Momnesia

Sorry for the absence! Craziness abounds at work, including two computer crashes - by the same computer, which is only two months old, thanks so much for buying a PC, Joe! - and two issues produced back to back. We're a weekly, not a daily, so putting out two issues in the same week makes us actually raise our heads off of our desktops and stop swilling beer for a while. No likey.

So this morning I come in and it looks like the computer of repetitive death has returned. But it sat silently. I hooked everything up and turned it on. Nothing. The green light came on but the screen was blank.

I crawled under the desk again to check the connections. Everything seemed to be where it was supposed to be, thank you for the color-coding and symbols. It seems computers these days are designed by Grrranimals. Anyway, still nothing. Ten minutes later I'm still under my desk, checking connections and blowing imaginary dust out of female receptors.

"It says 'Cable not connected,'" Natalie called, from where she was viewing my ass and my screen at the same time.
"Well, no crap. I just unplugged it. Let me plug it back in."
"It's on!" she said.
"I wasn't getting anything!" I fumed while screwing in the sides of the cable.
"I just pushed the on button," Natalie shrugged.
...
"Oh."

The on button, you say? Huh. Never heard of it.

From a friend-of-a-friend:

I don't know a single soul that hasn't enjoyed a good "Meemaw" yarn from time to time. Whether she will curl up with a big African or ponder the mystery of convex glass and why the fish gets bigger when it gets to the other side of the bowl is anyone's guess. Here is her latest which will eventually appear in that book of quotes I've been working on:

I went to visit mom and dad yesterday and Meemaw comes over. Thankfully, too as dad was watching a violent movie about a magician or some shit with Scott Bakula in it. I think we all know how much I hate that prick. He cheapens film.

At any rate, dad turns on Blue Planet, that National Geographicy type show. There are all these walruses and a polar bear attacking one of them. Meemaw goes "look at that bear playin' with those Wallaces." Yes, Wallaces. The bear is obviously trying to eat Wallace's head and she's still "awww, that bear just wants to play." Uh, he just tore that Wallace's eye out, Meemaw.

Our washer broke. It's only three years old, but although everything on it still works, the basket is all lopsided for some reason. Gasket? Bracket? Something is off. So when calling around, repair techs who haven't even seen the damn thing gave us estimates that averaged around $350. The problem? That's $50 more than the washer costs brand new. Essplain this to me, Lucy?!

It would be cheaper to buy a new washer, strap it to the back of Scott's grandfather's truck, stop by Target on the way home and buy all new underwear than it would be to fix the washer we already have - INCLUDING GAS.

Seriously?! Does nothing last anymore?

Theater fan: What would you say about a person who saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show only once and didn't feel any need to see it again?
Tim Curry: I'd say that was a person who was in full possession of their senses.

"Does anyone here speak Spanish?" my boss called.
"Me!" I raised my hand.

Don't be impressed. It is not so much that I speak Spanish as I am a glutton for punishment. Because when there is a task to be done, and a volunteer to be requested, my arm is all about shooting straight into the air and my mouth is all, "Me! Me!" and my brain is all "Huh? Why did you wake me up?"

Because I did not so much learn Spanish in college as I did take vast notes on how Spanish and the oh-so-enjoyable three years of high school Latin I endured were vastly different. In many ways. Like, I was expected to actually speak Spanish, whereas Latin is not for speaking. It is for reading and for devising stupid things to say, like "Salve, Joe! Crepidas meas per clavos ad solum adfixinte?" ("Hello, Joe! Did you nail my sandals to the floor?!")

So Latin is largely useless, unless you are the Pope. And I am not. I am not even a singing nun from "The Sound of Music," nor do I play one on TV. Basically, I'm what they might call a Hell McNugget.

So, to sum up my explanation so far:
A) Not going to be playing a harp on a cloud any time soon;
B) Don't speak Spanish.
C) Or Latin.

As it turns out, my boss didn't want me to translate something on the piece of paper he was waving around, which I might have been able to with three years of Latin and two years of Spanish under my belt. He was waving a menu. And he wanted me to call and speak to real Mexicans in their native tongue. I just knew we were having dog food for dinner. Here is how the conversation went, translated from Spanish back into a language I actually do speak.

