Momnesia

There's a singer named "Jem"? Is she truly outrageous?

For those who missed it, that was a reference to the decades-old Saturday morning cartoon show called “Jem!” I can’t remember exactly what it was about - some kind of Josie and the Pussycats update, I think, with the main characters in a band and a rival “bad girls” band - but the theme song went: “JE-em is truly outrageous, truly, truly, truly outrageous. whhoah-oh-oh-oh JEM!” Great songwriting there.

Anyway, I watched Saturday morning cartoons for the first time in well over a decade last week. I am "Taking An Interest" because one day Emerson will definitely be concerned about some cartoons. Here’s what I learned: They all suck.

No, it’s not because I’m an adult. Dora the Explorer and SpongeBob Squarepants are really good. But most of them are toy products that use the cartoon as half-hour ads. Like, the Bratz dolls. They were dolls first, and now they have their own cartoon? And their superpowers are LLLLLLLLLLAME. One of them has a superpower called “Girl Advice,” another is “Makeup,” and another is “Fashion.” How does that even work? “Evil gotcha down? Gloss it over with our new superberryblast lip slickers!” Blech.

I understand creating a cartoon and enjoying a successful merchandising offshoot. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Why did that work? And why are herbivorous animals ordering pepperoni pizza? Not my cup of tea, but creative work that paid off in the end.

Here’s my point: Emerson can’t watch these marketing ploys. They will suck out her brain. I suppose I will have to scrounge old DVDs of Schoolhouse Rock. Or maybe we can move to South Dakota, or the Yukon Territory, or the deep jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula, jaguars be damned. How am I supposed to instill solid values in her - education, kindness, hard work, tenacity, manners, accepting that your mother is right in all things - without a supermarket display of my new and improved flavors that change colors when you chew? Morals don’t have a theme song. I should write a theme song for morals! But it would be the most boring, least rockingest song ever. I could hire Barry Manilow! Or who is the guy who wrote the song for “Welcome Back, Kotter?” That song could put me right to sleep when I was a kid. That’s a guy who can write a theme song for morals.

But who buys into morals these days? Only conservative religious types, and - my apologies to any of you reading this; I have known many and liked almost all of them for a short time - I do not believe in their weird division of the sexes.

Actually, now I do. I believe in dividing the sexes. A brilliant idea! I divide them as of now. I will hang a “No Boys Allowed” sign on our door, and I will mean it. That is it. That is the answer. Emerson will be a nun. A nun! I have such a big brain, how do I keep my head upright? We will move to France and she will take her vows, cut off her hair (not that she has any yet), and the ascetic nuns of the Order of Saint Claire will raise her within the cloistered walls of that venerable institution.

Wait. Isn’t Saint Claire the patron saint of television? That is truly outrageous.

So, Scott got a new job. He is now the news reporter at WGAC, News/Talk 580 AM. See? And we are in love with this new job of his because it comes with a car. Now, I know many of you are drooling right now because, let's face it: company car = HUGE PERK.

Yet you have not seen this, the clown car. Every time he opens the door I expect an army of midgets to spill out of the sides. I could have sworn I saw an elephant parking it for him last week. This thing is plastered from hood to trunk with logos, telephone numbers, and call letters. It bristles with antennae - probably to signal the clown car mothership. It has (and will not tell you how inappropriately he has used this) an emergency light on the roof. It is super awesome. But this means that he can no longer stay home with the baby. Now that I'm employed full-time again, we began the dreaded day care.

It happened so fast that we didn't even have time to prepare her. It was a phone call on a Wednesday, and report to work on Monday. So Monday morning, when I dropped her off, there was a lot of screaming and crying... much of it mine. When I picked her up again, there was more, but she wasn't just afraid. She was pissed. At me.

The week went like this:
Day One: Emerson screamed from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Day Two: Emerson cried from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Day Three: Emerson laid face-down in the corner of the room and refuse to interact with anyone all day. Hit anyone who tried to come near her.
Day Four: Stood with her back to the wall and hated everything. Not only hit anyone who tried to come near her, but actually chased down another child to hit him, because he moved too fast for her to get him the first time.
Day Five: Refused to eat.

She ran screaming into my arms at the end of each and every day, as though they had been using the toddlers as forced labor, busting rocks in the quarry. But, eventually she began to interact with others, usually when it involved food.

It has been a very difficult transition. I frequently considered quitting my job. But this past Friday was the most heartbreaking of all. When I dropped her off, she went right into the arms of her teacher, Miss X, and gave her a hello kiss.

Miss X is a child-stealing whore. I hate Miss X.

Well, don't compain to St. Peter that you weren't warned.

What I can't figure out is the point of this. The deer has a bullseye on it - should I shoot at it? Why is it waving its arms? Or is it pointing to its nether regions in a crude gesture of defiance?
I don't know if you can see it, but the deer is tethered to some power source within the truck, so the truck owner had to install the deer, run the cable, plug it in, and presumably NOT have an outlet to light his Marlboro Reds-in-the-box. If it were me, any giggly glee I felt at the prospect of displaying such a monstrosity would have been stamped out by the mere thought of the process of installation.

