Okay, Rhian. You suckered me into this one, and I was certain that I'd be either a magpie or a three-toed sloth. But this quiz tells me I'm a mouse. Of course, my Meyers-Briggs tests always told me that I'm a librarian at heart, so maybe there's some correlation.

But feel free to click through the link, people, and answer four questions to make sure I see myself correctly.

Thanks, Rhi! Now I have to go cook some macaroni and cheese!

UPDATE: Hey, now I'm a Great Dane! Well, at least people don't run shrieking from me, which is a nice change from real life...

UPDATE REDUX: Now I'm a tiger?! What... I don't understand. And now people run screaming from me again.

UPDATE RETROIX: Okay. A monkey I get.

"How long do you think graduation will last?" A.W. asks me.
"Two hours."
"Really? That's it?"
"Yep."
"What if it goes longer?"
"Get up and leave."
"I'm in it. Won't that be rude?"
"Tell them your house is on fire. What are they gonna do? Stop you?"
"This is true."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuV64ON-jv0

A.C. and I go to cut our radio spot. Let's compare:

• With J.W.: no script, five people, 45 minutes and countless takes.
• Without J.W.: formatted script, two people, 5 minutes and 2 takes.
  

Except I sound like that Corky kid from "Life Goes On."

An e-mail exchange about my crazy aunt:

J.W.: "Please can I engage her? I’ll pay you."
Me: "I’m sure an unmarried woman in her 60s would be happy to entertain your proposal. But have you checked with the gypsy matchmaker? She’ll have to do your star charts and decide an auspicious day for the marriage. And then you have give her mother 10 goats and a cow, or 10 goats and a mated pair of bighorn sheep."
J.W.: "Engage her in battle goddamnit. Please can I?"
Me: "If you don’t mind her launching ICBMs from her butt at you, go right ahead. I could give a crap. My parents could give less of a crap."
J.W.: "That is it then. I am going to kill her for you."

Aw. Sweet. It's always nice when your boss offers to commit heinous crimes for you.

We're recording a commercial today at 2 p.m., and J.W. waits until I'm walking out the door to an interview to ask me about the scripts. In fact, I'm already out the door and on the sidewalk when he...

"Wait, Stacey, come here!"
(sigh)
"Yeah?"
"You're recording that spot today, right?"
"What spot?" I lie with a serious look on my face.
"That Parent spot."
"What spot?"
"Oh, okay, thanks," he screws up his mouth like he just ate a lemon.
"I'm kidding. Yes, we are."
I start to walk out the door. I have three minutes to get to the artist's studio.
"Wait!"
(ah! I almost made it!)
"What?"
"Have you written the script?"
"Yes, Amy has it," I reply, backing out of the door. Can he not see I have somewhere to be?
"How does it sound?"
"We haven't recorded it yet. I'll let you know."
(Let's see... what are the signals... purse around shoulders, check. Notebook in hand, check. Keys out, check. Ass out the door, double check!)
"I mean how does the script sound?"
"I -"
"Is it good?"
"I - "
"Is it funny?"
"I - "
"Will people enjoy it?"
"Gah! J.W., just go read the script, already! Can't you see that I'm very busy and important!"
I run out the door before he can stop me again. I swear he times these conversations on purpose!

E.B. was laughing about one guy in town who is not a journalist, but tries to give her lessons in journalism. It's always for stories that are self-serving for him or his relatives. Smart guy, so he can't possibly think he's fooling us.

"He was like, 'If you have a quote like this you have to back it up with a quote here'... and I said, 'You own a bookstore. You know how to read. That's not what the story is about.'" she said. "I swear, it's like Kaiser Sose. They think I'm a retard because I limp."

Man, I thought this was over. But it seems that my aunt was on my e-mail list twice. And she apparently does not want to win tickets to "Jesus Christ Superstar."

From: Smugly Self-Satisfied
To: Incompetent Niece

Stacey:
I'm still on your list. Please take care of getting me off these mass mailings. You must have me on several lists. I maintain approximately 50 such lists, and am very careful of the content.

Aunt Cathy

From: Geez, I'm sorry already!
To: Nurse Ratchett

It shouldn't happen again, unless I decide to add you to all of my contact lists. That might be fun for me. I'll let you know what I decide.

From: Excellent Candidate for Prozac
To: Hey, I Take My Prozac Every Morning
CC: My Parents, Who Are Going to Have to Start Taking Prozac Very Soon

Stacey:
This message is for your parents.

I want this handled and handled now. If I get any more of these unwanted e-mails, I will be speaking to Stacey's employer. Her excuses as to why this is happening are weak, at best.

This disrespectful message from your "responsible" daughter must alert you to the need to counsel her. There are rules about e-mail etiquette, and I would have hoped that a "Communications" major would have encountered them in her classes.

My only request from the first e-mail I sent was to be taken off of her mass mailings, and all I have gotten in return is sarcasm and infantile remarks, followed by a long e-mail from Sis about what a wonderful person Stacey is.

I have not responded to that. I am only responding now because I want this to end.

GET IT STOPPED. PERIOD.

Aunt Cathy

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

(The funny thing? My parents didn't even get that e-mail because they have her e-mail address blocked.)

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

From: (Sigh) Is She Serious? This is Stupid
To: Seething With Self-Righteousness
CC: Sorry, Mom and Dad!