Real Mexican Person: Hello?
Me: Oh, shit. Uh, hello?
RMP (sigh of resignation): Hello.
Me: Ah, good. I call the restaurant of the name of Mi Poblito. I am called Stacey. How are you?
RMP: (silence)
Me: Good. Good... (pause). At what time does the restaurant have openness in the night?
RMP: In the night?
Me: Yes, yes. Very much we are wanting to know what the time is that the restaurant stands open.
RMP: Stands open?
Me: Yes. Stands open. Very much we are wanting the foods from your very, very good restaurant.
RMP: We are not open at night.
(long pause.)
Me: And but to drive close to you and yes open at night past.
RMP: What?!
Me: Please. We very much want the foods. I am gringa, yes. But the foods are very important. To me. And... to the boss. The boss drive close night past and open, yes.
RMP: No. We are not open at night.
Me: I do not understand. The night past open, yes.
RMP: No. No. Not open.
Me: At what time is the foods to sell?
RMP: (long pause followed by something in Spanish)
Me: I am sorry for it. I do not understand. At what time is the foods to sell? Breakfast?
RMP: Breakfast?!
Me: Yes. In the afternoon. Breakfast.
RMP: Oh. Lunch.
Me: Yes! Lunch! Thank you very much. Lunch is the word I want. Is the foods to sell at the lunch?
RMP: Yes.
Me: And at what time is the lunch not the lunch?
RMP: (something in Spanish that might have been a rude comment about my mother.)
Me: I am sorry for it... The lunch is now?
RMP: No. The lunch (something something, and then a long string of something somethings, at which point I realize this is not working)
Me: Oh. Yes. Very good. I am sorry for it. Thank you. I have hope that the day is good to you.
(Click)

I think Natalya would be very disappointed. But at least when I wanted two enchiladas, I didn't order 12 like I did a few years ago. That was confusing. And, as it turns out, the restaurant is open at night. Just not to idiots like me.

Scott hates rap. He sees no redeeming value in it. Well, except Outkast. But I’m always trying to point out that there is a redeeming quality to rap, if you understand the socio-cultural and historical placement. He insists it isn’t music.

Anyway, I continue my efforts while flipping through iTunes. I try the “Knight Rider Remix” from Punjabi DJ. The baseline makes him laugh.



“Here, you might like this one.” I put on Rage Against the Machine’s cover of “Fuck the Police.”
“I’ve never considered Rage Against the Machine to be rap.”
I look at him, incredulous. “What?!“
“Well, first of all, I can understand what the guy’s saying. It’s not misogynistic. It’s not hate-filled.”
“Um, have you ever listened to them?”
“They’re a protest band.”
“A hate-filled one. I mean, honey, they’re called Rage Against the Machine, not Happy Tea Party Against the Machine.”

"There's a Vacation Bible School with the theme: Avalanche Ranch, where we go on a wild ride through God's word."
C.P. snickers.
"And it's the Lutheran Church," I continue. "I don't think it's going to be that wild."
"Oh, it's totally wild," he counters. "Like Jesus' flowing locks."

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott eavesdropping on the board for the Imperial Theatre. Oh, okay. This one I took myself.

"I was in the delivery room, I saw what happened. Anything she wants gets done. She's like, 'Change the diaper,' and I'm like, 'Absolutely, sorry about your vagina.' " -- ADAM SANDLER

George Michael's doppleganger: Metro Spirit publisher Joe White, who lives here in Augusta, Ga. This town is famous for so many other entertainers that it's hard to understand how a talent agency from 1985 hasn't created a time machine just to come to the future, snatch Joe up, and bring him back to the height of George Michael's popularity (sometime post-WHAM, pre-He's-a-bathroom-trolling-Superfreak days). Twice as many metrosexual prima donnas = twice the money from teenage girls drunk off the ink fumes rising from their copies of "Tiger Beat."














Here, look at him like this:















In reality, other than a stylist, they probably have little in common. Except that they're never gonna dance again. Because guilty feet have got no rhythm. Damn careless whispers.

"B.H. asked me if I'd seen the 'downtown' story and I said, 'Yeah, sure, what was it about?' and she said, 'Downtown.'"

If our server had balls, I would totally kick it in them.

