Momnesia

Just some pretty lights I found, in a pretty atrium in Augusta, Ga.

After a long period of silence...

"At Urban Outfitters they have a Homer Simpson doll and he's wrapped in a towel and you squeeze his hand and he sings 'Macho Man' in its entirety," A.W. says. "It was the funniest thing I've ever seen."

New works by Kristin Casaletto and Jennifer Onofrio will be on exhibit from June 15 - July 21 at the Mary Pauline Gallery, 982 Broad St. An opening reception will be June 15 from 5 - 8 p.m.

Stop by and check out the Onofrio's exploration of the concepts of mortality and fragility, and see why Casaletto was awarded grants from the Blue Mountain Center in New York and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Yes, you read that right. Government. In. Action. When an employee had a complaint about handicapped parking downtown, Traffic Engineer Steve Cassell came out himself to look at the situation.

After determining that the city could do more to meet the required code, city workers had installed a new handicapped parking space at the corner on 7th and Broad streets less than one week later. Quick work!

We'll never complain about the speed of bureaucracy again.

Until tomorrow.

AUGUSTA, GA. - I'm not from 'round here, and it was nice this weekend to stumble across this urban oasis at the Saturday Market on Broad. A nice, quiet, shaded and cool respite from the asphalt downtown. Behind Health Central on Broad Street is this great place to take shelter from the summer sun.

AUGUSTA, GA. -- Scenes from the weekend in downtown.

Emerson adores makeup. Of course, she's 2-years-old and loves anything with which she can paint on the walls and hardwood floors. So she discovered fingernail polish and now lipstick. Yesterday, after I moved all of the tubes I could find out of her reach, I went into the kitchen to cook dinner.

Unbeknownst to me, she dragged her little red chair over to the closet and starting going through my cosmetics drawers. Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable shriek that meant the universe was torturing her in some way. "I spillyit!" she yelled.

But it was not a beverage. It was a bottle of patchouli oil so old that some of the stuff had crusted around the cap. And now it was puddled on my floor. She ran to me, leaving little patchouli footprints in her wake, waving little patchouli-covered hands. "Ahhh!" I ran away from her and got a wad of paper towels from the kitchen. She thought it was a joke and toddled after me, spraying patchouli on the walls and floor as she ran.

It was a huge mess. And now our whole house smells like dead hippies and I've stopped showering because I'm under the delusion that it covers all body odors. By the way, we're gettin' the band back together! And we're hosting a five-day concert with Widespread, Phish and Mickey Hart's Music Box in my back yard! We're going to burn a giant straw golf ball at the end of it all. Dude. It's going to be awesome. It makes me feel like this:

After five wonderful years I am saying goodbye to my beloved, the first "real" camera I ever owned. It's served me well. So, if you are looking for a good camera, click the photo below for purchasing information. For the camera body, two lenses, an external flash and a super sweet camera bag, it's a freaking great deal. Thanks!

"Is that Stacey's intern?" A.W. asks.
"Yes!" I crow. "All mine. My personal intern. I flog him daily."
She chuckles like the cuddly ball of hate that she is: "The devil wears Converse."

No. You can't.

It is an electric, do-it-yourself back hair shaver called the ManGroomer.

This is the spam I'm getting now. Can anyone explain why? Except Joe White. You, sir, are not allowed to formulate an explanation. We do not have a 7-second delay in blogland.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott and I had a date Friday night.

Obviously, you did not hear me, or there would be confetti raining down upon my head and cripples would be lining up for miles outside my door wanting me to lay my miracle-making hands upon their ailments.

My husband and I had a date, a real date, with just me and him and nowhere we had to make an appearance and without a scheduled agenda or dress code. We exchanged words that didn't rhyme and sang songs - don't ask - not written by a cast of characters wearing matching shirts (or shirts of the same style that do not match because they are all different but still very bright colors, thank you so very much, Australia.)

