Momnesia

AUGUSTA, GA. - Alice saw a friend of hers. She was wearing a new pair of jeans with a patch on them.







"Do you know who that is?" she asked.
"uhh..."
"It's the Zig Zag Rolling Papers guy!"
"What? I didn't know! I thought I was making a statement!"
"You are," Alice said. "You're stating that you're a giant pothead."

AUGUSTA, GA. - I was driving back from an appointment in North Augusta the other day when a red SUV cut over into my lane right on top of me.

"Gahhhhh!" I screamed. I hit the brakes. We do NOT have the money for major accident repair right now. The SUV closed the lane gap like nothing out of the ordinary happened and drove on.

Irritated, but happy not to have been crushed to death, I calmed my rapidly beating heart and accelerated from "Old Lady Sitting on a Phone Book to Drive" to "Nothing to See Here, Lookie-Loos. Go Back to Your Knitting." But I was a little irritated.

I changed lanes from the right to the left, in anticipation of hitting the left turn lane onto Georgia Avenue from Martintown Road, keeping a wary eye on the red monster nearby. It's a good thing I did. Without so much as a howdy-doo - and obviously without using a frickin' turn signal or anything - the stupid blankety-blank swooped into my lane.

"HEY!" I yelled as I slowed down on the mercifully unoccupied yellow line. I gave the driver a brief blast of my horn. "What the (#^@%) are you doing?!!!"

The turn lane opened up very quickly, and I was able to slip into it before engaging an oncoming car in an inexplicable game of highway chicken. As I slowed to a stop behind another car, I cringed as the red SUV passed me.

And then I saw it: the reason they'd almost killed me twice was that I was in their blind spot. And their blind spot, for reasons I will never understand, was the entire left side of their car because they'd repaired a busted window with frickin' plywood.

From the Blotter, a regular crime column in Atlanta's Creative Loafing:

When a woman tried to exit a local grocery store, a security guard observed a large ham fall out from under her dress. Demonstrating the ability to think quickly, the woman turned and yelled, "Who frow dat ham at me?!"

Oh, Alice. If only we had material like that in Augusta.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Since the Metro Spirit moved from Russell Street to Broad Street, there have been some disadvantages. Panhandlers hit us up regularly, until they got to know us. My car's been broken into once, and someone scraped the side of it with their car and drove off. At least, that's what I think. Scott still thinks I did it and won't tell him. It's easy as crud to spend too much money on lunches from the fab restaurants within walking distance (Nacho Mamas! You're mine at noon today!).

But the advantages far outweigh any inconveniences we've experienced. The Augusta government building is two blocks away. The restaurants in the area ARE fab (just ask my butt). And the parade of interesting stories that march in off the street have been a boon to our news department.

But mostly, it's the crazy people who have brought the most joy.

I walked into the office today to find 1/3 of the graphics dept. and 1/2 of the ad dept. watching out the front window.

"What's going on?" I asked.
Jason was practically jumping with glee.
"Oh, you're missing it! This woman, she's been doing this thing for 20 minutes," he pointed out the window.


There was a woman by the newspaper boxes, going through her purse.

"She's got all this stuff in there, like big bags of hair doo-dads like you and I might carry [we both have daughters], and like six hairbrushes and Jimmy Hoffa and Brilcreme..." he trails off, watching her.
"She's got bags within that bag," Erin says.
"Is that a bank bag?!" I ask, watching her zipping up a leather pouch.
"Yeah, but there's other bags within that bag," Erin said.
"And then she got all the way to the bottom, and shook it out and pulled out, like, one quarter, as though she'd been searching for this the whole time, and put it in the Chronicle's newspaper box, pulled out a newspaper, laid it on top of the box, and starting organizing the stuff again," Jason said.
"The Spirit is free," Erin said.
We watched her folding socks for a while.




"I'm getting my camera," I said.
"Hurry!" Erin called after me.
I snap a few shots.
"I wanna go pose with her," Jason said.
Go! Go! Go! We chant.
I toss a leftover Christmas bow at him. "Toss this in the garbage can!"
"I need that!" Erin says.
"No you don't!"
He slips out the door and walks over to the corner...