I suppose my jokes simply don't get through to you. Perhaps if we had spoken face-to-face anytime in recent memory, you would understand my humor more, and perhaps I would understand yours.

I've informed my boss that you may be calling. He said feel free. I hope that the two of you have a wonderful conversation.

But here's the thing that bothers me: Your reaction just doesn't make any sense. It's just not proportional to the perceived slight. What is it about an e-mail that gets you so angry? Why bother my parents? Perhaps if you can explain this to me, I could take you more seriously.

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

Obviously she hasn't responded to that. I really didn't expect her to. But I kind of hope she does. It makes for excellent blog fodder.

Corey said, "I hope she calls Tom."
Amy said, "And he puts her on speakerphone."

But then she might hear me laughing in the background. And then I'm sure we will know her fury from Mississippi. She would probably resort to legal action. Or she might just launch an ICBM from her butt.

I was just interviewing Ted Neeley, who plays the lead role in "Jesus Christ Superstar." The show is coming through the area on May 16 at the Bell Auditorium. He has three other projects in the works, including a national tour of "Rasputin," and was talking about being a representative of the character he plays.

"Does that put expectations on you in your personal life?" I asked.
"Absolutely, and it makes me a better person," he said.
"Do you ever do product endorsements? Because I can't think of a better pitchman for a product than Jesus."
(Huge laugh from the office mates, and, thankfully, from Mr. Neeley).
"No, but maybe I should," he laughed.



BROADWAY IN AUGUSTA 2006-2007
May 16, 2007, Bell Auditorium, 8 p.m.
“Jesus Christ Superstar”
Direct from New York!
Ticket prices: Single Group
Floor & 1st Balcony $50.00 $45.00
2nd Balcony $45.00 $40.50
3rd Balcony $40.00 $36.00

This little smoochy-poo is the 5-month-old son of Aubrey and Will Bryant. Isn't he the cutest?! I want to cuddle him for hours!

I hope these guys don't take themselves as seriously as a lot of these kinds of bands!

I know I'm a good year behind, but I watched "Borat" this weekend. Um... was anyone else a little disturbed by parts of it, or was it just me? Except the scene where he sings the national anthem. "All other countries have inferior potassium" = Hilarious!

So right now I was just entering yet another venue into the painfully mind-numbing exercise in torture that is my publication's calendar of events when I got to the part where it asks for the venue phone number. Does "Downtown North Augusta" need a telephone number? I so wanted to run out to my car, drive over the 13th Street bridge, find a payphone and get the number, just to post it in the list of venues and see if anyone calls it.

But I didn't.

You know it's a good thing that people take the responsibilities of the news media seriously, or we'd be having you all call Bush's Baked Beans instead of the White House. That dog would probably make more sense.

Yes, Augusta: You must have an iron gate to protect your plywood. It is essential.

Ryan Clark, one of the victims of Monday’s shootings, is a native of the Augusta, GA area. The elementary school where Ryan Clark’s mother works is collecting donations to assist her with traveling to Virginia and making arrangements for her son’s body. If you would like to make a contribution, you can send your donation to the following address:

Ryan Clark Memorial Fund
c/o Georgia Bank and Trust
409 Fury’s Ferry Road
Martinez, GA 30907

It's JOE WHITE in the year Nineteen Eighty Jean Claude van Damme!

This is the Metro Spirit's wonderful former intern, Allegra Yealy, in her first art showing at the Gertrude Herbert Institute of Art. She did some beautiful photos of New Mexico in a silver gelatin print. We're hoping that she'll do some stuff for us from Athens next year, when she attends the University of Georgia.




This is a bust (har har) done by Natalie Logue, the sister of a friend of mine. It's a really beautiful piece with a crackled glaze on the outside and really smooth, graceful lines. It looks alternately strong and sturdy, and yet delicate and fragile. I don't know what she's going for with it, but I loved it like crazy.




This is another piece by Natalie. It evokes 1900 Paris, old advertisements for vermouth and absinthe, and Toulouse Latrec all at once. Lovely texture and color and I wanted to steal it off the wall. But I didn't. I did offer to buy it, but she wouldn't set a price. I hope she'll call me in a few days.


This show will run through the end of April at the Gertrude Herbert Institute of Art. There are some wonderful pieces in the show, some that are just fun, and some that - of course - scream "STUDENT ART!" But it's an interesting show. Look for the painting over the fireplace. I love it, too, but as I am not an artist, my photo of it looked like poop. Visit ghia.org.

I don't know if anyone else does this, but I'm entered into all kinds of rewards systems. There's the VISA Rewards, the My Points system, the Zoom Panel surveys, the Buzz Agent membership. They're useful. They've bought gifts for loved ones, the crib for our daughter, various articles of clothing and gift cards and what-not. But they most insidious one is the mycokerewards program. Every time you open a cap, you have to go to the reward site and enter in a 9-digit number. it's been kind of frustrating, and I'm still NOWHERE CLOSE to getting anything, unless I want some digital furniture in a digital room that I create in a digital environment on the same website, a la The Sims.

Nope. I want some real stuff right here in my real environement, a la Real Freaking Life. (sigh) I may be at this another year before I can cash anything in.

