Momnesia

So one of the editors, the high school intern (who we love, and who sometimes babysits for us), and I are discussing my zombie evacuation plan. I've drawn a diagram that is lacking only in X's and O's to move around - in sheer panic, of course. That's how people move around in my plan, with the much running and shrieking.

"That's a very elaborate plan," Editor says.

"I know." But I am chagrined. There are fences in the way of two of our escape routes.

"I don't think you've thought it out well enough," Intern says. "What about vampires?"

"Oh. I'll just have my husband breathe his garlic breath on them," I snicker, and they laugh with me. Boss Ron shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He's been riding my ass all day long, and even though I've not taken a break for lunch, he would rather see me bleeding from my eyes than cease my incessant writing. Lots of writing. Serious writing. My pinky is cramping. See? Ouch.

Intern takes the legal pad away from me: "Here. I'll make a list."

Editor and I whisper back and forth like adolescent about how Ron is getting our nerves. We're annoyingly high school about it, but it's deliciously evil fun. Intern gives the legal pad back with the list of things I must prepare for:

• Vampires
• Mummies
• The Blob
• Ron

I hold the pad up for Editor to see and we burst into laughter.

"I think Intern gets a bonus the next time she babysits," I crow.
Editor laughs: "I think so!"

AND the number four prostitute in all of Kazakhstan.

It doesn't matter if you believe in ghosts. At midnight in a cemetery in the middle of Nowhere, S.C., shadows, breezes and soft sounds take on supernatural shape.

The woods are pockmarked with tombstones. It’s so dark I can see galaxies whirling overhead. I trip over graves. A vision of mummified hands reaching out of the ground overwhelms me. Perhaps they shouldn’t have sent the only reporter with a zombie evacuation plan, although, to be honest, the plan involves mostly running and shrieking.

Yet my guide is calm.

"We’re here to debunk this," declares Ginger Yarbrough, organizer of Georgia Ghost Hunters. "We rule out all the man-made and natural explanations first before we try to say there’s spirits."

Ginger and seven other members have brought me to a 200-year-old Huguenot graveyard an hour from Augusta, down a one-lane dirt path through a thick forest where trees bend like frightful fingers reaching for prey.

This group doesn’t look for the paranormal. They look for the normal. If lights in a home flicker, they blame the tree branch or a power line. They check for vermin, leaky pipes, gaps in insulation and other earthly explanations for unearthly sensations.

In the graveyard, the ghost hunters set up candles to provide a little light plus video cameras and voice recorders to document the hunt. They calibrate EMF meters to detect the presence of electromagnetic fields, infrared thermometers to spot temperature differentials and tri-field meters to detect magnetic fields, electrical fields and microwave emissions. When manmade and natural causes have been eliminated, Ginger says, it is generally believed that ghosts generate these fields and temperature changes.

"The most common energy form that a ghost uses is simple heat," Ginger says. "A ghost will absorb heat to help it manifest, which is why people feel cold when a ghost passes them."

These are true believers. Ginger is completing a certification from the Stratford Career Institute in parapsychology and astrology. She and her mother have seen enough unusual phenomena in their lives to scare legions of schoolchildren. They’ve been hunting ghosts for three years, in public and for private homeowners.

"But we keep all private investigations discrete — their name is kept under lock and key, so to speak. We are completely non-profit and do not charge fees for our service as we are trying to collect all the data we can," she says.

They hunt to find legitimate hauntings, in small part to convert the unfaithful. She’s looking for the real deal, because she believes she’s experienced it. "I want the evidence to put it up on the table and say, ‘Look. You cannot disprove this."

Leon Wilkes, a group member who is in the military, tells a story about a house in Iraq that spooked his entire troop of hardened soldiers. Almost everyone in the group has a story about a supernatural experience. I’m just not so sure. I’d like to believe it’s possible to communicate with the souls of departed loved ones — hi, Grandma! — but I’ve never encountered anything of the kind.

"The paranormal is a touchy subject and most people are afraid to do anything about it because they think they may be humiliated," Ginger said later.

