Momnesia

What I can't figure out is the point of this. The deer has a bullseye on it - should I shoot at it? Why is it waving its arms? Or is it pointing to its nether regions in a crude gesture of defiance?
I don't know if you can see it, but the deer is tethered to some power source within the truck, so the truck owner had to install the deer, run the cable, plug it in, and presumably NOT have an outlet to light his Marlboro Reds-in-the-box. If it were me, any giggly glee I felt at the prospect of displaying such a monstrosity would have been stamped out by the mere thought of the process of installation.

So check this out. Here is a list of all the things that broke this weekend:

1. my computer
2. the laptop on loan from Chris
3. the printer
4. the DVD player was already broken but it irritated me all weekend just sitting there with its not-working self
5. the car
6. the car we were test-driving to replace the car that broke down
7. the ceiling fan in our bedroom
8. a candle holder that fell off the wall without warning
9. Scott's third toe
10. my digital camera battery (work, not personal camera)
11. Emerson (she has a fever)
12. Scott (he got dehydrated at work so they sent him home. He had to rest and drink lots of Gatorade and water)

We're clearly overdue for a gift from the Universe, and I'm thinking it will be something pretty big, like superpowers. Clearly, about the only thing that didn't break on us this weekend was my sense of humor - and dinner with Patsy tonight will at least wear that down pretty well.

Tune in tomorrow to see if I survived the cookout.

I came home from a meeting on Thursday to find my husband in a panic.

"I need help!" he said, as he dragged the non-slip mat from the bathtub onto the back porch.

"Oh, god, the baby," I thought, and dashed inside to look for her. There she was, naked as the day she was born, running around the apartment with her arms over her head like an orangutan.

I picked her up, her naked butt against my right arm, felt her forehead for a fever, and checked her head and hands for injuries.

"Honey," I called, as I carried her out to the back porch, "I don't see anything wrong."

He sighed heavily. "She pooped."

I jerked my arm away from her butt. It was clean. Her butt was clean. I looked at him quizzically.

"In the tub," he said.

I snickered and went inside to check out her handiwork. Oh, look: with corn.

"Alright!" I said, laughing out loud. "Emerson made a good poopy!"

Natalya -

Okay, there comes a time in a woman's life when friends should turn to her and say, "Stacey, we hate to be the ones to tell you this but... Dude, they could show a MOVIE on your forehead. Go out and get yourself some bangs."

Why did you people not tell me that I have male-pattern baldness? WTF? I would like to be told when I look like a freak of nature, so that I may amend what I am doing to myself, and look less freakish of nature. Sometimes it is okay to point out to people that their forehead is taking over, like a huge glacial mass on the front of my head.

There it is, in all its gleaming glory, white as snow, shining like a beacon to all the
huge-foreheaded-freaks of the world: "Huge-Foreheaded freaks of nature, HERE IS YOUR QUEEN! LARGE CRANIUMED PEOPLE OF EARTH, BOW DOWN TO HER! But be careful not to lose your balance and fall on your face, you top-heavy weirdos."Thanks for the "heads up." I will make a hair appointment ahora.

Love the nostrils, by the way.

(SEE BELOW, BUT BEFOREHEADWARNED)

What. the hell. is cashmere extract?

"We looked for the softest thing we could find, and this is it," a new Softsoap commercial tells television viewers.

Cashmere, FYI, is wool from the Cashmere goat, a kind of Asian goat. So what can you extract from wool? Mittins? Lint? That's certainly what my dryer trap extracts. And socks.

It turns out that the Softsoap website actually tells you, which may be a bad thing:

So, previously, the universe was hating me and was acting in a generally hateful manner that was full of hate. Now, however, the universe has backed off and is now merely chuckling to itself and tossing random obstacles in my way to its infinite amusement.

Let us discuss today...
I got four hours sleep before Emerson woke up. Scott slept in until 11:30 so I didn't get a shower because he had to leave immediately for class. Two hours later he called to say the transmission blew out on the car. He was walking home.

