Momnesia

I had an AWESOME time hanging out with Amber, Kerri (What up Free Times!) and our kids today. Swimming, snacking, chatting and laughing... it was a perfect afternoon. The kids were fantastic, with only one minor disagreement among the two younger ones, and only one accidental injury to the youngest of all. And also? I beat some Wii butt. Who knew I could box like a pro? If, you know, pros were happily overweight middle-aged ladies swinging wildly in someone's living room.

But something I learned about myself: I am a bad example to my child.

While playing Candyland (hello, with the kids! It wasn't competitive Candyland or anything!) I jokingly knocked Amber's piece aside with my own while passing her on the multicolored brick road. When Emmie's turn came around again, her little red gingerbread person rampaged through Candyland like Sherman through Atlanta.

After their laughter died down, Amber, Ann and Madeleine all glared at me, three identical expressions on three very similar faces.

"Okay, I'm sorry!" I said, and tried to explain to Emerson why she shouldn't do that: "Mommy was being a bad girl and I won't do it again. Let's play nicely."

So when my turn came back around, I hopped the little blue piece happily down lollipop lane, pretending it asked "Excuse me!" every time it came to and passed another piece. The ladies grinned their approval and Emmie clapped: "Mommy be a good girl!"

Problem solved - or so I thought. As it turns out, Emmie is motivated more by laughter than heaps of Pollyanna praise. She scrambled the board again, laughing madly when her turn came.

The game went back in the box. And I went down in the legal pads of their mind under the column: Do Not Invite Back.

Emmie prepping for the Candyland final beatdown:

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott's great-grandfather, Paw Paw, had dementia - it wasn't Alzheimer's - that caused him to live somewhere between the past and the present. Scott, not yet in his teens, would hang out with him on the front porch of the old house in Lincolnton. They'd be sitting in rockers and Paw Paw very suddenly would stop rocking and strike up a conversation with someone who wasn't there.

"Hi, how're you?" he'd call, as though someone neighborly was passing by the house.

"Oh, fine fine fine," he nod in response to their nonexistent question. "Weather's good, can't complain."

"Well, it's nice to see you," he call and wave as, in his mind, they walked on.

Then he'd lean over to Scott, then 10 years old, and say something like, "She's f-ing Fred."

His great-grandmother Lillian would stick her head out on the porch and hiss, "Stifle it, Fletcher!" And he'd quiet down... for a while.

But Fletcher had a mind of his own - even as cloudy as it had become.

"Shit Fire! Goddammit Goddammit Goddammit!"

"What's the matter, Paw Paw?" Scott asked, his pre-teen feet swinging just out of reach from the porch floorboards.

"I f-ing lost a nickel!"

"A nickel!" Scott laughs, as he remembers 25 years later. "I'll never forget that."

Childhood is a collection of firsts. First day. First diaper change. First bath. First week without sleep. First cold. First tooth. First crawl. First step. First word. First return to a regular sleeping schedule.

Aside: After writing the word "first" so much, it began to seem like an alien word. I had to go and check the spelling. Anyone ever have one of those moments? Anyway...

In the last 24 hours, Emerson has had TWO firsts:

• First cracking an egg without making a mess or mixing in bits of the shell
• First microwaving her own meal

Oh, yeah! We are a big girl now!

Emmie has always liked to "help" cook (read: hinder and destroy the kitchen in the process of hindering), but last night she cracked two eggs into a bowl by herself and then stirred them up and microwaved them. I cut the cheese (hee!) to melt into the mixture. "Because we not tush da dangerous," she said, of the knife I used.

And just now, she went and got her leftovers out of the refrigerator, stuck them in the microwave, turned the knob to 20, and heated up her own lunch for the first time. I didn't even flinch when she shrieked, "I DO MYSELF!"

"Okay," I shrugged, and retreated to peek at her from around the corner. I didn't want her blowing up the joint by sticking a fork in the microwave (ahem... Penny...).

Then she sat down at the coffee table. "I sit by you, Mama, 'cause I'm a big girl," she informed me, as she sat primly down beside me. "Da table is for little babies."

I looked over at the Little Tykes table that my parents bought for her and thought of the first day she had used it. She was just out of her high chair, and they were so happy to give it to her. She thought she was a big girl then, too.

I thought I was a big girl when I turned 13. And again when I graduated high school. And again when I went to college, got my first real job, got married, got pregnant and had her.

But every day I'm constantly reminded of how little I know, how far I have to mature. Every moment of parental discipline is a series of choices as to whether I fall into the knee-jerk "because I said so, that's why we don't jump on the couch" route, or the more refined "because I would like to prevent you from falling off on your head and hurting yourself" direction. I sometimes meet myself halfway with something like "because I would like to prevent you from falling on your head," and then follow with some muttering about, "so you won't be drooling on the short bus" that she can't hear.