That doesn’t stop me from nearly wetting myself when the EMF meter in my hand goes off. Everyone in the group turns to stare at me as I freeze. I put the sensor out again and it lights up. I prepare to activate my zombie evacuation plan.

"Is there anyone here who would like to communicate with us?" Ginger asks the forest while I fight the urge to run and shriek. After a disappointing silence and several tests, we determine I had moved the sensor too rapidly, which gave a false positive.

"That’s why it’s important to look at it from a scientific perspective," Ginger says. "You have to debunk it first."

Leon, in a fearless — and, I think, foolish — stab at making this trip worthwhile, begins to taunt the spirits of the dead who lay in these woods.

"I think you’re too chicken to come out," he calls. "I don’t believe you even exist."

He walks out of the walled burial ground, continuing his tirade, and Ginger and Lisa Barret stay where he began. Ginger thinks she heard a noise nearby, like change rattling in a pocket. Inexplicably, a vine slaps Lisa in the face, and Ginger’s camera picks up red and white streaks in the forest, something she calls a vortex, a strand of light. She thinks it’s a portal through which ghosts travel, though other ghost hunters say it could be individual spirits moving or an "orb."

My camera captures a picture of what the group says is a flaming orb, the best they’ve ever seen. It’s a round spot in the darkness, visible only on my digital camera. Some people say it’s energy. Some say it’s a small ghost.

Just then, Leon calls that a shadowy figure peeked at him from among the trees.

"He wants to come out and play, now," Leon says. I really hope not.

Immune to my protests, the group enthusiastically agrees to go down to the nearby lake. As we descend the hill, the temperature plunges from a chilly 52 to near freezing. I’m shivering in a T-shirt and sweater, more immediately frightened of chiggers and poison ivy than spectral beings, and I see unmistakable beaver activity. We crunch down the hillside toward it, every footstep a beacon for beavers and bears and who knows what all else. Are there bear zombies? Oh, god. I bet there are.

It’s, rather appropriately, a dead lake — a lake that held water in the past but is now merely an overgrown basin, choked with weeds, scrub and fallen trees. Leon continues to harangue those who previously rested in peace as he and Ginger start across the edge of the basin. I see lights twinkling just above the grass near the middle. Right. I’ll just wait here.

Time creeps as I watch my breath rise as a mist in front of me. It’s something Ginger pointed out that they try to avoid when photographing phenomena. Even the clothes of someone who has just smoked a cigarette may contaminate visual evidence.

Then someone in the lake yelps.

"That [expletive] just growled at me," Leon calls as the trio tromps back through the overgrowth. Leon is shivering violently in his autumn jacket.

"Feel him!" Ginger says. "He’s ice cold!"

He is. While Ginger, clad only in a T-shirt and jeans, is still warm to the touch, Leon feels
frozen. They claim to have heard a growl just before the temperature around Leon dropped aggressively.

I look out over the rustling grasses. The lights I had seen are gone.

Although none of the equipment registered abnormal readings, the members are convinced of a spiritual presence, in this case, an "intelligent haunting."

It’s one of the different types of ghosts and hauntings that the Georgia Ghost Hunters categorize.

"No one knows for sure why they are here with us," Ginger said. "And there is no reason to be afraid of them because usually they have the same emotions and personalities they had when they were alive. They are around us all the time."

In that case, I have to revise my zombie evacuation plan.















<------- "Flaming Orb" the original shot (above) and pulled out in close-up (left).

Pristine white cribs stand empty and waiting in quiet rooms painted a soothing azure at in this old building. Yellow ducks adorn a bathroom that has never cleaned chubby cheeks. A walk-in closet stocks Huggies diapers and wipes, Johnson’s Baby Shampoo and row after row of tiny little outfits alongside adult-sized pants and shirts.

Renovations to the Garden City Rescue Mission’s homeless shelter for women and children are 95 percent complete. The paint is dry and the beds that have been donated so far sit assembled and awaiting sleepy little heads. But more is needed. The Fenwick Street homeless shelter renovated the second floor of its building to house up to 50 families, but cannot help them until it is able raise $20,000 to install two fire escapes. In the meantime, mothers with young children may be literally left out in the cold.

