Elisa's Journal

The last couple of nights I've had some weird things happen while I sleep. Maybe it's menopause. I've been going through that for the last 25 years. Basically, when I'm just about to conk off, that voice inside my head goes crazy. It talks about laundry soap, grocery lists, the tooth fairy, spiders, tea sets, iPhoto Libraries (Rune deleted ours accidently), trash cans, and other trivial stuff I couldn't care a rat's ass for. All night long, yak, yak, yak, like oral diarrhea. This morning I woke up to discover that my inner voice was suffering from a bad case of laryngitis. Unfortunately, I can't give it voice rest because it's still sprinting in all directions. Shit! Why can't I think of things like a cure for the common cold, a solution for world terror or famine, or the next billion dollar invention. I mean, Cascade Complete, really!

On a more solemn note. I discovered that two of my kids (maybe three) have Aspergers (which, to their chagrin is kinda pronounced "ass boogers") but a very mild form. I'm learning that many greats had this condition, including Thomas Jefferson, Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Mozart, Madame Curie, and others. Even Bill Gates is suspect. That said, I think in these milder cases it's just a different way of thinking that , if channeled properly, can lead to great achievements. All I can say is I better see some straight A report cards this week or their asses are going to be in a booger of trouble. (Just kidding. I don't care about grades and even think they should be banned. Defense mechanisms, ya know. Gotta have 'em).

Posted by elisa at 08:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, I've come up with a brand new indicator for how much fun you've had on a weekend--the Newtons of force you have to apply to a crowbar to peel you body and that of other family members out of bed. The force our family had to use was considerable. You see, with went wakeboarding (and tubing and wake skating) on our neighbors new kick ass Nautique boat all day yesterday. We had the whole damn lake to ourselves (probably due to an all points bulletin that Elisa Medhus would be trying a new athletic endeavor within the confines of Montgomery County.) The sun was shining but the breeze made it less brutal. Naturally, I waited until nearly everyone else had tried the wakeboard so I could learn all the skills that I would fail to remember under the duress of panic. The Vazquez family was awesome. Jean-Claude Killeys of the watery world. My 11 year old, Annika, got up without much problems. Lukas didn't even wanna go there. He was content honking the horn, taking lake samples in empty Dr Pepper bottles, and making a nuisance of himself in general. Then came my turn. Okay, first of all, laying on your back in 30 feet of gar infested water with a large piece of plywood strapped semi-permanently to your feet to be used as a potential battering ram against various vulnerable body parts in the midst of a face plank seemed, well, awkward. One of those moments when I wonder what aliens would think of our crazy ass race if they were to observe me in that position. Hesitantly, I gave the thumbs up signal that gives the driver the go ahead to deliver a simultaneous full colonic enema and douche. I heard the roar of the engines which could only portend my certain humiliation. Then came the wall of water. How the heck was I supposed to slide my 50 year old butt across that and stand up? I dunno, it actually happened. Maybe once certain internal body cavities fill up, the weight and balance and bouyancy all reach a critical number. Suddenly, I was upright, the wind blowing in my hair, the lake water draining from my lower intestine, and a smile of false confidence on my face. It didn't last long. I was a flurry of body parts cartwheeling across the water's surface within seconds. Next attempt was better. And the third time I actually touched the wake with one hand like I knew what I was doing. The lake reminded me otherwise. Anyway, I digress. The point is, we were all moaning in our beds come morning, reckoning with stiffness and pain in muscles we didn't even realize we had. It hurt so good, I can't wait to do it again!

Posted by elisa at 09:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

At some point in their lives, ya gotta break the news to your kids that, no, there is no tooth fairy, Easter bunny, or Santa Claus. I drag my feet as long as possible, telling little white lies or at the very least, evading the truth. It's just fun to prolong their innocence and excitement. Course it can all backfire if the main topic of conversation during their first dates includes things like "What did the Easter Bunny bring you this year?" "Are you putting your tooth fairy money in a roll over account?" or "I wonder what kind of retirement benefits Santa gets?" Incidents like this can lead to emotional scars that only decades of therapy and grandkid babysitting can make up for. So when Annika, who is almost 11 now, asked me (for the jillionth time) to tell her the truth about the tooth fairy, I decided to come clean. "Ya really wanna know?" "Yes," she says, solemnly. " I really don't care as long as I keep getting paid." So I told her that no, there was no tooth fairy to which she replied curtly and with widened eyes, "Oh....okay." She went on to ask about the Sand Man and the Easter Bunny, prefacing her question with assurances that she hadn't believed in those two for a long time because the thought of some freak sprinkling sand in her eyes at night and some mutant rabbit delivering chocolate to her bedside while she was snoring was just plain creepy...even pedophilic. So I confirmed her suspicions that these were just fictitious creatures designed as parental manipulation devices. When she asked about Santa, there was a look in her eyes that told me she wasn't ready to give him up so I replied, "Santa? Of course he exists, whaddya think?" I just neglected to divulge Santa's true identity--her father. Later that day, she seemed a little down. I asked her what the matter was and she told me she was disappointed about the tooth fairy not being real and she wasn't really ready to know otherwise. Not ready to give up her innocence, I guess. I was sad when she lost another tooth this week and didn't even bother to put it under her pillow. My last baby is growing up. Pretty soon, they'll be no fictitious creeps in our house...not until the grandkids come and we can assault them with a flurry of delusions that warp their malleable little minds, plunging them into a state of confusion so deep, it'll take a team of myth debunking mind spelunkers and veteran psychoanalysts to salvage their sanity.

