Momnesia

It's Friday and that means my trash can is full. See all of the styrofoam food boxes? That's because I'm an environmentalist. And a health nut. Because there's a Diet Coke on top. And that pretty much sums up my nutrition.

It's cold in the office. Alice is wearing my mittens and we're all wearing sweaters. I wish I had on an extra pair of socks. Scientists say that one of the reasons that people are so fat these days is because of air conditioning. If that's true, we should be hippos by the end of winter. Sorry, Alice: your diligent fitness routine is all for naught.

This is one of my favorite stories to tell, because it is so absurd, and yet, 100 percent true.

When I was 24-year-old, I was driving from Milledgeville, Ga., to Athens, Ga. It was 7:45 a.m., and I was hoping desperately that I would not be late, as I had to be at work at 8:30 a.m. in Watkinsville, Ga.

At 7:45 a.m. in middle Georgia, I pretty much had the roads to myself. Every once in a while the stretch of fields, hay bales and forest would give away to a trio or quartet of driveways that wandered back into the treeline. It was rare to be able to see one of the houses from the road, but mailboxes marked these largely dirt tracks as driveways.

I came upon one of these strips and saw from afar that one of the mailboxes had been painted like a cow, and a plastic flamingo had been stuck in the ground next to it. "Oh, great," I thought. "Kitschy crap in the middle of the rural South. Could it be more cliche?" And then, as I drove closer, the flamingo turned it head. It was a real flamingo in the middle of nowhere, Georgia. Shocked, I punched the accelorator accidentally, just as the flamingo spread its wings and began to take flight... right into my car. Had I not sped up, the bird might have escaped the death trap hurtling towards him-or-her at 70 miles an hour. But I did. And pink feathers exploded in the air around me. I screamed as a loud thud vibrated through the car. Swerving too late to avoid the collision, I careened into a shallow ditch while the air settled and the Escort I was driving ground to a halt.

I don't know what the bird was doing in the middle of farmland, the closest zoo two hours away in Atlanta. I don't know why it kamikazied my car. And I don't know what happened to its head. I only know that I was so very happy that a self-service car wash sat on the main drag in Sparta, Georgia. Because I had a lot of bird guts to wash off my car.

And I was definitely late to work.

Yes, sports fans, I meant 100, not 1000. It's been a nutty day already.

First, this morning, as I was rushing through my shower, I knocked myself over. I didn't slip and fall. I was washing my face frantically, because I had to get the baby into school early, when somehow I hooked my finger up my nose and knocked myself over onto my ass in the bathtub. I laid there for a few seconds, amazed, while the showerhead poured water down onto my face. Then, uninjured, I just got back up and finished the shower. But I have a little soreness in my tushy right now.



Then, as I was driving to work, I continued my coughing that I've enjoyed for about a month now. Up came a lovely glob of mucus, and me without my hanky! Heaven forbid. So I slowed the car to a crawl, opened the driver's side door, and hocked it onto the pavement. Except that I missed. I missed the ground. What is it that Douglas Adams said? Learning to fly is just learning to throw yourself at the ground and miss? Anyway, my loogee didn't fly. I splatted onto the car door. Awesome. I had to scrape it off with the outside of a billing envelope.

"Hey, A., what's the number for Sector 7G?" I asked our copy editor.
"I don't think they even have one," she replied. "They're too punk for that."
"Well, I realize how bourgeois that is, and all, but how do you call them?"
"I just use their myspace page," she said.
I think that is ridiculous. So I call directory assistance.
"HA!" I cry, in triumph.
"What, they have a number?" she asks in amazement.
"Yep. But they probably never answer it. I bet their answering machine message is 'London Calling.'"

Sorry about the unoriginality. But this made me laugh: Rob is a commercial saturation diver for Global Divers in Louisiana. He performs underwater repairs on offshore drilling rigs. Below is an E-mail he sent to his sister.

I love writing about art. Every story I write has the potential to help a starving artist to eat a little better. At least, that's what I tell myself; but I rarely see evidence of that. Until today. This story I wrote featured Broadstrokes Gallery's Share Your Heart With Art event tonight from 5-8 p.m. It's about how art is a gift more precious than jewelry. It was schmaltz, a poorly disguised plea for people to appreciate our local arts community and to support them financially. But, apparently, it worked. Owner Lillie Morris called to tell me that someone she had once worked with called and said, "Pick out something of yours that's red and here's my credit card number." I am so happy for Lillie. And, to be honest, that is the most wonderful thing that can happen to a journalist: to have a positive response from an article you have written. I hope that everyone resoinds to the many pleas to support the arts community this way. Let's face it: money makes the potter's wheel go 'round.

Here are some of the beautiful pieces at Lillie's gallery - of course, a photograph of a painting does it no justice:

Match the staff member to their juvenile delinquency.

Which staffer:
1. Used to skip school and go to “museums and the state capital?"
2. Used to skip school to sneak into school at a nearby university and listen to lectures?
3. Used to skip school and head into Harvard Square?
4. Used to raid a friend’s grandmother’s liquor cabinet and play Frisbee golf?
5. Used to skip school to:



Choices:
A. R.D.
B. S.H.
C. E.B.
D. A.C.
E. J.W.

Did you guess correctly? I'll never tell!

Everyone who has ever met me knows what an irrational and immature fear I have of insects, and spiders, and anything with an exoskeleton... and also slugs. I recognize that they don't have exoskeletons, but I still include them in the "bug" category. I mean, once I ate some escargot, trying to be sophisticated and all, at the now-defunct Le Cafe du Teau. And escargot, as we all know, are snails, and snails are nothing but slugs with shells. But then you take the shells off to eat them, so they're just slugs again... and excuse me while I go vomit.

But, anway, because this is the South, where the predominant lifeform is not human but Palmetto Bug, every once in a while something brown and chitinous will divebomb your head. It's just what happens and most people learn to deal with it by about age 12.

Not me. I have been running and screaming from tiny little terrorists since the day I could crawl. I've been screaming since the day I was born. So imagine how delightful it is to be stuck in a situation where I can neither scream, nor run, nor do much at all to get away from the weensy little wonders whose very presence can make me shudder to death (touching one gives me an instant heart attack). Today, in the middle of a bathroom break, I saw something out of the corner of my eye: a spider! On my scarf!

To put it delicately, getting up simply was not an option. I am proud that I kept the presence of mind to remember that, because normally in that situation there would be running, screaming and flailing. And that, my friends, would have been messy.

