Momnesia

Augusta, GA - I'm at the Augusta State University Communications Festival as a guest professional. Some people I've fooled - former professors of mine - have asked me here to help current students get a handle on what they need to have my ultra-fabulous career.

One of the speakers is introducing the newest members of Lambda Pi Eta, the communications honor society. She talks a little about the name being derived from Artistotle's Logos, Pathos, and Ethos.

"What was that?" I ask, oblivious. "The Three Muskateers?"

The students at my table look at me, incredulous. "Logos, Pathos, and Ethos," they repeat, with trepidation. They couldn't tell if I was serious, or if I was testing them.

Unfortunately, I was serious. I know I must have taken a speech class, because it was required. I also won some public speaking awards in college. But, I swear, though I have heard those terms, I have never heard them in conjunction with a communications class.

Oops.

Visiting my alma mater made me wonder how much I "learned" and then forgot. All the media law, the genetic disorders, algebra, how to find the standard deviation without referring back to the textbook I never sold back (side note: I'm pretty sure "The 39 Steps" is a cinematic metaphor for that formula; but more on that later).

I've done little since graduating to expand my knowledge base, other than the practical, hands-on things I've learned as a professional. So what am I to do? Grad school is not within my current reach. Time. Distance. Money. And every time I pick up an old textbook or a new educational tome, I lament the absence of vampires, zombies, Dashwoods and Bennets. And, yes, I've read Pride & Prejudice & Zombies. It wasn't that great.

What I think someone should compile is a list called "Books That Are Both Educational and Fun to Read and Were Not Written By James Mitchener." If anyone knows where I can get my hands on that last, please let me know.

Augusta, Ga. - I called home to chortle with Scott over my dress being inside-out at the doctor's office. And he said, "Oh, you'll love this."

Scott does a lot of recording out of our little "home studio" (an iMac and a mixing board, essentially), and sometimes, when he's on a tight deadline, he has to do an interview over the phone. For that purpose, he has rigged this combination of cordless hand set, digital recorder, tiny ear phones, and tape in order to capture the sound. It was very McGuyver of him, and it's done okay for him for the past couple of months.

But he scoffs at himself: "If I had bothered to actually look at the handset, however, I would have seen the big yellow speakerphone button."

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I left Emmie with Scott for the afternoon, so that I could go do that thing called work. I called home to see if there was anything I needed to pick up on the way home.

"No, but let me tell you what I did today."

Uh oh.

"I gave Emmie a bowl of ice cream, but she didn't eat it. So I picked up the bowl, which was all melty, and slurped down a huge mouthful... only to have my throat start burning."

"What happened?!"

Emmie is what happened. She had won a "prize" of air freshener at a giveaway earlier that day. I don't know what it's supposed to freshen, since it smells like strawberry-freaking-beer. But anyway. She had decided not to eat the ice cream. She had decided, instead, to "freshen" it.

"I swallowed a whole mouthful!" Scott exclaimed, and I burst into laughter. "I had to call poison control!"

Poison control had to research the brand to make sure it wasn't going to kill him. Ultimately, he's fine. But if you get a whiff of strawberries-and-beer over the next few days, you know where to look.

Augusta, Ga - Sleep-deprived, we show up at the clinic for treatment of an apparent ear infection that kept Emmie up all night (and me with her).

Of course, right now she feels just fine.

"Dis is a plie (insert accent mark)," she says, and demonstrates. "An' watch DIS!"

She spins around, then folds her arms with a look of intense self-satisfaction: "How 'bout DAT!"

"So, anyway, uh... She was sick all night. Crying from ear pain, and we're exhausted."

I glance over at her, practicing a tendu against the wall, in the hodge-podge of mismatched clothing that culminates with a shiny, quilted, pink, fur-lined vest.

"Okay, I'M exhausted. And mommy let her dress herself."

The Physician's Assistant grins and glances sideways at me: "Mommy's dress is on inside-out."

I look down. Dang.

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Augusta, GA. - We're starting our morning with gossip.

"You guys, Corey Haim died," KJ says.

"Which one was he?" I ask.

"He was a 'Lost Boy,'" BO answers.

"Yeah, but which?" I ask.

"The cute one," KJ answers.

"Umm...." (neither were particularly attractive to me)

"The blonde one," she clarifies.

"He was a total methhead, wasn't he?"

"Oh, he was a horrible drug addict," she answers.

"Well, that'll getcha," I answer. Drugs bad.

"Yeah, they're saying accidental overdose," BO says. "But I guess almost anytime you die, it's accidental."

"Nice, B."

Augusta, GA. - Emmie's just out of the bath tub, running around in her "Memo" towel.

"Mama? Do you wanna smell me?"

"Sure, honey," I laugh, and inhale at her neck. "Mmmmm. You smell like flowers and rainbows and unicorns."

"Do you wanna smell my bootie?"

"Uh, no."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"Come on."

"No, thank you."

"Come on."

"No, sweetie."

"I promise you it won't be stinky."

"I believe you."

"Just smell it."

"No."

"Come on. Just one time."

"Emmie, I do not want to smell your bootie. I'm sure it smells like flowers, but no thanks."

"Maybe Daddy will give you some candy," she sings.

"No, I don't need any candy."

"Mama, I promise. It won't be stinky. And you get candy. Really."

"No, ma'am."

"Please."

"No."

"PRETTY please."

"NO. Emmie. I do not want to smell your bootie. That's it."

She begins to walk away, dramatically dejected, when an idea occurs to me: "Actually, why don't you go ask Daddy?"

AUGUSTA, GA. - Out of only six entries submitted to the national competition, Metro Augusta Parent Magazine won four awards this year from Parenting Publications of America (PPA).

"I am extremely proud of the award winners. To take home four national awards out of six entered is phenomenal. It truly proves their talent level and dedication is second to none," said Bryan Osborn, group publisher for the company that produces Metro Augusta Parent Magazine, The Metro Spirit, and Bites & Sights.