"Isn't he the most handsome man? I mean, I'm not gay or nothin' but..." He gestures to a co-worker.
I appraise him. "I guess I've just never been attracted to him because he talks."

A local artist is in the office talking to an employee I shall name "Neckbeard the Pirate."

"Man, I'm hung over," artist man says.
"I know. Your eyes are so red you're making me stoned. What did you do last night?"
"I just drank a lot of brown liquor."
"Brown liquor... man, I miss it. But it gives me the poos."

I am moonlighting on masters week to make a few extra bucks for us and to also fund my tank project out at Pendleton King Park. At first, I thought, all the locals will be gone and since I am on radio, no one knows what I look like anyway, so it won't be a problem.

The only problem with pairing the two jobs is that well meaning listeners love to engage you in conversation about what Rush said, or what Austin said, or some news report they heard. That is never a problem unless you are in a busy serving job in a restaurant and have hungry mouths to feed. You can't sit back and chit chat about what is on the radio.

First table I get goes like this-

Me: Hi, my name is Scott blah blah, what can I get you to drink?
Customer to wife: Honey? Do you know who this is?
Wife: No.
Customer: He's Austin's younger brother!
Wife: Oh, you work at WGAC? Pleased to meet you.

OK, I am thinking they saw me out reporting something and recognized me, so no problem.

Second table goes like this-

Me: Hi, my name is Scott blah, blah, what can I get you to drink.
Customer: Is this some kind of joke?
Me: I'm sorry, I don't understand.
Customer: Oh, I get it. Are you guys doing some kind of celebrity waiter thing?

WHAT?
Okay, first of all, anyone who puts the word "celebrity" in front of the name of someone who needs to moonlight in a restaurant to pay for their family vacation is...well I digress.

I am nevertheless stunned. Why are all these people recognizing me? I am supposed to be the faceless voice that travels over the air. Then it dawns on me.

We have not had cable in years. We just don't watch that much tv. I have been sitting in on Austin's Comcast show for the past few months. I had completely forgot that the show airs like 86 times a week...and it is "on demand" for true die hards. Apparently lots and lots of people watch the damn show. Normally, I would be saying "COOL!" This weekend, I am saying "SHIT!!"

Oh, God, this weekend may turn out to be really interesting.

Scott

A.C. is reading my last blog entry.
"You're really mad at me, aren't you?" she asks.
"No. No... a little."
She laughs.
"You're sending a heathen to talk to a church crowd," I whine.
"I know! Isn't that funny?!"

No.

I just agreed to speak to a church crowd of 250 about the media.
"You'll be fine," A.C. says. "And you get a free lunch."
"What?! Who's ordering lunch?" C.P. perks up from his hole in the corner. A.W. chuckles.
"No one. It's only 10 a.m., C.P."

"So you didn't get arrested?" B.H. asks C.P.
"No. Things changed."
"What changed?"
"I fucked up... again and again and again."
"So you didn't play the..." hums circus song and I chime in: "doo-doo-doodahdoodahdoo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doodahdoodahdoo-doo-doo-doo..."
"It actually plays that song," B.H. says.
"What? Really?" I ask.
"I told you it played the circus song," she says.
"You said it played A circus song. You didn't say it played THAT circus song," I protest.
"Geez, how many circus songs do you know?" A.W. weighs in.
"Lots. I work here."

We have fielded more phone calls about the revamped calendar and movie listings than any else in the redesigned newspaper. It's fine - we don't mind. We understand that change is hard for people. They develop habits of information gathering, and they have to find a new approach. I've explained and assisted everyone about these issues as responsibly as possible. Apparently, I've been wasting my time.

Amy sits down chuckling.
"You should take a lesson in customer service from Bob," she says.
"Why?"
"He just fielded a phone call about the movie listings. This woman called in and said, 'I'm calling to request that you put the movie times back in the paper.' Bob said, 'Okay, no problem!'"
I am aghast. It never crossed my mind to lie.
"But she's going to call back next week when they're not in there!"
"Yeah, he says he's going to blame it on Ryan."

Don't you hate it when you get all excited about your lunch and it turns out sucky? Here is a list of things that sucked about our lunch:

1. "Salad" composed of one (1) slice of iceburg lettuce, and three cherry tomato halves.

2. "Sweet Potato Fries" included sweet potato strings that may once have been fried, but not for long and not in the recent past. R.D. said "They're like old person fries. All wrinkly and slimy." Um, okay. We bathe the old people in our family, Ryan.

3. "Moroccan Chutney Meatballs with CousCous" included meatballs that were not so much Moroccan as they were of dubious international origins. And the "chutney" was tomato chutney. That's not freaking chutney. That's salsa.

4. The couscous was plain. PLAIN! Why serve me plain pasta beads?!

5. Reminds me of a story: apparently, "couscous" means "vagina" (or, rather, the "p" word for it) in Persian or Farsi. A young Iranian student was horrified when I used the term one day until I described what it was I was talking about. Couscous is apparently not served in Iranian cuisine.

6. Anyway...

7. "Key Lime Parfait" was $6 for a dessert that was 90% cream, 10% key lime flavored pudding, and topped with graham cracker crumbs. Lllllaaaaaaaame!

8. The bread sticks were undercooked phyllo dough twists that had spices I could not determine. Might have been basil. Just couldn't tell.

