Momnesia

"Hats is over. Do you want to cut it?" A.W. asks.
"You can cut it however you want, but the last one." T.G. says.
"What if I cut the J.K. Rowling? Or will that break A.C.'s heart?" A.C. asks.
"Noooooo!" A.C. moans.
"What, is it the Dumbledore is gay information?" I ask.
"Yeah." A.C. says.
"Dumbledore is gay?" T.G. asks.
"Yeah."
"A gay teacher?" T.G. asks.
"A gay headmaster." I answer.
"Well, that goes without saying." T.G. says.
(silence)
"Ba-dum-bum!" T.G. grins.
(groan)

I walk in this morning and a co-worker (whom I shall not name) stops me.
"Hey, literary chick!" She holds out a gift bag left over from the Metro's Best party. "Do you know where...?"
I look at the name tag. Edward Cashin.
"The man is dead, [name withheld]!" I laugh.
"Then why did we make him something?!"
"I don't know. I'll get it to his wife," I reach for it and she snatches it back.
"What?"
"Someone stole Todd Schafer's," she says.
"So?"
"So, he's an actual advertiser."
"Uh! ASU's an advertiser!"
"ASU's not going to stop running ads with us because the dead guy didn't get something," she says.
"Oh, my god. His wife will appreciate it very much."
She hands it back to me. I peruse the remaining bags, trying to think of someone we can steal from to replace Todd Schafer's missing bag.
"Look, here..." I reach for a bag.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm helping try to figure out someone who doesn't need a bag."
She holds her hands out, stop-the-violence style.
"We're good. We got it."

Yeah, tell that to Ed Cashin. He only died right in the middle of voting and all, you goofballs.

Oops.

For most 20-something couples in New York City, it's tough enough to afford the things they need, let alone the little excess pleasures in life. That's why this pair of artists is looking for a bit of extra help. They're selling paintings of things they want. Some, like "Sleep" and "To Hear a Good Joke" are free.

Sounds odd, I know, but the idea is so fresh and original, and their style is graphic and sometimes cartoonish. It's a fun, affordable and definitely hip commentary on consumerism, capitalism and the power of the newly flattened earth.

Each of their paintings represents an item they want and costs the price of the real item. Whether it's a slice of pepperoni pizza ($3), Frozen Margaritas ($30) or an iPhone ($432.42), they're going to use the money they make to buy that Want. They're even open to trade, so if you've got a Wii, you've got a painting.

Browse through their gallery, get in touch with your id, and see if there's anything you want.

"I four!" Emmie runs up holding up five fingers.
"What, sweetheart?" I ask.
"I four," she grins and shows me her hand.
"Actually, you're two," I explain gently, and hold up two fingers in a peace sign.
Her face brightens.
"I two?!" she exclaims, and stares at her fingers. I don't know exactly what we're actually communicating about, but she was wrong either way. Five fingers does not equal four, and she's actually just two years old. So while I'm sure she wasn't trying to express the concept of age, I feel okay about correcting her.
"That's right," I coo.
She frowns at her hands, wiggling her fingers.
"I can't mate a two!" she shrieks, and hold up five fingers again. "I four!"
I laugh so hard I think I'm going to wet my pants. Child development specialists talk about setting appropriate goals for children, with an appropriate level of difficulty matched with an appropriate end goal. I wonder what Piaget would make of this situation.
"Honey, look," I show her my fingers, and move hers into the same position. They pop back out.
"I can't!" she cries. "I not two!"
"Yes, you can," I say. "Try it again, sweetie."
She furrows her brow in concentration, and I can see the gears moving in her head. She is willing her fingers to bend to her command. Slowly she manipulates her fingers until they settle into place.
"Loot! I two!" she shriek-laughs. Yes, she is. Two for an endless summer. She's managed to make the hang-ten sign.
"That's perfect!" I laugh. "See? One, two!"
"Yeah! Hi-fi!" she holds her palm up and we slap our hands together.
Merrily, she runs across the room, back to her paints.
How smart she is, I think. How great.
"Loot! I two!" she says.
I turn to praise her.

She's showing the dog.

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What is this light in our office, and why is it blinking?



I have never noticed it before and it is freaking me out.

This is pretty cool. Once registered at www.ezmo.com, you are granted unlimited storage for all of your music. Uploading music is very easy - it lets you upload your entire iTunes, Winamp or Windows Media player library with just a simple click.

