AUGUSTA, GA. - Climb to the top of a hill in Tuscany and look down upon a vast quilt-like pastoral landscape of vineyards, farmland and the remnants of ancient civilizations.

“It’s just so quiet and so nice. I could see myself painting over there, almost have a chicken and a goat and be happy and never have to go anywhere,” laughed painter Karen Banker. Along with photographer Rick Martin and his wife, author Sharron Martin, she toured the Tuscan countryside for several weeks, documenting their journey — Banker with canvas and Martin with camera.

The two will debut the images of their travels at Sacred Heart Cultural Center on Sept. 6.

Martin said that the work he brought back was different than his usual imagery.

“I’m ordinarily a landscape photographer and a nature photographer, which is what I enjoy most and what I’ve shown in the past,” he explained. But the architecture and villages in the area entranced them all: stucco cottages with wood-lined entrances accented by brightly painted doors and narrow stone streets lined with benches and cafe tables.

“We visited primarily the walled hill towns with the very narrow streets and balconies with flowers hanging over — actually laundry hanging over, too, on the streets,” Banker explained.

Martin went from snapping landscapes to zooming in on architectural details, but Banker went the other way. She’s normally the one who focuses on the arch of a doorway or the angle of a staircase.

“I don’t generally do panoramic landscapes, so I want to try and capture some of that because you can see miles of stucco houses and red roofs all over,” she said.

The juxtaposition of modernity and antiquity was unexpected. But follow a fence line in the Italian countryside and you may find it turns into a crumbling wall barely tall enough to hold in the cows. That’s because thousands of years before Italy existed, as we know it, the land was in the possession of Etruscans and Romans. They built a vast infrastructure — roads, mining operations and irrigation, for example — and developed complex societies with distinctive artwork.

Thus, Tuscany is blessed both by the brilliance of nature and that of man. The rolling countryside was sculpted first by wind and water — it’s two-thirds hills, one-quarter mountain and the Arno River cuts through the rest. Then, centuries of human habitation added detail to the lay of the land.

“I photograph things that I have some sort of emotional attachment to — that strike me as being beautiful or otherwise impresses me,” Martin said. And in Italy, historic structures are preserved as much as possible.

“The government and others have good sensibilities about the past. It’s very difficult to get a building permit,” Martin said. “If you’re going to get a building permit, it’s a lot easier to find an old ruin and restore it. You can get a lot of support from different programs.”

The villa in which they stayed had been fully restored, but it was originally built about 500 years ago. The stones they walked in the narrow streets were the same rocks Michaelangelo trod. History in this part of the world isn’t just a subject studied in books. It is a part of the most mundane aspect of daily life. For example, farmers may use those existing ancient walls to their advantage, building onto them as property lines.

“Rick and I both were just fascinated with those walls,” Banker said.

And Italians find other ways to incorporate history. As in the case of the villa in which the artists stayed, a builder might use a 2,000-year-old Etruscan foundation stone as the support for a wall.

The vast story of human development in this part of the European continent, so well-documented from Herodotus to the BBC, is something of an exotic riddle to many Americans traveling abroad. But not to Banker.

“It’s strange because as soon as I went over there, I got to where we were staying and I felt like I was home. I felt so comfortable,” she said. “I’m hoping all of that translates in the paintings, just how at ease I felt.”

And Martin hopes that his photography captures the spirit of Tuscany through the architecture of the area, which is so integral to its character and charm.

As enchanted as they were, Banker said she wouldn’t be cutting ties and crossing the ocean for good. The group rented cars — Martin said that drivers there get a bad rap — and stayed just outside of Florence the whole time. They avoided Italy’s notoriously chaotic train system. The transportation system alone is enough to scratch any itch to move there, Banker said.

“I would do it if I didn’t have to go anywhere,” she laughed.

And to visit again, she said, she merely picks up a brush.

“Le Facciate della Tuscana” Opening Reception
w/ special guest, author Sharron Martin
Sacred Heart Cultural Center
Thursday, Sept. 6
5:30-7:30 p.m.
706-826-4700
Sacredheartaugusta.org

AUGUSTA, GA. - When Laurie McRae asks which members of the audience at her antiques seminars have seen a Chippendale chair in person, most of the attendees raise their hands.

Not so fast.

As it turns out, Thomas Chippendale was more than an excellent designer. He was also a consummate marketer who published a book of his designs that gained him vast popularity. In truth, he actually produced very little furniture. Most of his pieces are in the possession of museums.

“The study of antiques is as much a study of what was socioeconomic history as anything,” McRae said. “What was happening in the world that made them desire for, say, neoclassical lines as opposed to what they wanted before?”

Along with independent collector and appraiser David Towles, McRae will present a seminar on the telltale designs of period furniture at the Morris Museum of Art on Sept. 6.

McRae specializes in “period” furniture, which is to say what was produced at a point in time when the design was new. Chippendale, for example, incorporated simplified French rococo styles with some Chinese influences thrown in. He practically invented breakfront bookcases and serpentine-back sofas. But a chair cannot rightfully be called a Chippendale chair unless it was produced by his firm between about 1740 and 1779, the year he died.

These details are what antique experts use to separate pricey wares versus worthless ones. The classes that McRae teaches are eight-and-a-half hours long, but she’ll present a condensed version of her extensive knowledge to attendees of the Morris event.

“I can give them enough to make them dangerous,” she laughed.

The basics of identifying period furniture are to look at the primary and secondary woods used in construction, and the basic lines of the furniture.

For example, tiger maple indicates that a piece was constructed in New England. Walnut can date a piece to the 17th century, because a blight wiped out much of the walnut after that time, and the wood was not used again until the young trees grew back up. Mahogany began to be used in the 18th century, because it was resistant to insects and could be shipped long distances.

But it’s not all about furniture. Decorative accessories are very popular, and McRae and Towles will offer their knowledge in identifying those that can be carried into the seminar. No pianos, please.