So check this out. Here is a list of all the things that broke this weekend:

1. my computer
2. the laptop on loan from Chris
3. the printer
4. the DVD player was already broken but it irritated me all weekend just sitting there with its not-working self
5. the car
6. the car we were test-driving to replace the car that broke down
7. the ceiling fan in our bedroom
8. a candle holder that fell off the wall without warning
9. Scott's third toe
10. my digital camera battery (work, not personal camera)
11. Emerson (she has a fever)
12. Scott (he got dehydrated at work so they sent him home. He had to rest and drink lots of Gatorade and water)

We're clearly overdue for a gift from the Universe, and I'm thinking it will be something pretty big, like superpowers. Clearly, about the only thing that didn't break on us this weekend was my sense of humor - and dinner with Patsy tonight will at least wear that down pretty well.

Tune in tomorrow to see if I survived the cookout.

I came home from a meeting on Thursday to find my husband in a panic.

"I need help!" he said, as he dragged the non-slip mat from the bathtub onto the back porch.

"Oh, god, the baby," I thought, and dashed inside to look for her. There she was, naked as the day she was born, running around the apartment with her arms over her head like an orangutan.

I picked her up, her naked butt against my right arm, felt her forehead for a fever, and checked her head and hands for injuries.

"Honey," I called, as I carried her out to the back porch, "I don't see anything wrong."

He sighed heavily. "She pooped."

I jerked my arm away from her butt. It was clean. Her butt was clean. I looked at him quizzically.

"In the tub," he said.

I snickered and went inside to check out her handiwork. Oh, look: with corn.

"Alright!" I said, laughing out loud. "Emerson made a good poopy!"

Natalya -

Okay, there comes a time in a woman's life when friends should turn to her and say, "Stacey, we hate to be the ones to tell you this but... Dude, they could show a MOVIE on your forehead. Go out and get yourself some bangs."

Why did you people not tell me that I have male-pattern baldness? WTF? I would like to be told when I look like a freak of nature, so that I may amend what I am doing to myself, and look less freakish of nature. Sometimes it is okay to point out to people that their forehead is taking over, like a huge glacial mass on the front of my head.

There it is, in all its gleaming glory, white as snow, shining like a beacon to all the
huge-foreheaded-freaks of the world: "Huge-Foreheaded freaks of nature, HERE IS YOUR QUEEN! LARGE CRANIUMED PEOPLE OF EARTH, BOW DOWN TO HER! But be careful not to lose your balance and fall on your face, you top-heavy weirdos."Thanks for the "heads up." I will make a hair appointment ahora.

Love the nostrils, by the way.

(SEE BELOW, BUT BEFOREHEADWARNED)

What. the hell. is cashmere extract?

"We looked for the softest thing we could find, and this is it," a new Softsoap commercial tells television viewers.

Cashmere, FYI, is wool from the Cashmere goat, a kind of Asian goat. So what can you extract from wool? Mittins? Lint? That's certainly what my dryer trap extracts. And socks.

It turns out that the Softsoap website actually tells you, which may be a bad thing:

So, previously, the universe was hating me and was acting in a generally hateful manner that was full of hate. Now, however, the universe has backed off and is now merely chuckling to itself and tossing random obstacles in my way to its infinite amusement.

Let us discuss today...
I got four hours sleep before Emerson woke up. Scott slept in until 11:30 so I didn't get a shower because he had to leave immediately for class. Two hours later he called to say the transmission blew out on the car. He was walking home.

Repairs on the other car were going to be $300 more than we had to spend, but that's just the way it goes. When Scott walked in an hour later, he grinned. It wasn't the transmission.
"Something else makes a car shudder, shake, and go slow," he said. "A flat tire."
"Well, why did you walk home?"
"Because the jack is here."
We left it out of the trunk after changing the brake pads. Duhr.

Figuring he'd be starving after walking so much, I had marinated a whole chicken all afternoon and stuffed my special herb mixture under the skin for maximum flavor. I mixed up garlic-parsley mashed potatoes and a key lime pie. I popped the chicken in the oven, and just asked Scott to turn the heat down to 350 in 15 minutes while I took a shower.

When I got out, Scott stopped me from going in the kitchen.
"We're not having chicken for dinner," he said.
What did I do wrong? Did I put it on "broil" by accident? I opened the oven door and glass showered my feet. There sat my beautiful chicken, splayed on the rack, sans Pyrex baking dish. I looked at my husband.

"See, when I opened the oven door, I noticed it was crackling a lot. I thought, oh, it must need some more water in the bottom." He held up a coffee mug with water still in it. Oh, no. The sudden temperature change shattered the dish.

So I cleaned out the oven and popped the key lime pie in the oven to cook while I went to buy Popeye's to go with the mashed potatoes and green beans. When I got back, the pie was ready. "Scott will you take it out?" I asked as I unpacked the chicken.

He opened the door and yanked on the rack too hard! The pie plate came flying out of the oven - and landed on his oven mitt! Saved!

I collapsed against the refrigerator.
"Don't even laugh," he warned.
Too late.