So, to sum up, lunch was an overpriced load of crap. Thanks, [Joe is a Turd]!

C.P.: "I'm just going to start announcing everything I'm doing at that exact second."

Me: "Yay! And I'll blog along. It'll be like "A Day in the Life of Intrepid Reporter Corey Pein Who is, at This Very Minute, Typing an E-mail to His Mom, and Now He is Sending it - WILL SHE RECEIVE IT? We'll Let You Know When the Read Receipt Comes in..." and so on.

C.P.: "Good god!"

I've never been to Europe - heck, I've never been out of the country. But traveling is a really big deal to me. I was born with a wanderlust that has never died, and when Emerson is older we'll be dragging her all over the place, I'm sure. We're starting small, with a weekend camping trip in the mountains in a few weeks. We'll work her up to more in the future.

While I love camping, what I really love is hotel sheets and room service. There's a reason I didn't want to leave the hospital after Emerson was born. Fresh sheets upon request, food delivered practically right to my mouth, and peace and quiet. But hotels, of course, have much better food. What I also love is getting my money's worth. So, a little tip for my readers - especially the international ones - is to keep an eye on Hotel Club News. Talk about insider information! It's almost as good a peek into the hotel industry as Waiter Rant is on the food and beverage industry.

Honesty, insider information, industry news, travel specials and time-sensitive deals, along with tips and secrets of getting the best service for your stay are the hallmarks of this blog. They even highlight interesting upcoming events so that when you get bitten by the travel bug but don't know where you want to go, you can choose by event instead of by destination. And isn't that better than the cruise-ship method of scheduling the hell out of every minute of your life? A little spontaneity really spices up life. That's why my 2-year-old and I had a sword fight this morning with the rods that open and close our blinds. What are those things called?

Anyway, she totally kicked my butt. My right pointer knuckle is bruised and swollen. Hard to lose to a 2-year-old. But I did.

But it's great to travel with them. Yes, they get grumpy. Yes, they get nervous from unfamiliar surroundings. But they also get more excitement out of every day than anyone over the age of 12 can even try to muster. She keeps me going until I collapse, utterly unaware that I am wearing myself out because I'm too busy having fun! And getting swollen knuckles. Ouch.

Emerson's favorite phrase is "Come on, Mama!" She's always on the go, and keeps me moving, too. We'll keep her moving to new places with exciting new experiences over the next few years. I'm glad there are resources like Hotel Club News to use. God bless the Internet. Those last-minute specials are really great!

Be careful overseas, State Department warns

One imagines that "new" makes up the majority of the word "news" for a freaking reason.

He looks like he's about to pull a Fonzie. Or, worse, "Finger Guns."

My aunt Cathy e-mailed me for the first time in years. I haven't seen her since I was 15 years old. That side of the family... meh... not so fun. Anyway, Cathy is my mother's sister, and I have tried to respect that. But she's been snidely insulting since the day I was born. Granted, the e-mail she sent was mild, but I just couldn't abide it. Their smug self-importance and backwater ways have irritated me for far too long.

From: Aunt Cathy
To: the Niece Who Always Disappointed Us

PLEASE REMOVE ME AND YOUR AUNT CINDY FROM YOUR E-MAIL LIST.

From: Stacey
To: Aunt Cathy

I will be happy to remove you from the list. I accidentally merged the family and work lists together. Hello to you, too, by the way.

Love,
Stacey

From: Aunt Cathy
To: The Daughter of the Daughter Who Married That Papist From Texas of All Places

Stacey:
There is no need for sarcasm. I do not want my e-mail address broadcast on some mass mailing list. It never fails that after one of those messages arrives, I being to get smutty and unwanted trash e-mails. I am simply asking you to refrain from distributing my private e-mail address all over the internet.

I would be happy to speak to your parents about it.
Aunt Cathy

From: Enraged
To: No Relation of Mine
CC: Both Parents

Aunt Cathy -

That wasn't sarcasm. That was lighthearted ribbing. But feel free to speak to my parents about it. I'm 33 years old, not 12. Your e-mail has been removed, and I won't be using it again.

Not that I have ever had any reason to.

Stacey McGowen-Hudson

PS - Sorry, mom and dad.

From: Queen Negatron of the Planet Negator
To: Petulent Child
CC: the Parents Who Were Clearly Unable to Raise Her Right

This is an outrageous and uncalled for response to a simple request. [...] Plus, I don't care how old you are, it's never too late to learn to be more thoughtful and considerate.

Sis, please handle this.

From: Are You Freaking Kidding Me?
To: Has Never Moved Out of Her Mother's House
CC: My Beloved Parents

My mother has no need to handle anything where I am concerned. It was only an accident that my personal and work lists merged during a software upgrade. But I only hear from you when there is a complaint, so there's your lesson in thoughtful and considerate.

Let's not communicate any longer. I haven't seen you in more than a decade, and we don't really have anything in common other than my mother, who doesn't deserve this kind of stress. So don't take my behavior out on her. I make my own choices and I stand by them.

Best Regards and Goodbye,
Stacey

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

She'll be happy to speak to my parents about it? Go right ahead. Maybe they'll take away my television privileges and I won't be able to go to the Homecoming dance. How will I ever get a date to the prom?!

I set the server to reject all of her e-mails. But they still keep getting through.

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

OOOh, Fascinating Update!