But it is a good thing that he is my husband and not some poor, unsuspecting man who asked me out because after...
1) hitting 30, which was officially 15 years of torturous dating, I turned into a Minuteman-version of the Dating Game on guys, waving the flag of the United Personalities of Stacey with all of them screaming, "Love her or leave her!" and;
2) after squeezing a watermelon-headed baby out of a - well, significantly smaller... uh, hey, shut up! Stop thinking about my hoo-ha! But let's just say the experience put things in perspective...
... I have apparently forgotten the Rules.

I am beginning to think that I was raised by wolves but adopted by a kindly, aging, childless farming couple who kept me in the barn but tragically died early, gentle deaths leaving me a ward of the state, which found me another adoptive family very quickly, and all while I was still quite young but not in time to teach me social skills. Witness.

Stopped at the 13th and Telfair streetlight.
We're coming from the Hill and going to The Boll Weevil. I'm driving. Scott's window is open.
(thinking): I bet I can hit the sidewalk with my gum.
Scott: blah blah blah blah blah
Totally. I can totally hit that sidewalk with my gum.
Scott: And then I said blah blah blah blah.
His head is in my way. Can I make it past his head?
Scott: blah blah blah blah
Do I want to make it past his head?
Scott: blah blah blah -
"Hey, move back," I order.
He obeys: "What are you-"
(huck!) Damn. Not quite.
Luckily, Scott collapsed in laughter and grabbed my hand.
"See?!" he guffawed. "That's why you're my best friend!"

We make it to The Boll Weevil without me doing anything else utterly disgusting. They've painted the exterior of the building, and they're working on the exteriors of all of the buildings on that block. Looks nice, even if I'm not sure about the color choices. Mustard always reminds me of a candlestick in the library, and that's a messy way to die, but at least a nice place to do it. As I cut into the bread, I chop into my left thumb. Hard. Deep. There is blood on the table.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks.
"yyyeeeeesssss," I grimace. Hey! A candle.
"I want to light my straw wrapper!" I exclaim. And then I do it.
Oh shit!
"What are you doing?!" he demands, and, dude, I have no idea. The shiny lighty thing distracted me! I blow on the paper and manage to put it out. A cloud of fine grey ash shrouds our table and settles in my water glass.
"You want to just get an appetizer and go?" he asks, looking at his bleeding, ash-covered bride.

That would probably be safest.

Disclaimer: No alcohol was involved in the making of this story. That came later.

Sorry for the absence! Craziness abounds at work, including two computer crashes - by the same computer, which is only two months old, thanks so much for buying a PC, Joe! - and two issues produced back to back. We're a weekly, not a daily, so putting out two issues in the same week makes us actually raise our heads off of our desktops and stop swilling beer for a while. No likey.

So this morning I come in and it looks like the computer of repetitive death has returned. But it sat silently. I hooked everything up and turned it on. Nothing. The green light came on but the screen was blank.

I crawled under the desk again to check the connections. Everything seemed to be where it was supposed to be, thank you for the color-coding and symbols. It seems computers these days are designed by Grrranimals. Anyway, still nothing. Ten minutes later I'm still under my desk, checking connections and blowing imaginary dust out of female receptors.

"It says 'Cable not connected,'" Natalie called, from where she was viewing my ass and my screen at the same time.
"Well, no crap. I just unplugged it. Let me plug it back in."
"It's on!" she said.
"I wasn't getting anything!" I fumed while screwing in the sides of the cable.
"I just pushed the on button," Natalie shrugged.
...
"Oh."

The on button, you say? Huh. Never heard of it.

From a friend-of-a-friend:

I don't know a single soul that hasn't enjoyed a good "Meemaw" yarn from time to time. Whether she will curl up with a big African or ponder the mystery of convex glass and why the fish gets bigger when it gets to the other side of the bowl is anyone's guess. Here is her latest which will eventually appear in that book of quotes I've been working on:

I went to visit mom and dad yesterday and Meemaw comes over. Thankfully, too as dad was watching a violent movie about a magician or some shit with Scott Bakula in it. I think we all know how much I hate that prick. He cheapens film.