When we went in to speak to the prominent attorney and investigators about the bad thing, I went in a suit and heels, with planned factual statements and what I thought was a very calm, professional presentation that focused on what I knew and excluded personal and personnel issues.

Midway through, Scott – in torn jeans, a t-shirt, and ballcap – breaks into the conversation with, “Fellas, let me break this down for you. These people are criminals,” and gave a speech that made me look around the room for Jesse Jackson. I thought, “Shut up! You are making us look like crazy people!”

When he left to go pick up Emerson, I thought they would turn to me and want to get back down to business. “My husband is a little emotional,” I imagined apologizing. “Your husband is a very eloquent man,” the attorney said.

Huh?!

He asked what Scott planned to do when he graduated. “Well, WGAC called him a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “He’s an honors student in the top two percent of his class, so he has a lot of options.”

Prominent Attorney shook his head. “He wants to work for Danny, not Austin. Tell him to give me a call when he’s closer to graduation.”

How does Scott do that? He hadn’t even had a shower!

So today, we met with a prominent attorney in regards to the bad thing that happened. I don't want to say much about it, except that it is neither personal nor personnel in nature.

His agency decided to investigate. So it's looking like a good day. Then Scott leaves the meeting and Godzilla steps on the car... or at least that's what it looks like. The wind caught the hood and it flew up, smashed into the windshield, knocked the sunroof askew, shattered the windshield, and bent the hood up.

Scott limped it home and I got a ride from an investigator. Pop quiz, which is less safe: No visibility, or no way to stop? I dunno. But when I got home, he had gone in the car with no brakes to get the baby. They made it home safe.

But then we had to put brake shoes on the car that Godzilla skipped over on his way to Tokyo. An hour after he began, Scott was back inside calling a mechanic. Eventually, we finished the brake job. It took three hours and we were both tired, dirty, oily, smelly, and pissed.

Into the shower we went. Being parents of a toddler and a rat terrorist with two jobs and five classes between us, sex has not been our priority. But the toddler was with grandma and while the shower began as a practical measure, it became a prurient one. Just as the theme from "Shaft" was firing up in my mind, I heard it: the world's most erection-killing sound...

... "Scawett?"

Seriously, that's how his mother pronounces Scott's name. And there she was, in the apartment, in the middle of our shower sex, with our toddler in her arms.

But, lo! The toddler was asleep. If I could just get her into her crib without her waking up, the ghost of Barry White might come back to visit. And maybe he would bring Marvin Gaye with him.

Slowly I crept back into the nursery. Just as I put her down, she sprung to life. "Hey, dog-dog!" she waved merrily at Scrabble.

Dammit!

Only Penny would use a sentence like: "Well, more yodelly than I can yodel," and only I would be right there with her.

http://www.trappfamily.com/

If you are the parent of a child under 2 years old, never ever at all not even once:

1. Think your child cannot understand you. I said "outside" in the bedroom this morning, and Emerson, who was three rooms away, came racing into the bedroom yelling "nahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnah" at the top of her lungs. That means she heard me say something she wanted.
   
2. Think your child cannot hear you. Listen closely to whatever your child is saying while he or she concentrates on their play activities. I guarantee it will closely model whatever you say when you are frustrated.
   
3. Squirt canned whipped cream into his or her mouth. Apparently, this is a frightening sensation completely not improved by the creamy goodness that follows. Emerson screamed for a solid ten minutes and then (once she had calmed down and reasoned through what had happened) hit me in the face.
   
4. Put your toddler on a ride-on toy and push it forward - no matter how gently - with your foot. Inevitably, he or she will topple over backwards. Instant head injury!
5. Convince yourself that you have child-proofed every room in the house. There are cabinets you have not even thought about since before you were pregnant, and your little pooper will sniff them out, test the doors, find it open and climb right in. Oh, there's the missing bottle of wine!
   
6. Think you can understand toddler brains. His or her burgeoning ability to communicate does not give you an insight into what goes on in your child's mind. Emerson says "neh" (no) to everything. "Do you want a bottle?" "neh." "Do you want a snack?" "neh." "Do we need to change your diaper?" "neh." "Do you want to go outside?" "neh." The actual answers are: only if it's chocolate, yeah I want some cheesy poofs, don't freaking touch the diaper, and I want to play in traffic.
   
7. Think the grandparents give even one care about your house rules. My mother has fed Emerson chocolate cake while sitting right in beside me and swearing the whole time that she was not feeding my child sweets at 10 p.m. at night how dare I suggest such a thing. Emerson's grandmothers will raise her to believe that cake-and-ice-cream is a perfect, nutritionally balanced combination that is good for any meal.
   
8. Think that there is any way to keep your child's bodily fluids off of you. I have found baby poo under a fingernail, experienced the joy of being peed upon, wiped spit up out of my bra, and picked a booger out of Emmie's nose with my finger. Sound gross? My brother once had his son, Jackon, throw up all over his face. I saw it happen.
   
9. Think you are ever getting a good night's sleep again. Emerson is 15-months-old and still wakes up in the middle of the night. If she doesn't, I panic and have to run in and check on her.
   
