Momnesia

From a certain position on our couch, I can see Emerson's bed quite clearly. So it was that I was sitting in that spot with a book the other night, when Emmie thrashed around in her sleep, trying to find a comfortable position.

A few moments later, a pink-quilted lump slid off the bed, out of view, onto the floor.

"Eeeeeeeeeeh!" I heard her revving up her whine motor. But then, abruptly, she ceased, and heaved a man-sized sigh.

"Oh, barnacles!"

A cloud of blonde curls rose from behind the bed, trailing a blanket, as she flopped back on the bed, face-first. She shot me a sleepy grin. I grinned back, hardly containing what I felt was very un-parental amusement.

"I fall off da bed," she said, as wryly as a 4-year-old can manage. "But I'm okay."

And she slept.

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My mom (Granny) had no idea what I was doing when I made her stand like this, in front of a sign that says "Granny's Funnel Cakes" at White Water in Atlanta. Hee!

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Scott made yet another wonderful dinner: brussels sprouts (shush! I love them!) And bacon-wrapped roasted chicken breast. I dug in while he stepped outside to make a call.

Three bites in, I discovered a surprise: cream cheese! And a terrible burning sensation!


Emmie laughed as I choked, and tears ran down my face. He had stuffed fresh hot peppers inside, and they were potent!

I downed lemonade like someone walking the Sahara - and Emmie laughed at that, too, of course; and told Scott all about it when he came inside. Chuckleheads.

Later, I saw him doing a strange dance on the porch. I didn't think anything of it. It IS Scott, after all. He's done weirder things. But as it turned out, he had made dinner, forgotten to wash his hands, and then gone to the bathroom...

You guys know where I'm going with this. You've done this to yourself while eating hot wings, at least once - admit it.

Ahhh. Karma is a witch.

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S.S.'s fiancee is nominated for Metro's Best Bartender, and he's rallying his troops to vote for her.

"Yeah, I had all my cousins in Israel, England, and India to vote for her," he laughed.
"How many cousins do you have?" P.B. asks.
"Come on, I'm Indian. There are a billion of us," he laughs.

Scott is cooking dinner, and Emmie and I have already had a bath. I'm not really into eating dinner tonight, but he's going to all that trouble, you know?

Then I look at the clock and gasp: It's so late! I need to be finishing housework and getting Emmie - and myself - ready for bed!

And just before I open my mouth to say this out loud, I realize: it is 7 p.m. And I have officially become my grumpy ol' grandmother.

I remember when we used to visit her in Birmingham. There was no running, no loud voices, no toys, no television, no bikes, no bare feet, no neighborhood wandering, no fun, and no staying up after about 7:30. And there was definitely no arguing about that.

Now, I look at the couch and book, and think about the fact that I've been awake since 3 a.m. All I want is to curl up with the whisper of pages turning - and maybe some obnoxiously girly music. I know I won't get it. There's still dinner, story time, and the inevitable Fight for Bed to get through. And I don't resent it. But I'd really like to crawl into bed with that book and drift off to sleep... Maybe wake, partially, around 11 p.m. to turn the light off, and then dream until 5 a.m.

God, I should just join AARP. I'll start having dinner at 4 p.m., lunch at 10 a.m., breakfast the night before... I'll scratch myself inappropriately, complain about the shrinking font in newspapers, and plan my "War Garden." Maybe I'll bake an occasional pan of dry, crumbly cookies with which to torture the neighborhood children. And when they dare venture into my yard to retrieve a wayward ball, I'll stick my head out the window and holler, "Get off my lawn!"

Hmm. Part of me looks, gleefully, forward to that. But for tonight, I'd be happy to have a few minutes with just me and my book.



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AUGUSTA, GA - I love sharing books and movies from my childhood with Emmie - "Goonies," for example. When we were @ my sister's house, "Ghostbusters" was playing On Demand. Now it's all Emmie can talk about:

"When der's sumpin strange in your backyard, who ya gonna call? GHOSTBUDDIES!"

Well, she did deconstruct the genre pretty well...

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"Hey!" Emmie shrieks as an ambulance passes. "Das da heroes what take da sick people to da dahtor an' dey not get dead!"