At any rate, dad turns on Blue Planet, that National Geographicy type show. There are all these walruses and a polar bear attacking one of them. Meemaw goes "look at that bear playin' with those Wallaces." Yes, Wallaces. The bear is obviously trying to eat Wallace's head and she's still "awww, that bear just wants to play." Uh, he just tore that Wallace's eye out, Meemaw.

Our washer broke. It's only three years old, but although everything on it still works, the basket is all lopsided for some reason. Gasket? Bracket? Something is off. So when calling around, repair techs who haven't even seen the damn thing gave us estimates that averaged around $350. The problem? That's $50 more than the washer costs brand new. Essplain this to me, Lucy?!

It would be cheaper to buy a new washer, strap it to the back of Scott's grandfather's truck, stop by Target on the way home and buy all new underwear than it would be to fix the washer we already have - INCLUDING GAS.

Seriously?! Does nothing last anymore?

Theater fan: What would you say about a person who saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show only once and didn't feel any need to see it again?
Tim Curry: I'd say that was a person who was in full possession of their senses.

"Does anyone here speak Spanish?" my boss called.
"Me!" I raised my hand.

Don't be impressed. It is not so much that I speak Spanish as I am a glutton for punishment. Because when there is a task to be done, and a volunteer to be requested, my arm is all about shooting straight into the air and my mouth is all, "Me! Me!" and my brain is all "Huh? Why did you wake me up?"

Because I did not so much learn Spanish in college as I did take vast notes on how Spanish and the oh-so-enjoyable three years of high school Latin I endured were vastly different. In many ways. Like, I was expected to actually speak Spanish, whereas Latin is not for speaking. It is for reading and for devising stupid things to say, like "Salve, Joe! Crepidas meas per clavos ad solum adfixinte?" ("Hello, Joe! Did you nail my sandals to the floor?!")

So Latin is largely useless, unless you are the Pope. And I am not. I am not even a singing nun from "The Sound of Music," nor do I play one on TV. Basically, I'm what they might call a Hell McNugget.

So, to sum up my explanation so far:
A) Not going to be playing a harp on a cloud any time soon;
B) Don't speak Spanish.
C) Or Latin.

As it turns out, my boss didn't want me to translate something on the piece of paper he was waving around, which I might have been able to with three years of Latin and two years of Spanish under my belt. He was waving a menu. And he wanted me to call and speak to real Mexicans in their native tongue. I just knew we were having dog food for dinner. Here is how the conversation went, translated from Spanish back into a language I actually do speak.

Real Mexican Person: Hello?
Me: Oh, shit. Uh, hello?
RMP (sigh of resignation): Hello.
Me: Ah, good. I call the restaurant of the name of Mi Poblito. I am called Stacey. How are you?
RMP: (silence)
Me: Good. Good... (pause). At what time does the restaurant have openness in the night?
RMP: In the night?
Me: Yes, yes. Very much we are wanting to know what the time is that the restaurant stands open.
RMP: Stands open?
Me: Yes. Stands open. Very much we are wanting the foods from your very, very good restaurant.
RMP: We are not open at night.
(long pause.)
Me: And but to drive close to you and yes open at night past.
RMP: What?!
Me: Please. We very much want the foods. I am gringa, yes. But the foods are very important. To me. And... to the boss. The boss drive close night past and open, yes.
RMP: No. We are not open at night.
Me: I do not understand. The night past open, yes.
RMP: No. No. Not open.
Me: At what time is the foods to sell?
RMP: (long pause followed by something in Spanish)
Me: I am sorry for it. I do not understand. At what time is the foods to sell? Breakfast?
RMP: Breakfast?!
Me: Yes. In the afternoon. Breakfast.
RMP: Oh. Lunch.
Me: Yes! Lunch! Thank you very much. Lunch is the word I want. Is the foods to sell at the lunch?
RMP: Yes.
Me: And at what time is the lunch not the lunch?
RMP: (something in Spanish that might have been a rude comment about my mother.)
Me: I am sorry for it... The lunch is now?
RMP: No. The lunch (something something, and then a long string of something somethings, at which point I realize this is not working)
Me: Oh. Yes. Very good. I am sorry for it. Thank you. I have hope that the day is good to you.
(Click)

I think Natalya would be very disappointed. But at least when I wanted two enchiladas, I didn't order 12 like I did a few years ago. That was confusing. And, as it turns out, the restaurant is open at night. Just not to idiots like me.