I was excited to have dinner with two professors’ families this weekend, because I tend to think of professors’ families like they're all Oscar Wilde - witty, urbane, glittering with intelligence.

This is not true. Some are just nerds with no personalities. I was so bored at the (courtesy edit) that I thought I was going to have to moon someone. If I hadn’t had a great time at (the next professor's house) - which I did - the ass was coming out, I tell you!

A sample conversation from Friday:
Pompous ass 1: “No, the bolt-action rifle had nothing to do with the end of the war!”
Pompous ass 2: “Well, (so-and-so historian) would beg to differ! The North’s manufacturing of the weapon turned the tide of later battles.”
PA1: “But the North already had more soldiers, better equipped and trained! It was just a matter of time.”
PA2: “But the South had better military minds, and the North sustained much greater casualties because of it. The outcome of the war wasn’t certain until the bolt-action rifle was introduced.”
Me: zzzzZZZZZzzzzzzz

Sample conversation from Saturday night (Disclaimer: this professor a church representative. When a congregation has problems, they call her in to mediate. Any former student of hers knows that should strike fear into their souls):

Professor: “So the deacons at this one church, instead of saying, ‘We’re a congregation; let’s act like one, sit down, and discuss this with the pastor,’ instead decided to fire him. He was not in violation of his contract; they were. So now, they have to come up with $186,000 a year more to cover both the former pastor’s salary and the new pastor’s salary. AND, they think the interim minister is only there for 6 months, but we’re not going to let them hire another permanent minister for four years because they don’t know how to behave as a congregation. They just aren’t listening, and we’re expecting them to fire the interim pastor, too.”
Me: “That’s hysterical.”
Jody: “Well, that’s what happened at First Baptist, too. A couple of the really big guys – the ones who donate millions of dollars a year – didn’t like the pastor and got him fired. The deacons actually got into a fistfight over it.”
Dawn: “What?!”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. The police were called and everything. It was in the Chronicle.”
Me: “And now they’re in the same boat as the Presbyterian church?”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. But his salary is even higher than that because the church has 5,000 members.”
Professor: “See, I have no sympathy. No, you can’t hire another minister! You screwed up. Suffer! Suffer! Suffer!”
(laughter)

I am glad I went to both parties, if only to get my pregnant ass out of the house. But if you’re going to have people over for a meal, you shouldn’t beat them into unconsciousness with your boorish personalities. It makes us want to hurt you, like with a bolt-action rifle. Whatever that is.

UPDATE: I am not pregnant. This is a repost of a favorite story. Thus the title: "Repost"

My husband has always been fearless. While it hasn’t always served him well, I regret that I will never have stories that begin with “So, when I was 8, my grandfather decided it was time I learned how to drive,” and “Yeah, I think it was the ‘Kiss My Ass Fridays’ and the phone bill to Japan that got me fired."

Attention Residents of Conyers: You are freaking me out. I don't know who is visiting my blog from C-Town, but I'm sure it's someone I went to high school with. So, hello and thank you. But I have some news for you, which I'm sure you will find quite shocking: I probably didn't like you back then.

But, take heart! It's not your fault! I didn't like anyone back then. I was too busy listening to The Cure and Nine Inch Nails and saving the world by signing petitions against CFCs, eating meat, gun ownership, and urban sprawl. Because if there's one thing that can stop a bulldozer from knocking down an old-growth forest for a new housing development, it's a piece of paper with signatures on it. There's no defense against that, is there? Not, like, a single match, or anything.

Anyway: Reveal Yourself, Fellow Bulldog! Unless you were someone I had a crush on, which you would know by the way I glared at you for four years. I wasn't mad at you. I just refused to wear my glasses.

A.C. is being a smarty-pants.

"I'm going to chuck my tampons at you," I threaten, brandishing a box from my file drawer.
"At least they're not used tampons," she responds.

But later...

"You're in trouble, Miss Editor Pants," she crows.
"Hey, I got a whole box of tampon with your name on it."

"I think I'm going to put butter on my muffin... that sounded kind of obscene."

"Stacey just said she liked her muffin better than everyone in this building," A.C. complained to A.W.
"She said that about the cucumber-wasabi dressing," A.W. replied, unconcerned and unimpressed with me, as usual.
"A.W. remembers everything I say. It's not fair. I can't recycle my jokes around her," I whine.
"Yeah, I'm real sharp like that."