My heart beating like conga drums, I froze and reached for a wad of toilet paper. And then the spider moved! Ohgoditwasgoingtoeatmyface!

But it wasn't. I was safe. Because there was no spider. There was only a fuzzy thing on my scarf.

I think everyone I work with - or, at least, the women who use that bathroom - can appreciate the bullet that they dodged when I realized that. Because I wasn't quite "finished."

"Can I change 'Bravo Network' to 'Food Network?'" A. asks.
"Why? Wasn't 'Top Chef' on Bravo?" I ask, concerned that I might have gotten something wrong.
"No, I think it was on 'Food Network,'" she replied.
"I swear it was 'Bravo,'" I insist, because I don't even have cable and all, so I must know so much more than she does. Right.
"'Top Chef' was on 'Bravo,'" E. says.
"Ha! Suck on that, A.!" I crow. She is unfazed.
"No one will be sucking on anything."

"Does anybody know where C. went?" T. asks
"Yeah," I reply. "He ran out screaming and saying he couldn't take it anymore. And crying. There was a lot of crying."
(general laughter)
"That C. always crying," A. said. "Pansy-ass C."

The horoscope people just won't let up. Another one came into the office today and said that she doesn't read the (free!) paper since we took out the horoscopes. I didn't realize it was such a dealbreaker for some people. Still, the readership survey showed that very few people read them. But this vocal minority makes it seem like the paper is a mere shell built around the half-page we had previously dedicated to the petty prognostications. I love alliteration, even if it does come off as cheap.

I'm getting more of the Elixer of Life (Diet Coke, breakfast of champions) from the fridge at work when J. comes in.
"We need a new coffee maker now, don't we? Now that we have a big-boy refrigerator," I comment as J. pours himself a cup.
"Yeah, it's been in a bad shape for a long time," he says.
"We should take up a collection. I don't even drink coffee, but I'll throw in some money, just to keep from cleaning up the mess it leaves," I say.
"You're a writer and you don't drink coffee?" he says, in mock horror.
"I know. It's unamerican," I chuckle. "I tried when I was younger, but I pretty much was drinking cream and sugar with a little bit of coffee flavoring - and I still didn't like it."
"Yeah, I drink a coffee milkshake," he said. "But I thought all writers, graphic designers and photographers had to drink coffee," he grins.
"No, that's a graduation requirement that Augusta State waived just for me," I say.
"Well, I'm a musician and I don't drink," he says as we make our way back to the office.
"Me neither," I say. "I guess that means we'll live long and boring lives."

A RCSD was telling stories from work yesterday:
"I got a call to respond to a domestic dispute once. After so many years, you know, you get used to saying, 'Oh, I'm responding to a domestic,' and just cruising along. When I got there, I found a woman on her front lawn who'd been stabbed 17 times. You'd think the dispatcher could have relayed that information to me."

Yes, that seems fairly important.

Sing that headline to the tune of Winger's horrible hit (oh, yeah, Kelli, I said it. Cry over your boyfriend to someone else).

This chick cracks me up. And she's only 17. But she'll show you snarkiness like you've never seen... Anyhoodle... methinks she will be giving the college boys a serious run for their money. I hope they appreciate her like she deserves.

"February 8-14 (oh god I do not like Valentine’s Day...I don’t care if I’m single or not - it was clearly a holiday created to ensure that middle-aged men will buy their estranged wives diamonds and overpriced flowers once a year. Every time a guy gives me chocolates I’m like, "Thanks, you ass. Now I have to go to the gym for an extra FIFTEEN HOURS." This is because, if chocolate is put in front of me, I will eat it. This is a prime example of the random musings I earlier warned you about."

By the way, an older (hopefully wiser and less permed) Winger put out a new CD last year.

I kind of went on a Winger kick, there, but I hope the anti-Valentine's Day sentiment is not lost on everyone.

"Hey, look at this headline: How to plan your perfect trip to Amsterdam," I said. "One: pack a bong. Two: pack a suitcase. But let's get our priorities straight, people. Pack the bong first."

"A friend of mine when to Amsterdam for a week and was staying in this hotel," A said. "He didn't find out until later that it was a gay-friendly man's hotel. He said, 'I just thought they were really nice and everything had rainbows on it.'"

Emerson turned two on Sunday. We started celebrating on Saturday at my mom's house (a.k.a., "Branny" as Emerson calls her) with my nephews Jacob (9 years old) and Jackson (2.5 years old). My sister's birthday is the day after Emerson's - hi, Kelli! Happy Monday Birthday! - and my friend, Penny, celebrates the day after that - hi, Penny! Happy Tuesday Birthday! Anyway, we had a second party at my in-laws' house on Sunday (more cake. Apologies to the dentists of the world), and then a little too-dah at her day care center on Monday. By the time I picked her up at 6 p.m. on Monday, she was running in circles saying, "Emmie buh-day. Moh cake? Cake? Cake? Emmie buh-day!" And she has not stopped since. Clearly, her third birthday will require an undertaking equal to the Academy Awards. We may need to bring in monkeys.

Here she is on day one of the birthday celebration, delicately picking candies off the top of her cake:



















By 6 p.m. the next day, she had degenerated into almost sticking her face right into the ice cream cake her Nona bought her:

That is not a smile of joy. That is mania brought on by a sugar overdose. I thought we were going to have to bring her down with a tranquilizer gun.

Here's one more, but before you view it, prepare yourself. The abundance of cute just might kill you:

She got a lollipop stuck in her hair. Because I am such a good mom, I did not pull it out. I took a picture. Then I took her upstairs and put her whole head under a cold tap. I had no idea how terrifying it would be for her. It was as though I had put her whole head under a volcano.

But, anyway, all better now.

I appreciate whoever reads my blog having taken enough of an interest to leave a printout on my desk from Wikipedia regarding my rant against The New York Times. I am happy that people have responded to that post because it was important to me.

The printout was this page, which describes Clarkston, Ga., in detail. You'll note that it states that the population was 7,231 at the 2000 Census. I had taken issue with the New York Times' population estimate for the town.