10. Let your child out of your uterus. This is just asking for trouble. Install a stereo, a Playstation, and a window and call it a day.
    

So Scott and I are flying high because we both have promising job leads that we are thisclose to snagging. They are good jobs, and we both want them like crazy. We may not get either one of them, but in our heads we're already spending our windfall of extra salary. I have a six-month plan that involves debt reduction, a certified pre-owned car, and furniture that does not require glue at the corners. Scott is apparently thinking about something different.

"Honey," he said, while we are reading on the back porch. "What do you think about, if we both get these jobs, maybe having another baby sometime next year?"

I stare at him, aghast. "Why you gotta impregnate me all the time?!"

I was making conversation with a lady while we were waiting in line at the grocery store. Both of us had our children with us, and we were cooing at them while they made friends. "Hey der dada," Emerson said, as she does to everyone. I will hold the woman's name because she is a teacher in Columbia County.

"And what does your husband do?" I asked. Now, I am aware that this question is sometimes used as a measure of social worth, but this was - rather obviously, I thought - not how I meant it.

She laughed derisively: "I think it's bourgeoisie of you to assume that I have a husband," she said.

Blink. blinkblink. blink.

"Well, would you rather I were proletariat about it?" I asked, and turned my back to her as I waited for the cashier to finish with the customer in front of me.

It was obvious that she meant it as an insult, but the term "bourgeoisie" is most often used by upper crusters looking down their noses at the middle class. She is middle class. The term is less frequently used by Communists and Socialists as an insult against middle class members whom they do not respect because they are of the opinion that they don't work for a living. Yet, again, she is middle class. Between the two of us, I am the proletariat.

Perhaps she was attacking middle class values. Maybe she has an alternative superhero hiding under those ubiquitous khakis and pastel button-down. It is possible that she has secret tattoos, and facial piercings to remove before she goes to work. She might tell people her child's name is Jennifer, when she was actually named Joyous Thunder by the charismatic head of the matriarchal polygamous cult of which they are a member.

All that would be fine... if she hadn't been wearing a wedding ring.

April 8, 2005

I had a terribly realistic and yet completely implausible nightmare last night. It creeped me out like no other dream.

In the dream, Scott and I were going to Utica, Ecuador (is there even such a place) to visit Natalya because she was getting married. We packed a simple red Eddie Bauer travelcase with a black handle and wheels (we don't own such a thing), packed up Emerson (who was standing, but not yet walking), and loaded up the car. We were driving to the airport in Atlanta, and debating whether or not it would be more likely to catch a direct flight to Utica from upstate New York. Along the way, we drove past a lovely old salmon-colored Spanish-style house surrounded by oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. It was such a lovely house that I asked Scott to stop to speak to the owners. He huffed and puffed but pulled over, and we crossed the quiet two-lane road to the house. The door closest to us was under a carport of sorts, designed to allow cars to pull up and let passengers out without bothering with weather conditions. It was a storm door, black, and Emerson stood with her hands braced against the bottom half, babbling to herseld. The lady who lived there was obviously not expecting visitors, and we saw her stop at her kitchen utensil holder and grab a giant metal whisk for protection. When she saw Emerson, she smiled, lowered the whisk, and said, "Yes?"

I smiled in what I hoped was an appeasing way, and said, "We're so sorry to bother you, but we were driving by and saw your beautiful home. It must be historic. Would you mind too much if we peeked inside?" (I would never do that)

The lady, petite and elderly with short but chic grey hair, smiled and said, "We get that question all the time. Come on in and I'll give you a quick tour."

We followed her around the aging but still beautiful house, which we learned was three stories not including the finished basement. Dark wood accented the doorways and windows, and a man who was obviously her husband sat at a large rectangular dining room table, puttering over some documents. She led us up to the second floor - bedrooms, etc. and then said, "There's nothing on the third floor but books." I was very excited to see what their library looked like, and said, "We're readers," which she responded to with a smile and, "Well, come on!"

On the third floor, we were surrounded by huge mahogany bookcases stuffed with books and papers. A man in a colonial costume and brown curly long wig met us. "Well, hello!" I don't remember the conversation, but I recall he seemed warm, friendly, and funny, but that Emerson hid behind me. I turned back to look at Scott, and he whispered in my ear, "That man is a ghost." I frowned at him and said, "Stop it!" But the man laughed and said, "No, he's right. ____________'s my name," (I didn't catch it) and held out his hand. I reached out to shake it - and my hand passed right through his. I was kind of freaked out, but the lady shook her head, smiled indulgently, and chastised him. We thanked him for the information, and followed her back downstairs, where she invited us to join her and her husband for dinner. We thanked her, declined, and explained our trip. As we were leaving, a lovely black couple was crossing the street to the house. "Is this your house?" the lady asked. "No, we just couldn't resist asking for a tour," I replied. "That's exactly what we're coming to do," she said. We wished them well, and made our way to the car. A train was passing on the nearby tracks. When we got to the car, Scott's face turned grey. "What's the matter?" I asked. In a deadly voice he said, "They have the baby." "What?" I said, and looked at the car seat he was lifting. It was empty. "Where is she?" "I'm telling you that they have her," he said. We ran across the street towards the house. As we did, the air crackled with static electricity, the landscape shimmered, and the house changed from a majestic monument to bygone architecture to a delapidated and broken-down old house. We burst into the front door. The nice elderly couple we thought we had met were ghosts flying around the room, screaming like banshees, daggers for teeth and trailing inky black smoke. The colonial man, eyes now glowing red, stood nearby and laughed maniacally. I whirled around, looking for any sign of Emerson, and saw the black couple lying dead in a heap on the floor near the front door, bloody and broken.

