout menu than the novel or the textbook. But when Cookie Magazine landed on my desk, I had to take a nibble.
Edited by Pilar Guzman, formerly of Real Simple, and published by Fairchild Publications, Cookie is one of those magazines that is both ridiculous and sublime. In interviews, Guzman has referred to the magazine as "a stylish and worldly mom treat."
It's certainly stylish, and certainly wordly, and also apparently edited by people who have never seen, smelled or been in the same room as a baby. (Guzman's bio says she has a toddler, but she's clearly making that up.)
After reading two issues, I'm not sure which made my eyes roll further back into my head: The pictures of the fat-free model wearing a formal gown and swinging a diapered infant in her arms, the consumer guide to $800 stollers, or the pictures of the baby Ugg booties. If I ever have cause to wear a floor-length gown again, I will not come within puking distance of my sweet diapered infant. And if anyone in my house gets to wear shoes that cost upwards of $100, it's going to be ME, not someone who has yet to learn to walk.
That said, it's fun to dream of a world where I have time to make wholesome, organic fish dishes and can afford to order tea and jump on the bed at the Four Seasons or some similiarly posh hotel. It's pure escapism, and in a way it makes sense. A photo spread of clearance items at Baby Gap or -- Who am I kidding? -- Wal-Mart wouldn't be nearly as sexy. And I'm sure no one wants to look at pictures of a baggy-eyed mom dispensing Tylenol to her screaming, teething infant at 4 a.m., even if she does do it in a fabulous pair of Jimmy Choos.
So read Cookie Magazine at your own risk. It's delicious, but it may not be good for you.
Incidentally, my 8-month-old son did, literally, bite into Cookie. I'm not sure what he thought of the magazine's flavor or texture, but he did fight like mad to keep the wad of paper in his mouth. I guess that's one positive review.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B6 on March 1, 2006.

Living the North County Dream (We Moved to Cedar Hills!)

Living the North County dream: Sick of sharing streets and shopping centers with students, my husband and I recently sold our home in southeast Provo and moved to Cedar Hills (motto: "The city that's way the freak out there").
I'd heard good things about the area, what with the controversial golf course and the mudslides and all. I had heard about the coalitions, too, but was faced with a dilemma: Which was the right one to join? Could I join them all as a way to meet people? And would the others find out?
Having lived here for a few days, I can vouch that the view is absolutely gorgeous, but it comes at a price. Cedar Hills (alternate motto: "Running business out of town one store at a time") is close to absolutely nothing. I feel like I'm in the 1988 Chevy Chase movie "Funny Farm" every time I tell my husband I have to "go into town" to shop at Target or Wal-Mart.
I am starting to understand why speculating about new commerce in the area is a North County obsession. Have you heard the rumor about the shopping center that is going to feature Ikea, the Cheesecake Factory and Anthropologie? Well, at a restaurant the other night, I overheard a friend of the developers say that they were going to connect all those businesses with a series of waterslides. People will all wear their bathing suits to shop. It's going to be the latest thing.
Hey, when you look out on nothing but subdivisions and sage brush, you've got to dream.
On the upside, this is unquestionably the friendliest neighborhood I have ever lived in. Although the area is relatively new, my neighbors have already organized a book club, a recipe club, a playgroup and a weekly women's volleyball game. Apparently, those who can't flee their homes for the shopping malls have to actually rely on each other for entertainment.
Next you'll be telling me that instead of downloading episodes of ABC's "Desperate Housewives" to their cell phones, these folks actually talk to one another. In person. By choice.
That's what happens when you get too far away from Target.
-- Elyssa AndrusThis story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on December 28, 2005.