Serenity in the face of danger. Immaturity behind its back. That's how I roll.

She stood so tall today. So proud of her accomplishments over the last couple of days. Two days of dry diapers. Two meals prepared "BY MYSELF!" Three - almost four - years of life already behind her. For the first time, she was able to look back at herself and see her own accomplishments for what they were: growth.

As for me, for the first time I was faced with a real move toward independence by the utterly helpless little 7 pound pink-faced closed-eyed hairless monkey that graced our lives. She's spent 9 months + 3 years clinging to me for everything. Today, she took her first real step away.

And for the first time, my pride in her was tinged with sadness. I'll enjoy watching her grow up. But she'll need me less and less from now on.

Emmie's class has started the dreaded Show and Tell. She's only three, and quite the accomplished public speaker already. I asked her what she wanted to bring, and she said, "uhhh... Pop Rocks!" So off to the candy store it was.

I asked her to tell me what she would say at Show and Tell. She hopped off the couch, grabbed a package of Pop Rocks, and ran proudly to the other side of the coffee table.

She held up the package of Pop Rocks for everybody (me) to see.

"Diss a Pop Rocks. Iss cannee. Iss berry sweet and good and go in my tummy. Dis a pink Pop Rocks. [giggle] I lub pink! Iss my favorite! An... uh... you EAT da Pop Rocks. An dey go popopopoppopopopop! In my mouf. Dee end."

Perfect.

Thanks to everybody (Mom) who nominated me for the Blogger's Choice Awards, and for Metro's Best. I'll admit I've been a little slack when it comes to decent blog posts recently, so I appreciate the love even more. Absence must make the heart grow fonder.


Unfortunately, the Metro Spirit took the Web Personal Web Page/Blog out of the Metro's Best competition (the only one I have a chance of winning, yo) due to a number of entries that fell much below the average. Eh. Maybe next year.

I called my husband from my car this morning and got his voice mail. Seconds after I hung up, my cell rang.

"Hi, sweetheart!" I chirped.
(silence)
"Hello?" I asked.
"Uhh... is this Stacey?" a man's voice asked.
I burst into laughter: "I thought you were my husband!"
He laughed: "No, this is Daniel from Weirhouse. But now I feel all warm and fuzzy."

That ice breaker was much more effective than, "Hi, how are you?" I'll have to remember it.

Sometimes we manage to get creative at work and prank employees who are taking their vacations. We took former publisher Joe White's desk entirely apart and hid all the components in the back. When he came back he had to put the whole thing back together. I think there was a bubble wrap incident once, too, but that was before I got there.

These cube dwellers pulled the most creative prank I've ever seen. Someone give them some work to do:

We were talking about something that excited Scott the other day.

"Man, I am so jizzed about it!" he called to me while I was in the kitchen.

Startled, I peered around the corner at him in the living room: "Uh... honey, I think you mean jazzed," I said.

He cocked his head at me. "What does jizzed mean?"

"Not what you think," I gritted my teeth at him, aghast that we were even having this conversation.

"Jizzed?" he asked.

"Ahh! Stop saying it!" I exclaimed.

"But what does it mean?!" he demanded.

"Just... google it!" I said, and ran out of the room.

Now you googled it too, didn't you?

God. One of those days. Can't do anything right. Can't get anyone else to do anything right. Phone calls unreturned. E-mails unread. Appointments stood up. Work product not returned. I was so angry by the end of the day that if I'd been offered a job sweeping sidewalks, as long as the money was close to what I was making in my last position, I'd have jumped at it.

But there are things beyond my control. I can't single-handedly fix a broken system. I can't change an ingrained culture.

All I control is my own behavior. And that's certainly not always perfect. So I'm working on that. But it would be much easier if sometimes "the system" would meet me halfway. (sigh)

So anyone have any advice? Besides unendingly repeating the damn serenity prayer to myself like a crazy person? I need some advice on how to control my own reactions to situations that thoroughly piss me off - admittedly (just ask my husband), I'm not very good at controlling my temper. But I'm at a point where I'm wishing for a head injury just so I could sleep for a couple of weeks.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott was cleaning out the garage behind our apartment, a ramshackle old leftover from when houses on the hill were small family farms. A decade or more of transient residents and maintenance personnel have left it full of random crap. Two couches, various pieces of lumber, screen doors... it's ridiculous.