While the census may, indeed, be closer to the Times' estimate than the 15,000 or so people I had in my mind, I'd like to point out that again that:

1) The article is still a mischaracterization of the area, seeing as how it's a 1.1 square-mile-area of land we're talking about - and a lot of people squeeze in that small area - in a largely urban environment. That's like taking just the downtown Augusta area and calling it pastoral because there are a couple of parks in the vicinity;

2) The racial and ethnic cross-section is a larger issue in the story, and there is nothing to dispute the fact that the Census estimated the city was 55% African-American, 9.61% mixed race, and 4.61% Latino (which is a notoriously undercounted population when you consider the number of illegal immigrants in Georgia);

3) The Times still got the damn number wrong.

But, hey, here's to a healthy debate. Disagreements can exist without people being disagreeable.

This Augusta native is not a fan of baggy pants. Here, he tell us why.

Just kidding, Rhonda, but A.C. pointed it out to me. This was on the site of the magazine Gothic Beauty. Amy was in the market for some black hair dye and a good corset. Not the modern kind of corset with the metal stays. She wants the old-fashioned whalebone kind, now with more murdered whale goodness. In fact, she's going a-hunting for some whales herself. When she finds one, she's going to harpoon it with a baby seal. And then dance on its carcass while eating Endangered Pitcher Plant Salad. She's a horrible woman.

It seems they stole their dictionary, too.

Listen, I don't have a degree in journalism and I don't have a masters degree (yet). But I do know that when you write a story, and you place it in a context that skews the reader's perception from one that is realistic to one that is not representational, you have done your public a disservice. With that, I open myself up to gobs, heaps and mountains of criticism with some criticism of my own: I have grown very dissatisfied with "The New York Times."

There. I said it. Sort of. What I really wanted to say is "I hate that frickin' paper," but that's simply not true. I revere it, and I read it, and I follow its decisions with rapt attention, as does anyone who works in journalism, no matter what they say.

However.

The Grey Lady's coverage of all things Southern leaves a lot to be desired. Case in point: this story on a town near the one in which I grew up. I don't know where the writer got his census figures, but once you get inside the perimeter in Atlanta, there are apartment complexes with more than the 7,100 that this writer claims lives in Clarkston, Ga. He calls it a "small town by the railroad tracks," which makes it sound like something out of "Steel Magnolias" or "Fried Green Tomatoes." Some place that time forgot with ladies in white gloves all dolled up on their verandahs drinking sweet tea and lamenting the state of things with all the darkies moving into town. It's ridiculous. The truth is that the population seems small because the according to the United States Census Bureau, the city has a total area of 2.7 km² (1.1 mi²).

I don't know what they teach at Columbia but at Augusta State University they teach that a city 1.1 square miles large, inside a heavily populated county (in this case, Dekalb County) that has been noted for decades for its arts, culture, and diversity, is not one on which to base a story about a small-town immigration "crisis." Talk about the one ignorant mayor, but not the city as a whole. There are 675,000 people in that county alone and driving those roads and one cannot tell where the city and county diverge. Oh, and trust me when I say that none of those roads have diverged in a wood in several decades.

I grew up in Atlanta, and Clarkston is not a town of 7,100. It has been a diverse area since the 1960s, when the whole "white flight" thing began. Here's an area that hasn't been "mostly white," as the Times put it, since before I was born, but their whole story hinged on the contrast between race and culture changing the face of the suburban landscape. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, if the truth be known, is probably looked upon by members of the national press corp with some bemusement. "Look at these guys," they nudge each other in the ribs while sitting on their behinds waiting for their Pulitzers to arrive. "What is there to report on in Atlanta?" But my beloved AJC wouldn't have gotten it wrong. Of course, they can probably look out their office windows and count the population of Clarkston, but anyway...

Well, how about the fact that despite the prevailing stereotype of Southerners as a bunch of overall-wearing, tobakky chawing, barefoot racists, Atlanta is one of the few cities that experienced Caucasian residential growth within its urban areas? So don't believe the Times' portrayal of the South as some embattled area still coming to terms with Reconstruction, grumbling about the Emacipation Proclamation and wondering how, how, how on earth we are going to get all this cotton picked by harvest time. This is the same paper that writes stories about every 5 years or so about how Southerners eat dirt. But they'd better be careful. Soon, many of their subscribers, despite the paper's northern appellation, will be in the South.

And we don't eat dirt. If you're looking for Hollywood stereotypes upon which to hang your lead, look to Julia Sugarbaker who said: "I have been a Southerner all my life, and I can vouch for the fact the we do eat a lot of things down here... and we've certainly all had our share of grits and biscuits and gravy, and I myself have probably eaten enough fried chicken to feed a third world country - not to mention barbecue, cornbread, watermelon, fried pies, okra, and... yes... if I were being perfectly candid, I would have to admit we have also eaten our share of crow, and for all I know - during the darkest, leanest years of the Civil War, some of us may have had a Yankee or two for breakfast. But... speaking for myself and hundreds of thousands of my Southern ancestors who have evolved through many decades of poverty, strife, and turmoil, I would like for Mr. Weaks to know that we have surely eaten many things in the past, and we will surely eat many things in the future, but - God as my witness - we have never, I repeat, never eaten dirt!"

Or chitlins, mountain oysters, moon pies, moonshine, opossum, squirrel, rabbit, salt pork, oxtails, pigs feet, or pickled eggs.

UPDATE:
There is a reason that there is no such thing as "Northern food." Here's a list of Southern foods to eat, and love: fried okra, sweet potatoes any way you want to cook them, field peas, boiled peanuts plain and Cajun, black-eyed peas, gumbo, etouffe, hoppin' john, grits, burgoo, crawfish, pecan pie, Brunswick stew, mess o' greens (turnip, collard, or mustard greens), country ham, catfish, red-eye gravy, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, benne wafers, cornbread or hoe cakes, andouille and boudin sausage, and most important of all: biscuits. Because when you're eating any of the above, they go perfectly with them. And when you're done, they're good to sop up your leftovers. And if you're still hungry, they're good by themselves.

Can I just reveal a secret to you? "Guys and Dolls" (there! I resorted to Wikipedia, Alice! and now my brain is on fire!) is my favorite all-time musical. I know every word to every song and most of the dialogue as well. I own the movie and although I can neither sing nor act, I volunteered to work as a stage hand at my high school production just to be near the people who could, in fact, sing "Sit Down You're Rocking the Boat." (Look, those hosers made Oprah. Ew.) I am that big of a dork. Now the Fort Gordon Dinner Theatre is playing the musical only a couple of miles from our house! It is like destiny! Scott and I will definitely be at that show. He doesn't know that, but he will because, hey, when you see a guy reach for stars in the sky, you can bet that he's doing it for some doll.