I'll Pass on the Living Scripture Collection

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas: I'm all for jump starting the season, but it seems like retailers had barely finished putting out their witch hats and pumpkin candles this year before promptly replacing them with candy canes and snowmen.
Which is fine, really. I'll happily listen to the carols that KOSY 106.5 is playing 'round the clock, never mind that Thanksgiving is still more than a week away, never mind that they are incessantly plugging the upcoming Neil Diamond concert.
And I'm delighted that grocery stores are already carrying peppermint ice cream and stocking marshmallow cream for Christmas fudge. How else am I going to gain that extra holiday weight?
The one unpleasant part of the early seasonal rush is that both the Provo Towne Centre and Orem's University Mall have suddenly transformed into the shopping equivalent of the streets of Tijuana, Mexico. In that border town, hustling is an art form, and most tourists happily go there to barter with the stunningly aggressive salesmen. It's expected there, and it's part of the fun.
What I don't want is to be chased down by someone selling tank tops, cell phones, fake hair or magic hand cream at a cart in a local mall.
Particularly annoying was a certain young man selling animated scripture videos last week. I passed him four times in the course of my hourlong shopping trip. The first three times I politely said "No, thank you," when he tried to convince me to stop and look at his product.
I was puzzled that he kept approaching me time after time. I may not be that memorable myself, but I have a hard time believing that he couldn't remember the spitting, gurgling baby I had with me.
On the fourth time, feeling like a smart aleck, I said, "Still not interested."
Big mistake.
Huge.
He was simply encouraged by the new response, and followed me several feet until I fled into a nearby store, wishing with all my might the Christmas shopping season could be postponed until after Thanksgiving.
Feliz Navidad, indeed.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on November 16, 2005.

Just as Happy as When I had $48 Million

What will they think of next? File this under strange new products: a Marina del Rey, Calif.-based company is debuting a product called TushieWipes for dogs and cats.
According to a press release, these wipes are "extra thick and strong so they won't tear during use, a key concern for many pet owners."
Admittedly, I don't have a dog or a cat. But if I did, keeping their stinking, smelly surprises out of my house would be a key concern -- not flimsy wipes.
I can get behind ridiculously priced doggy spa days, couture and jewelry, but I think owners who will pay $9.95 for a box of 100 wipes are taking this man's-best-friend thing waaaaay too literally.
Words of wisdom: How I love Arnold Schwarzenegger, the body-builder-turned-movie-star-turned-governor who is always good for an inspirational quote.
He's said a number of zingers in his illustrious career, but the one I'd like to have cross-stitched on a pillow is this: "Money doesn't make you happy. I now have $50 million, but I was just as happy when I had $48 million."
I'm sure I, too, could be happy -- no Prozac necessary -- if I had $50 million, $48 million or perhaps even $46 million. But get too far below that, and there are no guarantees.
At the very least, happiness seems to correlate with an income level where you can pay someone else to wipe your dog's behind. That's all I'm sayin'.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on May 18, 2005.

Me and Britney Mama

Oh, baby!: I know this is a bit pathetic, but I've always felt a special connection with Britney Spears. Sure, she prances around holding snakes and wears teeny-tiny shirts for a living, while I sit at a desk fully clothed and edit stories all day. She goes barefoot in public restrooms; I won't set foot (literally) in a Chevron station without a pair of shoes.
Oh, and she can sing, and I can't.
But last week the pop star confirmed my deepest suspicions: We have a few things in common. She's expecting her first child, and so am I.
Granted, Mrs. Federline's pregnancy will probably be marked by $150 7 for all Mankind maternity jeans, a full-time dietitian and an on-staff fetus psychic who can predict both the baby's moods and future.
She'll probably name her child Peach or Gunner.
On the other hand, I like biblical names and am still elated that I found a pair of maternity pants on sale for $20 at the Gap.
But the fact remains that Britney and I are experiencing the joys of new motherhood together -- and no one can take that away from us.
Speaking of new motherhood: I love Wal-Mart because you can find toothbrushes for $1, and I love Target because it's full of so many beautiful and (relatively) inexpensive things that I never even knew I needed.
But, lately, ShopKo is the big box store I have the warmest feelings about. It all stems from the "expectant mother" parking they have that is VERY close to the store.
Back in the days when I weighed 30 pounds less and could comfortably fit behind a steering wheel, I used to roll my eyes at the expectant-mother parking spots. But now that I'm trying to balance in high-heels while carrying what feels like a very heavy bowling ball under my skin, I'll take all the help I can get.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on April 20, 2005.