Neither side of my family is known for letting things go. So I really didn't think that was the end...

From: The Wicked Bitch
To: the Parents Who Have Stood Behind Me Through This
No CC to me

Disrespectful and Incredible! Believe me I WILL NOT communicate with Stacey ever again. She has taken a simple request, and a reasonable one, and made it into a personal insult. I am absolutely astonished!

Bee-yotch

From: My Awesome Mom
To: Her Cold-Hearted Sister
CC: Me

[...] Stacey is a very warm, loving, talented person, is a great mother, and is never disrespectful. You sounded angry, she took it seriously. She removed you from the list, tried to be humorous about it; and it didn't work. [...] If this gets through, I will be surprised. You use to have me blocked out. I haven't even tried in a long time. I hope this is the end of this. [...] I know what happened. I have seen all of the e-mails. I don't think we need to be consulted. Stacey is an adult and can handle herself just fine.

Sis

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

Wow! Yay, Mom!

I think it's hilarious that she finds my behavior "outrageous," "incredible" and "astonishing." She must lead an extremely boring life. I am rarely more than "sleepy," "dopey" and "grumpy."

A.C. is a fantastic copy editor, always worried about the little things that could hurt our credibility.

"Isn't motherfucker one word?" she asks.

...

"Are you blogging that!?" she asks.
"Yeah..."
"Isn't it sad when I know your blogging face?"

I love my job.

Heh, just read the yard sale blog. Very funny! Your friend is a good writer. I actually know her husband Scott. We went to highschool together and we were drama geeks and on the dance team together. Actually we sort of founded the dance team. You will have to tease Scott next time you see him about our choreographed numbers to Posion by Alice Cooper, and I don't remember wich Duran Duran song, but if anyone has it on video it would be really funny I'm sure.

"Jason and I saw that movie in Amsterdam," A.W. says.
"Love it!" says A.C.
"We also saw 'Elizabeth' with Cate Blanchett," she says.
"Weren't there any Amsterdam-y movies playing?" I ask.
"I don't know. I don't remember," she muses. "But you know you can get a beer in the movie theaters over there. You can smoke if you want to..."
"You can get fries with mayonnaise," I say.
"Yep," she nods.
"And a Royale with Cheese."

Scott received word today that he won an AP Award for his coverage of James Brown's death. That's my husband, everyone! Witness his greatness!

"Hormone may explain teen moodiness."



We need science for that?

"So I got caught by a train this morning, and on the back of every car was a sign stamped that said, 'Do not hump,'" Amy says.
I stare at her in disbelief. "Nuh-uhhhh!"
"Yes!"
"Do not hump what?!"
"I don't know!"

UPDATE: Thanks, Jim!

Emerson is in a foul mood because "Branny" and "Dada" left. Well, sorry, but your grandparents live in Atlanta, and they need to get back. Besides, you've had enough sugar. So, anyway, they're gone and she's pissed. And hungry.

"Emmie eat?" she asks me from the doorway.
"Sure, Emmie. I made you some fish, and green beans, and sweet potatoes," I coo, as we walk into the kitchen.
"NOOOOoooo!" she half-shrieks, and throws herself against the refrigerator.
"You don't want fish?"
She shakes her head.
"Well, what would you like for dinner?"
"Um... aya keem?" she asks, hopefully. I laugh. No ice cream tonight.
"No, ma'am. You have to eat your fish first."
"NOOOooooo!"
"Well, I'm sorry. That's the way it is." I walk back into the living room.
When I turn around, she cuts her eyes at me.
"Wha-eber." she says.
"What?" I ask, not sure what she's just said.
"WHA-EBER!" she yells. And then stomps off, repeating herself. "Wha-eber. wha-eber. whaaaa-eber!


Well... at least I know that she listens to me.

What happens when you hold a yard sale to raise money for cancer and no one comes?

6:30 a.m. - Amy and Nola arrive at my house with a truckload of stuff. I am still frantically hopping around shirtless with one leg in my jeans, hair wet, as they arrive, looking fresh and rested and super freaking cute. I can't even imagine how Amy manages this every day of her life. Sometimes I want to poke her with my copy editing pen. But not hard.

6:45 a.m. - We begin setting up in the pre-dawn light.

7:30 a.m. - the clothes rack goes up. Thanks for the loaner, Tom and Maryanne.
7:31 a.m. - the clothes rack falls over. We pick it up and meticulously brush off the clothes.

7:59 a.m. - the clothes rack falls over again. We pick it up and carefully brush off the clothes.
8 a.m. - the yard sale is officially open. We survey our work. Meh. S'okay.

8:30 a.m. - we sit and listen to birds chirping. It is a beautiful morning, and Emerson and Nola and having a ball together.

8:35 a.m. - the clothes rack falls over again. We laugh and pick it up, brushing the clothes off some.
8:45 a.m. - our next-door-neighbor donates a cute leather modern chair and matching ottoman.

9 a.m. - we sit and listen to crickets chirping. My stomach starts growling.

9:15 a.m. - a tumbleweed blows through the yard.
9:16 a.m. - in its wake, the clothes rack falls over. We glare at it in disgust. Then we pick it up again.

9:30 a.m. - Lo! A customer!
9:32 a.m. - Goodbye, customer.
9:33 a.m. - The scent of desperation wafts through the air.