A.C. has given me a low-fat mixed berry muffin. I am kind of scared, but it is like a little piece of yum in my mouth. So I put in a bigger piece.

"This muffin is awesome," I say, spraying crumbs everywhere.
"I know."
"I like this muffin better than anyone in this building."
"What? That's not very nice," A.C. responds. "I can understand everyone else, but me and Alice?"

I have just returned to my desk from the bathroom when E.B. asks a question.
"Whadja do? Whadja do? Whadja do?" she inquires, rapid fire.
"Uhh... I went to the bathroom and took a crap," I reply, perturbed that she would ask.
"I meant on your day off."

Oh.

I am cursing into the phone at the automated telephone system of a certain band I can't stand anyway. And A.C. is horrified.

"Uh-oh, Bad Stacey is back."
"Ahhh! I know! I'm in the worst mood! I could strangle a puppy right now!"

"Hey, Stacey, the ice cream is replenished."

Wait... why are you only telling me?

"I played the clarinet. That was before I decided I was too cool for band and went and worked in the library."

Someone nominated me for Best Humor Blog, Best Entertainment Blog, best Parenting Blog, and Best Blog of All Time! Thanks, whoever! Although I think if they had a category called Random Thoughts From the Head of a Prozac Fiend it might be more appropriate.

Alas, there are so few of us.

In honor of my first "Bloggie" nomination, I'm going to be reposting some of my favorite entries, along with the awards tag so you'll know that I'm recycling stuff on purpose, and not just trying to pull a fast one. But after three years of posts, I could. You wouldn't even know.

I'm discussing the plot of an upcoming play with the director and the actor playing the main character. It's a disturbing play, and I have no intention of seeing it, yet it's definitely powerful theater. The main character has few redeeming qualities, and the actor is enjoying the portrayal, until...

"I just realized that I'm taking advantage of a potato head. I never thought about it that way."

This movie is going to be awesome. I cannot believe someone got funding for this! Weresheep. That's what Willis was talkin' about!

Out of context comments from artist Paul Pearman:

"My momma was like, 'As long as you're not a homosexual."

"There was this French guy..."

"He makes a real good Boudin Blanc. Let him in."

"You are not going to believe this, but I got these people coming to my house from Atlanta."

"People are like: 'I went to high school with that guy. I'm not going to give him $400.'"

"It's like me in a trench coat... but it's all glass."

It comes as no surprise to me that the zombie infestation began in Hollywood. They've been warning us about the possibility for decades.

It has been pointed out to me that I have a friend known as Snarkalufagus. He appears whenever people are not looking, strikes, and then sinks back into the night. It's odd. I never see him, but A.C. chides, "Bad Stacey is back!" And then I look at see that my hair is steaming and my chest is heaving and while many, many people actually enjoy the latter, it is no fun to have people beat me about the head with towels and lightweight Spring jackets. Or, in T.G.'s case, cargo pants. Because he seems to have plenty of extras.

There! Did you see that? Snarkalufagus. A big, lumbering elephantine smartass that tromps on the singing cartoon forest animals that normally bedeck my feet. (sigh) It's the reason my editor looks at me askance during editorial meetings. It's the reason my husband spends a lot of time sitting outside with a book. It's the reason Emerson, at the age of two, has already learned to cock her head to the side, put her hands on her hips, and snap: "Wha - eber."

My mother must be so proud.

We're discussing what to do for the cover image of an upcoming cover story on tribute bands. Everyone thinks that KISS is the band with the most impersonators, but it's actually the Beatles. Which is almost sacreligious, since they're neither comic nor dead. But there you have it. We're tossing around album cover concepts, when Amy wins every brainstorming session ever held: "We could do The White Album."

Yes. Genius.

I just wanted my purse back. It didn't seem like that much to ask. After someone smashed in my back passenger window (the side with Emerson's car seat. Awesome!) and stole it, they had my license, social security card, and other assorted important document-type things that I needed to get on with my life.

But, as fate would have it, the police found it... somewhere. I don't know. They have yet to return my telephone calls, and notified me that I could come and pick it up. That's another lovely story. But I digress. What should have been a 15-minute trip on my lunch break took me an hour-and-a-half to complete. And I didn't even get lunch!