I love me some horoscope people. They are a fun-loving, creative bunch. When the newspaper for which I work decided that, due to low readership, it would no longer run the horoscopes, we all just shrugged our shoulders. We don't read it, either.

Not so fast, suckers! The horoscope readers are up in astrological arms. They've consulted their star charts and found that today is a day for action. But, being the peace-loving people they are, they decided on a passive protest, and - apparently not being environmentalists - decided to litter our little corner of Broad Street, Augusta, Ga., with some hilarous signage.

Here they're posted in order so that you can see how they are able to rhyme horoscope with so many things.

You might be a journalist if...

... your morning wake-up call is from the BBC office in London.

Me: Hi! Welcome to the (establishment name deleted, where sexual harassment is a way of life). What can I get you to drink?
Elderly Lady: I'll have a sweet tea, and he'll have unsweetened tea.
Me (returning): Here we are. Sweet tea for the lady, and unsweetened tea for the gentleman. Now, have you had a chance to review our menu?
Elderly Man: Miss, I asked for unsweetened tea.
Me: Yes, sir. (nodding and gesturing to the glass) This is unsweetened tea. Would you like to hear about our featured items?
Elderly Lady: No, honey, he wanted UNsweetened tea.
Me (confused): Yes, ma'am. And this is unsweetened tea in this glass here. Yours is sweet.
Elderly Man: Look, can I just get a glass of UNSWEETENED TEA?
Me (giving up): Sure. I'll be right back.
Elderly Lady (as I walk away): What happened to the good service we used to get?

Sorry for all the food-related posts, but I'm purging my old blog from when I thought I could be a food writer. It got boring after a while, and I haven't posted anything in months. So here's another story.

There's a lot to be said about "beach casual," a state of being where your hair never quite dries, your skin always feels a little tight from sun and salt, and a neverending supply of mysterious and sandy grit remains 'round your nether-regions... which are my favorite regions, by the way.

Something at the beach keeps the smell of fish from being offensive - the briny air? the unending supply of alcohol? sunstroke? Whatever the combination, I always find myself craving Los Frutas del Mar - oysters, shrimp, any kind of fish - although non-shellfish that are also non-salmon don't usually register in my Craving Index.

Perhaps that's the draw of Rhinehart's. The picnic tables, sandy floors and weathered wood takes me back to camping in the Keys - without thieving raccoons rampaging through our tent in the dead of night. Tony's terrified face is forever burned onto my retina.

Anyway, besides the prices (cheap!) and the attire (just cover the nether-regions!), there is a strikingly simplistic menu comprised almost entirely of seafood, with two chicken dishes and one beef dish thrown in. I don't like places like The Cheesecake Factory, where the menus remind me of my $95 college Geology textbook from which I have never recovered and I'm sorry, Dr. Breuer, but everything still looks like granite.

Most everything is fried - it's okay! you're at the beach! you'll swim it off - and that would normally be a turnoff except for the batter they use. It's awesome. I swear, if Rhinehart's served deep-fried balls of crunchy batter, I'd eat a whole plate of it and thank them for the heart attack later. It's an adventure!

Go and get a bucket of beer - real beer, not the schmancy-diet-light-low-carb-crap, and set aside your cariologist's stern recommendations for the evening. Butter won't clog your arteries if it's melted.

Smell is our most powerful sense, according to scientists. It's the first sense that we develop - babies can smell their parents before they can see them clearly - and it's the sense that brings back the most visceral memories. Since taste is 90% smell, food is an incredible storyteller in a person's life.

I have fond memories of coconut cream cake, my favorite. My great-grandmother used to make a coconut cream layer cake about every time we came to visit. She would put each minute of her 75 years of cooking and baking into that cake. It was always deliciously savored after a big Southern Sunday Dinner (which non-Southernors call "lunch). God love Mama Ida, but I found one better.

Very Vera is a catering company off Washington Road with a small cafe, gourmet casseroles, and a thriving mail-order cake division. Touring their facilities today, I saw red velvet cakes, strawberry layer cakes, choco-latte (mocha flavored) layer cakes, a variety of pound cakes... you name it, it was there. But Kyle, the cafe manager, had a suprise for me: "I cut a slice of coconut cream cake just for you," he said.

Oh, Kyle. My new best friend.

Ya'll, I'm not one to gush unless something deserves it, and I will say that since I usually eat sugar free everything, the slice of cake was on the too-rich-for-my-blood side of the sweetness scale. But my childhood memories of the Cedertown house Mama Ida bought when she sold the farm came flooding back. The cast-iron clothes iron that served as her kitchen doorstop. The expanse of flecked Formica countertops that stretched from one end of the kitchen to the other. Finally, the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area. On the back side of this wall was a series of shelves. On the bottom shelf sat Mama Ida's glass cake case. In the case... oh, baked heavan.

Mama Ida was a humble woman, a farmer's good Christian wife, who usually wore a button-up patterned polyester shirtdress and always had an apron on over it. She kept her grey hair in a bun, and was hard of hearing. She called the seafood fast food place, "John Long Silver's" and pronounced pizza as "pie-zah." She thought the moon landing was staged. She was patient, kind and wise, but knew her limitations, and never took offense when we bratty great-grandchildren found comical her octogenarian ways. But the woman got much respect in the kitchen. Scratch biscuits kneaded by hand. Beans slow simmered with pork seasoning. Mashed potatoes fluffy like a cloud. Roast beef so tender it would melt in your mouth. And, again, that cake.

But the cake from Very Vera would make Mama Ida want to slap herself it was so good.

I am a person divided over this cake. Part of me is sorry that I tried it. It destroyed a closely-held childhood memory of the Greatest Cake Ever. Part of me is happy I found something that comes even close to matching it. It gave me some nearly tangible part of my childhood. But all of me is certain that I'll be back for more cake at Very Vera's, particularly when I'm feeling down or childlike, as though The Great Big World is ready to swallow little ol' me.

Sometimes we have to go back to go forward.

Lady: I'd like the hot wings. Now, are those hot?
Me: They're about medium, I'd say.
Lady: How hot is that?
Me (midway between hot and not-hot?): I suppose hot enough to taste, but not hot enough to burn.
Lady: Okay, but I want them double fried.
Me: Sure, I -
Lady (interrupting): I don't want them fried twice as long. I want you to fry them, take them out of the grease, sauce 'em up, fry them again, and sauce 'em again.
I have no intention of telling the cooks this because they will never do it. It will render the fryer useless for the rest of the night.
Me: Sounds great. No problem.