So Scott found several huge garbage cans and called Tom Beck. The city has a shortage of supplies and Scott asked that one of them be taken down to Aquaduct Park for visitors to use. The rest the city could keep.

"Hey, thanks, Scott! That's really nice of you," Beck said. "Just leave them at the curb and my guys will pick them up in the morning."

So yesterday morning, the garbage cans were gone. ALL of the garbage cans - except for the ones Scott had called about.

"Um, Tom?" Scott called. "You promise not to get mad at anyone but me?"

Tom laughed. He's had a rough year or two. But that's to be expected of any city employee in this area. "I don't get mad anymore, unless it's about my wife and kids," he said.

It was not about them. Scott forgot to put out the garbage cans for the city employees to pick up. They took the garbage cans currently in use for waste disposal by the residents of our small four-apartment building.

"We'll bring them back," Tom laughed. "That's really funny."

The residential cans were back by yesterday afternoon, and the correct ones hauled away. I'll bet there's already a can at the park, too.

1. The Wall Street Journal is read by the people who run the country.

2. The New York Times is read by people who think they run the country.

3. The Washington Post is read by people who think they should run the country.

4. USA Today is read by people who think they ought to run the country but don't really understand the Washington Post. They do, however like the smog statistics shown in pie charts.

5. The Los Angeles Times is read by people who wouldn't mind running the country, if they could spare the time, and if they didn't have to leave L.A. to do it.

6. The Boston Globe is read by people whose parents used to run the country.

7. The New York Daily News is read by people who aren't too sure who's running the country, and don't really care as long as they can get a seat on the train.

8. The New York Post is read by people who don't care who's running the country either, as long as they do something really scandalous, preferably while intoxicated.

9. The San Francisco Chronicle is read by people who aren't sure there is a country, or that anyone is running it; but whoever it is, they oppose all that they stand for. There are occasional exceptions if the leaders are handicapped minority, feministic atheist dwarfs, who also happen to be illegal aliens from ANY country or galaxy - as long as they are democrats.

10. The Miami Herald is read by people who are running another country, but need the baseball scores.

AUSTIN, Texas - More than half of American college students have considered suicide at some points in their lives, a new survey reveals.

Probably because The Myth of Sisyphus is required reading at one point or another in the life of a college student. That's enough to make many college students at least wish they were dead.

What about the other half - the ones who don't consider suicide? Well, most of them are probably too busy playing sports, hazing pledges and drinking their college funds away. But some of them read the text and come out the other side with a greater appreciation for their own lives: "Like, dude, at least you're not stuck pushing a rock up a hill for all eternity."

Then again, they probably aren't selling advertising.
What?! Who said that?!

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A: It doesn't matter; the chicken's actions have no meaning except to the chicken.

AUGUSTA, GA. - The sales and the marketing managers at Augusta Harley-Davidson are like brother and sister, constantly teasing each other. It's like watching Chris Farley and David Spade go at each other. You can tell the affection abounds; they're just playing off each other for entertainment.

Every week, they change their ad so that sales manager "Tommy says" and marketing manager "Donna says" something new. This week one didn't have that much to say.

Me: "Donna says a lot more than Tommy says."
Tommy: "Yeah, Donna's got a big mouth."
Donna: "Donna's smarter than Tommy."

If anyone has any Coke points they can spare, I'd sure appreciate it. We're trying to take two nephews to Orlando this year, and it's a little pricy. Coke has a Universal Studios ticket option if you have enough points... which I don't.

Top Shelf Cigar & Tobacco on Washington Road in Evans sells their cigar boxes to the public. Paper-covered cases, like the Macanudo box below, sell for just $2. The nicer wooden ones sell for only $4. That's quite a deal for some classy-looking storage boxes!

If you haven't been by Jim Beck's Columbia County location, it's a great time to do so. They have some beautiful outdoor seating. I like to sit in the air conditioning during the summer - and away from the bugs - but as soon as it cools down some, you'll find me chowing down on some duck at one of these tables. Yum!

I know that the organic sections of several groceries are expanding, but there are still products those stores don't carry, like the amazing sweetener called stevia. Up to 300 times sweeter than sugar and with almost no calories and a negligible effect on blood glucose, it's a godsend for diabetics. Heath Restoring Foods on Washington Road in Evans carries it. Yes, the price is $11. But at that concentration, it lasts forever.

They also carry a weight-loss product called FucoThin. It's produced from a seaweed extract. Most fat-burning products work by creating a thermogenic effect in the body. FucoThin is unique because it creates a thermogenic effect without stimulating the central nervous system. It's not supposed to give you the jitters or cause you to lose sleep.


Of course, the name of the place is Heath Restoring Foods, so obviously they carry specialty groceries, too.