CNN.COM - Science has now confirmed what expectant moms already know: Carrying a baby makes them more forgetful.
The memory loss is subtle, and usually involves unfamiliar or demanding tasks, Dr. Julie Henry, one of the authors of the study, told CNN on Tuesday.
"What we found is that memory tasks which are more challenging or more novel, or those that would require multitasking -- these types of tasks are likely to be disrupted," said Henry, a senior lecturer in Sydney's University of New South Wales.
For example, a pregnant woman is more likely to forget a new telephone number, but she is able to recall a number she has dialed many times before, Henry said.
Henry and her colleague, Dr. Peter Rendell of Melbourne's Australian Catholic University, analyzed 14 studies from around the world that tested the memory performances of more than 1,000 women -- expectant women, mothers and non-pregnant females.
The study, published in the Journal of Clinical and Experimental Neuropsychology, found that the memory loss can extend up to a year after birth.
The researchers could not establish whether the forgetfulness lasts longer because none of the research they analyzed went beyond the one-year observational period.
Henry and Rendell said that more research is needed to determine what causes the loss at such a critical period of a woman's life. It may result from hormonal changes or from a lifestyle shift, Henry said.
"You're probably more preoccupied with the upcoming birth and (how) your whole life is going to be changing," she said. "You're going to have more difficult sleeping. And other studies have shown that sleep deficiency definitely disrupts cognitive performance. There's no reason to think it won't do so during pregnancy."
So, has Henry experienced the syndrome firsthand?
"I haven't yet," she said, laughing. "It hasn't put me off."

AUGUSTA, GA. - Usually when you donate to a worthy cause, all you get is that warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Now you can provide rice for starving people and build an impressive vocabulary while you're at it – all without paying a dime.

(Borrowing liberally from a blogger I enjoy)

At the Pharmacy:

Me: Good morning!
Pharmacist (half asleep): Hey. How can I help you?
Me: I'm not sure. My husband has The Man Flu.

Suddenly awake, the pharmacists whistles thoughtfully through his teeth.

Pharmacist: Where is your husband?
Me: At home, in bed.

Pharmacist: Can he dress himself?
Me: Oh, hell, no.
Pharmacist: Can he perform basic functions?
Me: What basic functions?
Pharmacist: Using the bathroom, talking on his cell phone, checking his e-mail...
Me: Yeah, those things he can do.
Pharmacist: What are his primary symptoms?
Me: Nausea, with much complaining; coupled with a desire to sleep all the time. I'm worried. What can I do?
Pharmacist: Well, luckily, it doesn't sound serious. But if he begins letting calls roll over to voice mail, get him to a doctor ASAP. In the meantime, I recommend this lovely assortment of medicinals.


Me: How frequently should he take them?
Pharmacist: As often as he can. But he must not, under any circumstances, be expected to remove his boxers or wet towels from the floor.
Me: Trust me, that won't be a problem.

Pharmacist: Now, don't expect him to make a full recovery today or tomorrow, but sometime next week he should be able to start on small chores around the house, like replacing the toilet paper roll.
Me: I think that might be too much, too soon.

You cannot believe how ridiculous this story is. First of all, who the hell would think "Hey, just blow up the whale?" Click here to find out. But second of all, who the hell wants to watch a bunch of idiots blow up a dead whale?

The Celtic Woman people are driving me nuts. Every picture they send me is Photoshopped within an inch of its life with vines and flowers and tinkling faerie music and crap. I keep asking for “just a plain photo, no Photoshopping, please.” And it gets worse every time. Soon all the singers will be totally obscured by the various plant life indigenous to Ireland. It seems to have grown over all of their camera lenses like kudzu on crack. Don’t they have a ridiculous number of sheep in that country to sic on that stuff?

so... tired....

Okay, first, a crazy man calls me. See my earlier post.

THEN, the new digital audio recorder deletes every file on itself. I don't know exactly what happened, but they're gone. I have my notes, but still... it's a lot that is completely gone.

Finally, I left the office to pick up Emmie. I'm looking forward to having her throw herself into my arms, like she does every day. The construction is bad, but due to some NASCAR-inspired driving, I make it in a very speedy 14 minutes.

D.O.T. Social Science Experiment:












First, merge left.












Then, 100 yards later, merge right.

She launches herself at the door the second she sees me. I am rejuvenated.

"Her cubby is down the hall now," her teacher says. "In the T-3 room."
WHAT?! She's ... she's NOT three. Not yet. I feel slightly panicky, like I might hyperventilate. Children age, stupid, I tell myself. You knew this would happens. It's nothing new. So I calm myself and trot with Emmie down the hall to her new room.

