Momnesia

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.

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!"