9:35 a.m. - A car rolls by slowly.
"You know you wanna stop, bitch," I mutter. I hear Amy snort.
"That's my mad sales skills there," I say.
"I see that."

9:45 a.m. - Amy goes for McDonalds. Probably to get away from my incessant talking.

10 a.m. - My parents arrive from Atlanta. The inevitable decline into sugar overload begins for the children.

10:30 a.m. - Amy returns from McDonalds. We all go in the house and eat breakfast, watching the yard out the front window. Like we needed to.
10:34 a.m. - The clothes rack falls over. Eh, fuck it.

11 a.m. - Lo! A customer. We rush out and pick up the clothes rack.
11:10 a.m. - Hey, $5. Rock on. Surprisingly, none of it was off the clothes rack.
11:11 a.m. - Which just fell over again.

noon - We're sitting on the porch with my husband.
"Y'all need to let me do this," he says.
"Oh, okay, genius. Go sell something." (To the masses of people NOT wandering through the yard.)
A van pulls up and three women get out.
"There's your chance, Scott," Amy says.
"Yeah, get on it, honey."
"Just wait. You have to give them a minute."
"Oh, he's got a whole philosophy of yard sale-ing."
Scott sucks on his cigarette thoughtfully, then ambles off the porch. "How you doing, ladies?" he calls as he approaches.
"Yeah, be sure to tell them all about the cancer research with the cigarette in your hand," Amy says quietly and I snort-laugh.
Scott does make a nice effort, but in the end gets called away by other things. I move in to close the deal. The haul is $50: $20 in sales, and $30 in donations. Gee, it's too bad I'm such a shitty salesperson, Scott, or they might not have been the largest sale of the day.

1 p.m. - A blond man in cargo shorts arrives outside.
"Hey, you have a customer," dad says from the couch where he and Mom are watching "Shaun of the Dead." I peer hopefully outside.
"Nope. That's just Amy's husband."

1:25 p.m. - We muse about how much longer we should make this effort. The clothes rack long ago collapsed in the gravel and no one has made even the slightest move to pick it up.
"Y'all are the only people I have ever known who held a yard sale and ended up with more stuff at the end of it," Scott laughs. Perhaps it was a mistake to solicit donations from the community.

2 p.m. - In the end, three truckloads go to the Salvation Army. Maybe they'll have better luck. The final total: $150. Among the surprising leftovers that remain to be ebay-ed: two computer printers, one with two ink cartridges included, two lawnmowers, a set of golf clubs, 250 CDs, 100 books, four huge garbage bags of clothes, a really pretty crib, a $300 jogger stroller, an unopened tabletop grill...

and one clothes rack.

But you can still help. If you read this blog (and I know that 800 of you do a month, you bunch of weirdos!) see if you can click here and find even just $5 to donate to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

Someone in your life has been affected by cancer. You know what a horrible disease it is. So do it for your grandfather, who you never got to know like you wanted. Do it for John Edwards' wife, who has two young children to raise while batting bone cancer. Do it for my husband's father, who died when Scott was just 12 years old. Do it for my grandmother, who died of breast cancer long before I was born. Do it for my aunt, who had part of her face cut away because of skin cancer. Do it for all the women who have died of cervical cancer over the years, because no one considered that a virus might be to blame. Do it for all of people who fell prey to Big Tobacco. Do it for yourself, because you never know who will get it next. And wouldn't it be nice if they found a cure?

Consider all of that, and then, again, click here and see if you can find the amount equal to these things for which you may already make room in your budget:

a soda from the vending machine: $1
a Starbucks beverage: $3.50
one movie ticket: $8
a new book: $15
a casual meal for two: $25
a detail on your car: $50
a trip to Sam's Club: $100
a weekend in Hilton Head: $500
a week in Orlando: $1,000

Those are nice things to have, but so is the ability to watch your kids grow up.

Wolfgang Puck puts mercy on menu across USA
If only we could serve some to the detainees at Gitmo.

"Wolfgang Puck’s new kindler, gentler menu."

At least the story satisfied my burning curiosity.

You don't have to be a media critic to know that FOX News utilizes every propaganda trick imaginable. Agenda Setting is a fully-owned subsidiary of FOX News, Inc. In other words, they frame their issues, choose their guests and pose their questions in such as way that, in court, a judge would hold them in contempt for "leading the witness." I already hold them in contempt. But, speaking of posing a question...

The Daily Show says: "FOX has figured out that by simply by putting a question mark at the end of something, you can say F**king anything."

You'll never view the FOX news "subheads" the same way again:

http://www.crooksandliars.com/index.php?s=tds-question

"Online anonymity lets users gets nasty" (scroll to bottom) -- and it lets their copy editors gets stupid.

My parents (Emerson calls them "Branny" and "Dadada") are coming down this weekend to see Emerson, and will take her to the park. I made some suggestions, and my dad e-mailed me about it.

Branny just told me she is bringing Easter eggs for Em to hunt and she already knows about the big slide. Don't ask me how she knows about the big slide, she just does. She said it goes with being a Branny. What do I know!

Your mom told me I wasn't funny at all, just ignorant of how to express myself. I guess she can't help herself, being from Alabama and having her family. I've worked for over thirty seven years on changing her ways, and she has fought me tooth and nail the entire time. I'm running out of tooths and she is running out of nails, so maybe she is learning something.