Later that meal...
Me: And how do we find our meals?
Lady: These wings is greasy. See?
She is actually squeezing the wing. She wanted her wings fried several times - did she think they be low-fat? But, seeing as how I don't really give a crap...
Me: Would you like for me to have the kitchen make you another batch?
Lady: I don't know. These is making me sick.
Me: Shall I get you something else?
Lady: Just give me some fried cheese sticks.
Me: So, because they're too greasy, you'd like to replace fried hot wings with fried cheese sticks?
Lady (oblivious): Yes, thems sound good.
Me: My pleasure.

Scott is trying to quit smoking, thanks to the surprise arrival of a free two-week supply of "the patch." He's down from 20-25 cigarettes a day to 5. That. Is. Amazing. You have no idea how proud I am of him! He's been a little grumpy, but in good humor. Part of it is his supply of gum that I brought back from the store yesterday... and lemon drops... and lollipops... and gummy bears... and basically anything to keep his mouth occupied. He's been using them, and the combination is working. But it's not all smooth sailing. Mornings are hard.

Scott: Can I just say that gum and coffee tastes like [crap]?
(I laugh)
Scott: Gum and coffee: [crap]. Coffee and cigarettes... beautiful.

Now that The Metro Spirit has been vindicated in the "James Brown Birth Date Scandal of 2006," I'm posting a photograph of one of our favorite supporters: The Imperial Theatre in Augusta, Ga. They trusted our reporting enough to use our dates (1928-2006) when everyone else was using the Associated Press dates (1933-2006).

Thanks, Imperial Theatre!

I can't tell you how many calls we got from individuals berating us for using the wrong dates, accusing us of apathetic reporting. Apathetic reporting happens when writers go by the "generally accepted" information, instead of getting their facts from the primary sources (i.e., court documents, birth certificates, and the horse's mouth). In our case, we had it from the horse's mouth long before anyone else. James Brown told columnist Austin Rhodes several years ago that he had changed his birth date when he was in his early twenties to avoid prison. Making himself five years younger meant that he received a juvenile sentence for criminal activity he committed in downtown Augusta, Ga.

It's almost impossible to get us to stop talking at work. I don't even know how I manage to write so many fantastic stories every week when we're all so busy talking about the cover of US Weekly. Because, as I frequently point out, we are serious journalists who care about the stories that matter. Oh, look, is that Brittney Spear's vagina? Again?

E: You know, his mother is Gloria Steinem.
A1: What?
A2: No, way.
Me: He's English.
E: Bet me a quarter.
Me: I'll bet.
A1: I'm in.
A2 (checking imdb.com): She's his stepmother.
E: Oh, stepmother.
Me: Pay up!
E: I really thought she was his mother.
A1: Ah, ah, ah... pay up!
A2 (reading): His father married Gloria Steinem in 2000.
Me: Yeah, you know she was like 60 when she got married? She held out a long time. That's a lot of batteries to go though.

I frequently make notes to myself to blog certain conversations - only then I usually can't remember what the hell I was writing to myself about. "Chicken fly swatter" - what the hell does that evenMEAN ? Sometimes my desk gets messy - oh, correction: my desk is messy most of the time - but not now because I cleaned it and I found an exchange I meant to blog about two months ago.

Me (on the phone with a co-worker across the office): Yeah, her last name is Estrella.*
J: How do you spell that?
Me: E-S-T-R-E-L-L-A.
J: B-F-T-R-B-L-L-A?
Me: ... What? No! What would that even spell, J.?! Oh, christ. I'm coming over there.

We went into The Swank Company in Surrey Center last week, to browse their Christmas specials, and I came across this perfume. It smells nothing like marshmallow. It smells like sex and forests after a warm summer rainstorm. It is amazing. I would like to smell like this every day.

"Honey, does this shirt look good on me?" I asked Scott. He appraised me while I looked down at the shirt. I think it's too tight across the stomach. I look up. His eyes are still appraising the same spot.
"Yeah," he says, appreciatively.
"Uh... honey, you have to look at more than just my boobs."

I just had a very frustrating experience at CVS, and I'm not sure if it says bad things about me, or about the other people involved. All I know is that it's left me very sad.

I went to pick up Emerson's prescription (and don't get me started on that. It's a whole other story) that I had dropped off this morning before work. It was 7 p.m., and there were about 20 people waiting around for their prescription, and just one guy working the desk. I stepped in line to wait, with just two people ahead of me. When it came to be my turn, a woman on my right, leaning on the counter, said, "Hey, I know my prescription is ready by now. All you gotta do is stick a label on it." And pitched such a fit that they took her and the guy behind her before me. I tried not to be angry. I know how frustrating it is to wait for a prescription - I usually wait 30 minutes at this pharmacy - and it's not like Emerson was on fire and waiting for water. But the lady in front of me kept on bitching about her prescription, with the guy behind her chiming in, like no one was even there. Like I didn't exist. Like the dude behind the counter didn't exist. Like they could just be assholes and it affected no one. She turned slightly toward me - by this time, I was squatting on the floor - and made a half-hearted apology.

"I don't mean to be rude, I'm just tired of waiting," she said.
"Oddly enough, I know how you feel," I retorted, with a pleasant smile.
"Hey, we've been waiting," the guy behind her said.
"Haven't we all?" I said, again with a pleasant smile.
"Hey, I got a kid who needs his medicine," he glared at me.
"As do I," I said evenly.
"McGowen?" the pharmacy tech inquired and I looked up at him.
"Yes, that's me," the woman in front of me replied with more than a hint of impatience.
"Hey, that's my maiden name," I said, with a smile.
"Yeah, probably because your grandfather owned mine," she spat, with no hint of humor.
Oh. Hell. No.

Now, I'll admit that I don't know much about my geneology. But I know that was uncalled for. And although I've only looked over the work that my aunt did on my mother's side of the family, as far as I can tell, they were just dirt farmers who hardly owned their dogs, much less other people.

Let's just say that there never was much to pass down to future generations.
But instead of being drawn in by her bait, I just smiled and told her to have a better day tomorrow because you never know who you might meet. It might be a long-lost family member.