The award underscores the talent and hard work that goes into each issue. Without the passion that drives the staff and contributors, the 40,000 women who depend on us each month to bring them the most honest and entertaining information about parenting in Augusta would be left wanting. The magazine has won a gold award every year for the past five years.


Editor's Letter
Silver: Amy Christian, editor
The judges said: "This column takes an interesting stance and then explains it to readers as a way of starting the conversation. This is a strong voice driving the publication."

Amy Christian is a perennial winner in this competition. Last year she won a silver award for her story about Richmond County School Superintendent Dr. Dana Bedden. Read some of her recent columns here:

* Managing the transition
* No longer little

Inside Illustration
Silver: Leonard Zimmerman, illustrator
The judges said: "An unusual drawing style and an interesting vantage point bring the reader into this illustration and successfully reflect the lighthearted tone of the text. The colors of the children's shirts contrast nicely with the background color."

Leonard Zimmerman is a talented painter, graphic designer, and illustrator. While this is his first PPA win, he was part of the Wierhouse creative team that took home more than 30 ADDY Awards at this year's ceremony. Take a look at his work below:

* Robots' meaning is in the eye of the beholder
* Nominated for Metro's Best Visual Artist
* Joint effort



Profile Writing
Silver: "Year-long Learning ... and Then Some," Eric Johnson, staff writer; Amy Christian, editor
The judges said: "An effective and efficient (column-length) look at a remarkable private school that perseveres by sticking to educational priorities and human principles, with a compelling figure at the center of the tale. Convincingly demonstrates that "alternative education" doesn't necessarily mean something way out of the mainstream."

Eric Johnson is a solid and enthusiastic news and education reporter, whose profile of C.H. Terrell Academy is just a single drop in an ocean of quality work. This is a first PPA award for this writer, who studied fiction writing with Pulitzer Prize winner Richard Russo.


General Feature Writing
Gold: "Intensive Care, " Stacey Hudson; publisher; Amy Christian, editor
The judges said: "From the beginning, readers are drawn in to the story about a family in the midst of crisis with a father's life in the balance. The writer openly talks about the choices she made with her own family in dealing with the situation and uses professionals to explain how children respond in such situations. This is a great combination of memoir writing and service journalism all wrapped into one touching story."

Stacey has previously won for her pregnancy memoir, "Rabbit Done Died"; and for a look at the irrational suspicions that plague parents those first days of day care called "Miss Rachel Must Die." She doesn't know why all of her award-winning pieces mention death in some way.

"Are those Reese's Peanut Butter eggs, or just chocolate?" a pregnant M.L. asked.
"They're some of each. But we're not telling you which is which," I grinned.
"That's okay. I'll just eat them all."

Augusta, Ga. - Emerson attended a school-wide sock hop at her elementary school recently. Emmie and her friends were having a blast when I arrived.

At 4 and 5 years old, these kids are still at the point when all they desire is love and attention. So those who recognized me ran up for hugs and exclamations over their hair, their clothes, their accessories, their general fabulousness, while Emmie jumped up and down beside me, shouting, "Das MY mommy! She's goeend dance wif us!" Uh, no, she's not.

And then a little girl walked up with something in her hand.

"Miss Emerson's Mama?" she asked. "I couldn't come to Emerson's birfday party."

"Oh, that's okay," I assured her. "You can come next time."

"Wull, I bring her a present," she said, and handed Emmie a cellophane bag. Inside was a giant pickle that she had purchased from the concession stand with her last two snack tickets.

"Ohh, DANK you!" Emmie exclaimed, and gave her friend a hug. She looked at me uncertainly. She really doesn't like pickles. But she gave it a cautious nibble before trying to hand it back with a frown. Oh, I don't think so.

I leaned down and murmured in her ear: "Your friend gave you that pickle as a gift. You will not hurt her feelings. You will take four bites with a smile on your face, and then you may give to me to hold for you."

And she did! She took those bites, put the pickle back in the bag, handed it to me to hold, took her friend by the hand, and lead her back to the dance floor.

And three days later, when I pulled the bag out of the fridge and tried to toss the pickle in the trash, Emmie took my hand and put me in my place.

"My fren' gib dat to me as a present. You don't frow presents away, mama."

So we put it back. And it stayed there until two days ago. Then Scott ate it.


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Augusta, Ga. - Scott has been working all day, and I'm not sure he's eaten a thing. He's really tearing into dinner that I cooked (asian pork with edamame and baby carrots). Emmie's sitting at the table with him, and suddenly she exclaims:

"Good God, Daddy! You really eatin' da CRAP out of dat food!"

Whoa. There is a moment of shocked silence as Scott and I lock eyes, and then I do the worst thing possible. I burst into laughter. I laugh so hard that I send myself into a coughing fit.

"Mama, why you laffeend?!" Emmie says.

"Good God, did you hear that?" I ask Scott with a chuckle, and then stop. Oh. So THAT's where she got it from.

Aw, crap.

We're just a small family, the three of us, and we've always had a close, attachment kind of parenting style. We're not slack on the discipline, but we focus on helping Emmie make the best choices, as opposed to requiring that she do what we say. (Of course, at the end of the day, the best choices are the ones we'd have made FOR her, but it's all in the presentation. I hope...)

We have always involved Emmie in everything, having her tag along wherever we may go - work, friends' visits, community events - desiring to expose her to as much as possible, within reason.
We want her to be knowledgeable, comfortable, and confident. We don't want to expose her to things that will confuse her. That's one of the reasons I rolled up the car windows today, despite her protests, when some dude pulled up next to us on Wheeler Rd. His car stereo was crooning, "Ah, birthday sex... Yeahyeahyeah, birthday sex," and he bought the car stereo system THAT GOES TO ELEVEN. (Thanks A LOT, dude)

But maybe we still aren't being the role models that we could be. Because I remember when saying "crap" got me a pop on the bottom. I didn't understand it then, but I am within reach of comprehension now.

So, for Lent, I'm giving up a few of my favorite words and phrases: "crap," "good god," and "mother of god." I'll consider giving up "son of a biscuit," but I haven't made up my mind on that phrase, yet. I'm definitely keeping "for crying out loud."