That's when I woke up, terrified.

A -

I hope you had a great time on your trip, and that you ate a ton of cheese in France. I hope you ate so much that you don't poop for a long time 'cause I just bet when you finally do poop you will think: "Whatever. French cheese is totally worth it."

Scott informed me that I owe you an apology, because I was unforgivably rude. At first I thought, “Apology? No way!” But when he put it like that I thought, “Oh,” and then, “God! Why do people let me be an asshole and then continue to speak to me?” So I am very, very sorry.

When I opened the envelope and found money – which you totally knew I would not accept and thus the ruse about the note embarrassing you – it was like the money sucked the goodness out of me. On the other hand, I would also like to compliment you and Will for not falling for my trick that you should drop back by my apt. to get the movie, because I was totally going to slip the money into the DVD case. So, well played, Bryant family. Well played, indeed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hi dear Stacey -

You shouldn't feel so bad. I knew you wouldn't take the money if I gave it to you
outright. Anyway, regardless of the money, you guys are doing us
such a huge favor. You still have your goodness!

I'd like to come by sometime to give back your camera and tell you all
about my trip. Thanks so much for letting me use that camera - I really loved it. Maybe I'll hang out at [restaurant name deleted] and see if I can snag one.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A -

Okay, I stole the camera from [completely different restaurant name deleted] and I was very, very (very) drunk. Apparently, Scott and I made out fabulously in this very public place. I am not sure, but I think at one point I ended up ON the bar. Even more for shame, it was not the first time I had ended up on top of the bar at this place. Whats-his-name in the [college class I T.A.'d] allegedly came in one night and witnessed my antics the very day before class started. I carried so much credibility that semester after he told everybody what a drunk hoochie I am.

Mom was giving us props for encouraging each other to go out with friends and to have “me” time: “It shows that you have trust in each other,” she said. I was like, “Please, it's not even possible for one of us to cheat. There’s no one in Augusta that either Scott or I have not dated. We’ve exhausted all of our options.”

Scott: Has Puff Daddy held his press conference to announce what his name will be next wee?
Me: Not yet.
Scott: I'm sorry; I mean P. Diddy.
Me: I think it's just Diddy now.
Scott: Not after the press conference. Maybe it will be Piddy.
Me: How about Piddle?
Scott: Yeah, yeah, mix it up a little bit.
Me: Then he can have a song like "Piddle on the dance floor, whatwhat!"
(laughs)
Scott: I can't compete with you.

I've read so much about illness in infants and toddlers that I impressed our pediatrician with my knowledge of childhood diseases, right down to statistics about their probablity. So last night when I saw the temperature readout of 103.8 on our fantastically expensive and amazingly accurate award-winning ear thermometer, I did what any well-informed mom does.

I totally freaked the hell out.

Crashing into the bedroom with Emerson in my arms, I smashed the lightswitch with my arm.
"Honey! The baby has a fever! Get up!"
Mmmmm? He mumbled from underneath the blanket.
"Scott! Emerson is sick. She has a temperature of 103. What should we do?"
I ran into the kitchen and then into the living room, a panic-lap without purpose. My head spun wildly while Emerson whined. I ended the lap in the bedroom, where she burst into tears.
"Gah! Honey?! Get up! She's sick!"

Back in the living room, we sat down on the couch and rocked back and forth as I held her and checked her temperature again. Scott stumbled in.
"104.2! Do you think we should we take her to the hospital?" I asked, tearfully.
"Well, yes!"
Another panic-lap around the apartment.
"Honey, what are you doing?"
What am I doing? WHAT am I doing? Pants. We need pants - on ourselves. We stuff ourselves into the car that we haven't cleaned out since Moses parted the Red Sea and all that sand and shipwreck debris flew in through the windows.

"Where's the emergency room?" he asked, driving frantically.
"Um, turn left here." Wrong.

We circled the hospital for a few very tense minutes until we found the pediatric ER. I sprinted in with the baby in my arms, but no one even blinked as I dashed up to the registration window with a bawling infant- in fact, the nurse actually waved me away.

"I'll call you in a minute," she said, and walked off to do something not even remotely related to curing my daughter of the terrible creeping death that was upon her. Whore. of. Babylon. Get your ass back here.

My daughter, screaming because her brain was surely boiling in her perfect little round head, wriggled in my arms and pushed her bottle away. I stood her on the floor while I searched for her pacifier and - amazing. Babbling and pointing at things around her, she toddled off across the room. Feverish and stumbling, she was still determined to continue her usual exploration and domination of her surroundings.