But if, for example, someone in your family has uncovered what he thinks is a Native American clay horse sculpture while tearing up the back yard to build a fire pit, McRae and Towles might be able to help identify the piece. Looking at the manner of construction and material used, as well as wear patterns and other markers, they can often give the approximate age and place of origin of a piece. The clay horse is more likely a child’s toy from the ’50s, but one never knows for sure until an expert gives an opinion.

Show and Tell: Antique or Junk
The Antique Market
Thursday, Sept. 6
6:30-8:30 p.m.
RSVP by Sept. 3
706-828-3803
Themorris.org
Theantiquemarket.net

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott is reiterating his speech about the Ellis Street Option that he gave to a packed community center on Tuesday night.

"Some people have called it pie-in-the-sky. That's fine, because in 1845, Henry Cumming had his detractors, but he built the canal. That was his time. This is our time. In 30 years, what do you want your grandchildren to see? This is our time. This is OUR time," he said.

"That sounds like it went over well," I complimented him.

"Yeah, I stole that from 'The Goonies.'"

AUGUSTA, GA. - My husband would buy lunch meat from, like, the 99-Cent Store. He doesn't worry about the brand, the expiration date or even the concept of a food product before he buys it. He considers only two things:

1. What food section am I in?
2. How much does it cost?

This is the reason that he will frequently leave for the store with a list of items and come home with only half of the items I requested. The items in the other half fall into three categories:

1. Stuff that vaguely resembles the missing items but were cheaper
2. Stuff that does not resemble the missing items but were closer to the section he was in when he checked his list the final time
3. Stuff that wasn't on the list, but which was on sale.

Thus, he brought home a brand I had never heard of:
Their website says that they sell "meats cured in the tradition of Old Virginia. Since 1870 Gwaltney hams, franks, lunchmeats, sausage and bacon have delivered the Finest in taste from Virginia. Today, Gwaltney Great Dogs and Great Bolony are America's favorite poultry franks."

But all I know is a company that spells their lunch meat "bolony" can't possibly read the FDA guidelines on how to manufacture it.

AUGUSTA, GA. - "Maybe if everyone passes this on, someone will see this child. The internet circulates even overseas, South America, and Canada, etc. Please pass this to everyone in your address book. With GOD on his side he will be found."

Because with GEOGRAPHY on his side, he won't be able to locate Toronto.

"There's going to be a Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute band at The Country Club," A.W. says.
"Good lord," I moan.
"I wonder if that would suck," she muses.
"Don't they have to, like, not be a band anymore before you can have a tribute?" A.C. asks.
"You would think," A.W. says. "But no."
A.C. mulls it over. "God. Soon there's going to be a tribute band to a tribute band."

I'm wearing a new dress that's made of very light material. I'm not quite used to it.
"Hey, Alice, I'm worried that when I get up today this dress is going to ride up, so sorry if I flash you," I say.

She shrugs: "Nothin' I haven't seen before."

Go, Miss South Carolina!

About a boy who thinks women being mean to men is worse than misogyny:
Me: "I bet if he had a girlfriend he would never say that in front of her."
A.W.: "He might be able to get one if he hung out with someone besides those two 'Night at the Roxbury' dudes."

A.W.: "This place where Twila Paris is playing...?"
Me: "The Sanctuary?"
A.W.: "Oh, okay."
Me: "It's a church."
A.W.: "Well, I didn't think it was a juke joint."
Me: "No, it's a strip club."

A.W. is asking me about a paragraph.
"I always tend to write long sentences," she said.
"Yeah, well, we're not going to the lighthouse Mrs. Dalloway," I snark.

We're potty training Emerson... you know, when she lets us.

I sit her on the potty, and talk to her while she tries to go. She's really getting into it. A lot. Friday I sat her down and she looked up at me with wide-eyed and determined expression and said, "Mama, I gon' make poo-poo."

"Good for you!" I said. That's my standard response. She could say, "Mama, I gon' make headless kittens," and I'd probably say the same thing.

"Mama! Mama!" she shrieked, as though I weren't two feet in front of her. "What, honey?"

She stared at me intently. "I gon' make GIANT poo-poo!"

I laughed. "Well, you do what you gotta do, sweetie."

So, um... she did. And then she had to get up to look at what she'd accomplished. Which was a poo-poo. Not giant, but certainly not insignificant. It was shaped in a way that reminded me of something.

"Look, mama!" she shrieked and pointed. "I make a BANANA poo-poo!"

An e-mail exchange:

Me: Need to talk to Liz Hill and Brigett Williams. They’re both finalists for Metro’s Best Local TV Reporter. Also need high res photos. Can you help?!
Ed: Stacey, No problem. PLEASE reference us as NBC Augusta (and/or) NBC Augusta NEWS.
Me: I was just going to call you WJBF.
Ed: I am going to kill you now.

A short while later, Ed shows up at the office with a large cardboard box under his arm.

Ed: "To help you remember...." He takes a baby blue baseball cap out of his box and places it gently on my head. "And when you forget, you can just look here!" He shows me the back of the cap, on which is embroidered NBC Augusta with the multicolored peacock logo.
Me: "That's nice, Ed," I say. "Thanks!"
And he gives each of the department one in turn. He tries to skip our intern.
Me: "Why do you have to be a douchebag?"
Ed: "Oh, okay. Here you are, then," he ceremoniously places one upon John's head. "Well, I must be gone."
Me: "Alright, thanks, Ed... Say hi to Brad Means for me!"

A co-worker's child was left at the wrong bus stop last year.

Yesterday, a 5-year-old was put on a bus home and refused to get off the bus. The bus driver forced her off the bus. When she found her front door locked, she began walking down Berckman's Road. Luckily, an off-duty police officer picked her up.

Today, a child was left on a bus in Grovetown.

What. the. hell?

Get your stuff together, local school systems. I have never heard so much bull hockey in my life.