Top of the Muffin

A column about nothing: We're always delighted by references to the now-defunct NBC sitcom "Seinfeld" -- whether they are intentional or not.
So we were overjoyed when a marquee at the Provo Kneaders announced that the bakery now sells muffin tops.
It reminds us of the Seinfeld episode where Elaine has the brilliant business idea of ditching the muffin "stumps" and selling only tops at a bakery.
No one, she reasons, really likes the stumps anyway.
Unlike Elaine on "Seinfeld," Kneaders employees won't have to worry about stump removal. The bakery doesn't actually bake a whole muffin. Rather, they use a shallow pan that produces only "tops."
We can vouch, they are moist and tasty.
It's a promising start, but there are other Seinfeldisms we'd like to see take hold in Utah Valley. Wouldn't it be great if:
The First Night celebration gave way to a countywide observation of Festivus?
Brigham Young University's internship offices started a placement program with Kramerica Industries?
Utah Valley Regional Medical Center gave away a free package of Junior Mints with each surgery?
Stationery stores start offering envelope moisteners to avoid wrongful-death lawsuits?
Orem's Chef's Table added a Snickers bar to its dessert menu -- to be eaten with a knife and fork?
Puffy shirts replaced capri pants as the hottest local fashion item?
The five dozen Wal-Marts in the valley started offering "manziers" for men whose upper bodies are going to heck in a handbasket?
It would be a brave new world, to be sure. But if we can get rid of muffin stumps in the county, who knows what other feats of strength we could accomplish?
Top of the muffin to ya!
-- Elyssa Andrus This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on March 16, 2005.

Baby Get Back

Baby get back: It seems like there is a magazine for everything, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before savvy publishers launched one about the wonders of plastic surgery.
According to publicity materials, NewBeauty magazine is "a beautiful glossy dedicated to cosmetic enhancements."
Ironically enough, a press release announcing NewBeauty's launch also shared these nonsurgical tips for achieving an attractive rear view, which I am happy to pass along to you, dear reader:
Avoid jeans with small, widely spaced back pockets: They only add width to your bottom.
Look for jeans with a contoured waistband: A pair that is slightly higher in the back than in front will create or accentuate curves.
Opt for jeans with a low rise if your backside is on the flat side.
Then again, if all else fails, there's nothing a scalpel and a few days of recovery can't fix.
The B.A. stands for born again: Apparently, the time I spent getting a bachelor's and master's degree was a huge waste, at least if you believe the spam in my e-mail inbox.
I recently received an e-mail advertising a "Genuine College Degree in Two Weeks!"
Text of said advertisement: "Have you ever thought the only thing stopping you from a great job and better pay was a few letters behind your name? (Heck, yeah!). Well, now you can get them.
"These are real, genuine degrees that include bachelor's, master's and doctorate degrees. They are verifiable, and student records and transcripts are also available. ... Just call the number below."
I'm so there -- in just 14 days, my name can be followed by not just two, but six letters ... Elyssa Andrus, S.U.C.K.E.R.
Has a nice ring, doesn't it?
-- Elyssa AndrusThis story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1 on Feb. 16, 2005.

Romance Novels and Bubble Wrap

Mark your calendars: Jan. 31 is National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day. As if we need a special holiday to appreciate the lovely packaging item! Please.
What other stress-relieving product can liven up a boring day at the office by mimicking the sound of gunfire?
We're not sure when the tradition of devoting appreciation days to pedestrian household products began, but we're looking forward to celebrating Toilet Brush Appreciation Day this summer.
The gift that keeps on giving: Tired of wooing your special someone with chocolates, roses and novelty boxers on Valentine's Day? Why not customize your own romance novel?
Husband and wife team J.S. Fletcher and Kathy M. Newbern run a North Carolina-based specialty publishing business (www.yournovel.com). For $49.95 (plus shipping), they'll write a 150-190-page romance novel starring you and your sweetheart.
You choose whether the novel is "mild" or "wild." According to company press materials, the starring couple could find themselves "skinny-dipping in the Caribbean, frolicking under a waterfall, or making love none-too-easily in a swinging hammock.
"And, because these novels are adventure romances, they'll also be chasing bad guys on wave runners off the North Carolina coast, foiling a stalker on a luxury cruise ship, tangling with a cougar in the wild, or fighting off bad guys near Rome's Coliseum."
They can't pay you to make this stuff up.
Or maybe they can.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1, Jan. 19, 2005.