We spent nearly 5 hours in the ER, about 10 minutes of it with a doctor, who gave her Tylenol and sent us on our way: "She may get sicker and start throwing up or have diarrhea. Let us know if there's a change." I don't want to name the buttheads at the other hospital, but let's just call them Moronic Crappy Good-for-nothings.

The pediatrician saw on Monday and asked about the results of her bloodwork. "Bloodwork?" I asked.
"They did do bloodwork, didn't they?" he asked, as his eyes widened.
"No!" I said. "It was 45 minutes before the stupid nurse even took her name."
He shook his head, "Look, don't go back there. Go to University next time. That's where you had her, that's where I do neonatal rounds, and their pediatric ER is open until 2:30 a.m."

Ultimately, Emmie is fine, but we both have "something in the mono family." I didn't know mono had a whole family, but thanks for having the reunion at my house.

The only scholarship available to firefighters in the state of Georgia is the Augusta State University Firefighters Scholarship Fund. Open to current or volunteer firefighters, or the child of a current or volunteer firefighter, who is enrolled as an Augusta State University student, the scholarship provides tuition assistance unrestricted by major or minor, age, race, ethnicity, religion, national origin, or sexual orientation.

Please consider donating to this unique fund. Educated firefighters are better firefighters.

The founding year raised $6,000

The second year increased the amount to $10,000

Every year we increase the amount of the endowed fund, we increase the amount of the annual scholarship. Please give by contacting the Augusta State University Development Office:

Augusta State University
Office of Development
2500 Walton Way
Augusta, GA 30904
RE: Firefighter's Scholarship

Or call them at: 706-737-1759

Or give to the ASU Foundation on-line. Your money will not go directly to the firefighter's scholarship, but it will go to a great cause. The university's intense focus on teaching and community involvement is not often surpassed.

To:	El Primo Cheesemosto
Date:	Feb 26, 2006 6:03 PM
Subject:	RE: ALREADY FOUND A BAR. THANKS!!!!
Body:	You had to find a bar for an emergency photo shoot? Your life is so much cooler than mine. The last emergency I had was: "Scott! Where the hell did you put the diapers?!" Oh, no, wait: there was my leek-and-Gruyere emergency at the grocery store tonight. Can you believe I'm going to have to drive to Publix to get them? Oh, and the emergency of Must Order Harry Potter Now. Will there be enough copies?! Dear God what happened to my LIFE?!! Do you remember that I used to be cool? Or, at least some semblance of cool? Or, at least I ASPIRED to be cool? Maybe? Have I always been this domesticated? Am I mooing in my sleep and why has no one told me? At least I blog. Wait - is blogging cool? SEE?! I don't even KNOW anymore! Gah!

Ya'll, generally, I'm okay to be around... a little self-conscious in public, a lot obsessed with being a mom, and quite obnoxious with my nervous-talking thing during which, one day, I will find myself blurting out to "I just love wine, sex, rock music and porn!" in church or at a meeting of the Republican Party, and then I will add something like, "But never on Sunday," as though that makes it all better. Or true. Since I only like some of those things. Guess which.

If it were that day, I could just go to the nearest bar and drink the embarassment away. This is not that day.

This day served me a harsh warning of things to come.

There is nothing you can do to make this better for me, unless you are a lawyer willing to take an employment case pro bono, because this experience has left us reeling, financially, to the point where the fact that my husband smokes makes a huge difference in our solvency. The only thing that would make me feel better is if Jesus, himself, stopped by to tell me that he is proud of me for doing the right thing. Because, ya'll, I did. I did everything I was supposed to.

It was very After School Special. I had two choices:

1. The easy way, which is ignoring Big Wrongnesses and keeping silent though ethics, morals, and laws are being flouted;
2. and, the hard way, which is reporting Big Wrongnesses and possibly getting reamed for it.
   

I chose the hard way.

When I chose that path, I was afraid; but I felt that maybe the Universe has some kind of karmic insurance that protects people who live by ethics and morals. Note to Self: It does not. The Universe let that policy lapse.

That is what makes the Very Special Choice so hard (and not so special). I may know for the rest of my life that I did the right thing, the right way, and for all the right reasons; but I still have been the only person to suffer any consequences.

I know: savvy people ask: "What did you expect?" The answer is that I expected nothing.

And, in the end, that's what we're left with.

Ya'll! This is the most amazing invention EVER! I'm buying two of them: one to use, and one to keep just in case I do something stupid like knock the first one out of our second-story window.

http://www.automaticshowercleaner.com/

My apologies to the extremely nice Food and Beverage Manager for [name withheld], but his first name is "Landeau," and all I could think was "You sold out Han Solo to Darth Vader! Chewbacca is going to kill you!"

Emerson is snacking on apples and watching Barney. They're singing a song about colors that freaks me out for a moment.

Creepy Barneykids: "Yellow, it's the color of lemons and our wonderful sun, sun, sun.
Green, it's the color of cheese and of beautiful things that grow."
Me: "The color of cheese?!"

It was "trees."