Scott hates rap. He sees no redeeming value in it. Well, except Outkast. But I’m always trying to point out that there is a redeeming quality to rap, if you understand the socio-cultural and historical placement. He insists it isn’t music.

Anyway, I continue my efforts while flipping through iTunes. I try the “Knight Rider Remix” from Punjabi DJ. The baseline makes him laugh.



“Here, you might like this one.” I put on Rage Against the Machine’s cover of “Fuck the Police.”
“I’ve never considered Rage Against the Machine to be rap.”
I look at him, incredulous. “What?!“
“Well, first of all, I can understand what the guy’s saying. It’s not misogynistic. It’s not hate-filled.”
“Um, have you ever listened to them?”
“They’re a protest band.”
“A hate-filled one. I mean, honey, they’re called Rage Against the Machine, not Happy Tea Party Against the Machine.”

"There's a Vacation Bible School with the theme: Avalanche Ranch, where we go on a wild ride through God's word."
C.P. snickers.
"And it's the Lutheran Church," I continue. "I don't think it's going to be that wild."
"Oh, it's totally wild," he counters. "Like Jesus' flowing locks."

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott eavesdropping on the board for the Imperial Theatre. Oh, okay. This one I took myself.

"I was in the delivery room, I saw what happened. Anything she wants gets done. She's like, 'Change the diaper,' and I'm like, 'Absolutely, sorry about your vagina.' " -- ADAM SANDLER

George Michael's doppleganger: Metro Spirit publisher Joe White, who lives here in Augusta, Ga. This town is famous for so many other entertainers that it's hard to understand how a talent agency from 1985 hasn't created a time machine just to come to the future, snatch Joe up, and bring him back to the height of George Michael's popularity (sometime post-WHAM, pre-He's-a-bathroom-trolling-Superfreak days). Twice as many metrosexual prima donnas = twice the money from teenage girls drunk off the ink fumes rising from their copies of "Tiger Beat."














Here, look at him like this:















In reality, other than a stylist, they probably have little in common. Except that they're never gonna dance again. Because guilty feet have got no rhythm. Damn careless whispers.

"B.H. asked me if I'd seen the 'downtown' story and I said, 'Yeah, sure, what was it about?' and she said, 'Downtown.'"

If our server had balls, I would totally kick it in them.

I was excited to have dinner with two professors’ families this weekend, because I tend to think of professors’ families like they're all Oscar Wilde - witty, urbane, glittering with intelligence.

This is not true. Some are just nerds with no personalities. I was so bored at the (courtesy edit) that I thought I was going to have to moon someone. If I hadn’t had a great time at (the next professor's house) - which I did - the ass was coming out, I tell you!

A sample conversation from Friday:
Pompous ass 1: “No, the bolt-action rifle had nothing to do with the end of the war!”
Pompous ass 2: “Well, (so-and-so historian) would beg to differ! The North’s manufacturing of the weapon turned the tide of later battles.”
PA1: “But the North already had more soldiers, better equipped and trained! It was just a matter of time.”
PA2: “But the South had better military minds, and the North sustained much greater casualties because of it. The outcome of the war wasn’t certain until the bolt-action rifle was introduced.”
Me: zzzzZZZZZzzzzzzz

Sample conversation from Saturday night (Disclaimer: this professor a church representative. When a congregation has problems, they call her in to mediate. Any former student of hers knows that should strike fear into their souls):