Play that Funky Music, White Boy Orrin Hatch

Play that funky music, white boy: Poet, statesman, senator and gentleman, Orrin Hatch doesn't just torture his constituents with long-winded speeches. He also writes poems and hymns.
And, according to a bio on the senator's music Web site, www.hatchmusic.com, the people of the great state of Utah have Hatch's once-destitute parents Helen and Jesse to thank for the musical meddling.
And we quote, "Although they had to scrimp and save everything they could to round up $18.75 for student peanut-heaven seats, Orrin's parents made it possible for their children to attend every concert of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra from when he was 12 years old until he left for college."
Thank ye, Helen and Jesse.
From those humble beginnings, Sen. Hatch has released a handful of religious and patriotic CDs. Just in time for Christmas, the former chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee has added to his repertoire with the holiday-themed CD, "Orrin Hatch's Christmas Eve."
The CD features such favorites as "Angels We Have Heard on High," and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."
Rumor has it that Hatch's decision to include Ja Rule as a guest artist on the CD's gangsta rap hit "Skatin' With My Baby" has landed him smack in the middle of a feud between rapper 50 Cent and the record company Murder, Inc.
All we can say is, watch your back, Orrin. This CD may up your street cred, but rap feuds can be even more brutal than politics.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on Dec. 22, 2004, on page B1
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/104636/149/

Oh, Rats!

Oh, rats! If there is one thing I hate, it's the cause-of-the-month press releases I get at work. Sure, some are worthy causes. October, for example, is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Breast cancer is very bad, and I'm happy to spend an entire month thinking about how bad it is.
But October is also National Stamp Collecting Month, National Popcorn Poppin' Month (a favorite in LDS primary classes), and -- my personal favorite -- National Rodent Prevention Month.
Did you know:
The majority of the 50,000 people bitten each year by rats are children.
Rats and mice are proven carriers of serious diseases such as the plague, salmonella and trichinosis.
Twenty-six percent of all electric-cable breaks and 18 percent of all phone-cable disruptions are caused by rats.
Rats' teeth are as hard as steel and can exert biting pressures of 7,000 pounds per square inch.
The above information is from a National Rodent Prevention Month press release sent out by an insecticide company. The company has even offered to provide an "expert" to discuss rodent invasion and give tips to eliminate pests safely and effectively.
A noble gesture, to be sure, but I think anyone who devotes only one month a year to preventing rodents is in for more than just a few chewed television cables.
My advice: Stop leaving cheese on the kitchen counter, get rid of junky corners that could fester a rat's nest, and don't let that creepy Pied Piper guy get within 50 feet of your home.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on Oct. 27, 2004, on page B1.
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/113267/149/

Indecent (Political) Exposure

What a crack-up: The election is mere weeks away, and I want to go on record that I support most forms of political expression. Hang signs, hold demonstrations, call your congressman, write a letter to the editor.
But, for goodness' sake, please don't wear a thong.
Politically themed clothing is risky at best. Most are slogan T's made by the same companies that are pumping out cheap cotton shirts saying "Beer on Board" and "You Know You're a Stoner If ..."
And venturing beyond a T-shirt that says "Let's Vote" or even "Stop Mad Cowboy Disease" or "Kerry for President of France" to the murkier underworld of underwear is inexcusable.
The amount of exposure necessary for the world to see white cotton unmentionables bearing a Democrat donkey or a crossed-out picture of Saddam Hussein is simply indecent.
That's why I'm asking U.S. residents to keep the political process where it belongs but sadly seldom is -- above the belt. Way above the belt.
That said, if, like me, you allow celebrities to dictate everything from what brand of makeup to buy to what purse to carry your miniature dog in, take heart.
Those darling little "Vote or Die" shirts worn by P. Diddy at the MTV Music Awards allow one to bare one's political soul without letting it all hang out.
So forget everything that Watergate and subsequent political scandals have taught you. Sometimes, in our ever-trashier modern world, what politics most desperately needs is a cover-up.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on Sept. 22, 2004, on page B1.