Repairs on the other car were going to be $300 more than we had to spend, but that's just the way it goes. When Scott walked in an hour later, he grinned. It wasn't the transmission.
"Something else makes a car shudder, shake, and go slow," he said. "A flat tire."
"Well, why did you walk home?"
"Because the jack is here."
We left it out of the trunk after changing the brake pads. Duhr.

Figuring he'd be starving after walking so much, I had marinated a whole chicken all afternoon and stuffed my special herb mixture under the skin for maximum flavor. I mixed up garlic-parsley mashed potatoes and a key lime pie. I popped the chicken in the oven, and just asked Scott to turn the heat down to 350 in 15 minutes while I took a shower.

When I got out, Scott stopped me from going in the kitchen.
"We're not having chicken for dinner," he said.
What did I do wrong? Did I put it on "broil" by accident? I opened the oven door and glass showered my feet. There sat my beautiful chicken, splayed on the rack, sans Pyrex baking dish. I looked at my husband.

"See, when I opened the oven door, I noticed it was crackling a lot. I thought, oh, it must need some more water in the bottom." He held up a coffee mug with water still in it. Oh, no. The sudden temperature change shattered the dish.

So I cleaned out the oven and popped the key lime pie in the oven to cook while I went to buy Popeye's to go with the mashed potatoes and green beans. When I got back, the pie was ready. "Scott will you take it out?" I asked as I unpacked the chicken.

He opened the door and yanked on the rack too hard! The pie plate came flying out of the oven - and landed on his oven mitt! Saved!

I collapsed against the refrigerator.
"Don't even laugh," he warned.
Too late.

When we went in to speak to the prominent attorney and investigators about the bad thing, I went in a suit and heels, with planned factual statements and what I thought was a very calm, professional presentation that focused on what I knew and excluded personal and personnel issues.

Midway through, Scott – in torn jeans, a t-shirt, and ballcap – breaks into the conversation with, “Fellas, let me break this down for you. These people are criminals,” and gave a speech that made me look around the room for Jesse Jackson. I thought, “Shut up! You are making us look like crazy people!”

When he left to go pick up Emerson, I thought they would turn to me and want to get back down to business. “My husband is a little emotional,” I imagined apologizing. “Your husband is a very eloquent man,” the attorney said.

Huh?!

He asked what Scott planned to do when he graduated. “Well, WGAC called him a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “He’s an honors student in the top two percent of his class, so he has a lot of options.”

Prominent Attorney shook his head. “He wants to work for Danny, not Austin. Tell him to give me a call when he’s closer to graduation.”

How does Scott do that? He hadn’t even had a shower!

So today, we met with a prominent attorney in regards to the bad thing that happened. I don't want to say much about it, except that it is neither personal nor personnel in nature.

His agency decided to investigate. So it's looking like a good day. Then Scott leaves the meeting and Godzilla steps on the car... or at least that's what it looks like. The wind caught the hood and it flew up, smashed into the windshield, knocked the sunroof askew, shattered the windshield, and bent the hood up.

Scott limped it home and I got a ride from an investigator. Pop quiz, which is less safe: No visibility, or no way to stop? I dunno. But when I got home, he had gone in the car with no brakes to get the baby. They made it home safe.

But then we had to put brake shoes on the car that Godzilla skipped over on his way to Tokyo. An hour after he began, Scott was back inside calling a mechanic. Eventually, we finished the brake job. It took three hours and we were both tired, dirty, oily, smelly, and pissed.

Into the shower we went. Being parents of a toddler and a rat terrorist with two jobs and five classes between us, sex has not been our priority. But the toddler was with grandma and while the shower began as a practical measure, it became a prurient one. Just as the theme from "Shaft" was firing up in my mind, I heard it: the world's most erection-killing sound...

... "Scawett?"

Seriously, that's how his mother pronounces Scott's name. And there she was, in the apartment, in the middle of our shower sex, with our toddler in her arms.