Professor: “So the deacons at this one church, instead of saying, ‘We’re a congregation; let’s act like one, sit down, and discuss this with the pastor,’ instead decided to fire him. He was not in violation of his contract; they were. So now, they have to come up with $186,000 a year more to cover both the former pastor’s salary and the new pastor’s salary. AND, they think the interim minister is only there for 6 months, but we’re not going to let them hire another permanent minister for four years because they don’t know how to behave as a congregation. They just aren’t listening, and we’re expecting them to fire the interim pastor, too.”
Me: “That’s hysterical.”
Jody: “Well, that’s what happened at First Baptist, too. A couple of the really big guys – the ones who donate millions of dollars a year – didn’t like the pastor and got him fired. The deacons actually got into a fistfight over it.”
Dawn: “What?!”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. The police were called and everything. It was in the Chronicle.”
Me: “And now they’re in the same boat as the Presbyterian church?”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. But his salary is even higher than that because the church has 5,000 members.”
Professor: “See, I have no sympathy. No, you can’t hire another minister! You screwed up. Suffer! Suffer! Suffer!”
(laughter)

I am glad I went to both parties, if only to get my pregnant ass out of the house. But if you’re going to have people over for a meal, you shouldn’t beat them into unconsciousness with your boorish personalities. It makes us want to hurt you, like with a bolt-action rifle. Whatever that is.

UPDATE: I am not pregnant. This is a repost of a favorite story. Thus the title: "Repost"

My husband has always been fearless. While it hasn’t always served him well, I regret that I will never have stories that begin with “So, when I was 8, my grandfather decided it was time I learned how to drive,” and “Yeah, I think it was the ‘Kiss My Ass Fridays’ and the phone bill to Japan that got me fired."

Attention Residents of Conyers: You are freaking me out. I don't know who is visiting my blog from C-Town, but I'm sure it's someone I went to high school with. So, hello and thank you. But I have some news for you, which I'm sure you will find quite shocking: I probably didn't like you back then.

But, take heart! It's not your fault! I didn't like anyone back then. I was too busy listening to The Cure and Nine Inch Nails and saving the world by signing petitions against CFCs, eating meat, gun ownership, and urban sprawl. Because if there's one thing that can stop a bulldozer from knocking down an old-growth forest for a new housing development, it's a piece of paper with signatures on it. There's no defense against that, is there? Not, like, a single match, or anything.

Anyway: Reveal Yourself, Fellow Bulldog! Unless you were someone I had a crush on, which you would know by the way I glared at you for four years. I wasn't mad at you. I just refused to wear my glasses.

A.C. is being a smarty-pants.

"I'm going to chuck my tampons at you," I threaten, brandishing a box from my file drawer.
"At least they're not used tampons," she responds.

But later...

"You're in trouble, Miss Editor Pants," she crows.
"Hey, I got a whole box of tampon with your name on it."

"I think I'm going to put butter on my muffin... that sounded kind of obscene."

"Stacey just said she liked her muffin better than everyone in this building," A.C. complained to A.W.
"She said that about the cucumber-wasabi dressing," A.W. replied, unconcerned and unimpressed with me, as usual.
"A.W. remembers everything I say. It's not fair. I can't recycle my jokes around her," I whine.
"Yeah, I'm real sharp like that."

A.C. has given me a low-fat mixed berry muffin. I am kind of scared, but it is like a little piece of yum in my mouth. So I put in a bigger piece.

"This muffin is awesome," I say, spraying crumbs everywhere.
"I know."
"I like this muffin better than anyone in this building."
"What? That's not very nice," A.C. responds. "I can understand everyone else, but me and Alice?"

I have just returned to my desk from the bathroom when E.B. asks a question.
"Whadja do? Whadja do? Whadja do?" she inquires, rapid fire.
"Uhh... I went to the bathroom and took a crap," I reply, perturbed that she would ask.
"I meant on your day off."

Oh.

I am cursing into the phone at the automated telephone system of a certain band I can't stand anyway. And A.C. is horrified.

"Uh-oh, Bad Stacey is back."
"Ahhh! I know! I'm in the worst mood! I could strangle a puppy right now!"

"Hey, Stacey, the ice cream is replenished."

Wait... why are you only telling me?

"I played the clarinet. That was before I decided I was too cool for band and went and worked in the library."