First, I drove around trying to find an unreserved parking place at 401 Walton Way, what locals call "401," which is the combination jail, courthouse and records divisions of the sheriff's dept.

Then, I went through the metal detectors at the door. Keys and change in a basket. Wait in line. Hope no one who gets through the line in front of you steals keys and change. Wait some more. Get through the line. Finally.

Then, I asked directions to where I pick up stolen property from the officer at the other end of that line.

"Who stole yo' stuff?" he shouted. I cringed. I just need to know where to go.
"I - I, uh, well, if I knew that, I'd probably have my stuff back by now," I joked back to him.
"Oh, she told you!" the other officer cackled.
"Awright, awright! Records is upstairs at da end of da hall, ma'am. You be good, now," he said with an appraising stare at my boobs. Cliche of him, but at least people still look you know?
"Thanks, I will."

Upstairs, there is another line at the records department. It moves slowly. At the window, I explain what I need.
"You need that window," the lady points, not unkindly, to the window opposite hers. Oooookay.
I step over to the other window, where there is no line, but the woman is chewing gum and talking on the phone. There are a lot of "honey" and "darlin'"s going on.

When she gets off, I explain what I need. She sends me back to the first window for a case number. They send me back to the other window for an officer's name. Then I go back and get my case number. Then we do the hokey-pokey and turn ourselves about. That is, after all, what it is all about.

Finally, I get the number I need from First Window Lady, and the form I need from Second Window Lady.
"Where do I go now?" I asked SWL.


As it turns out, I get the hell out of her building, and go in search of a completely different building. I get in my car, drive down the street, find the garage, pull into the driveway, and am stopped by a large loud man.
"You can't come in here!" he barks. I wave my paper at him.
"I'm just picking up my purse," I smile broadly. Smiling is good. Smiling makes people happy. Smiling makes other people smile back.

This man is not an other people.
"You have to go over there." He points down the block.
I drive down the block, round the corner, and find the entrance to the fenced-in, razor wire topped parking lot. It is separated from where I need to go by another razor-topped fence.

I walk around the block to get back to the entrance where there are plenty of parking spaces with no cars in them, including mine, because apparently, though these spaces are unmarked, my car is not allowed to play their reindeer games.

The man that is not an other people greets me as though he did not just send to park at the other end of the earth, so far away that I was forced to take a time machine to get back here before they closed for the day.

"Where you goin'?" he demanded. I pulled out my form again. "I'm going - "
"No, you in the wrong place. You gotta go back to records."
"But I just came from records."
"Well, you gotta go back."

(sigh) I turn to leave and then...
"Excuse me, for what?"
He looks at me like I have two heads: "WHAT?"
"I said, what do I need from records?" I asked politely.
He continued to stare at me.
"I have the form, and the case number, and the officer name, and my drivers license. What else might I need from records?" I tried to look innocently confused.
He frowned. "Go on, then."

I walked down the row of heavy garage doors to a metal office door and pressed the buzzer.
"Yeah?" a woman's voice said.
"I'm here to pick up my purse."
"Come on in," she said as the lock clanked open.


I approached the evidence window and pulled out my paperwork.
"Hi, I'm here to pick up my purse. The police found it."
She looked at the paperwork and typed into her computer. No luck. After a few minutes searching, she found my name under a different case number and up popped the purse.

"Here we go," she said. And plopped the purse down on the counter behind the window.
We looked at each other in silence. She made no move to hand me my purse, not that it would have fit through the tiny document window opening that separated us.
"Uh.... is there a pickup fee?" I asked.
"No, ma'am. Can I see your ID?"
We played document exchange and I joked that she could have just looked inside the purse for my ID. She grinned. I thanked her for her office's time. And then we looked at each other for another long moment.
...
...
"Is there something else I need to provide? Some other document?" I asked, uncertain.
"No."
"So... is that it? Do I get my purse back?" I ask, really confused as to why we were standing there. Again.
"No, but I can't just let you back here to get it," she said, indignant.
I thought about it. I hadn't considered that I might be a safety risk.
"Well, I don't think it will fit through the window," I said, looking for a way to get the purse out of the office. She rolled her eyes and fumbled at the door lock.
"Oh, just come on in," she said grumpily.