I'm sure I've forgotten some things that I should stop saying. Mother of God, I'm sure there are other aspects of our crappy parenting that can be improved, for crying out loud. Like our constant sarcasm, and our inability to take things seriously.

But happy Lent, everyone. Here's to all of our efforts to change the bad habits we've fallen into. Good God, I hope you beat the CRAP out of them!

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Augusta, Ga. - Scott's talking about Tiger Woods' press conference, which is scheduled for later today.

The speculation - especially in this home of the Masters Tournament - is really over the top.

"I know how we could get rich," Scott says. "Start a Tiger Woods channel."

"Nah. You wouldn't have any sponsors," I reply.

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Augusta, Ga. - My husband has psoriasis like you wouldn't believe. I've bought him a multitude of creams and lotions over the last five years that I hoped would give him some relief. But a couple of months ago, I got an idea that finally paid off.

Super Skin Softener / Psoriasis Stuff

1. Buy a bottle of oil. We used Neutrogena's unscented seseme oil, but you can use just about anything that won't make you smell like a roast turkey. I know a woman who uses straight olive oil on her hands, elbows, feet, and hair. It works, but it's not for me.

2. Buy a tall container of coarse sea salt. The brand doesn't matter, but the texture does.

3. Buy a small transparent or translucent container with a covered spout and an attached lid. I picked up a small plastic measuring pitcher for $1 in the kitchen section at Wal-Mart, but anything will do. Just make sure the lid is attached so that you don't have it slipping around all over your tub; and it has to be translucent so that you can see whether the salt is mixed properly.

4. Fill the container halfway with salt.

5. Finish with oil, leaving an inch open at the top.

6. Shake well.

Voila! Just a few drops make enough to use everywhere - except your face - and a supply of moisturizing exfoliant that will last for months. One use, and my ashy winter skin turned these tree trunks I've been scratching back into real, live, lady legs. Just remember to shake well before each use.

Total cost: $7


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Augusta, Ga. - Emerson has pneumonia, and has been instructed to eat only light foods - like saltines and chicken soup. But by Day Four, this child would take down a buffalo and eat it raw if we'd let her out of the house... in South Dakota. Anyway.

So we let her "choose her choices," within reason, for dinner. She chose French Toast from 3 Squares. But I didn't know that it came with a packet of butter and a side of fatty bacon.

"Sorry, Doodle, but the doctor said to stay away from oily foods."

She let me take the butter. But I was getting that bacon over her tiny, 5-year-old, dead body. I could swear that she took a chomp at me. Ooookay, then.

"Fine. But later, when you're frowing up, I'm going to do this..."

I danced around and shook my bootie, singing "Nyah-nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-nyah!"

She grinned and giggled: "Dass not nice, Mama. Den I'm goeend punch you in da belly!"

"What?! I don't think so, young lady," I said. But I knew she was going along with my humor.

Not 20 minutes later, she went into a torrent of deep, growling coughs. At the end of the spasms, she clutched her stomach and made a mournful face: "I ammost frow up, Mama!"

I jumped up and shook my bootie, dancing in a circle: "Nyah-nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-OOOOOFF!"

Well, she warned me.

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Augusta, Ga. - With Emerson sick with pneumonia, I'm not in a cooking mood. We had frozen pizza for lunch, if that tells you anything. Hint: we don't much care for frozen pizza around here.

But tonight, I was in need of a healthy meal. Enter fast food - no, not THAT kind. I'm talking even FASTER than that.

Here's my recipe, and it may be the shortest thing you've ever seen:

• 1 box Near East Couscous with pine nuts and olive oil (you can sub a flavored rice, if you want, or even orzo).  Cost: $1.49
• 2 boxes Gorton's grilled lemon butter salmon fillets (or any kind of fish fillet, heck, I don't care). Cost: 2 for $3.
• Half-a-bag of leftover bag salad (mixed greens, spring greens, Mediterranean, spinach, or something else dark green and leafy. Iceburg and romaine will not do). Cost: Maybe $2.50 a bag, divided into two separate meals. We had the first half on Sunday.

1. Chuck the frozen fish filets into a skillet on medium heat, with a drizzle of olive oil to keep them from sticking
2. While they're cooking, start the directions on the back of the couscous box. Put the water on to boil, dump in the spice packet, and add some chicken bouillon and a dash of garlic to the water.
3. Divide the leftover bag salad onto the plates, drizzle with a tiny bit of vinaigrette (I used honey mustard vinaigrette, but you can use anything not too sweet or too strong. If you're wearing your fancy pants, and you have Meyer lemon vinaigrette, that would be amazing).
4. The water should be boiling, so pour in the couscous. Give the couscous mixture a good stir, then take it off the burner, cover the saucepan with a lid (or a plate, if you're like me and couldn't find the dadgum lid). Let sit - AND DON'T TOUCH IT - for five minutes.
5.  Finish cooking the salmon.
6. Fluff the couscous with a fork, all the way through, then divide on top of the salad on the plates.
7. Chuck a salmon fillet on top, and voila!

Total prep time: However long it took me to open two boxes and a bag.
Total cook time: 10 minutes, give or take
Verdict: Emmie had never had couscous before, and she ate every bite.

Emmie knocked off my boss's Phillies bobbleheads off his desk the other day and broke them. I was SO PROUD that I was able to seamlessly Super Glue them back together, until I brought them back today.

"You messed 'em all up," Bryan said.

"Nuh-uh! They look great!" I argued.

He laughed: "You glued a bat onto the pitcher's hand!"

We've been working on The Pledge, since the first time Emmie told us she was learning. Now Emmie says:

"We pludge jaleegabence
To da flags
Ub da uninnah stays subamerica
And toodarepuggic
For witches dance
One nation
Under God
Inndebissabull
For libercheesus for all"

I don't know where libercheesus is, but I want to go to there. Right now.

Alice says her sweater is from Japan.

Augusta, Ga. - We're all excited about the snow. It's been 8 years since we've really seen accumulation. So far, we've been disappointed. Reports from North Augusta, Evans, and Hephzibah have all included snow. We're surrounded by the white stuff, but get none of it.