"Yep."

(Silence. And then...)

"Unless, dey take him to da EEEBIL dahtor. Den we gotta fight him."

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AUGUSTA, GA - "I want da dark rain clouds to come, and essPLODE into Krabby Patties falling DOWN on da ground so we can eat dem. And den dey'll be di-SCUS-ting, wit Squidward tentacles and poo-poo."

(Laughs enthusiastically)

"Is dat di-SCUS-ting?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I made it up."

You don't say!

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AUGUSTA, GA. - I interned on the copy desk at the Augusta Chronicle, and I know how many people see a story before it goes to press and online (it felt like 100, but it was probably closer to 10); so how do things like this get through?

Family break-in victim while woman in Augusta burn unit

Congratulations! You have managed to write a sentence without a verb!

You had so many other options for this headline (none of mine are perfect, but they are improvements):

• "Family victimized while woman struggles in Augusta burn unit"
• "Family home burglarized while woman lies Augusta burn unit"
• "Burglars hit family of Athens burn victim at Doctors Hospital"
• "Family burgled as Athens victim lies in Augusta burn unit"

There are smart, wonderful people who work at this newspaper. I know how many hours they work each week. These people work doctors' hours on a fast-food worker's salary. And when management of any company makes the decision to grind up their employees in the name of profit, while the company's owners spend every weekend jet-setting around the world (can you say Enron?) - then your product quality plummets. And make no mistake about it, bean-counters: Your newspaper is NOT just an advertising delivery service. Your product exists only as long as people are interested in the content. And so long as you run your staff so ragged that they are too tired to use verbs, you will never recover.

Side Note: Because there is a certain class of person who lurks on blogs just to leave asshole comments - a class of person who has no class - I've begun moderating my comments. Sorry, readers. Some people exist solely to suck joy out of the world.

Oh, yes, headline-readers. I did just go there! And I know that Alice Wynn will be singing that song in her head. And I am Not Sorry!

So, just wanted to say "thanks" to the new readers who happened by Momnesia. Google says my traffic is up 10% - probably due to the Metro's Best contest, but it might be due to other things. I hope that you enjoy your stay here, and I hope you come back. Leave a comment with a link to your own blog, or reach me on Facebook!

AUGUSTA, GA - Does anyone else notice how much yammering kids do? Is it just my child?

Sometimes I could swear that if she's not talking, she'll die. Because since the day she was born, it's been a constant state of noise around here.

One day, long ago when we didn't have a pile of crap teetering dangerously overhead every time we opened the door, I gave myself a time-out and went and hid in the hall closet.

It was dark, and musty, and not entirely uncomfortable. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the vacuum cleaner got a little too friendly. But it was quiet. And I stayed there for an hour, just sitting and breathing. When I emerged, I explained that I had gone for a walk to clear my head.

There's really nowhere for me to hide right now. And if Emmie isn't talking, she's making some kind of noise. Blowing raspberries. Humming. Singing. And just random vocalizations that freak me out. What does "oo-ah apanah oo-ah keeaweeah" mean? And why does she keep repeating it? Who are Lodah and Todah, and why has she started calling her father "Stacker?" And how is it, that while I love my child more than I will ever be able to express, she can emit the only range of noises that make me want to tear off my own ears and shove them down her throat?

Any ideas?


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AUGUSTA, GA. - The whoosh of rushing wind fills my head as the cargo bay door opens.

“I don’t want to die.” I beg the man standing in front of me.

“You’re not going to die,” he says – and pushes me out of the plane.

I am 10,000 feet over a bright green field, strapped to a man I do not know, hurtling toward a brutal, painful death. I am skydiving on a bet, a stupid bet that is going to kill me.

I never apologized to my little brother. My sister and I used to dress him in our old party clothes and call him “Susie.” He is scarred for life. This is why I am going to die.

“You are not going to die,” shouts the man strapped to my back. “We have a parachute.”

The parachute is made of silk and it will not save us. Our bodies will shatter upon the earth. Will they be able to tell us apart, or will they think that one huge person exploded in the field - perhaps while wearing a lovely silk dress? This is not the way I want to die.