Izzie is a delicious juice-based soda that promises a full serving of fruit in every bottle.

These are just yummy, yummy chips.

Quinoa (pronounced "keen-wah") is a whole grain product that's like rice or couscous, but metabolizes slower and carries more health benefits.

And below, you see a variety of canned meat-substitute products for the vegetarians in the area. They also have a frozen food case and much, much more.



If health isn't the issue, and you're just bored with the food you've been eating, check out Asian Choice off Washington Road, in the shopping center behind Applebee's (near the bowling alley). They have frozen naan, samosas, pakoras and a variety of exotic fruits and vegetables, canned and boxed foods and foreign candies and such to try. Definitely get the frozen naan, samosas and pakoras, though - although watch out for the samosas. They're small, but they pack a spicy punch!

more cat pictures

So my husband, the news junkie, fell for a promotion from the Augusta Chronicle. He signed us up for a subscription for $13 a month - or, in Stacey math, 30 crossword puzzles he'll never let me near.

I was kind of irritated. Since almost the entire paper is free online, it didn't make sense to me. Plus, every time I've tried to subscribe to the paper, I've had to fight to get my papers on time - even though the delivery person always showed up to collect right on schedule. One month, I had to call 9 days in a row to get my paper delivered. After a three months of this kind of service, I called and told them to cancel the subscription. They never issues my refund, and I eventually tired of calling them. In my mind, they still owe me $15.

Scott was convinced that it wouldn't happen this time. That was a month ago. Guess how many papers we've received. No, really: guess.

One.

After a couple of weeks of wondering if perhaps they had a backlog of subscriptions to process, the charge showed up on our account. "See?" I said. "Call them and tell them we haven't gotten crap."

"But you're scheduled for service," the confused circulation employee said when Scott called.
"And we're being charged for it," Scott said. "But we haven't received a single paper."

Saturday morning, a paper appeared on our porch. Hallelujah.

Sunday morning... no paper.

"Just. Call. And. Cancel," I said, through gritted teeth, as I backed out of the driveway this morning.

"I will," he sighed, with obvious disappointment. I will buy him a huge book of crossword puzzles to make up for his tragic loss.

"And get our money refunded!" I called as he trudged dejectedly past our once-again-paperless porch back into the house.

I won't bank on it.

He didn't like the casserole
And he didn't like my cake.
He said my biscuits were too hard...
Not like his mother used to make.
I didn't perk the coffee right
He didn't like the stew,
I didn't mend his socks
The way his mother used to do.
I pondered for an answer
I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and smacked the crap out of him....
Just like his mother used to do.

My dad sent me this joke poem - and the fact that it was my father, and not anyone else - made me laugh harder than the punchline. He could never be accused of behaving that way. In fact, one of my favorite examples of sacrifice in a marriage comes from a holiday morning a few years ago when my family all sat down for breakfast.

"Don't take that bacon," my mother warned my nephew, Jacob. "That's for Dadada."
Dadada is what Jacob called him when he was just learning to talk, and it stuck forever.

"Why is that mine?!" Dad asked, with a look on his face that seemed somewhere between amusement and irritation.

"Because you like it burned," Mom said, matter-of-factly.

"No, I don't!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, you do!" my mother sputtered.

"I hate burned bacon!" he said. "I like it crispy, but not black!"

She stared at him for a moment before answering: "Honey, that is the way I have been making your bacon for 30 years."

There was a moment of silence before he spoke up, rather sheepishly.

"I always took the darker bacon because I knew the kids wouldn't eat it, and I didn't want you to have to eat it because you were the one who cooked it," he said.

"Well I've been intentionally cooking yours like this ever since!" she exclaimed.

We all burst into laughter.

Out of consideration for his wife, who gave up a teaching career that she loved to raise her three ungrateful children, he had sacrificed the flavor of what might be his favorite food ever for the vast majority of the duration of their marriage.

If someone asked me to give up chocolate for 30 years to save my husband's sanity just a little on difficult mornings, would I do it? I'd like to think I enjoy my husband more than candy...

But that's a lesson I've taken to heart. And every time I suspect Scott is making some small, silent sacrifice out of deference to my feelings, I haul out a warning: "That's how you get 30 years of burnt bacon." He always laughs and relents.

But I bet he makes more of them than I'll ever realize.

AUGUSTA, GA. - You know something awesome is going down when a city bus pulls over and a Segway scooter cop comes racing up, followed by a bike cop. Is the driver getting a ticket for speeding? Did the bus hit a pedestrian (again)? Did the Segway driver challenge the bus driver to a street race? They could make a movie called "The Last and the Spurious."