Even if that family member does want to stab you.

Blue Horse Music Hall
For Immediate Release

Regarding: Closing
When: Immediately
Location: Corner of 10th & Broad Streets

It is with great disappointment that we announce the closing of the Blue Horse Music Hall. As of today, Monday, January 8th, the Blue Horse Music Hall will close its doors. It has been a rough, but exciting road for the Blue Horse since the first concert on July 6th.

The past six months included sold out shows from Corey Smith and Edwin McCain, appearances by Shawn Mullins and Emerson Hart and concerts from the best local bands in and around Augusta. Unfortunately, the sold out shows were not the norm. Lack of support for live music has long been a problem for promoters in the Augusta area and it is sad that this issue was the primary factor in the decision to close the Blue Horse Music Hall.

With tickets prices typically in the $8-$12 range the Blue Horse staff believed that the average resident in Augusta would be able to afford to attend shows. Blue Horse also worked with local lawmakers to create an ordinance that allowed in music lovers under the age of 21. The venue was always smoke-free and had acoustics that both artists and fans raved about after each show. Even wit hall [sic] of this, Blue Horse Music Hall was still unable to sell tickets to shows featuring up and coming artists or unknown talent. Which is too bad, because there are so many amazing artists - local and traveling through Augusta.

A big thank you from the Blue Horse staff to those who came to a show, enjoyed the intimate setting and were exposed to music they may have never heard before. It is the sincere hope of everyone related to Blue Horse Music Hall that the next time a venue opens in downtown Augusta it will build upon the foundation Blue Horse started.

Um, maybe if they didn't make people sit in place for the shows (lame-o) and if it didn't remind people of my elementary school cafeteria, which had a handy stage over to the side, then people might want to hang out in there. The floor was made out of the same tile, which is the kind of tile that should just be painted on each square with the sign "Slippery when wet." I mean, let's just balance the equations, people:
(beer + spill = fall) x (slip + drunk = sue) = ?
Let's see... that's... add beer and spill... then add slip and drunk... so:
(fall) x (sue) = ?
fall x sue = ?

Yes. We all know what the "?" means. It means "print" in BASIC.
No! I kid! That was my geek joke for the week!

It means a lot of money going into pockets other than the owners of the Blue Horse Music Hall.

Some people would benefit from a really good stabbing - in particular, the idiots who came up with these band names:
"Tony Danza Tap Dance Extravaganza" (Who's the boss that approved that name?)
"A Girl, a Gun a Ghost"

Alice read the second one off to me and I threw up a little in my mouth. The name was Vogon-poetry bad.
"What?" I asked incredulously.
She repeated it. These people and their stupid names make my head hurt.
"Oh, god, for real?" I whined.
"For real?" A. mimicked. I made fists and smacked my desk as A. laughed.
"Don't make fun of me!"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I just couldn't help it," A. said.

Yesterday was a landmark day: Emerson went poopy in her potty. We'd been keeping an eye open for an opportunity to plop her on the potty so that she could plop something in the potty, and yesterday she was doing the thing that told me I was dangerously close to fishing another floater out of the bathtub. So I snatched her up and sat her down, and she went and we all cheered like crazy. She pointed repeatedly and said, "Emmie guh poo-poo."

The problem is that Emmie hates to go poo-poo. She holds it until you think her little ass will explode. I tell you, if I were ever looking for a way to smuggle a watch out of a P.O.W. camp, her butt would be the ideal place to hide it. She clenches her little fists and stares wide-eyed and intense, shaking and sometimes wailing with the effort.

In short, she's nutso. But that's to be expected, coming from our collective gene pool.

I know everyone is just SO happy that we've entered into what will probably be a six-month obsession with where, when and how much Emerson makes a doody deposit. So just stay tuned. There's more to come.

It's Saturday morning and we're carrying Emerson's breakfast to her little table and chair - peanut butter and honey sandwich, as she requested - and we pass the open bedroom door where Scott is pulling on his socks.

"Cock!" Emerson exclaims as she points, then toddles on.
"Hey... don't call your father names like that," I laugh.
"She didn't! She was saying 'sock!'" Scott insists, as he puts on his shoes.
"I don't know, Scott. I think she's smarter than that."

"So, now, I've gotten Emerson to say 'sock' like "sssss-cock," I inform Amy, with a roll of my eyes.
"Well, that's better than 'cock,'" she encourages.
"Hey, nothing is better than...," I start with an evil grin. "Noooooooo. I'm kidding!"
"I zoned out for a second. What did I miss that was fun?" Erica asks from the desk behind me.
"Stacey's talking dirty to me," Amy laughs.

It's 8:45 a.m. on Friday, which means that it's time for...

A.: Okay, I'm already thinking about lunch. What time are we going?

By 9:30, it sounded pretty good to me, too. Let's hope I haven't had another birth control lapse.

Me (irritably): Why do I smell banana?
Corey (from behind me): Because I'm eating a banana.

Oh.

From: mchammerblog@gmail.com
Subject: Re: [MC Hammer Blog] 12/29/2006 06:05:04 PM
Date: January 3, 2007 8:41:09 PM EST
To: stacey.hudson@metrospirit.com

Love U Back !!!

Hammer

As a first-time mom, I don’t have a lot of advice to offer to other new moms. My two-year-old daughter still doesn’t sleep through the night; I don’t know how to wean her off her pacifier; and potty training seems distant. But there is one thing you learn quickly and Corinthians 15:51 sums it up best: "I tell you a truth hitherto kept secret: we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed."

We called our daughter "Frauline Poopenstein" because for the first several weeks of her life if she wasn’t expelling something terrifying from her body she wasn’t doing much at all. To be honest, it was okay when she was a newborn and made her first "stinky."

"Oh, look," I exclaimed, delightedly, while relatives dove for air freshener. "Her first doody! I shall name it Fred."

Now it is less than delightful. It is an insidious thing. Like evil, it can take many forms.

One form is Rabbit Turds. These little pellets are hard and sticky, but also small and light like invisible tape so that they sometimes affix to unexpected things. You might discover this later in an unfortunate way, as I did.

"Honey, I’m off to the store. Are you sure you don’t want to go?" I asked my husband.

"No. My back really hurts," he moaned.

"Poor baby. If it makes you feel any better, I found baby poo stuck to the side of my hand this morning after I changed Emerson."

He grinned: "You know, I do feel a little better."