“You are not going to die.”

I started a rumor in fourth grade that Kristen Gandy was really a boy. I was mad at her and I had just learned about sex-change operations. It followed her all year. This is why I am going to die.

I can almost hear him roll his eyes.

“We’re not going to die.”

My neck snaps forward. I am wrenched upward so hard that I can hear my vertebrae fracture, and suddenly I waft through the air. The sky is lit with a heavenly glow. I am dead.

“You are not dead. I pulled the ripcord. Enjoy the ride.”

I am making absurd doggie-paddling motions with my arms and legs. I will myself to cut it out and assess the situation. We are still falling, but will not die instantly. Now we will suffer.

In ninth grade, I ditched Greta Haug, a smart and sweet girl, for “cooler” friends who wore gothic clothes and listened to The Cure and Joy Division. For loving these bands alone I am going to suffer – and die.

“No one is going to die,” he shouts, and stops because shouting is no longer necessary. “Try to relax.”

“Relax,” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I bought that album. I deserve to suffer and die.

A truck waits at the edge of the field. Tiny people shade their eyes, studying our descent. Are they prepared for our mangled bodies, for the gurgling and gasping as we suffer and die? I am concerned children might be watching.

“No! It doesn’t matter, because we’re not going to die.”

The summer after high school, I scored press passes to Lollapalooza. Eddie Veddar climbed the back wall of the amphitheatre and dove off into the waiting crowd. I found myself crushed against him and kissed him, with tongue. For this assault, I deserve to suffer and die.

“Okay, get ready.”

The ground spirals up at us. I am not ready. I never returned “The Bell Jar” to that nice neighbor woman in Athens who had Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t remember I borrowed it. For sometimes thinking that’s kind of funny, I deserve to suffer and die.

The tiny people are now people-sized people running to meet us. Oh, God, they will be covered in entrails. They will never recover from the trauma. I try to wave them away. They wave back. Fools!

“Bend your knees.”

I curl into the fetal position. I dropped all of my classes one semester and used my loan money to party. I cheated on most of my boyfriends. I lied about cheating on them. They all believed me.

“Remember to go with the momentum of the landing.”

I never go to church. I don’t recycle. Sometimes I don’t walk the dog for days.

“Here we go!”

We are mere feet from the ground. I kick wildly. He shouts at me to stop. I wish my family long happy lives and brace for impact. My toes brush the ground and we are standing, back on terra firma.

“See?” he says. “We’re perfectly safe.”

A gust of wind grabs the unsettled parachute and jerks us back several yards. We land hard on our backs, me on top of him, like two stacked turtles.

“That was kind of fun,” I gasp, and gasp again, because I can. I am still breathing.

He groans. “I think you killed me.”

It's here! The 2009 Metro's Best Voting! I'm so excited to have made the final ballot!

If you don't mind too much, could you vote for Momnesia? There's no amazing prize at the end of things. It would just be really nice.

Thanks so much, and thanks for reading!

AUGUSTA, GA - Vacations to Remember: Can't believe there was no "Best Vacation Planner" in the Spirit survey!

I work at a newspaper, and I love it. But any public forum invites crazy people to step up and open their yaps: County commission meetings, radio call-in shows, newspaper complaint columns, and the never-ending Internet... nothing is safe.

So I get a lot of crazies on the phone where I work. Today, I spoke to "Selene." She calls a couple of times a week to ramble about the classes that she organizes. I can almost hear the granola rattling around in her brain. After one particularly grueling 15-minute conversation, during which I almost fell asleep during her nonsensical patter that is utterly free of organization, I finally cut her off.

"Okay, so I have all the information except the location," I said.
"Well, I don't want to tell you."
(There is a moment of silence in which I consider stapling my ears shut so I don't have to hear her anymore.)
"You don't want to tell me?"
"Well, I'll tell you, but I don't want it in the paper."
"You want people to just guess where the classes are going to be?"
"Well, they can call, and I might tell them the location, but sometimes I get some people who are really mentally ill. You know?"

Yes. I do know.