"No, there! It's snowing," insists Jason.
We peer out the bank of windows at the front of the building.

"Huh... Is that what that is?" Alice muses.
"Yeah. That's called 'snow,'" Jason grins.

"Oh, shut up," she retorts, and jokes around, trying to catch some snowflakes on her tongue.

"That one was pigeon poo," Jason grins.

She goes back inside.

Emmie says:

I plujaleegence
To da flag
Ub da uninestaysubamerica
And toodarepuggic
For witches dance
One nation
Under God
Inndebissabull
Wif ladies in just a bra

 "Mama, why da witches dancing? Do dey lub America, too?"

*snicker* "Yes, honey, I think they do."

"Oh. Das cool... Why you laffeend?!" she yelled, angry that I would even dare.

"Um..." *snicker*

"Stop laffeend, mama!"

"I'm sorry, honey."

"Seriullsly, mama. Why you laffeend?"

"I was just surprised that you didn't ask about the ladies in just a bra."

"Maybe dey getting dressed for da witches' dance... MAMA! WHY YOU LAFFEEND AT ME?!?!"

Hoo, boy. I can't wait to hear what she makes of "o'er the ramparts we watch were so gallantly streaming."

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Augusta, Ga. - The ballet teacher is going around the class having all the tiny dancers introduce themselves with a clapping game.

"My name is Julia," clap-clap. "And I want candy for Valentine's Day."

The teacher is Tammy Westofer, and her husband, Benji, used to dance with my husband.

"My name is EmersonReneeMcGowenHudson," Emmie says, setting off giggles from the observing parents. "An' I want candy AN' chocolate for Valentine's Day."

"I know your family," Miss Tammy says.

"Uh-huh!" Emmie answers. It's Augusta, after all. She's had this happen hundreds of times.

"I know your daddy," Miss Tammy says. "Did you know that?"

Emmie nods enthusiastically: "Yeah! 'Cause he's SCOTT HUDSON WGAC!"

Oh, my lord...

Augusta, Ga. - Emmie had her first ballet class today at the Augusta School of Ballet. One five-year-old, and four adult relatives to watch her spin around, act out various animals, and run around bumping into the other girls in her class. It was awesome. But it was very little ballet.

"This is your dance bubble," Miss Tammy explained, demonstrating the space around each dancer, into which other dancers are not supposed to cross.

Emmie chased the other girls around while bursting their dance bubbles. "Pop! Pop! Pop!" she shrieked, happily.

"Let's try our battement tendu," Miss Tammy said, demonstrating the graceful pointed-toe motion.

"Watch dis!" Emmie cried, and did a spinning leap, nearly smacking her elegant young classmate, Julia, in the head.

"Let's listen, and dance to the music," Miss Tammy said, playing a CD of music cues for various movements.

Emmie squished her face against the mirrored wall and made silly expressions to make the other girls laugh.

"Dat was fun!" Emmie said, when class was over. "I'm a ballet girl! I'm goeend ta come back nex' time!"

Yes. We'll definitely be back. And maybe Emmie will actually take a break from clowning around, and try a few dance moves. If not, well, at least she is getting over her crippling stage fright. O_o

Augusta, Ga. - Emmie and I were making dinner, and I wouldn't let her cut a potato with a "real" knife.

"I'll be very careful," she pleaded.
"No, ma'am," I said, firmly. "It's too dangerous."

She sighed, wearily: "Mama, I so tired of you telleend me wut ta do."

I couldn't help but laugh. I remember that feeling. It's like a world full of no. But I tried to explain.

"I know, Doodlebug. But that's my job. It's a mommy and daddy's job to tell you what to do, until you get old enough to tell yourself what to do, the right way," I said.

She looked hard at me: "But who gib you that job?"

What a great question! I answered with a simplified concept I knew she'd understand, as opposed to a long monologue about social contracts and primal instincts: "God gave me that job."

She furrowed her brow and shook her head in obvious disapproval: "Hmph. I goeend talk to God about dis."

Augusta, Ga. - I got home on time last night (for once). Emmie and I cooked a curry (see previous entry), and she was just SO sweet. She pulled her chair up beside me as I was cubing chicken, and climbed up beside me with her little plastic knife.

"Whatcha doing, Em?"
"I'm helping!" she answered, happily, and then she attacked and mangled a red potato.

We chopped (and mangled) all the vegetables. And then, under supervision, she browned the chicken, poured in the ingredients for and stirred and simmered the sauce, and set the table.

We poured orange juice for everyone, then she served our plates at the table with delicate little scoops of curry. She served herself chicken - AND BROCCOLI with no prompting!

She beamed, proud that - except for chopping - she cooked dinner and served it. Of course, cleaning fell mostly to me. But she helped with that, too... a little. And before I put the leftovers in the fridge, she just had to have two more bites.

Then we took a bath, read books, and snuggled until she fell asleep. It wasn't a big, special day; but it was a little, special day, with lots of wonderful, sweet moments with my newly-turned five-year-old. I am so proud to be her mom!


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Augusta, Ga. - I came home to find that my husband was about to do something horrible: He was about to fry chicken!

Okay, I love fried chicken. But I've been SO good lately, that I asked him if I could cook instead. He said yes - like he was really gonna argue. But then I realized that I had no idea what to do with two thawed chicken breasts and some random odds and ends of vegetables, not one of which measured up to a full serving of jack squash. (hee... see what I did just there? hee?)

Stew, I thought... no, that's boring. Stir fry? Too predictable. And we just had rice last night. And then I saw the box of jodhpur lentils that have been sitting in the cabinet for about six months.
 
They issued a challenge, and Emmie and I answered by whooping bootay.