I'm working my way through the parking lot at Augusta Exchange, trying to get to Bruester's. I promised Emmie we could have some (sugar free low fat) ice cream after dinner. Emmie was in the back seat, whining.
"I wah eye keeeeeem," she said.
"I know, honey. Can you be patient? We're going right now," I try to calm her while I pull up to the entrance to Agerton Lane by the Regal 20.
"Okay. Be pashen... firss, eye keem. Den, home," she says to herself.
"Very good, sweetheart! First ice cream, then home," I coo at her, watching the cars whiz pass me.
"Ooooh! LooK!" she shrieks.
"Mmmhmm," I mutter. Where are all these fools going?
"Das a letter," she says.
"Mmmhmm." Geez! People, go home!
"Das a O," she says. "Das a- das a O, yeah."
"Mmkay..." A truck cuts over and makes a sudden turn into the parkng lot, cutting off my only chance to escape. Gee, thanks. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, fighting off the urge to use my middle ones for another purpose.
"Das a O, das a M, das a P, das a yoo, das a sssssss," she says, and I think, "Ompus." Oooookay. That's not even a word, honey.
"Do you want to sing your ABCs?" I call back to her, daring the butthead in my rear view mirror to cut around me. It won't get his testosterone-fueled sports car out of this parking lot any faster.
"NO, I don' wanna," she says. "Das a O. Das a M, mama. Das a M, das a P, das a yoo, anna sssssss."
"Fine, Ompus-head," I say, and I see my chance. Py-yow! I'm streaking across the suicide lane into the right lane. A sign flashes by my face. COMP USA. Hmm. I've been meaning to get a new keyboard.
COMP USA.
C OMP US A.
C
OMPUS
A.

OMPUS.

Oh, my god. She just read me her letters. And my brain wasn't even in the game.

Emerson and I were engaged in a massive, three-hour play session that had somehow devolved into just running from room-to-room and shrieking. Don't ask me to explain it, but it was fun at the time. Finally I caught her and tickled her until she couldn't take it anymore.
She slumped, gasping for breath, over the coffee table, while I giggled from the couch.
"Yoo killeend me, mama!" she gasped. "Yoo killeend me!"

So I posted these two items to craigslist, just wanting to get rid of them to make space in the house. The next morning, I had two e-mails from interested buyers, and one came to the house while I was at work.

The phone rang at my desk.

"This is Stacey. How may I help you?"

"So your craigslist guy came," my husband's amused voice came over the line, "in this broken down old hoopdie that sat so low to the ground that when he pulled into the driveway, he got stuck."

I burst into laughter. I know how much Scott hates my little re-sale enterprises. It annoys him to no end to get stuck with the collection end of things when I'm away from the house.

"What happened?!" I ask.
"I had to go get some lumber from the garage and shove the planks under his tires," he snarls while I cackle some more. "I'm wrangling a two-year-old, trying to help him get his car off the pavement, and the whole time Emmie's saying, 'He stut. He stut. He no get out.' and I'm like, 'Yeah, he's stuck alright.'"

"So what happened?"
"He got unstuck."

"Did he pay you for the shelves?" I asked.
"Hell, no. The car was too small to carry them!"

AW: There's a band called The Cutlines.
Me: That's what we need. Unemployed copy editors with guitars.

They'd know that I was supposed to use a colon instead of a period after "need."

We're talking about... oh, hell, I don't know what we were talking about yesterday. But Amy weighed in.

A.C.: "You can stomp him with your huge shoes."
Me: "Hey!"
A.C.: "I'm sorry! But A.W. isn't here. Someone has to make fun of you."
Me: "Oh, yeah, that's what I've been missing today. The never ending stream of insults."

What the hell is this supposed to be?

I don't mean to complain - really! - because usually I love my job. But our ad reps, it seems, are doing TOO good a job. Every time I've called someone today about a story, they've practically shrieked, "WE DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY!"

Case in point, the Aiken Center for the Arts. SUCH NICE PEOPLE! I'm serious about that. But I've spoken with their Executive Director recently for another story, and I thought she might remember my name or publication - you know, one or the other. However...

Me: "Hi, my name is Stacey Hudson, and I'm calling from The Metro Spirit newspaper about Aiken Arts Alive. I'd like to do a story on the event. Is it a good time for you to talk?"
KB: "Briefly, Stacey, because I'm leaving in about three minutes."
Me: "Oh, well, why don't we set up a time to talk tomorrow?"
KB: "Well, we're really not interested in advertising right now."
Me: "Oh, no! I'm calling about a story. We'd like to do a story on the event - on Aiken Arts Alive."
KB: "Right, but is this about money?"
(pause)
Me: "Uh, no. It's about a story."
KB: "I mean, I really hate to tell people that we don't have any money in our marketing budget right now."
Me: "Right, well, I'm not selling advertising. I'd like to write a story. You know. Help promote the event."
KB: "Oh... OH! Oh, great! Well, we'd like that!"
Me: "Right. So how about I give you a call tomorrow and we can talk about it?"

Blah blah exchange numbers, bye.

Seriously? Can you gorgeous ladies over in ad sales lay off the thumbscrews, please?! You're making my peeps crazy.

Oh, and Joe White: Bite me. Our sales dept. is rocking the suburbs. Don't make me kick your ass at the Beasley Christmas Party, 'cause mama got a new pair of shoes! They're red. And cute. See below. But you don't want them up your bunghole.

BOB: Thought you'd get a kick out of this since you always asked Natalie for a monkey... Man smuggles monkey into NYC airport! NEW YORK - A man smuggled a monkey onto an airplane Tuesday, stashing the furry fist-size primate under his hat until passengers spotted it perched on his ponytail, an airline official said.

Me: I've started asking Krystal, but NO ONE WILL GET ME A MONKEY!

Bob: you're surrounded by them!!!!!!!!

Regardless of our ideological differences, how can members of the Taliban follow such obvious morons?

Taliban Launch Frontal Attack on Base

GHAZNI, Afghanistan (AP) - A group of 75 Taliban militants tried to overrun a U.S.-led coalition base in southern Afghanistan on Tuesday, a rare frontal attack that left more than 20 militants dead, the coalition said in a statement.

The insurgents attacked Firebase Anaconda from three sides, using gunfire, grenades and 107 mm rockets, the coalition said. A joint Afghan-U.S. force repelled the attack with mortars, machine guns and air support.

"Almost two dozen insurgents were confirmed killed in the attack," the statement said. Two girls and two Afghan soldiers were wounded during the fight in Uruzgan province, it said.