And 90 minutes after I parked my car, my quest was complete. The windmills did not defeat me, yet I did not slay the dragon. I'll leave that up to government reformers.

So the title of this upcoming movie may not scare everybody. But it scares the crap out of me. I hate bugs. But despite its rather unassuming name, this film is not a cheap horror flick in the vein of "Saw" or "Species."

But this bug movie is scary in its own way, directed, as it is, by "The Exorcist's," William Friedkin. The bug movie is actually an adaptation of a play by Tracy Letts, an off-Broadway play called "The Barrow Street Bug" that was a hit. The play had crappy production values, but the exploration of trailer trash paranoia caught the eye of the New York Times. The grey lady called it "the season's wildest ride," and the New Yorker said it was the best play in town.

So maybe newspaper reviews aren't your thing. But despite her penchant for choosing some really awful early Julia Roberts-type fare - "Double Jeopardy," "Eye of the Beholder," "Someone Like You" - Ashley Judd is a strong actress, as proven by "De-Lovely," "Frida," and her earlist film, "Ruby in Paradise."

Click here to watch the bug movie's trailer.


Claustrophobia is one of its most essential elements. But the bug movie is all about the taking over of Agnes' (Judd) frail mental world. It looks powerful and frightening.

And so do the posters:







See how the posters could fool someone into thinking that this is a straight horror film? That would be like saying "Naked Lunch" is about a typewriter. Bug movie is about process, and the process is Peter's taking over of Agnes' fragile mental and physical world. Friedkin's method of filming always gives his subject matter a hallucinatory edge. I'm dying to see how the difference between stage and screen play out.

Incidentally, I also like the design of both posters. The top one is spidery and dark, almost Edwardian in its feel. It suggests the horror within, as opposed to an external horror. The bottom one is watery and suggests a certain fluidity of personality. I like both. The top tells the story of a dark internal path, and the bottom tells the story of the malleability of the human mind once it is weakened. That's more disturbing to me than any real bug can ever be.

This quiz on msnbc.com troubles me on several different levels. I'm not interested in the debate on abortion. That is not why I posted this. So shut up before you even start.

My problem is with the wording of the question. First, I didn't get a chance to watch the debate, because Grey's Anatomy had a two-hour special. I'm sorry, but John McCain's "Hey! I'm still alive! Vote for me, okay? It's my freaking turn!" act can't compare with that Meredith chick finally getting the slap across the face that she has so long deserved.

So, my point, is that I don't know if this was the exact wording of the question posed to the candidates, or if this was simply the wording MSNBC used when they composed this quiz. But the wording, by whomever, shows (in my opinion) one of the problems with the debate about abortion.

First, it doesn't matter which one of the candidates would call for repeal of Roe v. Wade. It was a Supreme Court decision, and not a law. Only laws passed by the legislature can be repealed. It cannot be overturned by a higher court, so it cannot be appealed either. The only thing that can happen is that the Supreme Court could reverse its decision in a future ruling. It hasn't happened, but it's not as though it couldn't. I think Giuliani said he wouldn't call for repeal because, as a former U.S. Attorney, he understood this. As talking chimpanzees, most other politicians do not.

Second, the Roe v. Wade decision did not legalize abortion nationwide. It said, simply, that it was not the place of the federal government to legislate on this issue. It left the decision up to the states. Most people cite Justice Sandra Day O'Conner's insistence that the question of abortion's legality is one of an issue of privacy covered by the Fourth Amendment. But that opinion has long been debated. What has not been as hotly debated - probably because it's less politically expedient - is whether or not the issue does or does not fall under the parameters of federal authority.

My point - and I do have one - is that the question is loaded. Whether it was asked of the candidates with this particular phrasing, or whether it was written in this way by MSNBC when posting this quiz, it exemplifies how easily the zeitgeist (thanks, A.W.!) can be corrupted by political speechifying. And that's an insult to Americans who can understand these issues when media whores aren't jockeying for camera time and sound bites with their facile understanding of the issues at hand.

Every time Emerson comes in close contact with some dangerous object at her day care, like, say, marshmallows, they have to write me an accident/incident report and, of course, I freak out. Really, I think they have some desire to watch a parent have an actual heart attack right in front of them.