"I mean, I want everyone to be able to come. It's a great stress reliever, and, as we know, stress is the cause of all wars."
"Oh!" I say, with a laugh. "I thought it was a shortage of chocolate."
There is a moment of shocked silence on the other end of the phone. I hope she isn't lighting some Wiccan revenge candle - oh, I know. That's not fair. Really, I don't have a problem with Wicca. I have a problem with Wiccans.
"You know," she said, quietly and seriously, "that stuff is really bad for you."
"I know," I say. "Sugar and caffeine and fat."
"Yes, but as you get older you can't digest it and it really clogs up your system," she says. "It's just really awful stuff."
I am unwilling to deal with her anymore.
"Yeah, but you know what else it is?" I ask.
"What?"
"It's yummy!"
She sputters and stutters, laughing stiffly. I intervene before she begins to spew marijuana smoke out of her ears.
"I'm just joking," I said.
"Yes, well, I have to go."
Click.

Wait, did SHE just hang up on ME?!

AUGUSTA, GA. - There comes a time in everyone's lives when we sit up and think, "Aha! THERE'S my million-dollar idea!" But not each of those epiphanies bears out as we think it should. Here is a list of some of those disappointments, in no particular order.


1. Prodyne® Automatic Sugar Dispenser - Ideal for all sorts of everyday uses - coffee, cereal, baking, wasting my frickin' time... Just push a button for a precisely measured 1/2 teaspoon of sugar... unless it gets wet, gets tipped over, the batteries run down, or it just breaks, because you've decided that using a spoon is just too much work! Included refill funnel conveniently stores in the base. Or, you could just use a spoon.



2. PFI/Toyland 3 in 1 Digital Keychain Camera - Features 2MB memory, USB cable, and software CD. TWO MEGABYTES of memory?! You'd be better off buying it to use as nunchukus in the case of ninja attack. And if you win, you can taunt them with your tiny photos!


3. Tamrac® Carrying Case for Compact Digital Cameras - Dual Foam Technology secures your compact digital camera. Two Universal Memory & Battery pockets on the front keep you fully prepared. But isn't the whole point of getting a compact digital camera so you don't have to carry all that crap?!




4. ThinkFun Rush Hour - Pure bumper-to-bumper fun, the manufacturers say. They lie.




5. Waring Pro Cordless Wine Bottle Opener - Wine bottles open with ease (even with synthetic corks), thanks to this rechargeable unit. Yeah, look, they're called wine keys - and they were already cordless!




6. Time Life® Sweatin to the Oldies Complete Collection - This complete collection includes over 380 minutes of fantastic low-impact workouts. Because one DVD of Richard Simmons and his jazz hands is never enough.




7. Coleman® Remote Control Lantern - Where are you putting your lantern in your huge tent that you need a frickin' remote control?




8. Presto® FryDaddy® Deep Fryer - Family-size fryer makes delicious chicken, fries, and more. People, it's a pot. You probably have several already under your counter.





9. Waring Pro Martini Maker - Electric martini maker just plug it in then shake or stir. I want to know who shook a martini and thought, "This is just too much work." Because I want to find them and slap them.




10. Smartshopper Grocery List Assistant - With this handy, easy to use organizer, you'll never find yourself at the grocery store wondering what you need, or forgetting a crucial ingredient. Yes, you will. No microchip can change that - unless it's in your brain.

When little girls attack, it looks an awful lot like an army of pink-clad princesses marching forth from preschool to pubescence. What are the lasting effects of this obsession?


Augusta, Ga. - Wearing an outfit seemingly cast off from the set of the old “Solid Gold” television show, my daughter spins around with her arms held gracefully at her side.

“It’s a wunnerful dweam come twue,” she gasps, quoting a line from “Cinderella.”


Dr. Keri Weed from the psychology faculty at the University of South Carolina-Aiken explained that each infant is born with unique traits, and that some things are constitutional — inborn, but not necessarily genetic.

“Then those constitutional traits get shaped and modified as they interact with family and people in their environments,” she said. “But they do form a fairly strong initial bias. You being an active child, your parents may very well have allowed that… If the same child was born to a different set of parents, they could very easily discourage those behaviors in a girl.”