A firebase like Anaconda is usually a remote outpost staffed by as few as several dozen soldiers.

"The inability of the insurgent forces to inflict any severe damage on Firebase Anaconda, while being simultaneously decimated in the process, should be a clear indication of the ineffectiveness of their fighters," said Army Capt. Vanessa R. Bowman, a coalition spokeswoman.

A direct attack on a U.S. or NATO base by insurgents on foot is relatively rare. More often insurgents fire rockets at bases and flee. Military officials say that Taliban fighters know they can't match Western militaries in a heads-up battle, which leads the insurgents to more often rely on roadside and suicide bombs.

So I went to pick up Emerson from the grandparents' house last night at 10 p.m. and there she was, in a t-shirt and diaper, sitting at a newly purchased Little Mermaid table-and-chairs set, watching Harry Potter on their huge television, eating homemade chocolate ice cream and having her hair brushed by Uncle Chris. She would gladly have stayed there forever in the Land of No Rules, where vegetables are a mere memory and bedtime is - what is that, again? They picked her up yesterday and took her swimming until they kicked them out of the clubhouse pool, she ate macaroni and cheese for dinner, and was on her THIRD helping of ice cream by the time Troll Mommy came and whisked her away to Jail, aka that horrible place where people tell her "no."

But I was prepared for her outrage. I presented Pretty Pretty Princess with her favorite thing in the whole world, the thing that proves once and for all that she is not a child of mine: new shoes. Thus, the child was won and life could proceed as normal.

But she is getting so freaking spoiled. This morning when she woke up, she didn't say "Goo mornee," like usual. She sat up in bed and said, "Emmie wanna pwesent."

Super.

Upon the advice of Chris, I actually went to Starbucks yesterday morning, and I don't even know what happened. It was like time and higher reasoning both ceased.

After trying to order the Turkey Bacon Bagel ("May I have the turkey bacon bagel?" "WHAT kind of bagel?" "The one with turkey bacon?" "We ain't got one wif TURKEY bacon" etc.) for about three minutes, with cars backing up behind me and no breakfast menu on the drive-through board and Emerson in the backseat shrieking, "Wha we do here? Wha we do here, Mama? Emmie get chips? EMMIE GET CHIPS?!?!?!" because she is two-years-old and obsessed with Pringles and also speaks at a volume of SPACE MADNESS... well, I gave up. I went next door to Dunkin' Donuts where I pulled up and ordered "anything you got on a bagel," and the disembodied voice said, "Okay, pull around." I got bacon and egg on a croissant, but you know what? I freaking got it, and fast. No arguments.

And I don't even like coffee. Try ordering a Diet Coke at a Starbucks and they give you a lecture about the moral quality of your beverage.

Scott went to the fights last night so Emerson and I went out for girls' night.

"I go downtown!" she shrieked when we got in the car at day care.
"That's right, we're going downtown," I cooed.
"I go downtown!" she shrieked again, and about every 30 seconds after.

"Downtown" to her is a nebulous place where there is water and playground equipment and enough room to run. If we are on Broad Street, she still says, "I wah go downtown." She means Riverwalk.
So we went down to 9th Street where the pretty fish fountain sits in front of the Jessye Norman Amphitheatre. "WaaaaAAAAAterh," she gasped, and jumped up and down until I lifted her onto the stone rim.

"I run away!" she laughed, and ran around the fountain until she reached me again.
"I run away!" she shouted, and ran the other way until she reached me again.
"I run away!" she called, and... really, this game went on for about 30 minutes. I had long since given up even pretending that I was playing along.

Finally she grew bored of it and we walked up the top of the levee.
"Huuuuh!" she gasped at the top and her eyes grew large. "Bid waaaaAAAAterh!" she pointed at the Savannah River....
... and took off at a dead run for the Amphitheater. It drops precipitously into about two stories of stadium seating and I managed to grab her just in time. We walked carefully down the steps to the riverbank, where boats passed and we watched a train cross the water in the distance.
"I run away!" she yelled and took off running down the brick sidewalk.
(sigh) Okay...

So I followed behind her as she merrily tore down the path, pointing at everything we passed and shrieking, "LOOK, MAMA!" Flowers, rocks, more bricks, dirt, trees, leaves, ants. There was a lot of pointing and shrieking. You'd think we'd raised her in an underground bunker.
We got about a block down the river when I saw a man ahead, lounging on top of a picnic table. He was obviously homeless, but looked harmless enough. Emmie plowed towards him, reached the table, stopped and looked at him.
"OhNo!" she squealed, turned tail, and hauled ass in the opposite direction.
Great. Sorry, guy.

Then we went back up the amphitheater steps... and back down... and back up... and back down... and then she climbed up the bleacher seats... and when she turned around to go back down, I had to put a stop to it. I called 'time out' and we went to get dinner.

"What do you want for dinner, sweetie?" I asked at the table.
"Um... lemonade... and burh-day cake... and lemonade... and burh-day cake, okay?!" she smiled up at me and laughed excitedly.
Got it. She was not going to stay seated for long.
She scarfed up spinach and artichoke dip, although it was more about the chips (why does she love chips so much?!), pounded lemonade, and I had the waitress bring out a slice of cake.
She insisted I sing "Happy Birthday" to her, even though her birthday isn't until January... not that she knows that.

After a few bites, she pushed the cake back to me.
"I sing it," she said, and sang "Happy Birthday" to me:
"Hah Burhday to yoo
Hah Burhday to yoo
Hah Burhday dear Mama
Hah Burhday dear Mamaaaaaaaaa!"
"Wah sum?" she asked. "Hab sum cake!"
I picked a little off the plate.
After a few bites, she pulled the cake back to herself.

"My turn!" she called.
I sang to her again. We went back and forth until she had largely destroyed the cake, grown tired of it, and gone back to the chips. The other diners looked at us like we were ridiculous, singing Happy Birthday to each other repeatedly. Whatever. I had an awesome time.

Then we got in the car and went to the playground for a little while. When she fell down and then wouldn't stop crying, I knew it was time to work our way home.