Cabela's is Coming

Deer to my heart: The recent announcement that outdoor retailer Cabela's Inc. is planning to open a store in Lehi has been met with such celebration that you would think Utah County has been chosen as the site of a future Winter Olympics.
Honestly people, how many stores that display dead deer heads and sell fishing gear do we need in one tiny valley?
OK, so I've never actually set foot in a Cabela's. And to be fair, its Web site does make the store look like a whole lot of fun.
But before I break out the (non-alcoholic) bubbly to celebrate, I'm waiting for other signs that the valley has arrived. My demands are simple: I want an Anthropologie and a Cheesecake Factory.
Note to the presidents of aforementioned favorite places: If the market can support a store that stocks $70 fly fishing sandals, surely it can also support stores that sell $70 sweaters and $7 cheesecakes. Is that so wrong?
Calling all tone-deaf Mormons: Sure, you love each and every member of the congregation, but do you ever wish that some would sing "If You Could Hie to Kolob" on key? Well, never fear. An in-tune Farmington gentleman has come up with Hymn Helper, a two-disc CD set meant to teach people how to sing harmony to hymns of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
According to a press release, Allen Crookston created the product for "selfish reasons" -- he wanted to learn to sing harmony himself.
I believe that Crookston developed the product for less-than-altruistic purposes. But I'm guessing it was because he wanted his congregation to learn to sing on key already. And this product is his not-so-subtle hint.
Allen, we hear you loud and clear.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on Aug. 25, 2004, on page B1.
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/107219/149/

Hit the Road, "Jack"

Hit the road, "Jack": Humilivision has reached a new low with "Outback Jack," TBS's mean-spirited show that rips off both ABC's "The Bachelor" and CBS' "Survivor" by making debutantes compete in the Australian wilderness for the affections of a 28-year-old East Melbourne native.
(Not to give it all away, but he's hot. And has big muscles. And feels really, really bad that not all the women can continue the journey each week.)
The first episode kicked off with bottle blondes in sequined gowns being forced to put on pink jumpsuits and skydive out of an airplane. Many were visibly shaken, crying and showing what are sure to be the most genuine emotions of the entire run.
Careful editing has ensured that everything out of the contestants' mouth subsequently is either a complaint about the accommodations -- there is a lot of "eww-ing" -- or a complaint about the grooming limitations the Outback imposes. Which, as you may imagine, are considerable.
On one hand, it is hard to feel sorry for any reality-TV contestant (particularly ones with the money to drop $5,000 on implants and spiffy wheeled suitcases). After shows like "Joe Millionaire," and "Average Joe," applicants should expect a bit of a plot twist here and there.
But "Outback Jack's" sole purpose seems to be to ridicule women who aren't comfortable wrestling crocs or eating bugs for dinner, sneering at the fact that they don't like to sleep on rocks.
Well, I don't like to sleep on rocks.
Most rational, sentient people don't like to sleep on rocks.
To do so makes irrelevant the progress of, say, the last 1,000 or so years.
Lest viewers cast the first stone, it's important to remember that while they mock and retire to their feather beds, the pampered princesses of "Jack" are keeping it real in the Australian Outback.
How's that for spoiled?
-- Elyssa Andrus

This article appeared on June 30, 2004, in the Daily Herald.
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/109481/149/