After you have uploaded your music to your account, you can access your collection from any computer with internet access. Playback is done via a browser.

When you have uploaded music to Ezmo you can invite up to 10 friends to your account. Once your friends accept the invitation you can listen to and explore each others' music.

"You got a minute?" Scott asked me on the phone. Never a good sign.

When I left this morning, all was right with the world. Emmie was eating her yogurt and her clothes were lain out; the dog was fed and watered; laundry was tumbling dry; dishes were washing; and DINNER was prepped, for crying out loud.

But just after I left, all hell broke loose.
Scott went to take Scrabble for his morning constitutional.
"And then I heard a screaming sound," he said. A screaming sound? Like a ticking sound? How do you spell repetition? Anyway...
"I see that Peanut [the cat from upstairs] has a squirrel in his mouth," he said.

So he puts the dog back in the house and rescues the squirrel. He checks on the baby. Still munching her blueberry yogurt and watching "Dragon Tales."
So he puts the squirrel in a box in the house and retrieves Scrabble.
Peanut is stalking the back door, growling and making as though he could eat his way through the door.
Scrabble finishes his business.
Scott goes back inside, retrieves the squirrel from the box, and sees that the squirrel will need some medical attention.
So he puts the squirrel back in the box, all comfy-like, and goes to get Emmie ready.
"I habba yogur on de bootie!" Emmie shrieks.
Oh, yes, she did. Because she had dumped the entire container on her head. It trickled down her back, arms and stomach, and into her pants. She laughed like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to her.
So then Scott had to give Emmie a bath and get her dressed, pull Scrabble away from the squirrel numerous times, get them all out the door and into the car - except Scrabble. He took the squirrel to the vet, and Emmie to the bank to pull out her tuition and then to day care.

The day's kind of a wash already.

A.W.: "I was telling a mutual friend of ours about Nola being Hannah Montana for Halloween, and she seemed surprised. 'I'm not saying Amy and Jim are pretentious or anything, but 'You WILL be Dorothy Parker for Halloween and you'll like it!''"

A.W. is talking about a place she used to work.

"They had a rat, and I told them that I would bring in my cat and let it spend the night there."
The exterminator was in the buildings at the time, and said that if a cat isn't taught by its mother, that it will never learn to hunt.
"I was like, 'What kind of exterminator propaganda is that?'"

Evolution



Onslaught

AUGUSTA, GA. - So Emerson was up at 3 a.m. vomiting her guts out. Of course, that means that I was up with her. And while I stumbled out of the house all bleary-eyed this morning, here are photos of my pea-soup-spitting demon-child dancing her way down 7th Street this morning on the way to my office.

So I think this is part of the city's new streetscape redesign, but I'm not sure. I just think it's an excellent idea to incorporate recycling into the plan.

So I'm driving back to the office from an interview, chowing on a late lunch from chick-fil-a, because I don't have time to stop. A red SUV pulls up beside me.

"HEY!" I hear. I glance to my left. There is a very young, slightly girlish-looking teenage boy hanging out the passenger window.
"Hey, can I have one?" he asks for a french fry, leaning out the window at his waist and reaching out. There are cars all around us on the road, and his driver isn't maintaining his lane like he should be. He's a little swervy, and it makes me nervous.
"Dude, really, I'm trying to drive here." I remark.
"Can I have one?" he repeats.
"Seriously, how old are you?" I press the button to roll up the window so that I can ignore him.
"You're fat!" he yells.
Really, only an adolescent boy would think that's the worst insult he could ever give someone. And it hardly phases me. Instead, I pull out my camera and start snapping photos of them.


The SUV speeds off. I pull up beside it at the next light and continue snapping photos.
"Dude! Tell her you're sorry!" the driver shrieks at his passenger. "Tell her you're sorry!"
The passenger refuses. The SUV swerves and almost sideswipes me.

I'm going all of 45 miles an hour, watching the road and randomly aiming my camera in their direction. I have no idea if I am catching any photos of them, and I don't really care. I'm just trying to drive home the point that all actions have consequences, a lesson that I know I hadn't learned by their age. But they're randomly speeding up to get away from me, and dropping back to shout at me some more. They're going to hurt someone if they don't cut it out.