"The sad fact is that sometimes they’re stuffed in the backseat of their car, or wherever," Sharpe said. "There’s really no place other than the Salvation Army for them to go and if you talk to them they’ll tell you they’re overrun and they can’t keep up with the demand."

In a push to finish before a potentially lethal cold snap, the Garden City Rescue Mission will hold a Fall Fish Fry on Oct. 7 at Victory Baptist Church in Belvedere, sponsored by Dye’s Southern Catering.

"There’s going to be a lot of hauling children around," Sharpe said. "It’s going to cost a lot to run."

Sharpe estimates that 15 to 20 bunk beds and 15 additional twin beds will just cover their sleeping quarters, but to help these ladies get back on their feet, they’ll need mini vans, car seats and operating expenses to help mothers find jobs, visit pediatricians and attend church. Already they are feeling the pinch. The shelter’s electricity bill has already jumped $800 a month, and Sharpe expects the center’s other utilities to double.

Sharpe’s mother, Susie, and her husband left good jobs with health insurance behind in Florida to come up and work with their soon on his ministry. It’s the children that break her heart. She tells a story of a woman so poor that her children had never owned a book or a toy.

"They didn’t even have an old dirty truck to push in the dirt," she said. "These children had never been read a Bible story or a bedtime story."

When she agreed to come up, she insisted on a playroom for the children, and it is almost done. VeggieTails toys sit in their boxes and children’s books yearn for sticky fingers to turn their pages. The playroom is Susie’s baby. It waits for other babies to fill it with laughter, and there will be no shortage. Families with children are the fastest growing segment of the homeless population – 33 percent of the homeless, according to the U.S. Conference of Mayors, and domestic violence accounts for half of that.

Tile and new carpet were lain by one of the gentlemen currently housed in the men’s shelter on the bottom floor of the facility. Many of the men who live in the shelter are skilled workers, the "working homeless," who comprise 15 percent of the homeless population. Some of them have been through painful divorces. Others have had a run of bad luck.

Their stories are not too much different than the American story. As the availability of affordable housing declines, shelter becomes harder to maintain. One estimate by the Federal Housing Authority states that one quarter of American workers are a single paycheck away from financial disaster.

Travis used all of his creativity and connections to complete the work, calling upon skilled friends and family members and guest preaching at churches around the southeast. He has been largely successful - one North Carolina congregation cut him a check before the services were even over on the day he gave his sermon. The mission has paid for work as the project progressed, instead of going into debt, and volunteers donated time, materials and labor, to complete most of the work.

But work remains, and that’s what makes the fish fry so important. The menu will include catfish filets, freedom fries, cole slaw, hush puppies, grits and banana pudding, all catered by Dye’s Southern Catering. There is no per-plate charge to eat the fresh, fabulous fish, but donations will be accepted during the dinner.

"We’ve had people use the fish fry as an excuse to give significant donations - $500, $1,000," Sharpe said.

But if you can’t attend the fish fry and still want to help, the mission has an ongoing need for every day items like crib sheets and baby blankets, toiletries, cleaning supplies, dry goods, furniture – and, of course, cash and manpower.

"Think about running a shelter of this type," Susie said. "You need someone here 24 hours a day."

The Garden City Rescue Mission is located at 828 Fenwick St. in downtown Augusta, GA. Call 706-724-6960 or visit gardencityrescuemission.com. Help by donating items or services for women and children. Donate cash, too. It's really, really important. Even $5 makes a difference.

As I've discussed here before, Scott talks in his sleep. I like to know what he's thinking about in his sleep, so I can rarely resist questioning him. Last night, he got his revenge when I came back to bed at 3 a.m. after dealing with Emerson for an hour.

"mmwabba ... is goo for the community," he mumbled.
Huh?
"What did you say, honey?" I whispered.
"I said it would be good for the community," he said, a little more clearly.
"What would?"
"Hold on," he said.

...
...

[[farrrrt]]

"Is that what you wanted to say?!"
"MMmmm. Yep."