Weed explained that Emmie’s obsession with princesses and other such girly things is within the range of normal. When gender identity begins to form around the age of 2, children begin to be able to identify themselves as either a boy or a girl. They seek out toys, objects and experiences that reinforce that identity. It’s similar to how a teenager who was not me might have listened to a lot of The Cure because she identified with their ennui... (Read More)

I am a babbling idiot. Drool dangles from my lip. I sit slack-jawed in front of the man who would be my boss – if anything would come out of my mouth. He has asked me a question, the answer to which I practiced in the car on the way here, and yet I have no idea what to say. In fact, I have forgotten what he asked. If it were possible for human beings to will themselves into oblivion, I would. I am trying. But he’s still waiting for an answer and I still don’t have one.

“What can you bring to the position?”
I know this one! Oh… err…

I am dressed to the nines in my expensive-looking grey suit and black shell, faux pearl earrings, black leather shoes, matching belt, subtle makeup, and most hairs in place. Booger check – did I do a booger check? I did. I sit with my hands folded to hide the chewed-off stubs of what were fingernails when I had a job, and try to sound like I know something about the sporting event in which he will play for charity. It seems to work.
“Oh, do you golf?” he asked.
“Well… no, not really.”
“Oh.”
“I did shoot a 77 once, but it was on the front nine.”
“I see.”
Lie. I should learn to lie.

This is the recipe for disaster I’ve cooked up. Poorly choosing my last employer resulted in being laid-off when they restructured. Now I’m back in the wilds of the job market, stalking my prey, and finding hunting more difficult than I remembered. I no longer lull with my confidence and kill with my wit and style. I am a blundering fool.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Who? Me?

I have all the right tools: a college degree with a decent GPA, solid references, a strong portfolio, a first-rate resume, and a vast network of contacts – which is how I came to be at this interview today, one of only two candidates, the other an intern with no writing experience. And I am blowing it.
“So how did you hear about this position?”
Oh, I’ve known her for years… Can’t seem to remember her name, but dark hair, brown eyes… you know, the one I was talking to when you came out of your office.
“Valerie?”
“Um, I think so.”
“Uh-huh.”

In college I won awards for impromptu public speaking. I’ve led committees, taught classes, given seminars, presented papers at academic conferences. I have given radio interviews, acted as an extra in several movies, worked as a disc jockey, and trained in front of a camera. My mother used to call me “The Mouth of the South.” I am not known for my silence.
“Should I rephrase the question?”
Question? What question?

I’ve answered these questions in front of the mirror, with my husband, in my head. I’ve met this man before. We sat on a panel together. I worked with his nephew, who works for the same company. The other two employees in the office are lobbying for me. He doesn’t even care for the other candidate. I have everything going for me - but nothing is going right.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Probably still sitting here.

I don’t know how many interviews I’ve gone on in the last two months, but we’re well into double digits by now. I’ve done telephone interviews, in-person interviews, and even email interviews. I’m like the Cal Ripkin, Jr., of interviews – without ever having stepped foot on home plate.
“Okay, well, we’ll let you know by Monday.”
Damn.

One of our reps answers his ringing telephone.

S.S.: "Yes, I'd love to be able to help you."
Customer: "Great! What's your name?"
S.S.: "My name is [redacted], spelled [redacted]."
Customer: "Oh, they got Asians over there, now."
S.S. (A wry grin spreads across his face): "No, I'm American."

We all turn, horrified, to look at him. To his credit, he just keeps grinning.

AUGUSTA, GA. - "Gozzzilla!" Emmie sang this morning, looking at me expectantly. I had been singing it with her this weekend, after joking that I was a dinosaur going to eat her. I know Godzilla isn't technically a a dinosaur, but whatever people. Don't bother me with details.

"Ohhhhh, no! They say he's got to go!" I sang...
"Gogogozzilla!" she sang. "WOOOoooooooo."

"Ohhhh, no!" I continued, and she interrupted:
"Der go Pinocchio! Gogogozilla!"

I suppose that nose could do some damage...

AUGUSTA, GA - It was inevitable. Everyone I know has done it. And Emmie, as exceptional as I think she is, is not the exception, in this case.

She cut her hair.

