Momnesia

Emerson has hit the terrible twos much faster than I imagined. This morning, she asked for Sprite. Then she asked for a cup. It seemed like such a simple thing...

Emerson (running to the fridge as fast as her little bowlegged self can go and patting the door): pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry? pry?

Me (following with eyes still closed from sleepiness and hair all crazy): Oh, you want Sprite, sweetie?

Emerson: (nods frantically, as though the need for Sprite is so great that whiplash is but a small concern)

Me (yawning): Okay, beautiful.

(I pull out the 2-liter of Sprite)

Emerson: ( begins pointing to the cabinet): cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup?
Me: No, shit, honey. Alright, I'm getting the cup. cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup? cup?

I pour the Sprite into a cup and hand it to her. She knocks it out of my hand with a wail and runs out of the room in despair. I have no idea what I did wrong. She runs back in, still wailing. I offer the cup again. She wails louder and runs out of the kitchen again. This continues until I give up, put the entire apparatus back in the fridge and just go pee.

This does not sit well with my little dictator. She screams outside the door until I finish my bidness and open it again. I look down at her tear-stained face, red with fury, as she gasps and sniffles. She looks back up at me with serious eyes full of hope and says: pry?

Grrrrr.

"Hairy!" he says as he rubs his hand briskly over the fish-white skin of my legs.

"You should see my armpits," I mutter irritably.

"Why don't you shave them?" He is poking at the short hairs like a toddler discovering a bug on the sidewalk.

"What for?"

"It's sexy! Girls aren't supposed to have hairy legs."

"Says who?"

"Says the entire leg-shaving free world!" He is waving his arms, bouncing slightly in frustration and making it impossible to write.

"Really? Is that near Neverland?"

"Why is it such a big deal? Why don't you just shave them? I bet if you did it every day, it wouldn't take so long."

I can see he's pleased with this brightly volunteered constructive criticism, considering his approach to be the perfect blend of nonchalance, support and helpfulness.

I hate that. I start to contract him but he cuts me off.

"No! You should do-it-ev-ery-day." He slaps his palms together with each syllable, emphasizing his committment to my leg-shaving experience. Great. It merely serves to remind me of the constant drudgery to which I would be subjecting myself.

"In shaving, as in life, it is not the length of the hair that matters, but the surface area to be covered," I singsong in a faux philosophical tone. His eyebrow raises in amusement.

"As in life?!" he chuckles.

"Yes! Confuscious say: He who shave leg get cold leg."

"What's normal for sex? Try every night!"

"Hey, I have something that might interest you."
"I doubt it."

"New spiders are showing up."

"That's like where he goes when he's a bad boy."
"Oh, you have no idea."

"I think Corey should lose his shoe. I'm going to hide it."

"Your mother!"

"Oh, no. Zombies. Hey, look! Chocolate!"

"Michigan sucks!"

"Go away. We're talking about you."

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

(frantically) "Where is the bathroom?!"

(drunkenly) "You're so awesome."

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"It's green apple - it's kind of girly."
"Well, I'm a girl."

"What do you want to hear? Avette Brothers?"
(was there any choice?)

"I'm going to regret this tomorrow."

"Did you hear about the fart machine?"

"Has anyone seen my cigarettes? Anyone?!"

"And then there was the stabbing."

"You'd make a great hooker."

"Wait - why are we 'woo-ing?'"

"Grab her butt!"
"Um, I'm feeling kind of harassed right now."

"Get Andy to do it. He can't get in any trouble."

"You will never beat the goat."

"You're fake laughing. Don't fake laugh at me."
"Honey, everyone fake laughs."

"I'm all about the leather."

"Where did you get those scratches?"
"My dog."
"Oh! I thought you were into something freaky."

Circa 2000...

At 5 a.m., I am awakened by the certainty that we are not alone. Sensing my partner asleep beside me, I slowly open my eyes. A breeze brushes my face and then I look into the face of terror: the gaping maw of a giant, ferocious bat!

Wheeling around the room, it swoops and glides, circling the corners and hardly flapping its leathery wings.