I won a very special honor today, one that I was not expecting.

"It's official," Scott told me today. "I'm being submitted for the Edward R. Murrow Award."
"That's awesome!" I said. "That reminds me: I meant to tell you that I won something already!"
His mouth opened and his eyebrows raised in surprised delight. "What?"
"I entered the Paul Newman's Own recipe contest and I won third place!"
"Wow, honey, that's great!"
"Yes!" I laughed, pulling out my prize. "I am one of only 100 people in the continental United States to win this flexible cutting board!"

Boo-yah!
In your face, jealous bitches!

A co-worker and I are discussing our employer.

Me: So that’s my new nickname for him: Frankenboss.
Co-worker: Yeah, you know, he kind of embodies many of the characteristics of all the classic monsters. (He ticks them off on his fingers as he goes) Vampire sucks the life out of you. Frankenstein was a clodhopping idiot. Wolfman can change, and mummy, well, again, he was an idiot.
Me: (huge laugh). Clodhopping. I didn’t know that could be a verb.

It's Wednesday, and no one can leave for lunch while we're on deadline. So our fearless leader springs for hot dogs from the cart outside. C., our most recent writer to be hired, walks past four of us with a Brat stuffed full of all the fixings.

"Man, that's a big weiner!" P. exclaims.
Three of us burst into appreciative laughter.
"What the hell?" C. says, grinning.
"That's... That's not what I meant," she says, sheepishly.

I am completely pissed at myself for allowing my blog to devolve into "Look what I ate!" Yet my life has been like this:
midnight: baby wakes up screaming
2 a.m.: back to bed
5 a.m.: baby wakes up screaming. Run into open door of the armoir.
5:45 a.m.: back to bed
6:30 a.m.: alarm goes off. Hit snooze.
7:30 a.m.: Crap! Crap! Crap! I overslept!
8:45 a.m.: Act like it is totally fine that I am 15 minutes late.
9 a.m.: First insult from boss hits me in the face. Resolve to duck next time. Promptly forget resolution. Repeat all day long while fielding an overwhelming amount of special project, freelance writing and editing requests while trying to complete my regular assignments. Give them the Crazy Eyes.
5:30 p.m.: Race out the door to get Emerson from day care.
6:30 p.m.: Get home (if I'm lucky).
7 p.m.: Feed Emerson and play with her until...
8:30 p.m.: Emerson to bed.
9 p.m.: Try to have a conversation with my husband while working working working.
2 a.m.: Fall into bed exhausted.

So what I have for lunch, my point being, is the most exciting part of my day.

We were in Atlanta from Sat - Mon. Sorry that we missed you! It was Scott's birthday, and our second anniversary, and we dropped the baby with my parents and went driving around Atlanta, laughing like maniacs at our freedom and cursing the much lostedness that befell us.

I learned something: many many things have moved while I have been gone, including roads. I don't know why they do that to me, and force me to take a wrong turn on Monroe and end up completely not at Piedmont Park, nor on my way back to Va-Hi. It is simply wrong. They could at least fax a memo. Oh, and also? That turn at Piedmont and 14th Street? Yeah. I am hating it so badly right now that the pavement has cracked.

Anyway, if you get a chance, please go eat at Sweet Devil Moon at 10th and Piedmont diagonally across from the Flying Biscuit. I was so sad when my tummy was full and we had to leave. The waiter did not understand what it means to come back to Augusta, the culinary landscape of which has long been overrun by chicken wings (admittedly in more than 50 flavors, and yet... no), where there is no Peruvian tapas bar with the yummy yummy black beans hummus and ceviche to die for.

And also, where the vegetarians among us are sickly and sad because there are only potatoes and salad to eat. Oh, and did I mention that I stopped eating meat? Well, I still eat fish. But I am remembering now why I gave up trying not to eat meat. It's almost entirely unavoidable here. It's like you can't own a restaurant unless the Cattleman's Assocation approves it. I'm telling you, they issue everyone a T-Bone at the county line.