The beautiful curls that reached to mid-back - the ones complete strangers coo over; the ones I curl around my fingers as she sleeps; the ones I have never been able to keep tangle-free - are gone.

"Dey were in my face," she explained. But now they're a half-inch from her hairline.

She was rocking a not-so-rockin' mullet before noon today, and I burst into tears like an idiot. I couldn't stop crying over hair! After 10 minutes of this, she started crying, too. Great. What an excellent mom I am!

I gathered us together and we ran over to the salon, where they put together a custom shoulder-length cut with layers that make her look less mangled... but she reminds me, weirdly, of 80s phenom Kristy McNichol. Anyone else remember The Pirate Movie? Anyone?

She loves the cut ("Iss byootifuwl!" she exclaimed, and shook her hair like a model in front of a wind machine). It does keep her hair out of her eyes, and I have seen her impatiently pushing it out of her face rather a lot, lately. But I still took all of her so-called "safety" scissors away and put them in high places that she cannot access.

"Dis sign say, 'No crazy aliens wif mad faces an' pointy heads - only people," Emmie said.

Well, pretty much!

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Me: "What does 'error in parameters scanning' mean when you send an e-mail?
Heather: "Sounds like something is wrong with your parameters."
Jason: "Yep. Your parameters are all screwed up."
Me (laughing): "Y'all can just bite me, seriously!"
Heather: "How can I bite you if I can't scan your parameters?"

Text to Publisher: "Just realized 2 of our literary luminati nominees aren't eligible. Whatcha wanna do?"

Reply: "Not have the category."

Text to Publisher: "BESIDES that. There are other nominees you know, two of which trailed only a few votes."

Reply: "OK. R they authors?"

Text to Publisher: "No. They're trash collectors. But they have some poetry in a notebook somewhere.

My soul is garbage
It cries out, "Recycle, fools!"
Refrigerator

Reply: "Tard."

I'm going to take that to mean, "Yes, hard-working employee. I approve of your solution. Please continue with your awesomeness."

Each line is from a FB friend's update...

Kiss is everywhere
All does not seem well
The Sonoran Hotdog crosses the border
Today is so beautiful!
Oh how I Wish, wish, wish...
But the dust has settled.

Me to Staff: Metro's Best categories have been sent to edit. No changes.

S.S. to Me: What about Metros best place to get mugged?! Or metros best place to score a cheap hooker? At least best fried pickles?

Me to S.S.: How Metro's Most Annoying Indian Salesperson? (I'm not being racist: He freelances at a radio station on the side with the moniker Your Friendly Everyday Indian)

S.S. to Me: Yeah! That's a good one! But watch me lose to a white dude somehow... Damn the man!

From Mom to Me: Alert! Huge virus coming! I just checked this with Norton AntiVirus and Snopes, and you should not open any message with an attachment entitled 'POSTCARD FROM HALLMARK, 'regardless of who sent it to you. It is a virus which opens A POSTCARD IMAGE, which 'burns' the whole hard disc C of your computer.

From Mom to Me, two minutes later: Stacey, I tried to send you an e-card, and it came back. Are you still working for The Metro Spirit? I checked it and sent it twice. What's going on? Mom.

Reply from Me to Mom: No, Mom, I do not work for The Metro Spirit anymore. I've taken a job with Hallmark. I'll get right on your e-card issue because that is my primary concern in life. Besides, didn't you just send me an e-mail telling me not to open any e-cards?

From Mom to Me: Pfffffftt! I'm deleting you!

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This is Emmie's letter to her grandparents (my parents):

Dear Granny + Dadada,

I love you very much because you're my best friend. You love me.

My butterfly got dead. I want him back to normal. I want him to be real.

I love swimming because I love swimming with my floaties but daddy make me swim with not floaties.

Mama give me some school supplies and mama and daddy take me to my new school all day long because they're very sweet. I love them very much.

Name maker! I put everything on the stuff for packing in my own backpack. And I love the teacher. (Editor's Note: We bought a labeling machine)

I miss you. I wanna come to you. Well, das de end of da story. I don't know how to say bye-bye in Chinese. So I say bye-bye.

Love,
Emerson

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