I woke my partner because, as the female, I'm like that robot on "Lost in Space." I alert others to danger. I do not deal with it myself. Is the feminist within me ashamed of this? Hell, no. Not when there's a bat. As the male, it is my partner's duty to act upon the danger.

This was the source of some discussion. Apparently, my partner does not share my philosophy. But, feeling his manhood threatened, he crept from the bed and crawled in only his boxers across the floor to the bedroom door.

"Here, batty batty!" he called and I sniggered and peeked out from under the blankets. Lured, I'm sure, by my partner's siren-like call, the bat careened out of the door and my partner promptly slammed it. I sat up. Now what?

Now he goes back to bed. He crawled back in bed and started back to sleep as I stared at him incredulously. "May I remind you that there is a bat in the house?" I asked.

"Aw, it's out there."
"But what if it comes back in here?" There was a odd, unattractive and uncomfortable 3-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet. Sighing irritably, he flung off the blanket and trudged across the room. He locked the door. Genius!

"Oh, so much better," I muttered and barricaded myself with the comforter. "That'll show him."

So one of the editors, the high school intern (who we love, and who sometimes babysits for us), and I are discussing my zombie evacuation plan. I've drawn a diagram that is lacking only in X's and O's to move around - in sheer panic, of course. That's how people move around in my plan, with the much running and shrieking.

"That's a very elaborate plan," Editor says.

"I know." But I am chagrined. There are fences in the way of two of our escape routes.

"I don't think you've thought it out well enough," Intern says. "What about vampires?"

"Oh. I'll just have my husband breathe his garlic breath on them," I snicker, and they laugh with me. Boss Ron shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He's been riding my ass all day long, and even though I've not taken a break for lunch, he would rather see me bleeding from my eyes than cease my incessant writing. Lots of writing. Serious writing. My pinky is cramping. See? Ouch.

Intern takes the legal pad away from me: "Here. I'll make a list."

Editor and I whisper back and forth like adolescent about how Ron is getting our nerves. We're annoyingly high school about it, but it's deliciously evil fun. Intern gives the legal pad back with the list of things I must prepare for:

• Vampires
• Mummies
• The Blob
• Ron

I hold the pad up for Editor to see and we burst into laughter.

"I think Intern gets a bonus the next time she babysits," I crow.
Editor laughs: "I think so!"

AND the number four prostitute in all of Kazakhstan.

It doesn't matter if you believe in ghosts. At midnight in a cemetery in the middle of Nowhere, S.C., shadows, breezes and soft sounds take on supernatural shape.

The woods are pockmarked with tombstones. It’s so dark I can see galaxies whirling overhead. I trip over graves. A vision of mummified hands reaching out of the ground overwhelms me. Perhaps they shouldn’t have sent the only reporter with a zombie evacuation plan, although, to be honest, the plan involves mostly running and shrieking.

Yet my guide is calm.

"We’re here to debunk this," declares Ginger Yarbrough, organizer of Georgia Ghost Hunters. "We rule out all the man-made and natural explanations first before we try to say there’s spirits."

Ginger and seven other members have brought me to a 200-year-old Huguenot graveyard an hour from Augusta, down a one-lane dirt path through a thick forest where trees bend like frightful fingers reaching for prey.

This group doesn’t look for the paranormal. They look for the normal. If lights in a home flicker, they blame the tree branch or a power line. They check for vermin, leaky pipes, gaps in insulation and other earthly explanations for unearthly sensations.

In the graveyard, the ghost hunters set up candles to provide a little light plus video cameras and voice recorders to document the hunt. They calibrate EMF meters to detect the presence of electromagnetic fields, infrared thermometers to spot temperature differentials and tri-field meters to detect magnetic fields, electrical fields and microwave emissions. When manmade and natural causes have been eliminated, Ginger says, it is generally believed that ghosts generate these fields and temperature changes.

"The most common energy form that a ghost uses is simple heat," Ginger says. "A ghost will absorb heat to help it manifest, which is why people feel cold when a ghost passes them."

These are true believers. Ginger is completing a certification from the Stratford Career Institute in parapsychology and astrology. She and her mother have seen enough unusual phenomena in their lives to scare legions of schoolchildren. They’ve been hunting ghosts for three years, in public and for private homeowners.