Sometimes it's something serious, like the time little Amare hit Emmie in the face with a plastic truck and gave her a black eye. But Friday, when I picked her up, there was yet another report in her cubbie, and not a scratch on her. "Uh-oh," I thought. "Emmie's finally fighting back."

"What did you do?" I asked her. She looked up at me worriedly.

As it turns out, she fell down. That's all. She was running on the playground and fell down, hitting her lip on a ride-on toy. There was nothing wrong with her, but the report says that the day care gave her an ice pack and T.L.C.

A section on the form asks what steps are taken to prevent re-occurrence of similar accidents. What can they do? Ban running? Gravity? Lips?

I'm not looking to get rich off this blog, but I am looking to make enough money over the course of six months to pay to take two underprivileged children to Disney World in October. They are sweet boys. To do that, I registered with Google AdSense, among others. But it seems that the good robots at Google reject such topics as the one I previously posted. Well, I only have one thing to say to you, Google Ad Sense Keyword Crawler Thing-a-Ma-Bob:

Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Anna Nicole Smith, Earth Day, Blue Angels, Katie Price, Jessica Lynch, Skybus, Pokemon Diamond, Coachella, Mike Penner, New Planet, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Christmas, Halloween, bargain shopping, Burning Man, Disney, American Idol, Spider-Man 3, NBA, WWE, Hi-5, Avril Lavigne, Beyonce Knowles, Limewire, Lindsay Lohan, Kentucky Derby, Lost, Naruto, Runescape, Grey's Anatomy, Angelina Jolie, T-Pain, Spider-Man, Tina Fey, Pamela Beach, Roy Pearson, Queen Elizabeth II, Katie Leung, David Hasselhoff, Lauren Graham, Menu Foods, Politico.com, Patrick Dempsey, Republican Debate, Charm Bracelets, Dubai Map, Sean Connery, Jack the Ripper, Bette Midler, The View, and Alexis Bidel.

So there.

I've been told that God hates fags. And, apparently, in much the same way as Santa Clause, he's making a list and checking it twice. Particularly if you play the devil's rock music. According to LoveGodsWay.org, which has a video called "God Hates Fags," (how charming) there are certain bands and musical artists who promote homosexuality. Like Barry Manilow. And Wilson Phillips. And Frank Sinatra. Pinko commie gay bastards all.

But Evanescence, Cheap Trick and Sufjan Stevens are all "safe," as are the Dresden Dolls, Blondie and Cyndi Lauper. Clearly their logic is unassailable.

A complete list of gay bands can be found here. The site lists such things because: "The bottom line - you shouldn't be gay!" But they're still tolerant of a Cheap Trick song called "The Flame."

To paraphrase by blog-buddy Stak: Rock it like Jesus loves you more!

It is Day Five of Cookie Watch '07, and the dough has not moved yet. It seems that Sharon is conducting a cruel experiment on her coworkers. This was the scene on Saturday:



And the line inside:



These tortured souls, drawn by the scent of all that cookie goodness.

During what was probably the best First Friday Augusta has ever had - congrats and thanks to the Greater Augusta Arts Council and poop on the Downtown Development Authority - Emerson and I had a great time just walking around the street festival listening to the musicians, watching people, and talking to acquaintances.

Many vendors had just pulled up their cars, vans or handcarts onto the sidewalk or the green spaces and hawked their wares from their trunks or hatchbacks. The free market economy at work. Most everything they sold had James Brown emblazoned across the merchandise, since it was the city's first birthday celebration since his passing in December. Of course, they were all misappropriating his image, so maybe not the free market economy at work. Maybe trademark and copyright infringement at work. But anyway.

As Emmie and I tromped back down Broad Street toward the car - it was very close to her bedtime - one of the enterprising young ladies with a minivan full of merchandise stopped us. "Here," she said, rather unceremoniously. "I'm giving these away to children today." From the white cloth shone the silkscreened face of the Godfather of Soul. "I'm Real," the caption said.