"Do you like your new room?" I ask.
"Yeah!" she says, pointing to the blackboard across the room. "Ders words and... more words!"
She does like words. I can't imagine where she gets that from. Anyway. We put on her jacket and I pick up my keys. She takes off running down the hallway, but doesn't turn into the lobby. She goes down to the end of the hall, and touches the fire door.
"Emmie..." I call. "Let's go!"
She pushes the door open a crack. Oh, no.
"Emmie! Don't you-" She is gone. Jesus! Right into the parking lot!
I take off at a dead run, immediately trip on some child's Polly Pocket, lose my balance, flail to get it back, and throw myself through the door at top speed. There she stands, where she has stopped mid-run, as though suddenly finding herself on an alien planet. It's a playground fenced in with 10-foot privacy fencing. Thank god.
"EMMIE!" I roar, and she flinches. I feel bad for freaking her out, but that was so not cool. "What is the rule?!"
In a small voice she says, "I donnoe."
"No! Go! Outside! Without! Mommy! Daddy!"
"I sowwy."
"Timout! Sit!"
I put my back against the fence while she sits forlornly on the sand. After 45 seconds, I'm freezing.
"Okay, let's go back inside."
"Okay!" she says, as we walk back to the door. "I so sowwy, mama. I no run away!"
"Alright, thank you, sweetie. Let's just go."
Ka-Chunk! Meh. The door is locked.
We'll just go out the gate.
Ka-Chink! Meh. The gate is padlocked.
(sigh)
"Wassaa madder?" Emmie asks.
"It's all locked," I say. "Let's cut through the other gates."
All of the green space around the property is divided into age-appropriate playgrounds. There are five age groups plus an after-school program. Six gates. I knock on doors and windows as we pass thorugh. No answer. When we get to the last wall, there is no gate. What the-? Oh, we passed it. Crap. It's padlocked. Now what?
I look at Emmie, thoroughly irritated. But she looks so cold.
"How do you feel, Emmie?"
"I so chillies, mama!"
I take off my sweater and wrap it around her, rolling up the sleeves, folding the middle over and cinching it tight with the belt to keep it from dragging.
She looks like a dink-dink from "Spaceballs."
I laugh, and she laughs. But I'm so cold. Grrr.
I pound on doors. There are about 10 of them. No one answers, and I don't hear anyone inside. Finally, after being trapped out here for about 25 minutes, and at the last door, the director opens it. She's obviously surprised to see me.
"I was just about to lock up!" she exclaims.
"Glad we caught you," I said, teeth chattering.
"Loot! I wear mommy sweater!" Emmie shrieks, spinning proudly.

That warms the cockles of my heart.
But the rest of my cockles are freezing.

C.S. “Um, there’s a crazy person on line one. He says he’s an Indian and he’s mad about a story we ran about apache indians.”

We all exchange looks of confusion. The topic doesn’t ring a bell. I start searching our archives.

M.F. “I’ll take the crazy people. I don’t mind.”
Me (having just found it): “No, it’s a DVD review. That’s my responsibility. I’ll talk to him.”

I take a minute to scan through the contents of Apache Indian and Reggae Revolution. Nothing unusual here. I pick up the phone.

“This is Stacey. How may I help you?”
“Yes. I am an Indian and I do not agree with the Reggae Revolution.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
“I’m looking right here on your web page. Now I want to know who gave you all permission to use the name Apache Indian.”

“Well, that’s the name of the band. Wait... are you with the band Apache Indian?”
Maybe they weren't happy about the review, I think.

“No. I am a certified Apache Indian, and I want to know who gave you permission to use it?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think we need permission to print the name of a band.”
“He’s not even Indian. He’s black! Look at him!”

I do. I can’t tell either way. So I run a quick Google search. Hmm. Lifetime achievement award in Great Britain. Originally from India. Started in Banghra music.

“Says here he’s British.”
“I don’t know where he’s from. He’s not an Indian. Where did you get permission for this? I don’t know who you are.”

“We’re the alternative news weekly newspaper in Augusta. And, sir, we’re really not in charge of what stage names people choose.”
“I am telling you, I am a certified Apache Indian and no one can call themselves an Indian unless the council says they can. Now I need to know what you’re going to do.”

“Sir, we can’t tell bands what to call themselves. I mean, there’s a band called Zombie Bazooka Patrol, and maybe there’s a few pissed off zombies out there. I don’t know.”


“I want you to put me in touch with the American Indian Council.”

“Excuse me?”
“I want you to put me in touch with the Council. He’s not Indian. He’s black.”

