Elisa's Journal

Okay, so there's usually no shortage of news in our family. Usually news that involves chaos, conflagrations, and catastrophes (like my alliteration?) But this tidbit of news made my jaw go slack and my heart screech to a (temporary) halt. My 21-year old daughter and her fiancé are having their first child...my grandbaby. I'm scared for her because I can hardly see her living in the real world without my constant direction and support, but then I'm also excited. My last two desktop wallpapers have been her ultrasound photos at 5 weeks and then 6 weeks. I worry constantly that she doesn't eat enough because she's stick thin, but my fears were realized with just one glance in her refrigerator. It was echoing-down-a-deep-well empty. Cobweb empty. Lonely empty. I heard crickets chirruping around a lone pack of Sweet 'n Low shrouded in a blanket of dust. So, like a woman with a momentous purpose, I sped to Kroger’s, bought $300 bucks worth of health foods and loaded her Honda with the goods for her to take home. Naturally we don't know whether the baby will be a boy or a girl, but Michelle hopes it's a boy. She lives in fear that she'll give birth to someone that is as wild and gray-hair-inducing as she was. Let's hope Karma doesn't rear its ugly head. I guess that's a mom's ultimate revenge...for their child to grow up to parent a difficult child of their own. Whatever she ends up with, I look forward to spoiling it rotten and, at the end of the day, handing it back to Michelle with a smug look that reads "ha, good luck with that, sucka."

Posted by elisa at 12:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Please tell me it's not just my kids who do these things. Why the hell do they cut open packages and leave the package tops in the drawer with the scissors? Why do they fail to load their dirty dishes in the sink, thinking some obsessive compulsive dish fairy is going to swoop down and do that job for them? And that anal little fairy is getting pissed because there have been a flurry of oatmeal encrusted bowls which require him/her to bring out his magical jack hammer. Why do they take their stinky sneakers off in the middle of the foyer or den when they come home from school rather than put them away where they belong? Don't they understand kharma? They could trip over those shoes, fracture both tibias in 37 different places so that they don't need shoes in the first place. Why do they leave the milk out instead of putting it back in the fridge? They never do that with soft drinks and gatorade. Why do kids (and husbands) use the "soaking technique" when it's their turn to wash the dinner dishes? Don't they know how transparent they are? It doesn't take a genius to see this ploy as a desperate hope or a game of chicken which will lead to (who else) me doing them at 11:30 at night. (Actually, that would be me in a perfect world, but June Cleaver I ain't. They can soak until the designs wear off or the cows come home, which ever comes first.) Placate my frustration. Send me your own personal peeves.

Posted by elisa at 10:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Venus and Serena, look out! I've started playing tennis again after recovering from tennis elbow surgery and all I can say is...wow. I'm hitting better than I ever have in my life! And no, the doctor didn't implant some super-bionic device to ensure smokers and aces. Hell, I'd save that procedure for my brain, not an appendage! I think...no, I KNOW my improvement is a result of the Interactive Metronome sessions I've done. My inner timer is so precise, I'm waiting any minute (or millisecond) for a call from those nice folks at Greenwich asking me to be the timing standard for their atomic clock. So if you want your game, whatever it is, to reach the next level, try a 15 session course of IM. But if you do, don't challenge me to a game. My baseline was probably a lot worse than yours.

Posted by elisa at 12:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)