"Thank you very much," I replied, feigning delight. I didn't want to accept it, because - okay, well it was ugly. But Emerson snatched it out of the lady's hands with a "dankoo" and we went on our way. It was a pair of panties. Size XL. Tweety Bird on the front, James Brown on the back. Free panties. From a person we didn't know. On the street. I started to toss them in the nearest garbage can, but...

"PANNEEEEES!" Emerson shrieked with excitement. "Panneees!" She waved them at me. "Emmie panneees!" She laughed and jumped like someone has just told her we'd be moving into a house made entirely of cookies, cake and candy, and that we'd have to eat our way out for $1 million. I let it go. They were clearly hers.

"Panneees!" she ran in a little circle. She's lagging a little behind in her potty training at day care, so some other little girls wear Dora the Explorer panties or other such underclothes made entirely of rainbows and the woven hairs of faerie princesses. Faerie ballerina princesses. Emerson desperately wants to wear panties. She steals mine and puts them on, pulling them up to her armpits and waddling around the house, pointing to the lace. "Fwowers!"

But right now she is waving the panties frantically at me. "Panneees!" she crowed. "Pannees!"
"Yeah, pannees!" I reflected back to her. "Very nice!"
"Puh on." she insisted.
"Okay," I said. "You can put them on."
"Ahhhhhhh!" she scream-laughed, and ran a little circle. "Emmie puh on pannees!"
"Well, go ahead."
And she stopped and pulled them into place.
On her head.

A local media personality picked her daughter up from a sleepover recently, and got some disturbing news. Apparently, after they thought the children had gone to bed, the chaperoning set of parents had enjoyed some time in their hot tub.
"They were doing it," this woman's daughter said, obviously scandalized in her pre-teen years.
"What do you mean?" her mother asked, prepared to have "The Talk" if necessary.
"Well, they were naked in the hot tub. That means they were doing it, right?"
"Maybe," her mother answered. Her daughter looked up at her in adorable prepubescent adoration.
"Mom, please tell me that you and Daddy don't do that," she begged. Her mom didn't miss a beat.
"No, sweetie. We don't have a hot tub."

Anyone who knows me understands what a bargain hunter I am. I know every thrift shop west of Atlanta, and - except for lunch, for which I never seem to plan - spend as little of my own money on things as I can. I'm a member of every points club that will have - faulty as their judgment may be - and have been collecting favors from surveys for two years now.

So I like to let people know when I come across something that is good for saving money, or getting free samples, or whatever. And Bid4Prizes is giving away some coveted electronics - an Apple iPhone?! Flat Screen TV?! A Nintendo Wii?! Gah! I want them all like crazy! - through a unique program. The LOWEST UNIQUE bidder actually wins the auction.

That means the lowest amount of money that only one person bids is the winner. But they don't actually pay the money. They just win the prize. I know, it sounds a little odd, but a short video on the site explains the process. Frankly, all I see is an free iPod on my future. And maybe a Wii. Don't ask me why I want a Wii so badly. I just do! I want to shoot bunnies with toilet plungers! It's an illness!

But I think that a site like Bid4Prizes might be the cure. I'd love to be able to win something really great, that I totally don't need, like the BMW that's up for auction, and then donate it to the Garden City Rescue Mission. They need so much, and an additional vehicle could go a long way for them.

Or maybe I'll just keep the Beamer and give them my old Dodge! HA!

I tell you what: I'll let you know when I win!

Everyone who works in an office knows the horrors of the refrigerator. This is no match for it.


Usually, someone on staff takes it upon themselves to clean out the fridge. It usually seems to be me, but I can't take all the credit. Sometimes I send threatening e-mails to the rest of the staff, reminding them at Ebola is a horrific way to die and I'm pretty sure you can catch it from items like THIS:



But some things aren't as obvious, like this entree that has been in the refrigerator - the old one, too - for as long as I've worked here:

And yet, sometimes the things that we WOULD eat are far more revealing, such as this tower of Lean Cuisine frozen meals. Talk about irony. It's topped off with a giant tub of cookie dough. :



Beverages, too, can tell their own stories. Someone here has been pulling a Goldilocks, and Mama Bear is pissed:

Can you see Scott's sunglasses? They have red flames running down the sides. Next he'll be sticking one of those "3" stickers on our car, wearing "wife beaters," and saying things like "Hoooo-DADDY!" and "Aahhhhhh-yep."