But, lo! The toddler was asleep. If I could just get her into her crib without her waking up, the ghost of Barry White might come back to visit. And maybe he would bring Marvin Gaye with him.

Slowly I crept back into the nursery. Just as I put her down, she sprung to life. "Hey, dog-dog!" she waved merrily at Scrabble.

Dammit!

Only Penny would use a sentence like: "Well, more yodelly than I can yodel," and only I would be right there with her.

http://www.trappfamily.com/

If you are the parent of a child under 2 years old, never ever at all not even once:

1. Think your child cannot understand you. I said "outside" in the bedroom this morning, and Emerson, who was three rooms away, came racing into the bedroom yelling "nahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnah" at the top of her lungs. That means she heard me say something she wanted.
   
2. Think your child cannot hear you. Listen closely to whatever your child is saying while he or she concentrates on their play activities. I guarantee it will closely model whatever you say when you are frustrated.
   
3. Squirt canned whipped cream into his or her mouth. Apparently, this is a frightening sensation completely not improved by the creamy goodness that follows. Emerson screamed for a solid ten minutes and then (once she had calmed down and reasoned through what had happened) hit me in the face.
   
4. Put your toddler on a ride-on toy and push it forward - no matter how gently - with your foot. Inevitably, he or she will topple over backwards. Instant head injury!
5. Convince yourself that you have child-proofed every room in the house. There are cabinets you have not even thought about since before you were pregnant, and your little pooper will sniff them out, test the doors, find it open and climb right in. Oh, there's the missing bottle of wine!
   
6. Think you can understand toddler brains. His or her burgeoning ability to communicate does not give you an insight into what goes on in your child's mind. Emerson says "neh" (no) to everything. "Do you want a bottle?" "neh." "Do you want a snack?" "neh." "Do we need to change your diaper?" "neh." "Do you want to go outside?" "neh." The actual answers are: only if it's chocolate, yeah I want some cheesy poofs, don't freaking touch the diaper, and I want to play in traffic.
   
7. Think the grandparents give even one care about your house rules. My mother has fed Emerson chocolate cake while sitting right in beside me and swearing the whole time that she was not feeding my child sweets at 10 p.m. at night how dare I suggest such a thing. Emerson's grandmothers will raise her to believe that cake-and-ice-cream is a perfect, nutritionally balanced combination that is good for any meal.
   
8. Think that there is any way to keep your child's bodily fluids off of you. I have found baby poo under a fingernail, experienced the joy of being peed upon, wiped spit up out of my bra, and picked a booger out of Emmie's nose with my finger. Sound gross? My brother once had his son, Jackon, throw up all over his face. I saw it happen.
   
9. Think you are ever getting a good night's sleep again. Emerson is 15-months-old and still wakes up in the middle of the night. If she doesn't, I panic and have to run in and check on her.
   
10. Let your child out of your uterus. This is just asking for trouble. Install a stereo, a Playstation, and a window and call it a day.
    

So Scott and I are flying high because we both have promising job leads that we are thisclose to snagging. They are good jobs, and we both want them like crazy. We may not get either one of them, but in our heads we're already spending our windfall of extra salary. I have a six-month plan that involves debt reduction, a certified pre-owned car, and furniture that does not require glue at the corners. Scott is apparently thinking about something different.

"Honey," he said, while we are reading on the back porch. "What do you think about, if we both get these jobs, maybe having another baby sometime next year?"

I stare at him, aghast. "Why you gotta impregnate me all the time?!"

I was making conversation with a lady while we were waiting in line at the grocery store. Both of us had our children with us, and we were cooing at them while they made friends. "Hey der dada," Emerson said, as she does to everyone. I will hold the woman's name because she is a teacher in Columbia County.

"And what does your husband do?" I asked. Now, I am aware that this question is sometimes used as a measure of social worth, but this was - rather obviously, I thought - not how I meant it.

She laughed derisively: "I think it's bourgeoisie of you to assume that I have a husband," she said.