Cracking down on Cracks

Isn't it ironic: Leave it to Britney Spears' home state to try to ban low-rise jeans.
Louisiana House Bill 1626, affectionately known as the "Baggy Pants Bill," would crack down on cracks, so to speak, by making it illegal to let it all hang out.
The bill states: "It shall be unlawful for any person to appear in public wearing his pants below his waist and thereby exposing his skin or intimate clothing."
I'm all for legislating fashion -- in fact, I've often dreamed of a brave new world where people who wore socks with sandals would be taken to the town square and held in a stockade.
In this world, anyone over the age of 10 caught wearing a shirt with the words "brat," "princess," "diva" or "spoiled" would be fed to hungry wolves.
And pregnant women baring their belly skin would be locked up for life, no matter how trendy Madonna or Kate Hudson make it seem.
Harsh, you say?
Have you ever seen a very pregnant woman in a halter top?
Other punishable offenses would include wearing fake hair extensions, Van Halen T-shirts, overly short skirts, jumpers, tube tops, floral print dresses (sorry, Mom), outfits that match ones worn by your spouse, muscle shirts, braided belts, and T-shirts that in any way make reference to beer.
These laws would be strictly enforced by the Prada-clad fashion police. No ifs, ands or -- in the case of Louisiana -- butts about it.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This story appeared in The Daily Herald on May 26, 2004, on page B1.
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/113142/149/

Swan Song: Extreme Humiliation

I've got to get this off my chest: Since when do rhinoplasty and breast augmentation automatically go hand in hand?
I love a good transformation, but the ABC reality series "Extreme Makeover" has given new meaning to the phrase boob tube. The show -- ostensibly meant to fix applicants' crooked noses or chipped teeth -- always ends up giving female participants more than they bargained for.
It seems that no matter the original insecurity, every woman ends up receiving veneers, liposuction and a considerable breast augmentation. Don't like the shape of your lips? Perhaps changing from a B cup to a whopping DD will make it all better.
I can only imagine going to a cosmetic dentist and having him say at the end, 'Your teeth look great now, but you know what would really make you sparkle ... ?" Ick.
Speaking of reality TV shows, Fox's reality series "The Swan" may have hit a new low. Even for Fox, the network that brought you "My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé" and "The Littlest Groom."
I'm sure producers have for years been looking to combine plastic surgery and pageantry and -- by goodness -- they've finally done it.
The Monday night show transforms women from "ugly ducklings" into beautiful, well-rounded television spokesmodels. Some will go on to compete in the first annual Swan Pageant. According to the show's Web site, "Each week, feathers will fly as the inevitable pecking order emerges."
Nothing says hen-pecking like a good reality TV pageant. But I think forcing women to appear on camera drugged, swollen and bandaged as they recover from plastic surgery AND THEN, AND THEN, force them to twirl a baton or juggle monkeys to win a tiara is simply too much public humiliation.
I'll enjoy my veneers and boob job in private, thank you very much.
-- Elyssa Andrus

This article appeared in the Daily Herald on April 14, 2004 on B1.
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/95645/149/

Bin Laden, Breath Mints and Coke

Bin Laden, to boot: I haven't actively been looking for al Qaida's top leader, but a sign at a local car wash suggests he might be a bit closer than the caves of Afghanistan. The marquee at the Clean Get Away Car Wash in Provo says that if you are looking for Bin Laden, you should vacuum your trunk.
Really, it's that simple.
Next on the list of things to do: Locate weapons of mass destruction in the glove compartment.
Take two of these and call me in the morning: We receive a seemingly endless barrage of press kits and promotional products from companies hoping we'll mention their products in the paper. Some of the stuff is fun (catalogues of pretty shoes) and some is funny (the cow bell Disney sent to promote its animated feature "Home on the Range.")
I couldn't help but take it personally, however, when breath mints and pills for relieving flatulence crossed my desk in the same week.
I wonder if those companies are trying to tell me something.
And lastly, a word of wisdom: The debate about whether members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are permitted to drink caffeine isn't likely to be resolved any time soon. But one thing is for sure, there is Coke in the church's Salt Lake headquarters. Ironically, one unfailingly polite church spokesperson actually shares the same name as the bubbly brew -- a Mr. Coke Newell.
But maybe he's the caffeine-free kind.
-- Elyssa Andrus
This article originally appeared in the Daily Herald on March 17, 2004.
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/117378/149/