The driver is still shouting at his passenger to apologize. I doubt it's going to happen. It makes me oddly happy that it's freaking them out, although the likelihood of anyone seeing the photos and getting back to their parents is next to zero. Still...

"I'm going to put this on my blog!" I call. "I have 700 readers a month!"
"You're going to get us in trouble!" the driver pleads. The passenger is hiding behind a stupid yellow hat.
(Okay, I have 700 visits or something a month. I don't know how many people actually read this crap. Plus I hadn't actually planned to put this on my blog. But I am now because they irritated me. On my birthday. Nanny-boo-boo. Nyah.)

They pull behind me. Cool. They had been covering their faces. Now I can get a clear shot over my shoulder. (Note: all my shots are crap. Apparently I zoomed in on the back seat.)


They see that, and pull up beside me again.
"Tell! Her! You're! Sorry!" the driver yells.
"You're fat!" the passenger repeats.

Wow. Is that the way kids apologize these days?
Hmm.
Nope. Don't like it.
I continue snapping photos and laughing to myself. In truth, most of them are aimed at my windshield, because I WAS trying to drive until they started their reign of stupid.

"You're gonna get arrested!" the driver shouts. "My dad's the SHERIFF!"
"Of what?!" I call, amused. Nottingham?
"Of Richmond COUNTY," he yells, gleefully.
"Oh, Ronnie Strength is your father?" I laugh. "Well, I work for the newspaper. Tell him to give me a call."
Not that I'd ever publish anything as moronic as this. In the newspaper, I mean.

The SUV lurches suddenly and unsafely from the road and onto the 15th Street exit, the driver and passenger exchanging halfhearted punches. They're mad at me, but mainly mad at themselves and scared that they'll get in trouble with their parents. In case you can't read their plate, it's AYQ 9803, registered in Richmond County, Ga.


And if that guy's dad DOES happen to be Sheriff Strength, which I doubt, it doesn't matter. He's no more responsible for the random teenage stupidity of his kid than I am if my daughter wets the bed. He's just liable to catch more crap about it.

But for whoever the real parents are of these kids, you might just ask them to drive safely. This may not always turn out well. If they go to college in Atlanta, for example, someone is going to point more dangerous things than cameras at them.

And then they WILL end up in the newspaper.

I bought some lampshades and drinking glasses for myself for my birthday - thanks, sweetie! Love you! - and now I'm on a rampage. I've been focusing on investments and vacation for so long and all I want is a pretty apartment right now. So I started flipping through the DIY projects on a website.

What a bunch of crap. Like the suggestion to make a dramatic centerpiece out of dried wheat bundles. Where the fuck am I supposed to find some dried fucking wheat? I'm not Laura Ingalls Wilder. Or to string up a garland of dried leaves and peels. I didn't know that potatoes had so many uses! Let me just get those peelings out of the trash. And finally, Create your own scented potpourri balls to use as table decorations. No, thank you. We're all full up on smelly balls around here.

THAT kind of shit is why God, in his infinite wisdom, created the holy trinity: garage sales and Goodwill and Target. Welcome to my home decorating scheme.

"Freedom of the press was created not to give citizens consoling fiction, but to educate with real facts, and to counter government propaganda. I think it's tragic that the media believes its role is to create some nice narrative that has nothing to do with [the] real world. And it wasn't just a temporary thing, it went on and on and had real world consequences. With the media's willingness to go along with the government about weapons of mass destruction, a one-line apology is not sufficient. If you look at other countries and their responses to national crises, this is something that is specific to America. That said, this is not about beating up specific writers. It's about the nature of modern American journalism." - Susan Faludi, in an interview with Newsweek.

I'm driving Emerson to school this morning, and I've handed her a Diego book to occupy her while I negotiate the suicide mission that is driving down Furys Ferry Road. I swear to god that Wavy Gravy tried to run me over this morning in a big ol' rusty pickup truck. He needs to hit the pipe before he hurts someone.

Anyhoodle...

From the back seat I hear Emmie's voice.
"Das a 'D', mama," she says.
"Mmhmm..."
"Das a 'D,' a 'O,' a 'R'.... an' a... was dat?"
I glance back.
"That's an 'A,' sweetheart."
"Yeah, das a 'A.'"
"What does that spell?" I ask.
"Dassay 'D O R A,'" she answers.
"Mmmhmm. That spells Dora," I say.
She giggles in delight.
"YeaaaaAH! Dasspell DORA!" She hugs the book to herself and cackles.
She spells the word over and over the rest of the ride.
"D-O-R-A!" "D-O-R-A!" "Dasspell Dora!" "YYAAAAAAHHHAHAHAHA!"