My suffering is worthwhile if it eases the anguish of others.

Silly Putty is similar to Rabbit Turds, but larger. It's sticky, but heavier, so it is easier to handle. But watch out! If little legs kick when you're changing, these can become dangerous projectiles. During one particularly difficult diaper change, Emerson kicked her dirty diaper as I was pulling it out from under her and sent the silly putty flying.

"Gah!" I screamed.

"What's wrong?!" Scott barked anxiously from the door. I merely pointed. "It" had hit the wall, stuck and slid down a couple of feet. There almost wasn’t enough bleach on the planet to make the room feel clean again.

But if your walls need more than cleaning, wait for the Spackle. This substance would make millions for an inventive hardware store if not for the unfortunate brown color. It's gooey, spreadable and dries almost instantly to an impenetrable crust. I’ve taken Emerson straight from the changing table to the bathtub several times.

I asked my daughter about how she’d prefer that I handle this situation. She chewed one of the dog’s toys thoughtfully then said, "Dhet!"

Which brings us to The Poop of a Different Color. There are some hues that do not appear naturally among vegetables of the world yet your child’s doody may contain them anyway. Remember the old Crayola 64 boxes? I know how those were invented. Some sleepless parent looking for an earthly explanation for this unearthly phenomenon.

Once you start on solid foods, it’s a whole new ball of… well, you know. So, beware, chumps. Little tummies aren’t always ready for progress, so sometimes what goes in comes out in exactly the same form and what you get is Vegetable Soup. The reason, I’m certain, that Campbell’s markets their canned foods to children is that none of their parents will touch it. It’s too metaphoric.

For these reasons and more, Emerson has been the proud owner of a training potty since she was about nine months old. She was using it as a step stool, but recently began actually sitting on it… to watch television. We’ll post more information as things progress. We can: we have plenty of adhesives here. Too bad it’s brown.

Proof that we watch way too much Harry f-ing Potter in our house surfaced today, when my 23-month-old daughter requested "Hey Pah-Pah" and I popped in "The Chamber of Secrets" (or, as my brother called them when he was three years old, "see-cruds").

When the scene where Harry Potter arrives at the Weasley's house came on, Emerson stood up to watch it. Julie Walters bursts in as Molly Weasley: "Where HAVE you been?!"
-"bin!" Emerson chimes in, grinning at me, palms up inquisitively.
What the hell?

"No note! Car gone!" Walters half-shrieks.
"No noh! Cah goh!" Emerson mimics, hands on her hips.
Oh, god.

"You could have died! ("diyah!") You could have been seen!" ("seeeeend!")
"They were starving him, Mom. There were bars on his windows," her on-screen son replies. "Deys a bar on da weeennow!" Emerson echoes, then turns to me and begins to shake her finger back and forth.
(groan)

"You best hope that I don't put bars on your windows, Ronald Weasley!" Walters-as-Weasley finishes triumphantly.
"Yooo binna habba duhbuh weeenow!" Emerson warns me. "Ohr, tiyam out!"
Well, at least she understand the consequences of misbehaving: the dreaded time-out.

James Brown died on Christmas Day, and because Scott and I both work in the media, it has turned our lives upside down. It's been non-stop 15-hour days since then. We've been trying to figure out where all the celebs are staying - Michael Jackson, Paul McCartney, Dan Akroyd, John Goodman, Eddie Murphy, and Patti la Belle are just some of the names - without much luck. But today, all the work paid off because MC HAMMER IS IN AUGUSTA!!!

These are pictures from our office "Christmas tree." It was weeks before there were ornaments, so Abbi improvised. Here are her pictures.

Thanks to Lillie Morris for these words of wisdom:

"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intentiwon of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, egg nog in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO! What a ride!"

Emerson is in her mimicry phase. Everything we do, she wants to do, too. Is Dada shaving his face? You can be sure to find her perched on her little chair, reaching for his electric razor, just a few minute after he finishes. Is Mama cooking? Emerson will help by bringing random ingredients from the refrigerator. Macaroni and cheese with grape jelly, anyone? Really, we have plenty.

She wears our shoes and shuffles around the house. She envelopes her head in Scott's baseball caps so that she can't see where she is going. She points imperiously to the dog and shouts, "No, Rara!" whenever there is food nearby. He likes to steal it and run off laughing. Yes, our dog laughs. Do not question this if you have not met him. He's a little trickster.

This morning took the cake. While following me around the house, watching me get ready, she freaked out when I started to put on my panties and then she ran into the kitchen. I followed her to see what she was doing.

There she was on the linoleum floor, pulling on a pair of underwear from the clothes hamper. It took her a while to figure out how to get them on straight, arrange her legs properly, and stand up. When she did, it was golden. She was so proud with them pulled up to her armpits over her footie pajamas, grinning, shuffling towards me like an old man while holding them up. "Fwowers!" she said, pointing to the lace arrangement, while I died laughing. "Very good!" I choked out. "Flowers!" She clapped her hands and shuffled off, a victim of emulation being sometimes not so flattering.

Emerson is not quite two years old, and she's doing her best to communicate. But sometimes we still have to intuit what she intends to say. Here are some of the words she uses and their sometimes "smurfy" meanings.

P.I. Go - piggyback ride
bedai – raisins
beebobai – drink, from the Spanish "bebida"
cocks – socks – that’s an unfortunate misnomer that I wish I could change. She doesn’t seem to be responding to my efforts.
buh - peanut butter
pee-buh - jelly
nak - snack
hey pah-pah - Harry Potter
carshee - either "car" or "carseat," used interchangeably
eye-sigh baby - Baby Einstein
eye-sigh baby e-i-o - The Baby Einstein Old McDonald
boot – book
soos – shoes
kees – cheese
see-rall – cereal
ehfant – elephant
hi-fi – high five
one, two, fee, fohw, fie, seben, seben, eight, nigh, ten, leben, teh, firtee
NAH! Absolutely not.
Si – yes
Doh-doh – dog
Oh-so – bear (the Spanish word)
Rarah – our dog, Scrabble
Sawee – sorry
Moosh – kiss
Hot – hot
Hot – bright
Hot – warm
Hot – the stove at all times
Hot – any meal placed in front of her
Hot – the microwave
Hot – cold
Hot – coffee
Hot – painful
Up-and-down - stairs
poppers - crackers

I'm having one of those days where I might as well chop off my own head because everything I say and do makes me seem like an asshole.