I am eating a sandwich from New Moon Cafe, out of which I expected a better vegetarian option. Grilled veggies and cheese - hard to mess up! Unless you are a restaurant so new that you do not yet have: a credit card machine, bags, to-go cups, straws, trained employees or phones that work better than cellphone reception in Siberia. This sandwch tastes like two onions had a party, got too drunk to know better, had unprotected sex, and then had little onion babies on my damn sandwich. Plus, it's dry. I said "no mayo," not "remove all moisture from the earth's atmosphere and hide it away while the dough is baking, resulting in bread that resembles a slice of baked mud."

Geez. $6 for this.

Meh. The hummus is decent, and the bagel chips are great.

So the editor of the parenting publication was talking to one of the advertising people. It seems that there is a discussion about whether or not certain terminology should be used to describe body parts to children. The former parenting editor was a stickler for using proper words for genitalia, and the current editor doesn't agree and uses a pseudonym for someone's "lady business."

"Well, my grandma used to call it her pocketbook," the ad rep said. "And she used to tell us, 'Never let anybody go in your pocketbook.'"

I can only imagine the confusing conversations in that house when she was looking for her keys.

When I think back upon my parents' activities when I was growing up, there are a few constants: books, books, books, crossword puzzles, and popcorn. I swear, for the first five years of my life I thought my parents' heads were made of paper. They were always reading something: newspapers, books, magazines, you name it, and there was popcorn just about every night. There still is. You can set your watch by the ding! of the microwave oven going off on my father's nightly bag of popcorn.

In fact, my recognition that appliances don't come as wallpaper in a home was the addition of an air-popper that my parents bought. It was in the years before microwave popcorn, and it was a noisy behemouth of a machine that took up a lot of counterspace but had this little grate at the top into which you put a pat of butter that would slowly melt and drip over the popcorn as it popped. A fan at the bottom blew the popcorn throught a spout into a waiting bowl.

Damn, we loved that thing. If we were playing in our rooms, and heard the takkatikkatakkatikkatakkatikkatakkatikkatakkatikka of kernals falling into the metal bottom of the machine, we'd come running for our smaller bowlsful. And also, to make sure that they didn't put too much butter. Cholesterol has never been a concern for Dad.

We muched it, lying on the carpet in front of the TV, enjoying Special Network Presentations of "My Fair Lady," "The Sound of Music," "Gone With the Wind," "Mary Poppins," "Barefoot in the Park," and "The Wizard of Oz." This was, of course, before HBO, VCRs, video rental stores, DVDs, Netflix, and, finally, YouTube. It was still the heyday of the movie theatre, and these presentations were a total treat. Sunday nights it was the Disney presentation of the week, Friday nights brought "The Muppet Show," but most of the time it was movies we waited for. Lots of them were in black and white, such as "To Kill a Mockingbird," "National Velvet," and "It's a Wonderful Life."

Last night, the Imperial Theatre unveiled its new marquee. At a cost of $250,000, it didn't come cheap, but it was specially designed to look like the theatre's original facade, but with an incredible high-tech twist. All-in-all, it is a fantastic addition, and we wanted to be there for the unveiling.

Outside, there were Model T's and other antique cars lined up along the street, which had been closed off for the evening. A crowd gathered outside, and mayor Deke Copenhaver gave a lovely speech. Emerson goggled at everything from her stroller as Scott moved around the crowd, interviewing folks for WGAC news. After the crowd counted down from 10, the curtains dropped and the marquee flashed on and - oh, it was perfectly beautiful. Everyone admired and applauded the effort, then streamed inside for the festivities.

Polite and smiling young ladies with "cigarette girl" boxes around their necks greeted us with boxes of free popcorn, and sodas were complimentary at the cash bar. Inside, silent films from Charlie Chaplin, the first performer to ever grace the Imperial's stage, played while an organist rocked the Wurlitzer. We met and chatted with dozens of people we knew - friends and family, commissioners and candidates, media and PR, and just plain folks. We wrapped purple and green glowsticks around Emerson's ankles and I wheeled her stroller down closer to the front of the theatre so that she could see the screen.