But it was a great evening together. I just love spending time with her!

A story about my wonderful husband:

"I was in high school and he did like a casting call thing. He did a performance at Regency Mall with a dance group and it was in conjunction with the Dysart studio people. So half of the people did a number from 'Vogue,' [Madonna's song] and the other half did a number from 'Dick Tracy.' [the soundtrack that, unsurprisingly, also included Madonna]. He picked me out because he said I looked like a silent film/jazz era person.

We performed in the middle of regency mall. He was trying out "Nicholas Scott" at that time.
We did the Madonna thing and I remember the next number - and I think I kind of stepped away from the group, but it wasn't personal, I'm just more of a visual artist... I was just kind of toying with it at this time - but their next performance was to "Cold-Hearted Snake" by Paula Abdul. He needed someone who was comfortable with a snake. So that's where I kind of stepped away.

But much love to your husband. If he's on something he's living with gusto. I've always really admired him."

Yes, I'm sure when he was gyrating to "Poison" by Alice Cooper, there was nothing by admiration on your mind!

Published in Augusta Parent today:

The first time I forgot my husband’s name was funny. The second time was annoying. After the third time, he became “honey” or “sweetheart.” That’s because I can never remember his name, even though he’s a semi-famous reporter for a local radio station and is, of course, the father of our adorable 2-year-old daughter. We sleep in the same bed, eat at the same table and walk the same ridiculously demanding dog, but there are times when I look at him and draw a huge blank. Who is this man and why is he eating my meatloaf?

Truthfully, I can’t remember my own name most days. At first I blamed new-baby exhaustion, but after Emerson began sleeping through the night, I fell back on the old standby: I blame my own mother. Mom, frazzled beyond reason by a tri-pack of children who regarded discipline as a running joke, often ran through a list of names before settling on the correct name for the misbehaving child in front of her. “Kelli! I mean, J.D.! I mean, Pepper! #$@R%*@#, Stacey, you stop that right now!”

We were probably all doing something sneaky anyway. We just never understood how she knew. But now I know. She was momniscient.

It was a term I had not heard. But there are a number of things we learn as moms. As an apology for the damage done to our netheregions, the universe grants us a number of new abilities that are just short of superpowers along with a few random phemomena. Like sidekick Robin to superhero Batman. Quick! To the momnibus.

Dot-Mom - The websites that we deem age and subject-appropriate for our children. "What's the deal with Webkinz?" "I don't know what the appeal is, but it's definitely a dot.mom."

Mombrophobia - 1) The excessive fear that a wet child will catch a cold; 2) intolerance for prolonged wetness, resulting in the strident drying and/or toweling down of all surfaces that come into contact with moisture. "Makaylah! Don't forget your raincoat! And your galoshes! And your rain hat! And... here! An umbrella!"

Momen - 1) [mah-men] That what you say when you're thankful that we gave you life and have not yet chosen to take it away. "Dear Mother, thank you for my life. Momen."; 2) [mow-men] The foreboding sense that a child is in danger - or in danger of a tantrum. "Wow, you got us out of that store just in time! How did you know she'd have a melt-down soon?" "I saw a momen."

Mominous - The jolt of fear every child has at being found out for misbehaving. "Oh, man, I can't go home right now." "Why not?" "I've got a mominous feeling that I'm about to get grounded."

Momnesia - The Swiss-cheese brain syndrome that will let you lose your keys, forget a change of clothes for the diaper bag and neglect to take a shower for three days but that always keeps you on time for children's meals, baths and nap times. "How could you leave the bank card in the ATM?" "Sorry. I have momnesia."

Momnibus - 1) the vehicle that transports a mother's growing brood to their many events, classes, parties and playdates. "How are we all going to get to soccer practice?" "To the momnibus!"; 2) the mental book that retains copies of all wrongdoings, report cards, and disciplinary actions every experienced by any child to whom a mother is related. "$1,200 in cell phone calls?! I told you when you were (checking mental momnibus) five years old not to blow your allowance on candy. Now look!"

Momnipotence - The state of powerful being that trumps all whining. The words "Because I said so" spring from this power. "But how come you get to decide?" "Because I am momnipotent."

Momniscience - That's how come we can yell "Get down from there!" from the kitchen without even looking when you're climbing from the yellow plastic chair to the changing table to the dresser to retrieve the balloon that we put in time-put. "How did you know I was sneaking out of the house?" "My momniscience."

Momomastics - the tendency of a mother to cycle through all of her children's names - and sometimes the names of any household pets - before coming to the name of the child misbehaving. "Jeffrey! Chloe! Mr. Piddles! I mean, Dakota, you get over here right this minute

Momomatopoeia - the tendency of a mother to repeat herself; the ability to express mood, thought or desired action in primordial sound, as opposed to fully formed speech. "Eh!" "Alright, I won't eat the frosting before you finish the cake!"

Momphaloskepsis -A woman who contemplates too much the dangers of becoming her mother; sometimes as part of a mystical exercise as an aid to parenting.

Phemomenon - The change that overcomes a woman once she has a baby. May include cooing and small furry things and collecting porcelain figurines. "You sure have changed, honey. I didn't ever think you'd be making mud pies without worrying about your manicure." "It's a strange phemomenon."

Is it too much to ask for a healthy, portable breakfast that can be obtained quickly in this town? Here's my suggestion: Instead of a fried chicken breast on a buttered biscuit, serve a grilled chicken breast on a whole grain bagel. Instead of a side of fried potatoes, serve a side of fruit or crudite. I would eat that every morning.

I am at the design dept., which is not so much a department as it is an area of the giant room where everyone can hear you no matter how quiet you are (AMBER!!!), and in this area three desks form a semicircle. There. It's a department. Anyway, so that's where I am.