Here's the recipe I made up, accompanied by my usual meticulous attention to measurement and detail. Please note the complete absence of salt, most fats, and the ability to go completely low-carb. You won't need any of that stuff:

Ingredients

• Some chicken, thawed and cut into cubes
• Some vegetables, cut into bite-sized pieces. We used broccoli, potatoes, and carrots; but I can imagine black-eyes peas tasting amazing in this. Also consider: onions, turnips, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, zucchini, squash, green beans, lima beans, butter beans, and sweet potatoes
• One regular sized can of tomato sauce
• One 8-oz can of evaporated milk (note: NOT sweetened condensed milk; but if you're wearing your fancy pants, you can substitute coconut milk, or similar)
• Light butter/margarine/Promise/I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, olive oil, or something else that will keep the chicken from sticking to the pan
• Yellow curry powder, cumin, garlic powder

Cooking Instructions

• Melt butter and brown chicken cubes, while microwaving any vegetables that are particularly long-cooking (potatoes, carrots, etc.) for about 5 minutes
• When chicken is mostly brown, add about a tablespoon of curry powder, two teaspoons of cumin, and a teaspoon of garlic
• Finish cooking chicken, microwaving veggies longer if necessary. You want them a little underdone. They'll finish cooking when they simmer in the sauce.
• Pour the cans tomato sauce and evaporated milk over the chicken and stir well
• Simmer for a few minutes, then taste to see if you want more curry, cumin, or garlic. Think about black pepper, but you don't have to use it
• Pour in vegetables that were microwaving, and any that weren't
• Simmer for 10-15 minutes
• Think about throwing in something that will add some crunch, because it is kind of a stewy mess - maybe peanuts, almonds, water chestnuts, raw celery or other cruciferous vegetables. We didn't do that, but that's what was missing from the dish. Next time, I'll add water chestnuts. 
• Serve over instant brown rice, on a bed of spinach leaves, or by itself (which is what we did, with the lentils on the side)

Total prep time: Maybe 10 minutes - it would have gone faster, but Emmie was "helping"
Total cook time: Maybe 20 minutes, 'cause I had everything going at once
Total satisfaction level: High - and I mean Emmie even ate the broccoli! That's saying a lot. Heck, she tried to lick the sauce off her plate!

So try this healthy, veggie-and-fruit-packed low-carb, low-fat, high-flavor dish with your family. It's definitely one we'll be revisiting!

Augusta, Ga. - I'm doing my best, amid backbreaking coughing spasms, to get Emmie settled into bed. We've had dinner, played games, read a book chapter. I am searching desperately for the Mucinex as I do our routine. Scott is coming down with what kept me in bed all weekend, and he has gone to bed. But she keeps calling me back.

"Hush, please; I'm going into the bedroom and Daddy's asleep."

And though she agrees, about seven seconds after I open the door, she starts.

"Mama?... Mom?"
"Shhh!"

"Mother!"
"SHHHH!"

"MAMA?!"
"Oh, for crying out-"

I turbo-gimp out the door, shutting it behind me, enter her room with a fury and lean over her.

"Young lady, if I tell you to keep it down because Daddy is asleep, then that is your prime objective - do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," she answers, and wisely does not ask me to define 'prime objective.'

"He is sick, and he has to get up early, and you are not allowed to wake him."

"Okay, mama. But I jus' wanna tell you sumpeend really important."

"What is it, Doodle?"

"I jus' wish dat you an' I could ride on a bid kangaroo and hop into space and den get off on da moon and hab a picnic."

"... That's what was so important that you had to risk waking your sick father?"

"Wull, yeah, 'cause I wanna do it RIGHT NOW."


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Augusta, Ga. - Emmie has changed into a shirt that's a little cooler.

"Dis says, 'My mom rocks,'" she tells me and Penny.

"Oh, that's cool, Doodle!" I coo. "Do I rock?"

"Psh! NO," she scoffs. "Because you not weareend a BAND shirt."

Obviously we had to help Penny up off the floor from her laughter.

Augusta, Ga. - My friend, Penny, is visiting. She's like my wife, in that we can jump into random conversations - or back into old ones - with the ease of a comfortable bathrobe.

At the moment when Scott woke from his nap, we were on Phylloxera and water buffalo. He sat for a few minutes and then rose to leave when we tried to engage him.

"No, y'all are doing just a great job of making me realize how much of my life I'm missing by listening to you."

Burn!

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Augusta, Ga. - Emmie came shuffling from our bedrrom into the living room in her purple footie jammies, hair askew.

"Iss time ta giddup, Mama! An' guess what? I made a giant poot in Daddy's bed. It was so hilarious."

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Augusta, Ga - Sometimes, when I'm playing Klondike Solitaire on my Blackberry, I imagine I'm in the World Solitaire Championships. Those TV commentators love me, but the pressure is unbearable.

B.O.: "You know you use your Blackberry too much when you expect your keyboard to do the same thing. I'm pressing the spacebar like 'Where's the period? What's going on?'"

Augusta, Ga. - I'm trying to retrieve a memory from my brain, and it's not working.

"I saw this movie this weekend, that I saw when I was younger, and I realized that I had no idea what the heck it was about when I was younger," I told A.C.

"Really? What movie?"

"I can't remember the name of it."

"What was it about?"

"I don't remember."

"Who was in it?"

"Um, I don't remember."

"Are you sure you didn't get pain medicine for your broken foot?"

"I don't have any pain medicine."

"Maybe Scott got it and slipped it to you."

Hmm. That would probably be to his benefit.

Scott is talking to his grandfather, Lester Reed, who is an 86-year-old WWII veteran. He recently sat down with some historians to chronicle his story, as part of an oral history project.

"I'd like you to get me a copy of that DVD soon," he told Scott. "You know, I ain't got a lot of time left."

"Gran-Gran, Andy Rooney is 92 years old, and he's still on the air," Scott said.

Gran-Gran snorted. "Well, Andy Rooney don't have much time left, either."

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Augusta, Ga. - Lord knows that I know from personal experience how difficult food service can be. But McDonald's pissed me off today.

After a doctor's appointment, Emmie asked for a happy meal. She ordered the same as every time: "chickennuggetsapplesandcaramelchocolatemilkanatoy."

We paid at the first window, and at the second window a lady started to hand me the bag.

"We were out of chicken nuggets and apples and chocolate milk, so we gave you a cheeseburger and fries and regular milk," she said.