"But we keep all private investigations discrete — their name is kept under lock and key, so to speak. We are completely non-profit and do not charge fees for our service as we are trying to collect all the data we can," she says.

They hunt to find legitimate hauntings, in small part to convert the unfaithful. She’s looking for the real deal, because she believes she’s experienced it. "I want the evidence to put it up on the table and say, ‘Look. You cannot disprove this."

Leon Wilkes, a group member who is in the military, tells a story about a house in Iraq that spooked his entire troop of hardened soldiers. Almost everyone in the group has a story about a supernatural experience. I’m just not so sure. I’d like to believe it’s possible to communicate with the souls of departed loved ones — hi, Grandma! — but I’ve never encountered anything of the kind.

"The paranormal is a touchy subject and most people are afraid to do anything about it because they think they may be humiliated," Ginger said later.

That doesn’t stop me from nearly wetting myself when the EMF meter in my hand goes off. Everyone in the group turns to stare at me as I freeze. I put the sensor out again and it lights up. I prepare to activate my zombie evacuation plan.

"Is there anyone here who would like to communicate with us?" Ginger asks the forest while I fight the urge to run and shriek. After a disappointing silence and several tests, we determine I had moved the sensor too rapidly, which gave a false positive.

"That’s why it’s important to look at it from a scientific perspective," Ginger says. "You have to debunk it first."

Leon, in a fearless — and, I think, foolish — stab at making this trip worthwhile, begins to taunt the spirits of the dead who lay in these woods.

"I think you’re too chicken to come out," he calls. "I don’t believe you even exist."

He walks out of the walled burial ground, continuing his tirade, and Ginger and Lisa Barret stay where he began. Ginger thinks she heard a noise nearby, like change rattling in a pocket. Inexplicably, a vine slaps Lisa in the face, and Ginger’s camera picks up red and white streaks in the forest, something she calls a vortex, a strand of light. She thinks it’s a portal through which ghosts travel, though other ghost hunters say it could be individual spirits moving or an "orb."

My camera captures a picture of what the group says is a flaming orb, the best they’ve ever seen. It’s a round spot in the darkness, visible only on my digital camera. Some people say it’s energy. Some say it’s a small ghost.

Just then, Leon calls that a shadowy figure peeked at him from among the trees.

"He wants to come out and play, now," Leon says. I really hope not.

Immune to my protests, the group enthusiastically agrees to go down to the nearby lake. As we descend the hill, the temperature plunges from a chilly 52 to near freezing. I’m shivering in a T-shirt and sweater, more immediately frightened of chiggers and poison ivy than spectral beings, and I see unmistakable beaver activity. We crunch down the hillside toward it, every footstep a beacon for beavers and bears and who knows what all else. Are there bear zombies? Oh, god. I bet there are.

It’s, rather appropriately, a dead lake — a lake that held water in the past but is now merely an overgrown basin, choked with weeds, scrub and fallen trees. Leon continues to harangue those who previously rested in peace as he and Ginger start across the edge of the basin. I see lights twinkling just above the grass near the middle. Right. I’ll just wait here.

Time creeps as I watch my breath rise as a mist in front of me. It’s something Ginger pointed out that they try to avoid when photographing phenomena. Even the clothes of someone who has just smoked a cigarette may contaminate visual evidence.

Then someone in the lake yelps.

"That [expletive] just growled at me," Leon calls as the trio tromps back through the overgrowth. Leon is shivering violently in his autumn jacket.

"Feel him!" Ginger says. "He’s ice cold!"

He is. While Ginger, clad only in a T-shirt and jeans, is still warm to the touch, Leon feels
frozen. They claim to have heard a growl just before the temperature around Leon dropped aggressively.

I look out over the rustling grasses. The lights I had seen are gone.

Although none of the equipment registered abnormal readings, the members are convinced of a spiritual presence, in this case, an "intelligent haunting."

It’s one of the different types of ghosts and hauntings that the Georgia Ghost Hunters categorize.

"No one knows for sure why they are here with us," Ginger said. "And there is no reason to be afraid of them because usually they have the same emotions and personalities they had when they were alive. They are around us all the time."