"Hey, anyone want to order lunch with me?" I ask.
(silence)
"Guys?"
(silence)
"Helloooooo...?"
Finally Ryan looks up. "Huh?"
"Yeah. Lunch. Order. Whatcha want?"
A chorus of answers.
"Beer." "Sleep." "Lobster."
"Lobster?!" (It says something about our workplace that luxury fine food is the entry that surprises me.)
"Mmmm..." Bob reminisces. "Two-pound steamer. Corn on the cob. Potatoes."
"Oh, you want a Massachusetts bake-thing."
"Yeah."
"My aunt lives in Wilmington, N.C., which is on the Outer Banks, and they do that with clams. You go out at low tide with a rake and get your clams and steam them."
He nods vigorously.
"And throw in some shrimp. And if you're lucky, there some crabs caught in your trap. And I don't mean that in a dirty way."

So last night I had this dream where I'm standing outside the front of the Metro Spirit talking to my husband, who has pulled up in the clown car to snag the bank card from me, and I look over at the Chronicle's front door just in time to see a man stumbles out of it and falls down.

"Hey, look... do you think he's okay?" I ask Scott, who cranes his neck to see.
Then the man gets up... slowly... in a jerky manner... it reminds me of something.
"Maybe he hit his head," Scott muses, opening his car door. We walk over in the man's direction, intending to check on him when another person walks out beside the man, who is now standing in place, swaying slightly. We can't see them very well, but we're nearing the Confederate monument.

The second person, who I now can see is a woman, moves in the same way as the first. It hits me, right as we get to the edge of the monument - I grab Scott and pull him behind the marble, out of their view.

"Zombies!" I hiss, and he looks at me like I'm crazy. He peeks his head around the corner of the statue's base and watches them for a minute.
"I think they're drunk," he says.
"No! They're not dr - well, maybe," I concede. That's certainly a more plausible explanation than the undead rising from the grave (of journalism).

And then I woke up.

So is that it? Are those the only choices for Chronicle employees? Drunk or zombified?

So when I pulled up at Emerson's day care and crossed behind my car to get her out of her car seat, I noticed something on my trunk.

It was a dead baby squirrel, or cat, or something. It was grey, hairless and about the size of a small rat. I imagine it died sometime during the severe thunderstorm we had last night, and I feel sorry for it. I stopped and stared at it, overcome by a feeling of horror. I didn't want any of the children to see it, so I grabbed the closest thing I could see - a whirligig bird on a stake in a potted plant - and tried to knock it off.

It was stuck.

How on earth do you remove the corpse of a nearly fetal animal without touching it?

I'm pretty grossed out right now.

So I was driving from one interview to another last Saturday when I passed a yard sale on Wrightsboro Road.

"Ooooh, what a pretty fireplace screen!" I thought, and pulled over.
"Hey, how much for it?" I asked the nice lady running the sale.
"$5," she smiled.
"I'll take it!"
And I loaded it into my trunk with a set of canisters she also had for sale for $4.

I was immensely pleased with myself.
What thrift! What style! What luck!

Wait...
We don't own a fireplace.

What lunacy!

KSo I just finished "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," and I have some remaining questions:

1. If Harry is Teddy's godfather, and Teddy's parents were both killed, why didn't Harry raise Teddy? And is he a werewolf?
2. What was the baby thing in the place where Harry went after he died-but-did-not-die? Was that part of Voldemort's soul?
3. Did anyone else think that the final duel between Harry and Voldemort was a little short, except for the three hours of speechifying?
4. So Snape was good? Or Snape was just a selfish poopyhead avenging the death of the woman he loved but could never have? If Snape loved Lily Evans so much, couldn't he have been nicer to her son?
5. Draco... I thought he wasn't on Voldemort's side at the end of Half-Blood Prince, and he obviously wasn't on Voldemort's side when he was sitting around the table with his parents. What made him try to capture Harry again? And then when Harry saved him, he turned sides again and tried to be a Death Eater. Then Ron punched him - rock on - and then later, they all nodded cordially to each other at the train station. Gah! It makes me want to punch him again.
6. How is Dumbledore not dead? People keep saying that it looks like he's not dead. He looked pretty dead to me.
7. So Petunia thought her sister was a freak because she couldn't go to Hogwart's too? She was jealous? Does anyone else think that's kind of lame?
8. How did the sword get into the Sorting Hat when the goblin dude had stolen it in the vault at Gringott's?
9. How did Kreacher know where to go for the battle? How did he rally the other Hogwart's house elves? Why didn't Ron and Hermione tell them to evacuate like Ron suggested? And speaking of Kreacher, so... all it took for him to stop being a Dark elf who hates Muggle-borns was for someone to be nice to him? But wasn't Hermione nice to him? So it had to be a pure-blood wizard who was nice? Does that mean he still hates Muggle-borns? I'm really confused.
10. Why was the Resurrection stone in two pieces inside the Snitch?
11. Hey, how come we never heard about Aberforth as the barman in earlier books? How is he connected to that mirror thing? How did he send Dobby? I don't understand this part at all!
12. Why didn't Rowland kill off that jackass Percy instead of Fred?
13. Did anyone else think that maybe Dumbledore's father was a werewolf at one point in the book? Or was that just me? Because he "mauled" three Muggle children, and his sister was hardly seen, I thought maybe that he was bitten by a werewolf before Dumbledore's mother conceived his sister, Ariana... Okay, fine. I'm a lunatic. (See the pun I just made right there? No? Well check your Latin.)
14. Anyone else have any questions?

Just about the funniest assessment of the role technology plays in young lives:

Back in my day, if we wanted to “text” our school chums, we spent three days loading type blocks into the Gutenberg Press. And by the time that message finally reached its destination via carrier pigeon, the recipient was a fortnight dead from The Consumption. And we didn’t need your so-called first person shooter games. By our 12^th birthdays, we were already enlisted in Uncle Sam’s Army gunning for Charlie in the trenches of ‘Nam.

Read more...

I am trying to figure out the appropriate phrasing for a story.
"When you say, 'raising Cain,' how would you spell Cain?" I ask A.C.
"Like Cain and Abel: C-A-I-N," she said.
"Like you're making enough noise to raise the dead?"
"I believe that's the origin of the phrase," she said.
"Hm." I muse.
She grins.
"Because it's a much less unweildy phrase than 'Raising Lazarus.'"

I abdicate my throne. She may take her rightful place at the right hand of her husband.