She was entranced. She sat with her popcorn box in her lap, stuffing her face and refusing to share with me (she pulled the box away and squealed "NO!" every time I tried to take a few kernals), utterly engrossed in Chaplin's many failed attempts to get his drunk self up some stairs to bed. I watched her, watching the screen, and shot sapphire bullets of pure love at her (I'd have hugged her but she'd have thought I was trying to get her popcorn). I reveled in the hometown feel of the whole event and then realized what Emerson reminded me of.

Kicked back in her chair, goggling at black and white movies, hoarding popcorn, she looked totally like my dad.

And that is awesome.

This man has never heard of sexual harassment laws, and now he has defiled one of our editors' cell phone. And also, he was doing this while one of our reporters was attempting to conduct an interview. You can hear her at the end say, "I'm trying to talk to someone!"

The newest craziness? Scott wants to BUY A BOAT.

Apparently his uncle, who lives on the lake, something something I wasn't listening and it will be less than $1,000 total. I'd rather pay off the damn car first, we only have a couple grand left, but he's all into this idea.

I just don't think he's going to use it as much as he thinks he is by himself. He was arguing that he could go fishing and we could eat the fish, and the boat would pay for itself in fish savings! Isn't that amazing!

No. It's not. It's a boat.

Scott and Chris have vowed to use it all the time, and his grandfather, and yeah, right. All I know is this: IF (big if) we decide to buy this fiberglass vessel to hell, Emerson is not going near it.

One of the nice places about where I work is that almost everyone has a great sense of humor (those who don't generally keep their mouths shut), and we delight in making each other laugh. So when I saw a remote-controlled whoopee cushion at the drugstore, I knew we could put it to good use.

My partner-in-crime taped it under the publisher's chair with packing tape before she left work last night. We had a meeting scheduled with him at 10 a.m., and about 15 minutes into it, a soft "plffffsssss" drifted up from behind him. One of the editors, sitting on my left, covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. One of the designers, sitting on my right, chortled. He stopped and looked at us.
"What?" he asked.
"Ffffffffllllllllllltttt..."
I couldn't hold it in anymore. I covered my face with my spreadsheet and laughed out loud. My two-coworkers were already ahead of me.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked, grin askew.
"PLLLLFFFT! PLLFT! PLFT! Plllffff...."
The editor is crying now, I'm holding my stomach, and the ad assistant and another designer, who are across the room with the remote, have joined into the laughter. His face turns a little red, but he laughs out loud.
"What do you guys think, that I'm sitting here farting?"
We erupt in rolling laughter as they set it off again.
"Where is that coming from?!"
He looks under his desk. As he bends over, they set it off again. He quickly stands up.
"Y'all are so juvenile!" he laughs.
We laugh even harder. My stomach hurts and he's right. It is juvenile. It's also damn funny. He looks under the desk again, and around it, as disgusting noises follow him. He spins his chair around, and sits back down, grinning. They set it off again, and he leaps up and turns his chair over.
"God, you taped it to my chair?! You guys are so stupid!"
He struggles to remove it while they keep up a constant strain of noises I haven't heard since summer camp. When he does, he turns it over in his hands, examining it. He flicks the off button and I pick it up and push the button one last time.
"I just turned it off!"
"No, that was just for the remote."
"There's a remote?!"

Yes. And it will be used much more in the future.

Candle Lantern Fort Tour, Oct. 21 at Fort McAllister Historic Park. Relive the sights and sounds of the Civil War and the fort's history by candlelight.

Relive? Like, your childhood? How old are you people who work for the state park system?

There's a singer named "Jem"? Is she truly outrageous?

For those who missed it, that was a reference to the decades-old Saturday morning cartoon show called “Jem!” I can’t remember exactly what it was about - some kind of Josie and the Pussycats update, I think, with the main characters in a band and a rival “bad girls” band - but the theme song went: “JE-em is truly outrageous, truly, truly, truly outrageous. whhoah-oh-oh-oh JEM!” Great songwriting there.

Anyway, I watched Saturday morning cartoons for the first time in well over a decade last week. I am "Taking An Interest" because one day Emerson will definitely be concerned about some cartoons. Here’s what I learned: They all suck.