Posted by elisa at 10:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ya know, I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up. Sad statement considering I'm 50 years old. But seriously, I wonder how many women find themselves clueless about who they are after their kids grow up. Hell, I don't even remember who I was before kids. That first diaper change transformed my life (and my olfactory sensibilities) forever. Being a "fixer" motherhood was perfect for me. I like fixing problems whether they're diagnostic dilemmas or door-slamming teens. But now my kids are older and most of the kinks have been ironed out. So what do I do with myself from 8:00 to 3:00 before that hair-raising homework time threatens to fray my last nerve? Crossword puzzles are a possibility. At least Monday through Wednesday. The rest of the week they just make me feel like a moron on serious drugs. I could take up the guitar. Maybe start a rock band made up of 50 year old women like me. What about "Gray Day" for a name. "Old Play?" I'll have to work on that. I could take up painting or drawing. I could go back to work. I could hang with my friends more. I could get into shape, a if I stood a chance against any of Newton's laws. I could volunteer. I could convert the home VHS movies to DVD. Or maybe I'll just remain in suspended animation until the grandkids come along. I'm sure they'll need plenty of fixing. I draw the line, however, on cleaning out closets and drawers. Lint, geckos, and broken crayons only find their way back in a matter of hours.

Posted by elisa at 08:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I really feel like I should do more to help our Cajun neighbors...more than just sending money. I was thinking about volunteering at the Astrodome, but Macy Gray, Oprah and Jesse Jackson has that covered. Then I thought about going to that site, "shareyourhome.org," so that a couple of people could live under our roof, but I wondered if you can pick who you want? I mean, I fail to see the sanity of welcoming an ex-sex offender crack addict into our home. Plus, with all the chaos in my family, any sane human being would scramble back to the toxic, corpse-strewn (I never thought I'd use that adjective) flood waters within the first seven minutes. Besides, Rune shot that idea down in his usual dramatic, tinged with a smidge of panic flair. Oh well, maybe I'll go by and drop off a nice bundt cake. If I have the box mix in my pantry. No seriously, I wnat to volunteer my doctor services next week.

As for the looters, I'd be happy to volunteer my executionary skills any time. How people could possibly excuse their heinous, opportunistic acts is beyond me. "Oh, they can't help it. They're going through traumatic times." Bull shit. Fine, take the water, Twinkies, Pepsi, and Pringles, but how the crap is a flat screen plasma TV going to save their ass? Do they plan on using it as a raft? Besides, I've been watching TV lately and it's only Katrina this and Katrina that. Won't they be disappointed to discover a paucity of cock fighting events and other mindless shows. I say if anyone is carrying non staple items out of a store, shoot first and ask questions later.

Annika got a kitten for ther birthday. The good news is it was the cheapest present we've ever had to buy, being an SPCA cat and all. 65 smackers is hard to beat. The bad news is, it'll probably end up being the most expensive present we've ever bought. Just yesterday my maternal instincts sent me packing to Petco to buy all sorts of toys, treats, state of the art litter scoops, etc. She's a sweet cat. I don't want to know her name because Annika seems to change it by the minute. No sense getting too attached. We've introduced her to the three dogs. She swiped them all iwth her claw extended paws, so all but Zoe is scared to death of her. Brings new meaning to the term "Pussy-whipped." Penny and Peanut whimper and give her wide berth when they need to pass her. Zoe, being the biggest of our dogs, was a different story. Imagine the kitty's point of view--here comes this furry bag of teeth and slobber like a Peterbllt on steroids--in your face. Whaddya do? You puff up to three times your normal size and hiss and spit and brandish your claws at lightening speed, that's what you do. Zoe didn't seem to mind the bloody nose, but the cat still has problems going downstairs. Plus, she shit all over the floor in the process. Might have been pee. Whatever it was it stunk to high heaven. Shit and all, she's still adorable.

Posted by elisa at 10:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)