In that case, I have to revise my zombie evacuation plan.















<------- "Flaming Orb" the original shot (above) and pulled out in close-up (left).

Pristine white cribs stand empty and waiting in quiet rooms painted a soothing azure at in this old building. Yellow ducks adorn a bathroom that has never cleaned chubby cheeks. A walk-in closet stocks Huggies diapers and wipes, Johnson’s Baby Shampoo and row after row of tiny little outfits alongside adult-sized pants and shirts.

Renovations to the Garden City Rescue Mission’s homeless shelter for women and children are 95 percent complete. The paint is dry and the beds that have been donated so far sit assembled and awaiting sleepy little heads. But more is needed. The Fenwick Street homeless shelter renovated the second floor of its building to house up to 50 families, but cannot help them until it is able raise $20,000 to install two fire escapes. In the meantime, mothers with young children may be literally left out in the cold.

"The sad fact is that sometimes they’re stuffed in the backseat of their car, or wherever," Sharpe said. "There’s really no place other than the Salvation Army for them to go and if you talk to them they’ll tell you they’re overrun and they can’t keep up with the demand."

In a push to finish before a potentially lethal cold snap, the Garden City Rescue Mission will hold a Fall Fish Fry on Oct. 7 at Victory Baptist Church in Belvedere, sponsored by Dye’s Southern Catering.

"There’s going to be a lot of hauling children around," Sharpe said. "It’s going to cost a lot to run."

Sharpe estimates that 15 to 20 bunk beds and 15 additional twin beds will just cover their sleeping quarters, but to help these ladies get back on their feet, they’ll need mini vans, car seats and operating expenses to help mothers find jobs, visit pediatricians and attend church. Already they are feeling the pinch. The shelter’s electricity bill has already jumped $800 a month, and Sharpe expects the center’s other utilities to double.

Sharpe’s mother, Susie, and her husband left good jobs with health insurance behind in Florida to come up and work with their soon on his ministry. It’s the children that break her heart. She tells a story of a woman so poor that her children had never owned a book or a toy.

"They didn’t even have an old dirty truck to push in the dirt," she said. "These children had never been read a Bible story or a bedtime story."

When she agreed to come up, she insisted on a playroom for the children, and it is almost done. VeggieTails toys sit in their boxes and children’s books yearn for sticky fingers to turn their pages. The playroom is Susie’s baby. It waits for other babies to fill it with laughter, and there will be no shortage. Families with children are the fastest growing segment of the homeless population – 33 percent of the homeless, according to the U.S. Conference of Mayors, and domestic violence accounts for half of that.

Tile and new carpet were lain by one of the gentlemen currently housed in the men’s shelter on the bottom floor of the facility. Many of the men who live in the shelter are skilled workers, the "working homeless," who comprise 15 percent of the homeless population. Some of them have been through painful divorces. Others have had a run of bad luck.

Their stories are not too much different than the American story. As the availability of affordable housing declines, shelter becomes harder to maintain. One estimate by the Federal Housing Authority states that one quarter of American workers are a single paycheck away from financial disaster.

Travis used all of his creativity and connections to complete the work, calling upon skilled friends and family members and guest preaching at churches around the southeast. He has been largely successful - one North Carolina congregation cut him a check before the services were even over on the day he gave his sermon. The mission has paid for work as the project progressed, instead of going into debt, and volunteers donated time, materials and labor, to complete most of the work.

But work remains, and that’s what makes the fish fry so important. The menu will include catfish filets, freedom fries, cole slaw, hush puppies, grits and banana pudding, all catered by Dye’s Southern Catering. There is no per-plate charge to eat the fresh, fabulous fish, but donations will be accepted during the dinner.

"We’ve had people use the fish fry as an excuse to give significant donations - $500, $1,000," Sharpe said.

But if you can’t attend the fish fry and still want to help, the mission has an ongoing need for every day items like crib sheets and baby blankets, toiletries, cleaning supplies, dry goods, furniture – and, of course, cash and manpower.

"Think about running a shelter of this type," Susie said. "You need someone here 24 hours a day."