Lucius Malfoy is killed by Professor Plum in the Forbidden Forest Get your Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom

This is real the end:

Harry, Ron and Hermione find the deathly hallows, giving them power over Voldemort's Horcruxes.
Harry kills Voldemort with the help of Snape.
Hagrid saves Ron but couldn't save Hermione.
After a long battle, Hermione gets killed by Voldemort.
Voldemort and Snape battle it out. Snape kills Voldemort but is mortally wounded in the process. Harry and Ron try to comfort him.
"Listen," Snape croaks. "This is a story all about how I became the Half-Blood Prince of Bel-Air. In West Little Whinging born and raised.
On the broomstick is where I spent most of my days.
Flying, crying, cool out conjuring
Outside of the school
where a couple of Death Eaters were up to no good.
They started casting spells in my neighborhood.
I got in one little jinx and my Mom got scared.
She said, "You're moving to Hogwart's School in Old Bel-Air."
I whistled for the Knight Bus and caught it with no fear.
We pulled up at the castle and Stan said, "You're here."
Dumbledore took me in and all was well
And I played the role of bad guy to protect the castle.
Now I've told you all about how my life flipped over turned inside out.
Voldemort is dead but still beware.
And remember me, the half-blood prince of Bel-Air."

A.C. and A.W. are discussing the use of accent marks in the newspaper.

"Normally I'm not too big on it but in a case like that where if you don't have it people will read it as 'pate...'" A.C. says.

"Yeah, pate's an entirely different thing," A.W. says.

A.W. looks at me: "Pate is the top of the head, isn't it?"

"uhh... I think it's the top of a bald head," I reply, frantically googling it. "Oh, apparently, it can also be a pastry in French cuisine, analogous to the English pie."

"Excellent!" A.C. crows. "I crown you Nerd Queen of the Universe. You may sit at the right hand of Jim Christian."

“Can I speak with Noah?”
“Uh…. He’s in a meeting right now. Can you call back in maybe… half an hour?”
“Sure, but does he have voice mail?”
“Uh, hold on…”
(drumming my fingers…)
2 minutes later…
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Stacey from the Spirit, but I can just call back if he doesn’t have voice mail.”
“Oh, okay.” CLICK!
Dang. Great organization going on there.

AUGUSTA, GA. - We were trying to track down some of the owners of local arts education businesses to include them in the annual list of area opportunities, and couldn't track down Dysart Modeling. So I called Scott, my husband, because I know he has dealt with them in the past.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"You know, contacts, if they're still open... whatever," I replied.

He launched into a history of the company, the owner's husband's death, their move from entertainment casting to industry film casting, blah blah.

"I just need to know if they're open, honey," I said.
"Why?" I could hear his ears perk up. "What are you hearing?"

I wanted to scream: "I'm hearing that they're not open anymore!" But that wouldn't have been very nice. Finally I disentangled myself from the conversation and hung up.

"That's teach you," Amy laughed. She mimicked my reporter husband, driven crazy by the smell of a scoop like sharks are frenzied by blood in the water: "What's going on? Do I need to jump in the clown car and come down there?"

I laughed: "Yes! Rally the midgets!"

I don't agree with this video. I ADORE Macs, but I'll admit there is quite a transition from one platform to another. I have a Mac at home, and a PC at work - although, until recently, I worked on a Mac at both places.

But I can certainly relate to this guy's frustration with computer programs in general. They never seem to be able to quite... do... what... you... want...

Augusta, Georgia's new multimilliondollar airport terminal has a roof that doesn't do what a roof should, which is to keep the elements out. Of course. I know when I spend millions of dollars of TAXPAYER MONEY, I want to hire a FIRM THAT DOES CRAPPY WORK! Please! Let's put some shitty gutters on this sucker, then we'll have to replace them. That's more money for us. While the Commission debates the issue, the roof will be ruined. We'll have to fix that, too. In the meantime, the carpet and the flooring under the carpet will mildew, mold and rot. Sweet! More work for our firm!

I should probably say something here about how I'm talking about government in general and how it fails to work. But I'm not. I'm talking very specifically about the Augusta-Richmond County Consolidated Government and how it goes about awarding contracts. So suck on that, Steve Shepard (although, you know, hi! Nothing personal, Mr. City Attorney! Please don't sue me! Love ya!)

Leaky Roof at New Terminal

A.C. is typing along and suddenly her face explodes into spontaneous laughter.
"Why did your nose just explode?" I asked, grinning.
"I have the dirtiest mind. I was typing the file name for this and I was about to name is 'toctease,'" she said.
That's actually T.O.C. tease, but I guess the periods don't come through in computerese.

Paul Pearman came into the office today to talk about - ah, who knows? I can never tell the purpose of his visits, but we always enjoy the hell out of them. He's like a gonzo ninja of unintentional hilarity.

"I've been trying to get Coco Rubio to run (for Augusta Commission). You know, his dad was my original martial arts teacher.

You know, you can't do things to people's kids like you used to could. I remember one time I was about 14 and I'd been there since I was 7 and I was getting good. I tapped Mr. Rubio in the head... probably harder than I should have... and he Judo threw me.

That wasn't in the rules, you know? To Judo throw things. I mean, I wasn't taking Judo. But he threw me and then he grabbed the front of my gee and crossed it over and he was, like, choking me.

You know when you pass out... it's really actually pleasant. When I woke up, it was him AND my dad, laughing. They were standing over me and looking down at me and they were laughing."

This explains some things about Paul.

I know pomegranate is the new black (A.C. and I recently indulged in [way too many] mojitos made with sake and infused with a shot of pomegranate liquor, all of which, I know, makes it not a mojito at all), but this might be going too far. Pomegranate-infused red wine vinegar. Just... why?

I might mix it with some honey and orange juice and marinate some chicken and just see what happens. But it still seems like a really stupid idea.

So I went shopping this weekend for some necessities and came home to a house still sweltering from the heat of the self-cleaning oven. I was all excited about this new oven, but had I known that it would smolder in our kitchen with the heat of 1,000 suns I might have just busted out the E-Z-Off. Anyway, I stripped down to t-shirt and panties to do laundry and after a while I started to feel... hmm... something.