Blink. blinkblink. blink.

"Well, would you rather I were proletariat about it?" I asked, and turned my back to her as I waited for the cashier to finish with the customer in front of me.

It was obvious that she meant it as an insult, but the term "bourgeoisie" is most often used by upper crusters looking down their noses at the middle class. She is middle class. The term is less frequently used by Communists and Socialists as an insult against middle class members whom they do not respect because they are of the opinion that they don't work for a living. Yet, again, she is middle class. Between the two of us, I am the proletariat.

Perhaps she was attacking middle class values. Maybe she has an alternative superhero hiding under those ubiquitous khakis and pastel button-down. It is possible that she has secret tattoos, and facial piercings to remove before she goes to work. She might tell people her child's name is Jennifer, when she was actually named Joyous Thunder by the charismatic head of the matriarchal polygamous cult of which they are a member.

All that would be fine... if she hadn't been wearing a wedding ring.

April 8, 2005

I had a terribly realistic and yet completely implausible nightmare last night. It creeped me out like no other dream.

In the dream, Scott and I were going to Utica, Ecuador (is there even such a place) to visit Natalya because she was getting married. We packed a simple red Eddie Bauer travelcase with a black handle and wheels (we don't own such a thing), packed up Emerson (who was standing, but not yet walking), and loaded up the car. We were driving to the airport in Atlanta, and debating whether or not it would be more likely to catch a direct flight to Utica from upstate New York. Along the way, we drove past a lovely old salmon-colored Spanish-style house surrounded by oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. It was such a lovely house that I asked Scott to stop to speak to the owners. He huffed and puffed but pulled over, and we crossed the quiet two-lane road to the house. The door closest to us was under a carport of sorts, designed to allow cars to pull up and let passengers out without bothering with weather conditions. It was a storm door, black, and Emerson stood with her hands braced against the bottom half, babbling to herseld. The lady who lived there was obviously not expecting visitors, and we saw her stop at her kitchen utensil holder and grab a giant metal whisk for protection. When she saw Emerson, she smiled, lowered the whisk, and said, "Yes?"

I smiled in what I hoped was an appeasing way, and said, "We're so sorry to bother you, but we were driving by and saw your beautiful home. It must be historic. Would you mind too much if we peeked inside?" (I would never do that)

The lady, petite and elderly with short but chic grey hair, smiled and said, "We get that question all the time. Come on in and I'll give you a quick tour."

We followed her around the aging but still beautiful house, which we learned was three stories not including the finished basement. Dark wood accented the doorways and windows, and a man who was obviously her husband sat at a large rectangular dining room table, puttering over some documents. She led us up to the second floor - bedrooms, etc. and then said, "There's nothing on the third floor but books." I was very excited to see what their library looked like, and said, "We're readers," which she responded to with a smile and, "Well, come on!"

On the third floor, we were surrounded by huge mahogany bookcases stuffed with books and papers. A man in a colonial costume and brown curly long wig met us. "Well, hello!" I don't remember the conversation, but I recall he seemed warm, friendly, and funny, but that Emerson hid behind me. I turned back to look at Scott, and he whispered in my ear, "That man is a ghost." I frowned at him and said, "Stop it!" But the man laughed and said, "No, he's right. ____________'s my name," (I didn't catch it) and held out his hand. I reached out to shake it - and my hand passed right through his. I was kind of freaked out, but the lady shook her head, smiled indulgently, and chastised him. We thanked him for the information, and followed her back downstairs, where she invited us to join her and her husband for dinner. We thanked her, declined, and explained our trip. As we were leaving, a lovely black couple was crossing the street to the house. "Is this your house?" the lady asked. "No, we just couldn't resist asking for a tour," I replied. "That's exactly what we're coming to do," she said. We wished them well, and made our way to the car. A train was passing on the nearby tracks. When we got to the car, Scott's face turned grey. "What's the matter?" I asked. In a deadly voice he said, "They have the baby." "What?" I said, and looked at the car seat he was lifting. It was empty. "Where is she?" "I'm telling you that they have her," he said. We ran across the street towards the house. As we did, the air crackled with static electricity, the landscape shimmered, and the house changed from a majestic monument to bygone architecture to a delapidated and broken-down old house. We burst into the front door. The nice elderly couple we thought we had met were ghosts flying around the room, screaming like banshees, daggers for teeth and trailing inky black smoke. The colonial man, eyes now glowing red, stood nearby and laughed maniacally. I whirled around, looking for any sign of Emerson, and saw the black couple lying dead in a heap on the floor near the front door, bloody and broken.