What - seriously?

"Um, no. I'd like my money back," I said.

"What for?"

Blink. For real?

"Because you can't fulfill my order," I said. "Y'all should have told me when I ordered."

If that wasn't ridiculous enough, she asked to see my receipt. Like I was trying to scam them.

"She didn't give me a receipt," I said. "Just my change."

"Well, I have to have a receipt to return your money," the window clerk said.

I just looked at her and didn't say anything. She sighed heavily and shut the window, returning five minutes later with my change.

"Thanks," I said.

She shut the window without saying a word.


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Augusta, Ga. - I waited two days to see a doctor about my toe because I refused to pay the ER co-pay. I needed to see a doctor on Monday, but first I had to keep a sales appointment. Luckily, it ended up being the awesome wife of a Facebook friend, who brought their adorable little year-old son with her. She had heard about my broken toe, so she was prepped for my stupidity. Crutches + me = DISASTER. I'm just glad I got there before her, and left after her.

I was psyched to get a parking space right in front of the cafe. I was not psyched that there was no handicapped cut-through. Thus began what I call the Turbo Crutch Boogie:

Step 1: Crutch up to the curb.
Step 2: Wonder if giants have been subcontracted to do construction in Columbia County, 'cause that's a frickin' high curb.
Step 3: Position crutches at bottom of curb.
Step 4: Using crutches as a fulcrum, launch body up and over curb.
Step 5: Land on un-injured foot. Ta daaahh!
Step 6: Feel tug of gravity.
Step 7: Crutch desperately backwards off the curb, to keep from falling on ample behind.
Step 8: Crutch in ridiculous wobbly circle, trying to regain balance.
Step 9: Repeat, to amusement of onlookers sitting by the windows of the cafe.
Step 10: Consider giving unhelpful onlookers a big hyah! of Crutch Fu.
Step 11: Give up, reconcile myself to embarrassment, crutch over to the fencing that surrounds the outdoor seating, and use it as a ladder.

The meeting was great. I really liked her, and I admired her family's story. I adored her smiley wee baby boy, and I felt confident that we'd have a good time working together to have a positive impact on a local business. And then we left. But I realized I'd forgotten a card from my purse, and went back in to get it.

Repeat Turbo Crutch Boogie.

I am a dancin' machine.

I retrieved the card from the table, shoved it in my sweater pocket. But as I neared the exit, my crutches - which are so old that Charles Dickens gave them to Tiny Tim, I'm pretty sure - slipped out from under me on the slick tile floor. "Uh oh," I thought. "Going down."



It was spectacular - and Ima letcha finish, J. Lo, but it was one of the great falls of all time. My keys went one way. My crutches the other. I made a noise like "huuuuuooooooomph!" as a hit the ground. It looked amazing, yet hurt not at all... unless you count the injury to my ego.

"....Awesome," I sighed mentally. "This is just how I was hoping my day would go." And then I realized I was talking out loud. Even better.

A cafe employee peered down at me with confusion and concern. "Ma'am? Are you alright?"

"Oh... yeah. Just napping," I replied, still lying on the floor. An entering customer stepped around me with a bemused expression.

The cafe employee - a friendly older lady probably supplementing her Social Security - gave a sympathetic smile. "Are you hurt?"

"Not anymore than I already was." My toe throbbed from the involuntary effort that every muscle in your body makes when trying to avoid a fall. But it was bearable.

"Do you need some help to get up?"

"Nah," I sighed. "I'm just going to lay here and collect my pride for a moment."

"Okay," she said, laid my keys next to me, and toddled off.

After a minute, when the icy blast of winter air from the door alerted me that I was still lying in the way of entering customers, I sat up. The cafe employees were going on about their business, and I was shielded from the customers (minus the two who walked in - hi there!) by a wall that ensured minimal mortification. And, luckily, I was wearing pants.

So, using a chair to help me off the ground, I gathered myself to leave. The car seemed light years away from where I sat. I briefly considered crying like a spoiled infant. Then I took a deep breath, berating myself with the knowledge that some people have to do this every moment of their whole lives.

"Besides," I thought. "Getting off the curb is easier than getting on."

A little inspiration

Augusta, GA. - Spent yesterday laid up with a migraine. Because I spent most of the day in bed - Saturday gone bye-bye, dangit - I wasn't able to fall asleep until 1 a.m. Then, I was driven into Emmie's bed by Sir Snorz-a-Lot and the fact that Emmie, herself, was stretched out horizontally across our bed.

All of that converged when, sometime around 3 a.m., Emmie started shrieking. Shrieking like hot branding irons were being pressed into her flesh. Like someone said that she could never again have ice cream. Like all the unicorns had died.

"Must! Help! Baby!" That's the only thought that was in my head when I leapt out of her bed.

But my left leg was asleep, for some reason, and with its first step, landed on a page from a coloring book. My foot shot out from under me, lodged in the carpet, and kept going. I heard a snap! (and maybe a crackle! and pop!), lost control, and then my whole body hit the floor. Hard.

Emmie was still screaming.

"I'm - ow (expletive expletive expletive) - I'm coming, sweetie!"

SHRIEK! SCREAM! GENERAL FREAKING OUT! HOLY BOB THAT STUPID PIT BULL IS CHEWING ON HER FACE AGAIN!!!!

I race-crawl to the bedroom, around the toys and coloring detritus on her bedroom floor, because I cannot stand on a leg that is asleep. And because my jammy pants are too big, they begin to slide down my behind. I try to stand, but a shooting pain in my foot stops me, and I leap forward as I fall, like a running back trying to score that winning touchdown at the Super Bowl. Another pain as my elbow hits the floor.

"Emmie, stop!" I hear Scott snap from a deep sleep. I can see Emmie sitting up in bed, face upturned in a full-on howl.

"WHAT is going ON?!" I cry, as I make it into the doorway, panting, on elbows and knees. It seems like I had to battle all the minions of the underworld to get there, but it really took me less than 20 seconds.

"I hab a bad dream!" Emmie yells.

Are. You. Serious?!