C.P. cracks me up. I am recreating his post on the Metro Spirit blog here. Because I can. And it's better than anything I could have come up with. Plus he has a sweet new haircut.

"Pro wrestlers linked to steroid use" That's kind of like saying: Pro actors linked to Meridia use. Not exactly shocking news.

"Fort Gordon burn creates dense smoke" Fire make smoke?! Since when?!

Guest Post: Scott Hudson

There is no such thing as the “perfect parent.” Parenting is every bit as much a learning experience as is childhood. Yet, some people never get it. My wife and I waited until our mid-thirties to have a young ‘un (hey! Speak for yourself! I’m 29.95, and I’m on sale!), primarily because we were terrified of the responsibility.

Once we knew for sure that the little one was coming, we immediately unplugged the cable TV. The decision was not based on morality concerns alone, we simply did not want our kid to be chained to a television. We also needed badly to save money! Also, We wanted her to explore, we wanted her to read, and most importantly; we wanted her to interact with other people.

Without even really trying hard, my wife had little Emmy talking in English, Spanish, and American Sign Language long before her second birthday. Yet, we still slip up. I dropped something in the kitchen the other day and said “Oh S*&%.” Before I knew it, Emmy was walking around pointing at her doll mimicking me. How do you explain to a toddler not to say a curse word? Well, I guess the answer to that is to not curse yourself. A learning curve it is, no doubt.

I learned from the best, I suppose. My dad was a man who believed in “spare the rod, and spoil the child,” which is something I disagree with in adulthood. I believe discipline can be taught without violence. So dad wasn’t perfect either, but until his death he was always involved in my life. When I was too young to make good decisions on my own, he made them for me. Once, when I was about 10 years old, my parents told me I could choose four “rock and roll” albums as my Christmas presents. I was elated! Mom and I went to the store and I chose what I wanted based on what I had heard other kids raving about.

Later that night, I listened at the vent as my parents argued.

Dad: Patsy! What were you thinking? Culture Club?
Mom: What’s wrong with it?
Dad: Look at the album cover!
Mom: What? I don’t understand.
Dad: That is a MAN, Patsy.
Mom: The girl…there…is a…
Dad: Yes.
Mom: Oh, dear.
Dad: And look at the lyrics of this Prince record…”Let’s pretend we’re married…”

And so it went.

When I woke up on Christmas morning I received four records all right: four records that my father picked out for me. I got “Pet Sounds” by the Beach Boys, “Abbey Road” by the Beatles, “Creedence Clearwater Revival Live,” and “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye. Of course, he noticed my disappointment. He then sat with me and put on “Because” by the Beatles. I was hooked. We listened to all of those records together until I eventually wore them all out and it has never escaped me that nearly all of those albums are in Billboards Top 20 of all time. None of the ones I originally chose ended up on that list.

Parenting is never perfect; there is no scientific formula. Parenting is teaching and learning at the same time. Parenting means spending time with kids and talking to kids. It means sharing your interests and learning about theirs. It is about spending time and showing them the world rather than letting them figure it out on their own. My Dad and Mom gave me that gift and I am determined to pass it along to Emmy. They screwed up a few times, as will I; however, it is always better to try and strive and almost reach a goal rather than give up and rely on Ritalin, MTV, Playstation 9000, and social workers to bring along the next generation.

When I see Mary Liz’s kids show off their talents in public, hear Joe Bowles’ kids hanging off of Daddy while he tries to give a quick comment on the phone, have my friend Bill Brown’s kid Trevor run up and hug me at daycare, and witness the incredible success my siblings have earned for themselves, I realize there are plenty of parents out there for me to emulate. I just feel so sorry for those kids who miss out on the most important thing in childhood: their parents.

Scott

I've had too much caffeine and Prozac today. I've become kind of a whirling dervish of gaiety and snarkiness. I'm gayly snarky. I'm really happy about being a smart-ass to all who cross my path. I am sure I am irritating everyone around me with my incessant talking and occassional bout of cackling to myself over some thought-of-but-unspoken comment.

"I'm sorry!" I moan to A.C. "Bad Stacey is back."
"Really?" said J.R., the intern. "I couldn't tell the difference."
Hmm. I meant to say ex-intern.

Scott usually calls me a number of times throughout the day. But he didn't this morning. About noon I looked at A.C. and mentioned that. She furrowed her brow and said, "That is kind of strange." By 1 p.m., I was losing my mind and broke down and called him.

Me: "Hey, what's up?"
Him: "Nothing. What's up with you?"
Me: "You haven't called me today."
Him: "Well, you always hang up on me."
Me: "What? I do not!"
Him (mimicking me): "Whatdoyouwant? I'mverybusyandimportant! Myblogiswaiting!"

Okay. Maybe.

Hagar: Dude! What up?! Congrats!
Stipe: Don't touch me.
Hagar: Bro! You're one of us now!
Stipe: I will never be one of you. Never!
H: Hey, have a beer!
St: I don't drink alcohol.
H: ... uh .... toke?
S: Oh, okay, sure! Thanks!
H: Bro! See? It's all about the love!
S: Love is for the living.
H: Okay, Nosferatu.