No, it’s not because I’m an adult. Dora the Explorer and SpongeBob Squarepants are really good. But most of them are toy products that use the cartoon as half-hour ads. Like, the Bratz dolls. They were dolls first, and now they have their own cartoon? And their superpowers are LLLLLLLLLLAME. One of them has a superpower called “Girl Advice,” another is “Makeup,” and another is “Fashion.” How does that even work? “Evil gotcha down? Gloss it over with our new superberryblast lip slickers!” Blech.

I understand creating a cartoon and enjoying a successful merchandising offshoot. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Why did that work? And why are herbivorous animals ordering pepperoni pizza? Not my cup of tea, but creative work that paid off in the end.

Here’s my point: Emerson can’t watch these marketing ploys. They will suck out her brain. I suppose I will have to scrounge old DVDs of Schoolhouse Rock. Or maybe we can move to South Dakota, or the Yukon Territory, or the deep jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula, jaguars be damned. How am I supposed to instill solid values in her - education, kindness, hard work, tenacity, manners, accepting that your mother is right in all things - without a supermarket display of my new and improved flavors that change colors when you chew? Morals don’t have a theme song. I should write a theme song for morals! But it would be the most boring, least rockingest song ever. I could hire Barry Manilow! Or who is the guy who wrote the song for “Welcome Back, Kotter?” That song could put me right to sleep when I was a kid. That’s a guy who can write a theme song for morals.

But who buys into morals these days? Only conservative religious types, and - my apologies to any of you reading this; I have known many and liked almost all of them for a short time - I do not believe in their weird division of the sexes.

Actually, now I do. I believe in dividing the sexes. A brilliant idea! I divide them as of now. I will hang a “No Boys Allowed” sign on our door, and I will mean it. That is it. That is the answer. Emerson will be a nun. A nun! I have such a big brain, how do I keep my head upright? We will move to France and she will take her vows, cut off her hair (not that she has any yet), and the ascetic nuns of the Order of Saint Claire will raise her within the cloistered walls of that venerable institution.

Wait. Isn’t Saint Claire the patron saint of television? That is truly outrageous.

So, Scott got a new job. He is now the news reporter at WGAC, News/Talk 580 AM. See? And we are in love with this new job of his because it comes with a car. Now, I know many of you are drooling right now because, let's face it: company car = HUGE PERK.

Yet you have not seen this, the clown car. Every time he opens the door I expect an army of midgets to spill out of the sides. I could have sworn I saw an elephant parking it for him last week. This thing is plastered from hood to trunk with logos, telephone numbers, and call letters. It bristles with antennae - probably to signal the clown car mothership. It has (and will not tell you how inappropriately he has used this) an emergency light on the roof. It is super awesome. But this means that he can no longer stay home with the baby. Now that I'm employed full-time again, we began the dreaded day care.

It happened so fast that we didn't even have time to prepare her. It was a phone call on a Wednesday, and report to work on Monday. So Monday morning, when I dropped her off, there was a lot of screaming and crying... much of it mine. When I picked her up again, there was more, but she wasn't just afraid. She was pissed. At me.

The week went like this:
Day One: Emerson screamed from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Day Two: Emerson cried from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Day Three: Emerson laid face-down in the corner of the room and refuse to interact with anyone all day. Hit anyone who tried to come near her.
Day Four: Stood with her back to the wall and hated everything. Not only hit anyone who tried to come near her, but actually chased down another child to hit him, because he moved too fast for her to get him the first time.
Day Five: Refused to eat.

She ran screaming into my arms at the end of each and every day, as though they had been using the toddlers as forced labor, busting rocks in the quarry. But, eventually she began to interact with others, usually when it involved food.

It has been a very difficult transition. I frequently considered quitting my job. But this past Friday was the most heartbreaking of all. When I dropped her off, she went right into the arms of her teacher, Miss X, and gave her a hello kiss.

Miss X is a child-stealing whore. I hate Miss X.

Well, don't compain to St. Peter that you weren't warned.