I stop. I hurt a lot. I reassess the situation. My instinct, now that I am awake, is that there is no immediate danger. Just call me Sherlock Holmes.

"Emmie. Come here to me now." I command.

"Yes, mother," she says, and is instantly before me.

"Why were you screaming?"

"Because she's a diva," Scott says, from where he is still comfortably ensconced in the comforter.

"No! Because I hab a bad dream! I dream dat you were my muvver, but den you take off your face and you be'd a robot!" she says, indignant.

I collapse on my back on the floor. My elbow is fine. My leg is awake, and tingling wildly. But something is not right with my foot. I feel it in the dark, groan, and pull it up to my nearsighted eyes to examine it. The middle toe is broken. A lot. It careens off to the left at an angle that is highly unnatural. Now that I see it and understand, of course it begins to hurt like mad. On top of that, the adrenaline begins to subside and I find myself wracked with shivers, teeth chattering wildly. To add insult to my obvious injury, my jammy pants have slid down to mid-thigh. I am lying on the floor, in the hallway, shivering, butt exposed, with a very broken toe.

"Emmie." I say, in a voice that carries with it the full weight of God's law. "We do NOT scream like that. Mommy was VERY scared. I thought the doggie was biting you."

"Oh. I so sorry, mama. I jus' hab a bad dream."

(sigh)

"Mommy is not happy right now. Mommy hurt herself trying to rescue you. Because Mommy is an idiot," I explain as I feel where I hurt for injuries.

"You not a idiot, mama. You a hero!"

Yeah, I really feel like it.

Augusta, Ga. - So I was flattered to be considered important enough to speak at the Centennial Celebration of the historic Partridge Inn, and to contribute something to the hotel's time capsule, to be opened in 100 years. It's SUCH an amazing property, with 5-star service, and yet it's a very comfortable place to relax. There's no other property like it in the world, I imagine.

But I was the next-to-last speaker, and I was sure that I would have nothing interesting to say.

"What am I going to say?" I asked their photographer and PR rep. "Partridge Inn good. I like it. Ugh."

"You'll think of something," she said. "You know: beautiful historic property, blah blah blah, congratulations."

"You think the 12 speakers before me won't hit on that idea?" I asked.

"You're right. You're screwed."

Awesome.

I thought about saying simply, "My husband and I spent our honeymoon night herer, but I'm not telling you about THAT. Here's my stuff. Hope ya like it."

In the end, I came up with something generic, but I think it worked.

Text of speech:
Thank u for inviting The Metro Spirit & Metro Augusta Parent Magazine, and congratulations on your centennial anniversary. The Metro Spirit is celebrating its 20th anniversary this year, and we were proud to partner wth The Partridge Inn for our Metro's Best party this year. The party that night was a quintessential Partridge Inn event: classy yet comfortable, and drew hundreds of people to this historic property.

I'm an Atlanta transplant, and I can attest that no property in that city inspires such feelings of goodwill and even homesickness. My husband and I spent the first day of our family life at the Partridge Inn. We considered no other choices.

(Something about the property being pretty at night, as I lost my place in the speech)

Because the Partridge Inn is the heart of the Augusta community, the larger family of our city. And for that reason, we donate copies of our magazine, Metro Augusta Parent Magazine, which has chronicled family life in Augusta for 10 years. We also include a copy of The Metro Spirit, to assist in adding historic perspective to this time capsule.

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Augusta, Ga. - Momnesia has new information from Charlaine Harris of Sookie Stackhouse and "True Blood" fame!

Yes, jealous bitches! That's right. I scored this interview. You may touch me.

Actually, Ms. Harris may have been the nicest, most dryly funny person I've ever interviewed on the phone. She's a Southern lady, after all, and after 29 years of publishing fiction books, has learned a deft way of handling interviewers.

When I called, she was running behind schedule - a rarity for her, she said. But she was picking up around the house before a portrait painter arrived. He has a technique where he takes famous writers and paints them in the guise of old masterpieces. His idea for her is "Death of Marat," by David.

"But I'm not going to be naked in the bath tub, so we're still negotiating that," she said, with an audible grin.


She spent about 30 minutes answering questions from readers of The Metro Spirit and Metro Augusta Parent, as well as Facebook friends and friends from years back who came out of the woodwork to satisfy their curiosity. The story ran in the Jan. 20 edition of The Metro Spirit, but I've included a few outtakes here.

Twenty-nine years is a long time to keep writing. What keeps you motivated as a writer?

I love doing it, and I'm not really good at anything else. I've always been a terrible employee. If I didn't do this, I'd have to find something else to justify my existence.

How would you characterize your career?

I got very lucky. I took a class from Shannon Ravenel, who of course is now the editor of Algonquin Press, but had just left Houghton Mifflin while her husband was doing an internship. She was teaching a (college) class on creative writing to make a little money on the side while she figured out what she was going to do.

Harris wrote her first book, "Sweet and Deadly," while a student in the class. Ravenel liked it, and was able to get it into the hands of the right people.

And how would you characterize your writing motivations? Are you drawn to characters, plots, immersing yourself in a certain universe?

I would say immersing myself in a universe. If I have to choose, I say that I am character-driven. Because my plots develop as I'm writing. How are the characters going to be affected? What's their growth trajectory going to be?

What do you think of the "True Blood" series?

I think of the books and the television series as two completely different animals. I like being surprised by what I see on the screen. It keeps it fresh for me. But Alan Ball doesn't tell me how to write the books, and I don't tell him how to write the series.

I love Tara being black. I wish I'd thought of that. And I love Jessica. I wish I'd thought of that. I really like those choices, and I can see where they're going and how they fit.

I also love Lafayette. In the books, he wasn't as flamboyant. But if he had been, and if I'd had Nelsan [Ellis, who plays the character], Lafayette would have lived.


Momnesia will post more from the interview later. But it's not fair to post everything before the story prints in The Metro Spirit. I have to give them a chance to share in the awesomeness.

Augusta, Ga. - I was so proud of myself. Before I put Emmie to bed last night, we had lunches, clothes, bags, and breakfast all prepped and ready to go.