I decided to finish loading and folding laundry but in less than a minute it turned into a tingle. Then an itch. Then a burning sensation in an area you REALLY don't want that. Hopping through the kitchen to the bathroom, I examined things to see what was up. Or down.

What is going on with my lady parts? And then I realized: I was wearing new panties and the dye was killing me. I ripped them off and ran back in the kitchen to toss all my new pairs in the washer before the load started.

I had a hard time explaining all that to Scott.
But I think he enjoyed the side show.

This information is posted at the web site of the Sheriff's Office of Augusta-Richmond County. I'll be sure to check it if ever there is an emergency. I'm sure the precious minutes I spend double-checking the instructions here won't matter that much to whomever is dying. Hey, at least we're not still on dial-up.

WHEN CALLING 9-1-1….

Stay calm. Give your location, the nature of the emergency and your name.
Listen carefully to the 9-1-1 call-taker.
Answer the 9-1-1 call-taker's questions as accurately as possible. Speak clearly and slowly.
Do exactly as the 9-1-1 call-taker tells you during the course of the call.
Never hang up on the 9-1-1 call-taker until you are told to do so.
Non-Emergency Situations - DIAL: 821-1080.

The alarm clock that runs away and hides when you don't wake up. Clocky gives you one chance to get up. But if you snooze, Clocky will jump off of your nightstand and wheel around your room looking for a place to hide. I love this idea, but if I brought that thing home it would soon be renamed Cold Cocky. Because my husband would go all Chuck Norris on it. You may be able to choose a snooze length of 0-9 minutes, but Chuck Norris will punch this clock before it even goes off. Just for thinking about waking him up.

Ah, the privileged media. We got "media" passes to see Camper van Beethoven - I mean, Cracker - who played Augusta for the first time at The Mission. You'd think us journo-types would have better photos, but I forgot to bring my camera. Oh, I lie. I just didn't want to lug it around.

Possibly the best hip-hop video ever made.
I realize that's not saying a lot...

Do you ever buy what you think is a fabulous piece of clothing and then no one seems to notice it so you begin to think you've purchased some ridiculous toerag? Jim, I know you can relate. Stak, Corey, Scott, probably not so much. But the ladies know what I'm talkin' 'bout.

So our former intern for The Metro Spirit is working with orphans in Africa, because she is a much better person than I am, and because she leads a much more interesting life. So I'll be posting her semi-regular updates here. Maybe one day she'll send some photos.

From Allegra Yealey, intrepid intern:

I went thrift store shopping today, and bought Emerson some gently-used clothes and a cabinet to put in her room instead of the workshop shelving we previously had in there. After we did all the rearranging and put her stuff away, I pulled out clothes.

"Emmie, I have another present for you...!" I sang.
She gasped in delight and nodded.
"Wook! A shirt, anodder shirt and a dwess!" (yes, I baby talk. Shut up about it).
Her eyes got big and she held out her arms. I gave them to her.
"Do you like it?" I asked, ridiculously seeking approval from a 2-year-old.
"I LUB it!" she exclaimed. "Dank oo mama!"
I swear, I almost teared up at the spontaneous appreciation. She clutched the clothes to her chest and hugged them. "I LUB IT!" she repeated. I moved in to give her a hug.
"NOOOO!" she shrieked. "MY DWESS! MY SHIRT!"

Ah, yes. There she is.

All week long, Emerson has been saying, "Clown gonna bitechoo! CLOWN gonna BITECHOO!" and it's been freaking me out because clowns, man... they WILL bite you. Scary mofos. I don't know why I've always hated clowns, and not just the circus variety, but also the people who dress up as holiday mascots and cartoon characters. My mother has these adorable photos of my sister and brother sitting on Santa's lap, or on the Easter Bunny's knee, and NONE of me. I wouldn't go near them. So I thought maybe that Emerson had inherited my fear of clowns in utero, or something, because to my knowledge, she's never even seen a clown.

Then while she was watching one fo the episodes of Dora the Explorer, there was a field of giant clams that she and Boots had to run through. "Clown gonna bitechoo!" She was saying "clowns" with a Southern accent: "Clayam gonna bitechoo!" Okay. We'll get her to a speech therapist right away because as much as we Georgia girls love to add extra syllables to our words, that's just not right.

I will admit to being "not that smart" about matters of National Security. I am, after all, NOT The Decider, and I didn't invent the Internets. But when I read this about the Liberty City Seven:

"Authorities have said their purported plot never moved beyond the preliminary stages and the group never possessed explosives or other weapons to carry it out, but insist the men were serious about their intentions."

It kind of sounds like authorities are claiming that they can read minds.

"I pumped it, but I think we need to find a way to double-pump it."

My editor in trying to find a way to promote certain on-line features.

As seen on Craigslist:

Giant 6 Foot Lovesac!!!! Must sell ASAP..... - $450 (Irmo) pic

Where does he find pants that fit?

Weltschmerz is a German word which loosely means "world suffering deriving from the inevitability of reality to never match up with our expectations." Boy, only the Germans could come up with a word like that.

Advertising fascinates me. It's the challenge of getting a message out to a targeted audience in a short amount of time in a memorable way. The best advertising is clever, specific, memorable, highlights the brans or the idea in a way that people can identify that later and does all of this in an original way.

Some ads are great because of their visual impact. Think the GAP ads for khakis with the swing dancers a few years back. Not only did it make the point that the pants were comfortable and breathable, but also that they were timeless and elegant. Did I buy them? No. They're out of my price range. But I got the message, I remembered the brand, and I remembered the commercial.



I'm more impressed with public service ads that do these kinds of things well, because not only do they have to succeed in all of the usual ways, but they have to do it while promoting a message that is often unpopular, uncomfortable and sometimes that makes people angry or sad. They're the kind of commercials that people turn away from, but you have to compel them to watch. Here are some that do that well.

The Montana Meth Ads:
Laundromat


Junkie Den


Bathtub


The Australian Road Transport Authority (RTA) Anti-Speeding Campaign:
No One Thinks Big of You


Speed Research


Condom Use