That's when I woke up, terrified.

A -

I hope you had a great time on your trip, and that you ate a ton of cheese in France. I hope you ate so much that you don't poop for a long time 'cause I just bet when you finally do poop you will think: "Whatever. French cheese is totally worth it."

Scott informed me that I owe you an apology, because I was unforgivably rude. At first I thought, “Apology? No way!” But when he put it like that I thought, “Oh,” and then, “God! Why do people let me be an asshole and then continue to speak to me?” So I am very, very sorry.

When I opened the envelope and found money – which you totally knew I would not accept and thus the ruse about the note embarrassing you – it was like the money sucked the goodness out of me. On the other hand, I would also like to compliment you and Will for not falling for my trick that you should drop back by my apt. to get the movie, because I was totally going to slip the money into the DVD case. So, well played, Bryant family. Well played, indeed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hi dear Stacey -

You shouldn't feel so bad. I knew you wouldn't take the money if I gave it to you
outright. Anyway, regardless of the money, you guys are doing us
such a huge favor. You still have your goodness!

I'd like to come by sometime to give back your camera and tell you all
about my trip. Thanks so much for letting me use that camera - I really loved it. Maybe I'll hang out at [restaurant name deleted] and see if I can snag one.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A -

Okay, I stole the camera from [completely different restaurant name deleted] and I was very, very (very) drunk. Apparently, Scott and I made out fabulously in this very public place. I am not sure, but I think at one point I ended up ON the bar. Even more for shame, it was not the first time I had ended up on top of the bar at this place. Whats-his-name in the [college class I T.A.'d] allegedly came in one night and witnessed my antics the very day before class started. I carried so much credibility that semester after he told everybody what a drunk hoochie I am.

Mom was giving us props for encouraging each other to go out with friends and to have “me” time: “It shows that you have trust in each other,” she said. I was like, “Please, it's not even possible for one of us to cheat. There’s no one in Augusta that either Scott or I have not dated. We’ve exhausted all of our options.”

Scott: Has Puff Daddy held his press conference to announce what his name will be next wee?
Me: Not yet.
Scott: I'm sorry; I mean P. Diddy.
Me: I think it's just Diddy now.
Scott: Not after the press conference. Maybe it will be Piddy.
Me: How about Piddle?
Scott: Yeah, yeah, mix it up a little bit.
Me: Then he can have a song like "Piddle on the dance floor, whatwhat!"
(laughs)
Scott: I can't compete with you.

I've read so much about illness in infants and toddlers that I impressed our pediatrician with my knowledge of childhood diseases, right down to statistics about their probablity. So last night when I saw the temperature readout of 103.8 on our fantastically expensive and amazingly accurate award-winning ear thermometer, I did what any well-informed mom does.

I totally freaked the hell out.

Crashing into the bedroom with Emerson in my arms, I smashed the lightswitch with my arm.
"Honey! The baby has a fever! Get up!"
Mmmmm? He mumbled from underneath the blanket.
"Scott! Emerson is sick. She has a temperature of 103. What should we do?"
I ran into the kitchen and then into the living room, a panic-lap without purpose. My head spun wildly while Emerson whined. I ended the lap in the bedroom, where she burst into tears.
"Gah! Honey?! Get up! She's sick!"