I've asked A.W. to look at my story on the Augusta Opera's production of "Camelot." And now she's laughing.

"What?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"No, seriously. I was trying to be all deep and serious."
"Then why did you use a headline that is the title of a No Doubt album?" she asks.
"Oh, yeah. That made me laugh."
"Mmhmm."
"Oh, just Don't Speak, A.W."

B.E. to T.G.: "Hey, what kind of head do you want?"

She meant headline.

Scott's parents took Emerson with them to Epcot Center and let us have a day of roller coasters and other things that fling you through the air. In the midst of it, they took her to have lunch with the Disney princesses.

Had I not known that, I'd have thought they'd taken her to a drag queen review. These women were dressed horribly. They're overly made, wearing the fakest wigs I've ever seen, and some of them - like Jasmine, not pictured here - are half-naked.


These aren't really the kinds of influences I want Emerson to have.


Nor am I a big fan of "Gone With the Wind" as child-rearing material.


This is a little more like it - she looks like she's having fun, and she's dressed in a normal way. Okay, sort of like a pillowcase in this shot, but it's mostly that the detail can't be seen from this far away.


This is a REALLY good photo. She's smiling and cute and looks genuinely happy. I love this photo. But it still feels like it's not quite her. It's staged by someone else with clothes they picked out and she's posing in the way they dictate. I'm not saying that this can't be one aspect of her two-year-old personality - she loves being in front of the camera.

But when you compare the previous photos with the one below, a photo she recently took of herself, I think you can see the differences that I see.

In my pre-wedding/baby life, I missed a lot of sleep. I worked about 50 jobs and internships and went to school full-time and often wondered why I had left the oh-so-lucrative world of journalism to go back to school and get my degree in ... journalism. Because poverty is my best friend. I'm all about shanking someone for taking a wall off my cardboard box.

I also managed to have a social life, which involved a lot of alcohol and boys, and that was great fun and all but also a little dramatic. So sleep was not a priority because it was only a day away, you know? I could give up a bartending shift or skip a class and catch up if needed.

I would give up a number of choice personal body parts to have that option now. I have slept in my own bed for only one out of the past eight nights, and that was only for a couple of hours.

Okay, so much of that was spent in the comfort of a hotel room with two beds into which we squeezed five people, three of whom snore like something has squashed their nasal passages into mashed potatoes, and one of whom sleeps like she's running away from a zombie invasion. It does not help that she is only three feet tall. It just means that her feet end where my girlie parts begin. And sometimes she managed to be upside down in the bed. And then her feet end where my nose begins. I think Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes had something to say about that, but I don't suppose the Supreme Court will hear oral arguments against my own toddler. But hopefully someone out there in the blogosphere can give me a witness. Because OUCH. And tired. And need chocolate. And a Diet Coke IV drip.

ANYWAY. So besides the hotel in Orlando thing, which wasn't too horrible because I finally just put the munchkin in a sleeping bag on the floor - prompting her to wake up in the middle of the night and exclaim, "I onna floor! Wha happen?!" - there has been the ear infection. The one that we thought we got rid of, but only sent into hiding. It has returned. And this time, it's personal.

So there was almost three days of 102-103-degree temperatures and worry and nights without sleep. Then there have been the last two days where I slept first on the bed, then on the couch, then on a sleeping bag on the floor by her crib. Nights without sleep, and without reason. And not the kind that produces monsters. Unless you see me when I "wake up" from eight days without sleep, in which case I think my husband would agree vehemently that the no-sleep without reason does INDEED produce monsters... but he would not do it within earshot of me because I would eat his face right off his head. In a very monstrous way.

And now the munchkin is down for her nap, and I would join her, but I prepared for what has become the daily nap-fighting ritual - it includes crying and screeching "MOMMY?!" as though I have gone somewhere I could not be at her beck-and-call (and while I would never leave her, I so sometimes think about running out the door screaming) - by drinking a small lake of Diet Coke.

So I raise my glass of soda to you. Because although I cannot see you, I think your faces probably look delicious.