"Goddamn," I hear T.G. mutter.
"Why are we cursing? Can I curse, too?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says.
"We just realized that the name of this soup kitchen that serves mostly African-Americans is called Masters Table," C.P. says.
"Noooo. That's not... that's not what they had in mind," I insist.
"No, sure, but still..."
"Is that's what they meant, they would have called it Massah Table."

Our firstborn, Scrabble, started acting funny the other day. He was not his usual self, moped around, and cried if you touched his belly. Of course, our reaction was: do we take him to the emergency clinic and spend a $1,000 we do not have?

By Tuesday he seemed worse, so I called the vet.

Vet: Hello, blah blah blah Animal Clinic, how can I help you?
Me: I think my dog is dying.
Vet: Okay, calm down. What are your dog's symptoms?
Me: Well, he is shaking, he won't eat, he is lethargic.
Vet: He's shaking and he's lethargic?
Me: Yeah, I mean he's a Rat Terrier, so he always shakes, but I guess he's shaking more than usual.
Vet: Is that all?
Me: He won't eat.
Vet: And?
Me: He doesn't want to go outside.
Vet: And?
Me: Well, he just doesn't look right.
Vet: How does he look?
Me: He looks like he's dying!
Vet: Okay, let me ask you a few questions.
Me: Alright.
Vet: Is he vomiting?
Me: No.
Vet: Diarrhea?
Me: No.
Vet: Unstable on his feet?
Me: No.
Vet: Sensitive to light?
Me: No.
Vet: Sensitive to sound?
Me: No.
Vet: Bleeding?
Me: No.
Vet: What is he doing right now?
Me: Watching TV.
Vet: You let your dog watch TV?
Me: Yeah, well...it's the animal show on PBS, he loves it.
Vet: Okay.
Me: I also leave talk radio on when I'm gone, so that balances out the TV, right?
Vet: Uh, huh...I guess so.
Me: So is he dying?
Vet: Probably not.
Me: But he could have Encephalitis!
Vet: He doesn't have Encephalitis.
Me: Are you sure?
Vet: Quite sure. Horses and people get Encephalitis, not usually dogs.
Me: But it could happen.
Vet: It would be very rare.
Me: So, then he may have it!
Vet: He doesn't have the symptoms. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: Yes, what should I do?
Vet: About what?
Me: My dog!
Vet: Watch him for a couple of days; if his condition worsens then bring him in for a checkup.
Me: That's all?
Vet: That's all, have a nice...
Me: But he could have rabies!
Vet: Has he been left outside unattended?
Me: No.
Vet: Then he doesn't have rabies.
Me: Are you sure?
Vet: Quite sure.
Me: So I should just watch him?
Vet: Yes, he probably has a tummy ache. Just remember, even little doggies get sick from time to time.
Me: They do?
Vet: Yes, they do.

Thank God, the damned mutt made a full recovery and is back eating my socks, barking at the mailman, and begging to go out every five minutes.

So we moved to 1) escape the idiots threatening us because of my husband's job, and 2) have a bigger place. But in the process, we acquired a piano. We finally got more living space and then the Hulking Piano of Untuned Doom sucked it away!

Then Scott hung everything that we own on the walls this weekend and now it looks like we live in someone's Victorian sitting room. Freaking historical crap everywhere and I'm afraid to move anything because god knows when it might fall apart. The only good thing is that he finally hung his guitars on the wall so I'm not constantly knocking one over and hearing him curse about it!

Okay, that was a lot of unnecessary complaining. And it's not bad. If you like living in a museum of history... Actually, I do everything I can to mess up his plan. Like, I bought a Dia del Muerto/Frieda Kahlo collage piece from a local artist. It's going right on the piano. And I bought a bright green lopsided coffee carafe from a high school ceramics student that sits prominently on the equally bright yellow hutch in the kitchen. I never have gotten around to painting that darn thing. But the best part about the carafe is that it can't even be used to hold coffee because the interior wasn't glazed. It's basically a big useless super green box with a spout and a lid that doesn't fit properly. In my head, I call it my "sticks in the yard" piece, in honor of Dad's secret pastime.

The Saga of the Septic Tank at my parents' house may soon come to an end for Mom and Dad. I am so happy to hear that because I was about to tear my ears off and hide them in a box just so I wouldn't have to listen to the updates anymore. But I was afraid that someone might try to pantomime the story, and that would just be wrong.

We're discussing the incident reports from local schools. They are so horribly disturbing: rape, molestation, guns, knives, posession of 21 bags of marijuana (!!)... Emerson is going into a convent. Now. A.W. makes a "these kids today" comment, and we all begin to compare our own experiences to those of the students at these local middle and high schools.

"It's nothing new," says C.P., who grew up in the rural Pacific Northwest. "Kids brought knives to my school."
"Yeah, but didn't they go skin a deer or something later?" I ask.
"Sure," T.G. interjects. "Kids brought guns to my high school because they went hunting in the morning and hunting after school."
"Yeah, but the Redcoats were coming," I snicker.

At a festival meeting...

Me: "...and ants and snakes were a problem last year."
S.P.: "Really?"
A.C: "One."
Me: "Still, we're 90% sure that it was poisonous."
B.D: "Where are those religious people when you need them? They show up at First Friday. I bet we could toss the snake into the middle of a crowd of them and they'd know what to do with it."