The Garden City Rescue Mission is located at 828 Fenwick St. in downtown Augusta, GA. Call 706-724-6960 or visit gardencityrescuemission.com. Help by donating items or services for women and children. Donate cash, too. It's really, really important. Even $5 makes a difference.

As I've discussed here before, Scott talks in his sleep. I like to know what he's thinking about in his sleep, so I can rarely resist questioning him. Last night, he got his revenge when I came back to bed at 3 a.m. after dealing with Emerson for an hour.

"mmwabba ... is goo for the community," he mumbled.
Huh?
"What did you say, honey?" I whispered.
"I said it would be good for the community," he said, a little more clearly.
"What would?"
"Hold on," he said.

...
...

[[farrrrt]]

"Is that what you wanted to say?!"
"MMmmm. Yep."

I won a very special honor today, one that I was not expecting.

"It's official," Scott told me today. "I'm being submitted for the Edward R. Murrow Award."
"That's awesome!" I said. "That reminds me: I meant to tell you that I won something already!"
His mouth opened and his eyebrows raised in surprised delight. "What?"
"I entered the Paul Newman's Own recipe contest and I won third place!"
"Wow, honey, that's great!"
"Yes!" I laughed, pulling out my prize. "I am one of only 100 people in the continental United States to win this flexible cutting board!"

Boo-yah!
In your face, jealous bitches!

A co-worker and I are discussing our employer.

Me: So that’s my new nickname for him: Frankenboss.
Co-worker: Yeah, you know, he kind of embodies many of the characteristics of all the classic monsters. (He ticks them off on his fingers as he goes) Vampire sucks the life out of you. Frankenstein was a clodhopping idiot. Wolfman can change, and mummy, well, again, he was an idiot.
Me: (huge laugh). Clodhopping. I didn’t know that could be a verb.

It's Wednesday, and no one can leave for lunch while we're on deadline. So our fearless leader springs for hot dogs from the cart outside. C., our most recent writer to be hired, walks past four of us with a Brat stuffed full of all the fixings.

"Man, that's a big weiner!" P. exclaims.
Three of us burst into appreciative laughter.
"What the hell?" C. says, grinning.
"That's... That's not what I meant," she says, sheepishly.

I am completely pissed at myself for allowing my blog to devolve into "Look what I ate!" Yet my life has been like this:
midnight: baby wakes up screaming
2 a.m.: back to bed
5 a.m.: baby wakes up screaming. Run into open door of the armoir.
5:45 a.m.: back to bed
6:30 a.m.: alarm goes off. Hit snooze.
7:30 a.m.: Crap! Crap! Crap! I overslept!
8:45 a.m.: Act like it is totally fine that I am 15 minutes late.
9 a.m.: First insult from boss hits me in the face. Resolve to duck next time. Promptly forget resolution. Repeat all day long while fielding an overwhelming amount of special project, freelance writing and editing requests while trying to complete my regular assignments. Give them the Crazy Eyes.
5:30 p.m.: Race out the door to get Emerson from day care.
6:30 p.m.: Get home (if I'm lucky).
7 p.m.: Feed Emerson and play with her until...
8:30 p.m.: Emerson to bed.
9 p.m.: Try to have a conversation with my husband while working working working.
2 a.m.: Fall into bed exhausted.

So what I have for lunch, my point being, is the most exciting part of my day.

We were in Atlanta from Sat - Mon. Sorry that we missed you! It was Scott's birthday, and our second anniversary, and we dropped the baby with my parents and went driving around Atlanta, laughing like maniacs at our freedom and cursing the much lostedness that befell us.

I learned something: many many things have moved while I have been gone, including roads. I don't know why they do that to me, and force me to take a wrong turn on Monroe and end up completely not at Piedmont Park, nor on my way back to Va-Hi. It is simply wrong. They could at least fax a memo. Oh, and also? That turn at Piedmont and 14th Street? Yeah. I am hating it so badly right now that the pavement has cracked.