A.C. to T.G.: So they tried to squash it...
A.W. (walking by me, mutters under her breath): Quash, not squash. Hey, what did I come over here for?
Me: Apparently to correct A.C.'s grammar.
A.W. (laughing): No, it was for something else.
Me: Oh, and that was just a bonus?

I am so lucky to have an awesome sister who actually WANTS to step in and do things like change diapers to help when we're running around like lunatics trying to go somewhere. So this Sunday, when we were getting ready to go to Islands of Adventure, she got Emerson ready to hang out with the grandparents at Epcot Center.

While I was tying my shoes, Emmie started whining and begging to be held.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" I asked her, and she buried her face in my chest.
"Ehhhhhh," she moaned softly.
"Do you want to see Nona and Opa today?" I asked her.
"Nooooooooo!" she whined.
I cuddled her some more and considered skipping the big-girl Incredible Hulk roller coaster for the tamer educational fare of - hell, what do they even have at Epcot? France? Hulk v. France? That's my choice? Seems kind of a non-issue.

"Oh. My. God," I heard my sister say.
"What?" I asked her. I ran through a mental list of necessities I had brought for unexpected emergencies. First Aid kit, check. Feminine hygiene products, check. Assortment of vials from the medicine cabinet, check check check.

But Kelli was staring in horror at something in her hand. She sprinted to the bathroom. What's in her hand? A booger? An eye?
"OH MY GOD!" she shrieked.
"What?!" I shrieked, now thoroughly freaked.
She held up a tube of Clearasil.
"You can use that," I said. Geez! Vain much?

"NO!" she said. "I think I grabbed this instead of diaper cream."
I stared at her for a minute and we both dove for the Velcro on Emmie's diaper.
Yes. She had definitely put the Clearasil on the baby.

It was nothing a little soap and water and ACTUAL DIAPER CREAM couldn't fix in a few minutes, which is about how long the acne cream was on Emmie's little lady-parts. But Kelli felt awful all day.

"Don't tell anyone!" she ordered.
"I won't."

However, she never said I couldn't tell where she used the diaper cream in the first place.
But I wouldn't do that to her.

I just totally, deservedly got pulled over. I ran a red light right in front of a cop at the corner of Crawford and Walton Way. It was my fault, one of those times where being a mom and being, well, ME don't really gel.

Emmie was caterwalling in the back seat. Chinese food was falling over in the floorboard. A stack of books was sliding off the passenger seat. And I looked up and suddenly there was a yellow light in my face. AH! Brake, accelerator, brake, accelerator - aw, shit.

I check my rearview and, OF COURSE, RCSD is right behind me. Crap. I pulled over in the gas station parking lot before he could even get his blue lights on. He pulled in right behind me. Meeeehhhhhhh!

I took my seatbelt off and put it back on, and then realized that he probably didn't have enough room to pull his car in behind me. I pulled forward about two inches before I heard BANG BANG on the side of my car. Shit! I can't do anything right! I bet I just ran over his foot!

I flung open the door. "Yes, sir?"
"Were you just going to drive off?"
"NO! I was just thinking you couldn't get in the parking lot and I..."
"Are you okay?"
"Um, yeah, but I thought for a second that I ran over your foot."
"Not yet."
Oh, gee, thanks.
"Do you have your license?"
"Uh, yeah..."
I look in my purse. In my wallet. In the console. Fuck! Where is it?
"Ha HA!" I cry in triumph and brandish it like a sword. Suddenly it occurs to me that it's probably not a good idea to pretend-rapier a police officer. I drop my arm meekly as he examines it, the corners of his mouth twitching. Emmie waves merrily from the back seat. The last of the books slides off and lands on my foot.
He looks at me stuffing things back into place, giving Emmie the pacifier she dropped, forgetting that I didn't put the car in park and letting it jump forward.
"AH!" I shriek. "Oh, god, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
"Yeah..." He watches me for a minute and then sighs and hands me back my license.
"I see your wedding ring," he says. "Can I suggest that you let your husband do some of these things in the future?"
"Um, well, okay. But he cleaned the house today."
"Mmhmm. Look in the closets. That's where I usually put things," he says as he turns to go. "And drive carefully. Especially when there's a cop behind you."

Well, I dunno. If they're all this nice, I might have to drive dangerously.