"Queer Eye" for the Dave Guy

'Queer Eye' for women everywhere: I'm not sure what target demographic Bravo execs were seeking when they launched "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," but I can tell you who the show's biggest fans are: Straight, suburban, married women.
True, my husband has yet to refer to his back hair as a guardian angel (as one recent "Queer Eye" project did), and he doesn't need to be manscaped (a "QE" term for shaping body hair in the manner of bonsai trees or similar). But every time I look at his ratty Birkenstocks and collection of braided belts and muscle shirts, I dream about the day Carson Kressley will introduce him to the world of sleeves and closed-toed shoes.
As with many women in the suburbs, my obsession with winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes has given way to a new fantasy -- that "Queer Eye" will realize the untapped gold mine of fashion and design emergencies lurking in Middle America.
Then, they could tartly suggest that perhaps a leopard-print beanbag and an enlarged, framed picture of Kujo the Killer Attack Dog aren't items to build a room around, or emphasize that a wet bathing suit and Van Halen T-shirt aren't proper attire for dropping by my office.
Of course, after said husband had been properly dressed, groomed, cultured and certified as nose-hair free, we would go on a fabulous date -- one that didn't involve Slurpees, target shooting or snowmobiling.
Then, over trendy cocktails, the Fab Five would dissect our date while remarking how confident, adorable and well-dressed I am. Sure, I'll know it's scripted, that they say that every time, that it's as boilerplate as the obligatory shots of Kyan's biceps.
But I'll also remember that they convinced my husband to give socks a chance. And a part of me will believe it's true.
This article appeared in the Daily Herald on February 11, 2004 on B1.
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/102403/149/

All Brawn(y), no Brain

Proving they are all brawn, no brain, Georgia-Pacific Corp. has rolled out its new Brawny paper towel package dude, ditching the blonde, mustached Magnum P.I. look-alike for a clean-shaven, dark-haired hunk with brick-like forearms and a crisp flannel shirt.
Come to think of it, he kinda resembles a plastic Ken doll.
According to the Los Angeles Times, folks at Georgia-Pacific spent two years researching what the new face of the line should be, ultimately choosing a guy who looks like he's off to fight forest fires with paper towels.
That misguided researchers would put any man's face on a cleaning product is laughable to me. My husband of four years couldn't locate the paper towels in our house to save his life, let alone explain what the sheet of absorbent paper is traditionally used for. ("For dousing with gasoline and lighting on fire, right?")
If anyone has earned the honor of their mug on a paper towel package, its the obsessive-compulsives among us who delight when, say, Pledge unveils a new scent or offers a line of scouring pads.
To put some woodsy schmoe who needs a good brow wax and is screaming for a "Queer Eye" makeover on the product is, frankly, insulting -- as is the idea that women would make a purchasing decision based on a good set of (tragically covered) pectorals.
What's next, a shirtless hottie promoting feminine hygiene products? Or a Nick Lachey pitching Jimmy Choos?
It's a little too much to absorb ...

- Elyssa Andrus
This article appeared in the Daily Herald on January 21, 2004, on B1
http://www.heraldextra.com/content/view/97601/149/

I'm Sayin' ...

If anyone reads the previous posts and wonders why it's 2008 and I'm referring to a 3-month-old and sounding all pretentious calling Josh Joshua, it's because I copied my feeble attempt at a first blog (on the Daily Herald's Web site) over to this one. Sadly, most of the entries are lost in cyberspace, but I'm glad that I have a few left. I write for a living and don't really have time to write as a hobby, so most anything I post to the site will be either be pictures or reprints from stuff I've had published.