Anyway, if you get a chance, please go eat at Sweet Devil Moon at 10th and Piedmont diagonally across from the Flying Biscuit. I was so sad when my tummy was full and we had to leave. The waiter did not understand what it means to come back to Augusta, the culinary landscape of which has long been overrun by chicken wings (admittedly in more than 50 flavors, and yet... no), where there is no Peruvian tapas bar with the yummy yummy black beans hummus and ceviche to die for.

And also, where the vegetarians among us are sickly and sad because there are only potatoes and salad to eat. Oh, and did I mention that I stopped eating meat? Well, I still eat fish. But I am remembering now why I gave up trying not to eat meat. It's almost entirely unavoidable here. It's like you can't own a restaurant unless the Cattleman's Assocation approves it. I'm telling you, they issue everyone a T-Bone at the county line.

I am eating a sandwich from New Moon Cafe, out of which I expected a better vegetarian option. Grilled veggies and cheese - hard to mess up! Unless you are a restaurant so new that you do not yet have: a credit card machine, bags, to-go cups, straws, trained employees or phones that work better than cellphone reception in Siberia. This sandwch tastes like two onions had a party, got too drunk to know better, had unprotected sex, and then had little onion babies on my damn sandwich. Plus, it's dry. I said "no mayo," not "remove all moisture from the earth's atmosphere and hide it away while the dough is baking, resulting in bread that resembles a slice of baked mud."

Geez. $6 for this.

Meh. The hummus is decent, and the bagel chips are great.

So the editor of the parenting publication was talking to one of the advertising people. It seems that there is a discussion about whether or not certain terminology should be used to describe body parts to children. The former parenting editor was a stickler for using proper words for genitalia, and the current editor doesn't agree and uses a pseudonym for someone's "lady business."

"Well, my grandma used to call it her pocketbook," the ad rep said. "And she used to tell us, 'Never let anybody go in your pocketbook.'"

I can only imagine the confusing conversations in that house when she was looking for her keys.

When I think back upon my parents' activities when I was growing up, there are a few constants: books, books, books, crossword puzzles, and popcorn. I swear, for the first five years of my life I thought my parents' heads were made of paper. They were always reading something: newspapers, books, magazines, you name it, and there was popcorn just about every night. There still is. You can set your watch by the ding! of the microwave oven going off on my father's nightly bag of popcorn.

In fact, my recognition that appliances don't come as wallpaper in a home was the addition of an air-popper that my parents bought. It was in the years before microwave popcorn, and it was a noisy behemouth of a machine that took up a lot of counterspace but had this little grate at the top into which you put a pat of butter that would slowly melt and drip over the popcorn as it popped. A fan at the bottom blew the popcorn throught a spout into a waiting bowl.

Damn, we loved that thing. If we were playing in our rooms, and heard the takkatikkatakkatikkatakkatikkatakkatikkatakkatikka of kernals falling into the metal bottom of the machine, we'd come running for our smaller bowlsful. And also, to make sure that they didn't put too much butter. Cholesterol has never been a concern for Dad.

We muched it, lying on the carpet in front of the TV, enjoying Special Network Presentations of "My Fair Lady," "The Sound of Music," "Gone With the Wind," "Mary Poppins," "Barefoot in the Park," and "The Wizard of Oz." This was, of course, before HBO, VCRs, video rental stores, DVDs, Netflix, and, finally, YouTube. It was still the heyday of the movie theatre, and these presentations were a total treat. Sunday nights it was the Disney presentation of the week, Friday nights brought "The Muppet Show," but most of the time it was movies we waited for. Lots of them were in black and white, such as "To Kill a Mockingbird," "National Velvet," and "It's a Wonderful Life."

Last night, the Imperial Theatre unveiled its new marquee. At a cost of $250,000, it didn't come cheap, but it was specially designed to look like the theatre's original facade, but with an incredible high-tech twist. All-in-all, it is a fantastic addition, and we wanted to be there for the unveiling.

Outside, there were Model T's and other antique cars lined up along the street, which had been closed off for the evening. A crowd gathered outside, and mayor Deke Copenhaver gave a lovely speech. Emerson goggled at everything from her stroller as Scott moved around the crowd, interviewing folks for WGAC news. After the crowd counted down from 10, the curtains dropped and the marquee flashed on and - oh, it was perfectly beautiful. Everyone admired and applauded the effort, then streamed inside for the festivities.