Me: So how’s Sarah’s little boy, Owen?
Ginny: He’s the cutest baby in the world.
Me: Um, excuse me, my baby is the cutest baby in the world.
Ginny: I think Sarah might have something to say about that.
Me: Uh-oh, Cage Match! Two baby enter; one baby leave

My husband and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary just a few weeks ago. It’s been a very busy year - at times almost too stressful to handle, at others too blissful. I’ve enjoyed getting to know him on a more mundanely intimate way, and here are some things I’ve learned:
1. He never puts a new roll of toilet paper on the holder, or puts the seat down;
2. He can sleep through Armageddon;
3. If it isn’t permanently affixed to his body, he can lose it. The keys are never in the same place twice, and we have an ongoing argument that goes something like: “You had the bank card last;” “No, YOU had the bank card last.”

Case in point: his wedding ring. We didn’t spend a boatload on the wedding or rings because we had a baby on the way. Even so, everything associated with our marriage is sacred to me. Yet, a mere two months after, just at a year ago, he lost his wedding ring somewhere in the yard, the car, or possibly, in the house. We don’t know. He was washing the car, and then it was gone.

Several attempts have been made to find it. We’ve rearranged furniture, combed through the grass, and I’ve even tried to rent a metal detector (couldn’t find one) and carefully examined the contents of the vaccuum bag. We’ve come up with a big, fat nothing. Figuring he felt bad about it, I didn’t want to rag him about it, except for an occassional “Oh, out picking up chicks already, are you?” kind of joke. But it really bothered me. A lot. He seemed so nonchalant about it that I thought it didn’t really matter to him.

Today, though, he said to me, “If you want to get me a Christmas present, get me a new wedding ring.” It HAS been bothering him, especially when his co-workers questioned him about the legitimacy of our marriage. “She’s not REALLY your wife, is she?” “Yes! We did the whole wedding thing... we even had TWO preachers!” Still, he was greeted with skepticism. I was happy, even teared up, because he was unhappy about it - as weird as that sounds.

So we hug, and he laughs at me for being teary, and I laugh because it’s been bothering me, and a weight is lifted. As he carries the baby down to the car for me I think, “Maybe I should look for a metal detector again.” A glint catches my eye and I look down. Oh, a random piece of metal that fell off of something - the car, with our luck. That’s probably all we we’d find. Better to save the money and buy a new ring. Then, in the corner of my eye, another glint from a circular object imbedded in the ground.

“OH!” I cry, and start to dig it out with my keys. Scott looks down.
“You’re kidding me!”
“HA!” I hand it to him, triumphantly, and raise my arms in celebration. Touchdown!
He slips the ring on his finger and hugs me.
“You’re awesome.”

Yeah, that’s why you married me

Multitasking is a big part of my job. I have a desk full of equipment with cords that sometimes tangle together like a big pot of noodles: a telephone, fax machine, printer, laptop, and dictaphone. Today, I was trying to leave a message for a client...

“To leave a message, press 1,” said the voice on the mail.
I pressed 1 and waited. Nothing.
“To leave a message, press 1,” said the voice again.
I press 1 again, and waited. Nothing!
“To leave a message, press 1,” said the voice, with a just hint of smugness.
“I did,” I muttered under my breath, and pressed 1 for a third time.
“To leave a message-” Gah! I jabbed the 1 button with a ridiculous amount of force.
“To leave a mess-” “What the-” I pressed 1. Then 1,1,1,1,1 and, for good measure, 1.
“To leave a message...” I took the receiver from my ear and looked at it, seething, for some explanation, and reached forward to press 1...

...on my laptop

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.”

(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005

Forbes magazine didn’t even bother to rank Augusta in its annual study of the singles scenes in cities across the nation (Atlanta came in tenth). But 2000 U.S. Census data shows that from Thomson to Beech Island, single woman outnumbered single men by a ratio of 3:2. In addition to the already slim pickings, these numbers are quantitative, not qualitative. In other words, ladies, a good man is hard to find. Stop eyeing my husband. I married him for a reason.

Short of joining what one friend of mine called The Cynthia Nixon Revolution, what’s a girl to do to survive the dating war with a minimum of embedded shrapnel?

My advice: Know Your Enemy.

The Dittohead (aka The Angry Republican) – Happiest when he’s nodding along to Rush Limbaugh. Secretly believes that the Republican Party should be the only party and views disagreement as Anti-American. Favorite Movie: Anything where America kicks ass. Favorite Music: Toby Keith

The Band-Aid (aka Groupie) – Happiest when he’s “checking out this new band at the Earl.” Considers himself friends with area musicians who never remember his name. May write insipid song lyrics like “As I walk these dessert lands” (it’s “desert,” you moron). Favorite Movie: “Almost Famous” “Favorite Music: “I doubt you’ve heard of them.”