This morning, as I'm finishing getting dressed, Scott sprints by: "I have torn this house apart, and I can't find her coat or her backpack!"

"Did you look on the chair by the door?"

"...Oh. Found it!"

Good for you.

Augusta, GA. - Scott is a well-known crappy gift giver. Some examples of gifts that he has given me:

• A pair of birds in a giant cage - they were messy, the dog wanted to eat them, and they never shut up! Back to the store they went. $50 wasted, then regained.
  
• A novel he bought under the misconception that I liked "historical romance" (I said "historical fiction," like "Artemesia" and "The Red Tent.") - that turned out to be a ridiculous romance. $13 wasted.
  
• A prenatal massage gift certificate from a company that never could offer a prenatal massage and kept trying to turn it into a facial. The business then went OUT of business. $100 wasted.

Last Christmas, he kept it simple, with a beautiful beaded cocktail dress from a major department store. I loved it, and I told him so, and I wear it every chance I get. $80 well-spent.

This year, he really wanted to be creative... despite the fact that I set up an Amazon and an Etsy wish list, just to break him of this creative-gift-giving habit (and also because pretend shopping costs less than actual shopping - anyone know where to get inexpensive not-ugly curtains?).

And so, because GIANT HINTS could not get through his deflector shields, there was much secretive workshop-type-stuff going on, and I was very, very concerned. But, also, I was excited! There could be inexpensive not-ugly curtains taking shape in there!

Alas, it was not to be. Because one day he forgot to lock the workshop door, and the wind blew it open just as I was getting into my car. There I saw the lamp I had asked him to throw out two months ago... only it was obviously being worked on.

"Honey, you're not refinishing that old lamp, are you?" I asked, apprehensively, not making the connection between my present and some random project he was working on.

"Oh (expletive)," he said, and stomped over to lock the door. That's when I knew. Oh. No. He was not going to - (sigh).

BEHOLD: The Penis Lamp!


You have to understand something about my husband: He gets an idea in his teeth and he shakes it 'til it's dead. He wraps himself in it. It fills his head. He wallows around in it like a pig in mud, and it becomes a part of him. Call it tenacity. Call it stubbornness. Call it insanity. It depends on how you look at it.

This is a great quality for an investigative reporter (see: ANIC corruption). It is a great quality for an activist (see: Aquaduct Park). It is not, necessarily, a great quality in a husband (see: Every argument we've ever had).

"Honey. I do not want a penis lamp in my house," I stated.

"It does not look like a - oh. OH," he said.

Turns out that Scott grew up with this lamp. It was in his grandparents' home for 50 years. So clearly he didn't think of it as phallic while playing in their living room at the age of 7.

"Oh, I guess if I had just gone to Windsor, and come home with a green box,  she'd have been satisfied," he complained to a friend recently. (By the way: Yes)

"Come on, Scott," the friend said. "You never saw a [crude word for penis] when you looked at that?"

"No!" Scott insisted.

"You're an idiot," the friend laughed.

Recently, Scott rediscovered it in their attic and decided to refurbish it for me, thinking I would love the unique design, the history, and the story behind it.

Well, I do love the story! Although, in all fairness, Scott remembers it differently...

Emmie was staying with my parents for the week after Christmas, and I called her every day. One day, she was all in a tizzy.

"I goeend out to Granny's room 'cause I hafta tell you sumpeend, an' iss a seeecret!" she whispered.

"Okay..."

"Okay, I closeend da door. Mama? I gotta tell you sumpeend. I'm in lub."

"Oh, really?" I asked, amused - and mildly concerned.

"YETH!"

"With whom?"

"... I don' brenembered his name," she thought.

"Um... (snicker) Well, where did you meet him?"

"I diddin meet him. I see him on da telebision."

"Ohhhh," I breathed, much relieved. No convent admissions packet needed - for now. "What show was he on?"

"I don' brenembered da name ub it," she said. "But deres four boys, an' a mean girl, and one of da boys is mean..."

"Uh-huh..." I ran a mental checklist of the shows on Nickelodeon and The Disney Channel. "Was is 'Big Time Rush?'"

"YETH!" she shrieked. "Dats IT! Mama, we godda go to dere concert!"

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," I chortled.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and I just knew - the way moms know - that she was about to erupt into hysterics.

"They're not playing a concert near us," I interjected, before she could unleash the fury.

"Ohhh," she sighed, disappointed.

"But maybe we can find something for your birthday," I mused.

And maybe, just maybe, if you're very good and very quiet, I'll let you watch mommy poke out her own eardrums.

Augusta, Ga. - My husband came to bed late, having been at a neighborhood block party for New Year's Eve.

Deep in the morning, dark outside, and all fireworks having ceased long ago, I heard him talking to someone.

"Mmhmm," he said. "Yeah."

I raised my head and looked around. There was no one in the room, apart from the three of us, and Emmie was fast asleep between us.

"Uh-huh," he said. His eyes were closed, but his face had an expression of polite interest.

"Honey?" I mumbled.

"No, that sounds great!" he said. "I'd love to try it."

I glared at him. I know it was New Year's Eve, but this is what happens when he drinks before bed. And I'm the one he keeps awake for half the night.

"No, I like sushi," he insisted to his invisible partner in conversation.

"No, you don't!" I exclaimed in disgust. "You hate sushi!

"No, really, I like it!" he insisted, a frown on his brow.

"Oh, shut up," I muttered, rolling back over to try to sleep.

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Why does my daughter think my name is: "Stacey Hudson from University Augusta Aquarium?"

And why does she think the aquarium is filled with ice cream?

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How was your NY Eve? Emmie and I were asleep before 10 p.m. Livin' the dream, baby. Livin' the dream...

I started the first day of 2010 by being rudely awakened.

"MOOMMM! DAAADDD! IT'S TIME TO GET UUUUUUPP!" Emmie bellowed from the foot of our bed.

"ZZZZZZZ," Scott replied, lost in dreamland.

(Sigh) Good thing we have a nice stock of Diet Coke for me.

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