Momnesia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHEN CALLING 9-1-1….

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Allegra Yealey, intrepid intern:

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

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

Ah, yes. There she is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As seen on Craigslist:

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

Where does he find pants that fit?

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

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

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



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

The Montana Meth Ads:
Laundromat


Junkie Den


Bathtub


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


Speed Research


Condom Use

This is the scene I woke up to on Sunday morning. Water from the upstairs bathroom raining down into our bathroom. Great. Emerson shrieked, "Watehr! Ooh! I giddit!" and sprinted to the kitchen for a towel. That was very helpful of her, but one wasn't near enough. Our upstairs neighbor, a lovely young medical student named Amy, hadn't even finished moving all of her boxes and furniture in. Poor thing. The plumber finally got there at 7 p.m. and snaked the lines. That seemed to do the trick, but I did a lot of laundry on Sunday. Thank god our washing machine is repaired.

So I'm watching A.C.'s animals while she is gone, and I've been very careful to follow all of her instructions. But when I went over there last night to check on them again, I couldn't find Petey, the cat. I looked everywhere for him, and I called his name and rattled his food bowl... nothing. I let the dogs in and he didn't come out to play with them. Emmie and I ran around trying to find him, and she was no help.

"I find him!" she shrieked from another room and I'd come running.
"Good girl! Where is he?" I praised her.
"Um, wight der," and she'd point to an empty corner. "Yoo see hims?"
No. No, honey, I don't see your imaginary feline friend. Can we find the real one, please, before A.C. kills me?

UPDATE: Found him! He's just all cat-like and stuff with the sneaking. One thing that's not sneaky: the smell of his litterbox. It punches you in the face when you open the door. But I can't find more box-filling pebble things to change it, and it won't help to empty the stanky stuff without refilling it. And what do I do with cat poo? Do I flush it?

Petey! This video is for you! Watch carefully!

A.W. set her popcorn on fire with the microwave. The smell wafts before her like the cloud of dust and dirt that surrounds Pigpen, the Peanuts character.

"Yes, I burned the popcorn," she snaps.

"Those little bags. I used to put them in that stupid microwave for 2 minutes and 20 seconds and it was like instant charcoal," I laugh.

"Instant charcoal?" A.C. laughs. "Don't you mean 2 minute and 20 second charcoal?"

Okay, fine. See if I feed your dogs.

My daughter and I were eating cereal this morning (look! Alice! It's not oatmeal, but it's close!) and I hid some yogurt raisins in her bowl. I thought it would encourage her to eat the cereal to get at more of the fruit, instead of spending the morning picking fruit out of the bowl. The yogurt raisins are white, I reasoned, and thus indistinguishable from the milk.

Well, sure. Unless you're 2-year-old unfazed by the the thought of getting dirty. She just stuck her hand right in the milk and fished around for them. Great. And then, when she had found them all, she looked down to see the cereal flakes and milk that splattered on the table.

"Goh dammid! I mate a mess!" she exclaimed. My eyes widened.
"What?!"
"Goh dammid!" she repeated, and pointed to the mess. "I nee a towuh!"

Um... at least... no, I got nothin'.