“Uh, he’s from India. You want me to get the information of the council for you?”
“If he’s from India, why would he call himself Apache Indian?”

"I don’t know. I think it’s a play on words.”
”But why call himself an APACHE Indian?”

"I – I don’t know. Did you want the council’s information?”
“Yes. I am sitting here by the computer. The cursor is blinking.”

“Uh, okay.”

I run another Google search. Nothing by that name comes up, except for a 9-member organization in the state. I don’t think that’s it. I look for the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

“Okay, sir, I have –"
“I am waiting!”

“Yes, sir, I have the—”
“I want to get in touch with them and see what can be done. He can’t call him self an Indian. He’s black. Now I am three-quarters — (his dog starts barking in the background) Cooter! Hush! Hush, Cooter!”

I hear muttering in the background. Someone is talking to him. I whisper to A.C.: “He has a dog named Cooter!” I hear him stomping around in the background.

“What? Bible thumpers? Gotdammit.”
I hear a door open and soft voices I can’t make out.

“I don’t believe in your God,” he tells someone else in a forceful tone. “I’m an American Indian, and I don’t believe in your god or your religion. Christians and the Catholic Church murdered 600,000 American Indians. You all murdered them.”

Whatever poor soul knocked on the wrong door replies. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but the tone is placating, with an undertone of shock.

“No. I don’t believe in your god. Your murdering Catholic god. You go do your research, my friend.”

The door closes.
“Sir?” I try.

“Goddamn Bible-thumpers.”
“Sir? Are you still there?”

“Why’dja let them in?” he barks at someone.
“Sir!” I am close to hanging up the phone.

“Yeah?”
“Are you still with me? I have the information.”

He gives me his e-mail address.

“I am waiting for your e-mail.”
“Okay, I—“

“You cannot claim to be an Indian unless you are certified by the council. Not an Indian, and not a particular tribe. Besides, he’s black!”

I’m sick of this guy.

“Sir, he’s a British national, and he’s originally from India. And, anyway, I don’t think American laws apply to British citizens.”
“It don’t matter. You can’t say you’re an Apache Indian without permission."

“Really? That’s so interesting. I didn’t know that. So, like, Tim McGraw had to get permission to use the names of tribes in his songs?”
“I don’t think he actually claimed to be an Indian.”

“Huh. I think the lyrics are ‘I’m an Indian outlaw,’” I begin. He tries to interrupt but I talk over him. “’Half Cherokee and Choctaw. My baby she’s a Chippewa’... I’m just saying…”

“I know all about the whole Tim McGraw story!” He’s practically yelling at me. It's kind of awesome. “He had to get permission, I’m telling you!”

“Okay. Well, I have the information for you. I’ll just e-mail it. And thanks so much for calling. We appreciate your feedback and I learned a lot from our conversation today.”

He starts in again.
Click.

"Hey, Stacey, this is Doug Joiner."
"Hey, Doug! How are you?!"

Doug is a drama professor at Augusta State University, and an all-around funny, smart, nice guy. I like him. Drama is his number one love in life... that is, unless it's a production by Disney, Rogers & Hammerstein or Andrew Lloyd Webber. We're doing a story on his theatre, Le Chat Noir, and its impact on the local theater scene. He's calling to get in touch with the writer.

"Hey, you know, she's in 'Cabaret' at the Fort Gordon Dinner Theater right now, and she just got back from a tour of China in 'Guys & Dolls," I offer.
"I hate musical theater," he snarls.
"I KNOW that," I laugh.
"I KNEW he'd say something about that," Alice said, from her desk behind me. She didn't even have to hear what he said. If you've had Doug for one class, which she has, you know his feelings on the matter: the white-hot fury of 1,000 suns.
"My point is that she has a lot of theater experience and it might be beneficial for your company," I laugh, right in his face. Or... ear. Whatevs.
"Well, and 'Cabaret' is one of the few that I like," he concedes.
"See?"

"Emerson, it's time to help Mommy pick up your room," I said.
"Okay!" she follows me into her room and we begin picking up the crap she's scattered around the floor. Shortly, I realize that she's just trying on shoes. And since I can't join her, she can't do it.

"Sweetie, let's pick up your toys now."
"I not."
"What?"
"I not."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I not. I am pwincess."

Oh. My. God.

WAY better than those hand-held digital voice recorder. Frankly, I think we should all start using it just to get rid of those stupid commercials about a woman who can't write down "milk, eggs, bread." Noooooo. She has to record it and play it back to herself. Whatever.