First, I forgot I was supposed to take the baby in this morning because my husband was on the morning radio show.
Then, as I was getting Emerson out of her car seat at the day care center, I failed to properly unlatch one of the straps and about yanked her leg off taking her out of the car.
After, as I was putting her diaper bag in her cubby and her sippy cup in the fridge, I stepped on another child's foot.
When I stepped on that child's foot, I jumped back and knocked over Emerson, who was following me around the room.
I stopped by a fast food joint to get a soda because now I really needed caffeine, and as I was paying for my order, I dropped the debit card out of the window.
I got out of the car to get the debit card. As I was standing back up with it, the cashier opened the window and banged my forehead.
I almost choked on the first swallow of soda because at 33 years old I am still apparently learning to control my esophagus. While coughing, I hit my already-bruised head on the door frame.
I drove into work without incident and found a spot close to the entrance.
I got to my desk and realized that I'd forgotten to pay the day care center this morning. Doh!
Then I remembered that the car insurance is due this week.
Then I remembered that I left my coat at home and the office is freezing.
Then I remembered that I was supposed to get up earlier this morning to finish my stories because we're on an early holiday deadline.
As I was finishing my stories, the phone rang. It was the local rabbi reminding me that we'd scheduled a meeting this morning.
"Oh, God," I exclaimed, mortified.
"Well, that's prayerful," he replied, with a laugh.
Mentally, I banged my head against the table while we tried to find a time to meet.
He said he'd call me back.
I put stories in the wrong folders on the server all morning and had to go searching for them.
Ditto for photos.
Finally, it was lunchtime.
I went to pick it up and magically found a parking space right near the door - no small feat in downtown - and went inside to find that the order was ready, and there was no line. Amazing!
When we got the boxes open at the office, the food was all wrong. I don't know what they gave me, but it certainly wasn't what I had ordered.
While I was eating my suspect meal, my husband called to tell me that his most recent story had caused "a shit storm." But not to worry! His boss was going to purchase him a bulletproof vest.
(sigh)
I'm just waiting to see what happens next.

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN- Vandals tried to set fire to a giant straw goat in central Sweden but failed to burn down the traditional Christmas monument, which has been soaked with flame-resistant chemicals, officials said Friday.

These are Emerson's Halloween pictures. She's so adorable, but so very angry. She is...

THE. CHiCKEN. OF. FURYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

There was a party at her day care, a little Halloween parade, and all of the children were supposed to hold on to a rope and follow the teacher around the gym while all of the ridiculous parents cooed and chucked candy at their addled little noggins.

Not the Chicken of Fury. The Chicken of Fury wasn't having any of this bullshit and went on a rampage, running away from her teachers and throwing herself on the floor in front of everyone, whining and stiffening her body in the way that children can magically add 40 pounds to their tiny little bodies. I broke ranks and scooped her up, plying her with candy and smooches. She never once smiled. She was too furious.

Ah, co-workers... You spend 40 hours a week with them, and then they want you to go drinking on the weekend. What is this torture?

Oh, hey. Look at me in the background, not objecting or anything... Hmm.

That's Betsy in front, our new Creative Director, being her smiley, awesome self. Great party, Betsy and Ed!

Another one! Will the onslaught never cease?!

(Thanks for the picture, Joe, but did you have to chew on it before you took the shot? Nasty!)

Possibly the Greatest Christmas CD Ever Made! Buy it NOW!

Warning: This is possibly the scariest idea from a so-called "Gift Guide" that I have ever seen.

(scroll down)




















Kinetic Mesh Active
Slip Brief 3051
by C-IN2







<------ AAAAHHHHH!

Every day for the last 6 months, I have found a discarded chicken bone on the sidewalk outside of our offices. I am thinking either a really fast cat manages to take down pigeons on a regular basis, - which makes it not-chicken-wings-at-all - or somebody upstairs is chucking refuse at our heads as we leave the building.

(DISCLAIMER: Men, you might want to turn away from this post.)

So I was bitching about my tampons today. (Hey, I warned you guys!)
"Geez! I just went to the bathroom at home!" I stomp, irritated that - while hooray for getting my period from a reproductive standpoint - my day will be continually interrupted because the tampons I decided to try SUCK.

A. nods.
"Is that just too much information?" I ask, apolegetically.
"No, actually, it's good to know," she replies.
"Oh, great, well then, don't ever buy the tampon that I'm using."
"You know what's good are the sport tampons," she says, earnestly. I'm not sure if she realizes how hilarious that sounds.

Sport tampons. Tampons for the active period in your life, like, when my uterus is engaging in a rousing match on the tennis court. Please. My uterus is more likely to engage in a rousing nap on the couch. I assume what makes them sporty is their absorbancy, and not their aerodynamics, or something like that. Hopefully not their design, or something like they come in the colors of your favorite sports teams, 'cause who would see them?
"I'm a Steelers fan!"
"Oh, yeah, prove it!"
"Okay, look!"
"GAAAHHHH! My eyes!"

But I can see how someone doing something crazy like running a triathalon (Hi, Jim! Yes, I said it was crazy! There is simply no reason to run, swim or bike with such haste, unless someone is doing the same behind you with a knife. And screaming. And the screaming is your name. And there is no one else with the same name anywhere near you. Only then should there be hasty exercise. Which is how my ass got this way, and why you have the lovely wife that you do. And now that I am actively competing with Virginia Woolf for longest parenthetical statement ever written, I shall continue) would require sporty tampons. I mean, there can be few non-lethal things worse than having labored for however long such self-torture takes, only to cross the finish line and think, "I have that not-so-fresh feeling."

So, hooray for sport tampons.

The Metro Spirit is looking for the best, funniest, and most interesting predictions for 2007. Meterologist Jeff Rucker may be right, but he has nothing on us. We won't spare anyone or anything in our quest to make this the best and most accurate forecast ever. Answer just eight short questions and you can win EIGHT (8) seats to the Augusta Symphony's Columbia County Music Series Concert on Saturday, January 25, 2007, at 7:30 p.m. That's one seat per question! Just follow the quiz and have fun! Click here to take survey

Alright. I took the accompanying photo off at a very reasonable request. But I'm still going to tell a portion of the "tail."

There is an ad that has been running for three weeks that advertised "She-Crap Soup" instead of "She-Crab Soup." I won't name the publication, because it's almost 100% awesome. But it's still funny.