Secret Mom Diets

Posted on 10/19/2005 at 10:32 PM
Oddly enough, I think the nesting instinct set in for me after Joshua was born. I think I was too busy eating everything that couldn't run away from me when I was pregnant (soy sauce and French fries, yummy!) that I didn't really have time to clean. Which could explain why I gained more than 50 pounds. But now all I want to do is scrub my kitchen floor. And all my husband can say is, "What a freak." Another weird thing is that my mad salt cravings that I had during pregnancy have been replaced with this total obsession with sweets. Yesterday, the first thing I ate was a fistful of candy corns. And my morning workout walk most days ends at the BYU Creamery where I've taken to buying chocolate-covered marshmallows. With good health habits like these, that baby weight is going to slide right off.

Sticking it to the Man

Posted on 10/20/2005 at 9:55 PM
Why is it that if I'm more than 15 minutes late to my son's doctor's appointment, I have to reschedule, but the office can make me wait 75 minutes if they please? I understand that there are a bazillion babies in Utah, and I understand that this means you have to wait a bit more at the obstetrician or the pediatrician. But, seriously, making me wait 75 minutes for a five-minute appointment is beyond lame. My only consolation was that mid-way into the wait, Josh started screaming in the waiting room. And I couldn't have been more proud of him for sticking it to The Man.

Baby Genuises Pushing Me Over the Borderline

The other day, a coworker asked me if I was listening to classical music with the baby. I gulped and admitted that Joshua has had more exposure to Jerry Springer than he has to Chopin. I'm not sure if I buy into the theory that you can make your child a baby genuis by speaking in Latin and playing Mozart and reading Suze Orman's financial advice books to him in the womb and during the first few months of life. On the other hand, it couldn't hurt. Except that parents -- moms especially -- seem to be so competitive about their wonderbabies that one almost feels guilty if one hasn't exposed one's child to a sampling of biochemistry, French literature and cubist art by the time baby learns to roll over. I guess I've been so mesmerized watching Josh drool on his fingers (clever child!) that I've forgotten to make vocabulary flash cards.Then again, after the discussion on classical music, I stopped dancing with Josh to Madonna songs long enough to play some Italian opera music. But, knowing myself and how much I would rather listen to Britney than Bach, I'm sure I'll be twirling Josh over the "Borderline" again sooner or later.

The Great Pumpkin Wants Your Candy Now!!!

Posted on 10/18/2005 at 10:51 PM
I love, love, love Halloween, mostly because I love, love, love candy. (Which I think is the reason I had to have six fillings last year alone, at age 27). And having a baby makes Halloween, oh, 10 times more exciting than normal. My son has orange hair, so it's only natural that he be a pumpkin for Halloween. I wanted to buy him a costume -- I don't sew -- but my sweet mom has insisted on "making" him one. Her pumpkin costume basically consists of an orange sack that she may or may not stuff with batting, which she plans to cut arm holes into. I'm not sure if you can make a costume out of a sack, but what do I know about these things? My biggest Halloween dilemma is this: How do I get the candy? I fully intend to take Joshua door to door, but he is only 3 months old. He doesn't have any teeth. He can't carry a sack. He can't say "trick-or-treat." The extent of his talents at this young age are limited to drooling and sucking on his fist. How, then, am I going to convince the nice people holding the candy to fork it over? My only hope is that people will be so distracted by the smiling, slobbering baby wearing a makeshift orange sack that they won't notice that I'm emptying out the candy bucket as fast as my spare hand can let me. And by the time they know what hit them, the Great Baby Pumpkin and I will be stealing off back into the night, a trail of candy wrappers and drool our only giveaway.

The Worst Mother in the World

Posted on 11/22/2005 at 8:49 PM
So I haven't slept in five months which is, like, a big deal for me. It's a secret that moms keep from potential recruits, failing to mention it in the literature that shows smiling mothers cuddled up by their adorable sleeping babies. Other mothers may tell you that labor sucks, that diapers stink, that baby weight is as impossible to ditch as an overzealous ex-boyfriend. But noone mentions the total and utter basketcase you can become when your record for consolidated sleep is stuck at four hours.
Josh is an unbelievably easy baby, so sweet and happy all the time. But he's been on a sleep strike since birth and refuses to negotiate with me on this one minor point.
I've been reading "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child," which several girlfriends have testified about with an almost religous fervor. The suggestions are almost fanatical