Back in the living room, we sat down on the couch and rocked back and forth as I held her and checked her temperature again. Scott stumbled in.
"104.2! Do you think we should we take her to the hospital?" I asked, tearfully.
"Well, yes!"
Another panic-lap around the apartment.
"Honey, what are you doing?"
What am I doing? WHAT am I doing? Pants. We need pants - on ourselves. We stuff ourselves into the car that we haven't cleaned out since Moses parted the Red Sea and all that sand and shipwreck debris flew in through the windows.

"Where's the emergency room?" he asked, driving frantically.
"Um, turn left here." Wrong.

We circled the hospital for a few very tense minutes until we found the pediatric ER. I sprinted in with the baby in my arms, but no one even blinked as I dashed up to the registration window with a bawling infant- in fact, the nurse actually waved me away.

"I'll call you in a minute," she said, and walked off to do something not even remotely related to curing my daughter of the terrible creeping death that was upon her. Whore. of. Babylon. Get your ass back here.

My daughter, screaming because her brain was surely boiling in her perfect little round head, wriggled in my arms and pushed her bottle away. I stood her on the floor while I searched for her pacifier and - amazing. Babbling and pointing at things around her, she toddled off across the room. Feverish and stumbling, she was still determined to continue her usual exploration and domination of her surroundings.

We spent nearly 5 hours in the ER, about 10 minutes of it with a doctor, who gave her Tylenol and sent us on our way: "She may get sicker and start throwing up or have diarrhea. Let us know if there's a change." I don't want to name the buttheads at the other hospital, but let's just call them Moronic Crappy Good-for-nothings.

The pediatrician saw on Monday and asked about the results of her bloodwork. "Bloodwork?" I asked.
"They did do bloodwork, didn't they?" he asked, as his eyes widened.
"No!" I said. "It was 45 minutes before the stupid nurse even took her name."
He shook his head, "Look, don't go back there. Go to University next time. That's where you had her, that's where I do neonatal rounds, and their pediatric ER is open until 2:30 a.m."

Ultimately, Emmie is fine, but we both have "something in the mono family." I didn't know mono had a whole family, but thanks for having the reunion at my house.

The only scholarship available to firefighters in the state of Georgia is the Augusta State University Firefighters Scholarship Fund. Open to current or volunteer firefighters, or the child of a current or volunteer firefighter, who is enrolled as an Augusta State University student, the scholarship provides tuition assistance unrestricted by major or minor, age, race, ethnicity, religion, national origin, or sexual orientation.

Please consider donating to this unique fund. Educated firefighters are better firefighters.

The founding year raised $6,000

The second year increased the amount to $10,000

Every year we increase the amount of the endowed fund, we increase the amount of the annual scholarship. Please give by contacting the Augusta State University Development Office:

Augusta State University
Office of Development
2500 Walton Way
Augusta, GA 30904
RE: Firefighter's Scholarship

Or call them at: 706-737-1759

Or give to the ASU Foundation on-line. Your money will not go directly to the firefighter's scholarship, but it will go to a great cause. The university's intense focus on teaching and community involvement is not often surpassed.

To:	El Primo Cheesemosto
Date:	Feb 26, 2006 6:03 PM
Subject:	RE: ALREADY FOUND A BAR. THANKS!!!!
Body:	You had to find a bar for an emergency photo shoot? Your life is so much cooler than mine. The last emergency I had was: "Scott! Where the hell did you put the diapers?!" Oh, no, wait: there was my leek-and-Gruyere emergency at the grocery store tonight. Can you believe I'm going to have to drive to Publix to get them? Oh, and the emergency of Must Order Harry Potter Now. Will there be enough copies?! Dear God what happened to my LIFE?!! Do you remember that I used to be cool? Or, at least some semblance of cool? Or, at least I ASPIRED to be cool? Maybe? Have I always been this domesticated? Am I mooing in my sleep and why has no one told me? At least I blog. Wait - is blogging cool? SEE?! I don't even KNOW anymore! Gah!