Author Archives: Elisabeth Crisp / @crisplyspoken

Count Gracula

Count Gracula - 12I haven’t seen the goldfish for weeks. I’m not sure they’re still alive. Maybe they’re in hiding, butterfly finned refugees at the bottom of the 50 gallon stock tank, quivering in fear over dark henchmen. Grackles. Hideous black crows, who sound like they’re hocking up a loogie when they sing.Count Gracula - 07

They’ve taken over the goldfish pond, destroyed the water lilies, and chased off the mourning doves and cardinals. Even the territorial mockingbirds avoid our yard. I can almost hear the goldfinch’s whistle, “There goes the neighborhood.”

Short of firing a cannon, I can’t get rid of them. Although, my Miniature Schnauzer has made it her mission to try.Count Gracula - 09

Bacon opens the back door and yells,  “Go get ‘em, Jazzy.” She darts across the yard, barking like an under-fed Doberman. The nasty creatures swoosh up. The pup cocks her head in remembrance. “Oh yeah, they have wings.” They stay away just long enough for Jazz to amble to the patio door. Then they’re back—hocking, spitting, and pooping all over the lily pads—pecking away at the blossoms.

Maybe, grackles are dinosaur birds that, along with South Texas cockroaches, survived the ice age. Or maybe, they’re undead like vampires. Count Gracula.

My water lilies before the invasion.

My water lilies before the invasion.

Goth Home Improvement

This short film is too cute not to share.

Last Day of Submersion/First Day of School

firstday2014Since May 1, I’ve been completely submerged in my kids. Swim team, orchestra camp, hanging out at home, camping in the Rockies. I could say they’ve swallowed me whole, but that wouldn’t be fair. I’ve enjoyed it too much to whine.

School started on Monday, and now, I need to let go. How? I’ve never been good at switching gears. I have this attention span that locks onto whatever-it-is like a tractor beam. So, I have issues. I know it’s best for them to navigate the day without me. I don’t want to be that mom. I know her. She isn’t pretty, and the other moms hate her guts. Her kids run away to college and never come home. Or. They never leave, and we have failure to launch.

So for everyone’s sake, I’m wading back into blogging, trying to slip on my floaties before the bottom gives way, and I’m sinking into the deep end of the pool. Be kind. No splashing, please.

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