Polite and smiling young ladies with "cigarette girl" boxes around their necks greeted us with boxes of free popcorn, and sodas were complimentary at the cash bar. Inside, silent films from Charlie Chaplin, the first performer to ever grace the Imperial's stage, played while an organist rocked the Wurlitzer. We met and chatted with dozens of people we knew - friends and family, commissioners and candidates, media and PR, and just plain folks. We wrapped purple and green glowsticks around Emerson's ankles and I wheeled her stroller down closer to the front of the theatre so that she could see the screen.

She was entranced. She sat with her popcorn box in her lap, stuffing her face and refusing to share with me (she pulled the box away and squealed "NO!" every time I tried to take a few kernals), utterly engrossed in Chaplin's many failed attempts to get his drunk self up some stairs to bed. I watched her, watching the screen, and shot sapphire bullets of pure love at her (I'd have hugged her but she'd have thought I was trying to get her popcorn). I reveled in the hometown feel of the whole event and then realized what Emerson reminded me of.

Kicked back in her chair, goggling at black and white movies, hoarding popcorn, she looked totally like my dad.

And that is awesome.

This man has never heard of sexual harassment laws, and now he has defiled one of our editors' cell phone. And also, he was doing this while one of our reporters was attempting to conduct an interview. You can hear her at the end say, "I'm trying to talk to someone!"

The newest craziness? Scott wants to BUY A BOAT.

Apparently his uncle, who lives on the lake, something something I wasn't listening and it will be less than $1,000 total. I'd rather pay off the damn car first, we only have a couple grand left, but he's all into this idea.

I just don't think he's going to use it as much as he thinks he is by himself. He was arguing that he could go fishing and we could eat the fish, and the boat would pay for itself in fish savings! Isn't that amazing!

No. It's not. It's a boat.

Scott and Chris have vowed to use it all the time, and his grandfather, and yeah, right. All I know is this: IF (big if) we decide to buy this fiberglass vessel to hell, Emerson is not going near it.

One of the nice places about where I work is that almost everyone has a great sense of humor (those who don't generally keep their mouths shut), and we delight in making each other laugh. So when I saw a remote-controlled whoopee cushion at the drugstore, I knew we could put it to good use.

My partner-in-crime taped it under the publisher's chair with packing tape before she left work last night. We had a meeting scheduled with him at 10 a.m., and about 15 minutes into it, a soft "plffffsssss" drifted up from behind him. One of the editors, sitting on my left, covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. One of the designers, sitting on my right, chortled. He stopped and looked at us.
"What?" he asked.
"Ffffffffllllllllllltttt..."
I couldn't hold it in anymore. I covered my face with my spreadsheet and laughed out loud. My two-coworkers were already ahead of me.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked, grin askew.
"PLLLLFFFT! PLLFT! PLFT! Plllffff...."
The editor is crying now, I'm holding my stomach, and the ad assistant and another designer, who are across the room with the remote, have joined into the laughter. His face turns a little red, but he laughs out loud.
"What do you guys think, that I'm sitting here farting?"
We erupt in rolling laughter as they set it off again.
"Where is that coming from?!"
He looks under his desk. As he bends over, they set it off again. He quickly stands up.
"Y'all are so juvenile!" he laughs.
We laugh even harder. My stomach hurts and he's right. It is juvenile. It's also damn funny. He looks under the desk again, and around it, as disgusting noises follow him. He spins his chair around, and sits back down, grinning. They set it off again, and he leaps up and turns his chair over.
"God, you taped it to my chair?! You guys are so stupid!"
He struggles to remove it while they keep up a constant strain of noises I haven't heard since summer camp. When he does, he turns it over in his hands, examining it. He flicks the off button and I pick it up and push the button one last time.
"I just turned it off!"
"No, that was just for the remote."
"There's a remote?!"

Yes. And it will be used much more in the future.

Candle Lantern Fort Tour, Oct. 21 at Fort McAllister Historic Park. Relive the sights and sounds of the Civil War and the fort's history by candlelight.

Relive? Like, your childhood? How old are you people who work for the state park system?

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