The Angry Democrat (aka Bushwacked) – Happiest when Bush says something stupid. Member of the ACLU, subscribes to Air America, owns more than one Al Franken book. Favorite Movie: “Fahrenheit 9/11” Favorite Music: U2

Mr. Intense (aka writer/poet/philosopher) –May encourage your creative efforts, a la John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Will be threatened if you’re better than he is. Favorite Movie: “Pollack” Favorite Music: “Imagine,” by John Lennon

The Zealot (aka The Causehead) – Passionately committed to saving whatever… for about a week. A vegetarian who cannot commit to the rigors of a vegan diet, he can’t commit to anything else, either. Favorite Movie: “Medicine Man” Favorite Music: Phish

The Coach (aka Mr. Glory Days) – Former athlete who never got over the time a major league scout came to watch him play. May ask you to act out his cheerleader fantasy. Favorite Movie: “Saturday Night Lights” Favorite Music: That song they play at football game where everybody yells “Charge!”

The Pastmaster (aka Mr. Back-in-the-Day) – Nothing in his life has ever been better than the stuff that happened in a four-year period of his life. Be it high school, college, or prison, nothing in the present can possibly compare with the past. Favorite Movie: “They don’t make good movies anymore.” Favorite Music: “They don’t make good music anymore”

The Trash Collector (aka The Hustler) – This guy has more porn in his closet than clothes. He prizes his collection of vintage Playboys. If he chooses to bring you out in public that means he thinks you’re hot. Cannot understand the concept of airbrushing. Favorite Movie: “Debbie Does Dallas.” Favorite Music: The theme from “Shaft.”

Dr. Pill (aka The Amateur Psychologist) – Uses his facile understanding of psychology to not so subtly put others down. Favorite Movie: “A Beautiful Mind” Favorite Music: Music is an expression of repressed sexuality. Is that a cigar you’re smoking?

The Gentleman Farmer (aka The Cowboy) – Envisions a quiet life of pastoral bliss. Loves apple pie. Drives a truck. Owns a big dog. Loves his mother. Favorite Movie: “Oklahoma!” Favorite Music: Tex Ritter

Tyrannosaurus X-Box (aka The Gamer) – Has a diaper bag for his game system. Won’t let you speak until he finishes this level. It’s your fault he didn’t get the golden key. Favorite Movie: “X-Men.” Favorite Music: “Soundtrack to Final Fantasy”

The Leech – He’s always broke, but he never buys anything. He may even have a job – but everything is your treat. He’s apologetic the first time. After that, he orders the lobster. Favorite Movie: “Office Space” Favorite Music: “Money” by the O’Jays

The Gearhead (aka Boy With Toys) – Guess what he’s compensating for. Favorite Movie: “2001: A Space Odyssey” Favorite Music: Anything currently playing on an Apple iPod commercial.

The Computer (aka Binary Disorder) – Is seriously considering having a USB port installed on the side of his head. Favorite Movie: “The Matrix” Favorite Music: Soundtrack to “Hackers”

The Brain (aka The Know-it-All) – Why do you even bother to question him? You can’t possibly know more than he does on any subject, not even feminine hygiene. Favorite Movie: “Real Genius” Favorite Music: Classical and obscure jazz

Quiz
Match These Men to Their Breakup Lines
1. “Oh, she’ll take the check.”
2. “I think the Nazi party had some good ideas.”
3. “I really think you need to find yourself before you can be with someone else.”
4. “You should really consider breast implants.”
5. “Man, back in the day…”
6. “I’m moving to Flint, Michigan, to campaign for Michael Moore.”
7. “You know how you wanted to spend more quality time together? Surprise! I signed you up for EverQuest!”
8. “Look, there are only 10 types of people in the world: those who understand binary code, and those who don’t.”
9. “I bought the new U2 iPod! Now I have one for every day of the week!”
10. “So we’re taking the van out to Burning Man next week. I’ll see you.”

Answers
1. The Leech
2. The Angry Republican
3. The Amateur Psychologist
4. The Trach Collector
5. The Pastmaster
6. The Angry Democrat
7. Tyrannosaurus X-Box
8. The Computer
9. The Gearhead
10. The Zealot

(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005

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.

(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the wood floor of our living room.
“It’s a penny,” my husband answered, unconcerned.
I sighed, picked it up off the floor, and put it in a can with its long-lost relatives. I confess: I’m a cheapskate. If there’s a penny, I pinch it. If there’s a dollar, I demand it from my husband’s wallet.
“What do you need it for?”
“I don’t know… Maybe I’ll get a newspaper later?”
Hmph. He can read it online for free.

There wasn’t a lot of money for extras when I was growing up. We wore off-brand clothes when Gloria Vanderbilt and Pumas were two of only seven or eight brands allowed. Other kids weren’t fooled.

“Kangaroos?” said another fifth-grader, incredulously. “Who wears Kangaroos?”

I did – Purple tennis shoes to match my purple faux Member’s Only jacket.
Although some people refuse to wear anything without one of a certain class of logo on their clothes, we feed, clothe, and furnish our family without credit cards on an income of you-can’t-imagine-how-little-freelance-writing-pays.

Scott is a heavy sleeper. No, you don’t understand. I would mistake Scott’s sleeping for a coma if it weren’t for the fact that he occassionally wakes me up to have confusing conversations at 4 a.m. Like, take the other night...