"Man..." started the cop who was writing the citations. "One guy said he could kiss his ass and the other guy said no you kiss my ass and started slapping shit out of him. They all started slapping the shit out of each other so I pulled the bus over..." (scribble scribble) "They were slow or something, I don't know. It was all fucked up."

S.S. was mowing his lawn yesterday afternoon when a Richmond County Sheriff's Deputy pulled up beside him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Mowing my lawn," SS replied.

"You know there's a heat advisory right now? I suggest you go inside and wait until later this evening to finish this," the officer told him.

"I'm borrowing this mower from my neighbor right now," he said. "I kind of need to do this."

"Well... if you die, it's not my fault," the officer said, and drove away.

AUGUSTA, GA. - I walked into American Dream Machines today and wandered around for about 15 minutes. It's a good thing I didn't have our credit card on me. Besides clothing from Von Dutch, Orange County Choppers and Big Dog Bikes, they also had a wealth of sunglasses - some of which looked suspiciously like the goggles that bi-plane pilots used to wear. If they'd carried leather helmets and white scarves to wear with them, I would have driven home, pried the card from my husband's cold dead fingers, and walked out with an ensemble fit to wear... well, absolutely nowhere. But it's not as though anyone would give me a second look downtown.

Oh, yeah: they also sell motorcycles - and you should see the long, low lines on these babies. They're like crouching tigers, hidden dragons.

This one is mine.

Emmie held up her little magnetic drawing board: "Loot, Mama! I draw you!"

I glance back at a red light: "That's awesome, Emmie. Mommy looks like someone set Captain Caveman's head on fire," I laughed.

I'll admit that there are certain parts of my job for which I was unprepared when I moved into this position. The difficulty of finding public bathrooms when I'm out making sales calls is just one of them.

Another one is exiting Publix in Evans (which has a bathroom I can use) and finding my hubcaps have been stolen. It isn't the kind of thing you expect in the crime-free county. And yet, there I was, looking at my sad tires and wondering what the heck someone would do with them?


And then I tried to get into the car to see if they'd broken in and taken anything else, but my key wouldn't fit. What the hell? Criminals who are also locksmiths? And then I saw the upholstery. It was grey. Mine is brown. Locksmith criminals with a flair for decor?

No. It was not my car.

My car was two lanes over.


Note to self: From now on, memorize license plate.

Unlike those who get to play hacky sack in the office, my days are pretty hectic. I spend a lot of time running around, following other people's schedules, while the rest of the world passes by all "Lah di dah, we're off for a scrumptious sushi lunch with gossip and such while you drive another set of tires off your car."

So it was that I found myself at the office, alone last night, still working feverishly to tabulate our Metro's Best category nominations. Hungry - lunch was baby shower food, which is to say, nothing - I thought I'd splurge and grab some Popeye's chicken.

As I pulled up to the order board at 450 Walton Way, I was greeted with silence.
I waited.
More silence.
I browsed the menu.
More silence.

"HEY!!" I heard, and saw an arm waving frantically at me from the drive-thru window.
"I'm sorry," I said, as I reached her. "Is the intercom broken?"
"Naw. My headset jus' about ta go out," she said. "Whatchoo want?"

What I wanted was to decide from a menu what I'd like to order. I never eat at Popeye's, and this is a perfect example of the damn reason: They can't seem to even take an order in a sensible, polite manner.

"Uh, well, I'd like some chicken strips and rice, please," I said.
"We ain' got no chicken strips," she said. "We got jus' regular chicken."
"Oh, are you closed?!" I said, mortified that I might be keeping these fine employees later than they expected. "You didn't have to serve me if you're closed."
"Yeah. We close at 9," she said.

I looked at the clock. It was 8:25.
I drove away.

Braves fans - and Atlantans near and far - will miss him.

I took Emmie with me to pick up Amber's cake from A Piece of Cake on Washington Road. We weren't even hardly in the door when the fabulous ladies - Jean and her crew - began cooing over Emerson.

"Do you want to make a cookie?" Jean asked her.
"Uh-huh!" Emmie squealed.

Jean led her around the counter into the kitchen, sat her down at a table and placed a sugar cookie in front of her. Carefully, she guided Emmie's hand in making pink roses, green petals, and the letters of her name in blue.

"I mate a cookie!" Emmie shrieked, delightedly.
"How much do I owe you?" I grinned at Jean. In three minutes, she'd brought my child from grumpy post-preschooler to a state of happiness that fairly chimed in the air around her.
"Nothing," she said. "I want kids to remember this place when they grow up."

I know one who will.

We're going to need you to come in on Saturday.