Momnesia

When she is an old woman
She shall wear banjos
With a sombrero that does not go and does not suit her...

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If all the people who notified me that they were now following me on Twitter were <I>actually</i> following me on Twitter, I'd have more than a dozen people following me on Twitter.

Does anyone know what that's about?
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Since I spend so little time in the office, I have sadly neglected Momnesia (although I have not been cured, by any means). Also my new obsession with Facebook, and its handy Blackberry app, has meant even less time blogging. Listen up, Blogger/Google! A downloadable app = more usage!

Anyway, I took the time to figure out how to mobile blog, so now I'll have more access.

See? It's like a little gift to you, blogosphere. You're welcome!
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I let Emmie leave her room during a time-out, in order to go potty.

She entered a normal four-year-old girl. She exited completely naked, with a lip-stick drawn smiley face on her tummy ("It's Mr. Tummy!" she said), confidently rubbing Scott's deodorant under her arms.

She gave her pits each a sniff.
"You wan' smell dem?" she asked, holding up her arms for my convenience.

No.

Classified Sales Exec: "I'm second in my Fantasy Basketball bracket."
Designer: "You picked Duke to lose?"
Classified Sales Exec: "Yep. First round. I'm fourth in my fantasy fishing league."
Designer: "Did you say fantasy fishing? Bass fishing?"
Exec: "Yep."
Designer: "How ya doin' on your fantasy classified sales?"
Exec: "Shut up."
Designer: "I have a fantasy alt-weekly..."

"Patty cake patty cake. Bake my hand..."

Um...?

To Jim Christian: "My mommy say chill out... My mommy say chill out all da time."

There are 7 pure-bred female Samoyeds who need a "forever home" because their owner/breeder, Cathy Pendleton, is losing her battle with breast cancer. She can no longer care for her dogs and has been moved to Hospice after being in the hospital for a week.

The dogs are in the Atlanta , GA , area, but they will allow them to be adopted out of state. All the owner/breeder wants is for all of these girls to get good homes. Currently, they are not wanting to place any of the dogs in foster care because they are trying to move the dogs only once. My understanding is that the older animals have been spayed. Because she is a breeder, the younger dogs are not spayed; however the new family would need to have the dog spayed if she is less than seven years. (The dogs range in age from 1.5 years to more senior dogs.)

One look at their picture (below) shows how extraordinarily beautiful these dogs are. (I count 8 in the picture, but perhaps one has been placed already.) All are healthy and well cared for, up to date on shots, heartworm, flea treatment, etc. The new "forever" home will need to have a fenced yard with sufficient space for an active dog. The folks who are placing the Samoyeds for the owner may do a home visit either before, after, or both to ensure that the dog and their new family are a good fit.

If you think you might be interested after reading Velvet's email (below), her contact info is v.a.simmons@att.net.

In answer to my headline, "Nothing."

But there can be some things VERY wrong with advocacy journalists.

An advocate gives an image, a voice, and an outlet to a cause or an individual. But being an advocacy journalist is not the same as being an activist. There are lines that should never be crossed.

If your publication only spouts catchphrases, cliches, and cheerleading, you are failing at your job. For a little while, a Disney-fied version of an issue, place, or organization might be seen as fresh and uplifting.

But that's treating people like idiots. And people don't like being treated like idiots. Unless you're an advocacy journalist in favor of rainbows and flowers, your issue will encompass complex issues and road blocks. When you offer only sycophancy, your readers will find you boring, repetitious, and irrelevant to public discourse.

All journalists use the same skills, and acknowledging your biases up front allows people to lend a critical eye to your work. They'll do it anyway, so you might as well own up to it. Failing to do so will undermine the credibility of your work, and that doubt will, by proxy, extend to your issue.

Fairness and thoroughness, verified facts, and quotes from multiple sources are the hallmarks of any kind of journalism. And finally, statistics should always come from neutral sources - those unaffiliated with your own organization or cause.

In addition, advocacy journalists are honor-bound to give coverage to events and stories that don't cast their issue in the rosiest of light. Positivity is an excellent interpersonal attribute. But in journalism, it's an excellent attribute for spin doctors and - dare I say it? - liars.

For example, if a developer nearly completes a beautiful project, only to have the financing fall through, many people could write off the developer as unprofessional or inadequate. Mainstream media might point to the crumbling surrounding sites, looking at the area as a whole and making generalizations. But an advocacy journalist, working for the revitalization of an area, could examine the development project's financier and fairly reveal problems beyond the developer's control - thus saving the reputation of an area and one of the people working for its redevelopment.

In the long run, the advocacy journal will be praised for getting the scoop, sure, but also for revealing a fair and balanced approach to its own issue - thus building even more credibility for itself, and its cause.

To ignore the road blocks and struggles faced by any cause is to be ill-prepared for the future. It is also ill-prepares your readers for when reality smacks them in the face. Nothing is perfect, and all the positive press releases in the world cannot change it. But ignoring the imperfections is to close your eyes against reality - and against the real story! And as observers and reporters of the world around us, the world cannot tolerate journalists who wear blinders.

For reference, here is a link to the code of ethics from the Society of Professional Journalists.

My sister gave me a Jesus action figure one year for my birthday. Don't start about it, people. I put it away, carefully keeping it in the box.


Fast-forward to Hurricane Emerson.

Emmie somehow found it and gasped in delight: "Mama! You buyed me a present?!"

Me: "Um, no, sweetie. That's Mommy's doll."

Emmie, brow furrowed, looking at the action figure with confusion: "But... mama, dis your queen?"

Me (snorting): "No, it's not a queen, sweetie. It's a man with long hair."

I took the doll and chucked it on top of the bookshelf in the hallway, intending to deal with it later, and went to work. Of course, Emmie greeted me at the door with doll in hand. Scott had given in to her cajoling. Thanks, sweetie!

Emmie dragged that thing all over the place.

"Queen Jesus say to gib me some ice cream," she told me after dinner.

"Yeah? Well, do you think the queen would like to go in the trash can?"

And at bath time, as we played together, Emmie began making up a story.

"I'll be da witch, and you be da queen," she said, handing over the toy. "EEEE-heee-heee! I'm da witch! An' I'm goin' turn you into a frog!"

"Ohhhh," I cooed, positiong Jesus' arms to reach out to her. "Sounds like somebody needs a hug."

"NOOO! I'm da witch! I'm a bad lady!"

"Let me hold you. Tell me how you feel," I snickered, overwhelmed by the absurdity of the situation. I wanted to play along - after all, it was just a piece of plastic - but something wouldn't allow me to turn Jesus into Rambo.


"I'm going to bam you!" Emmie said, brandishing her imaginary magic wand.

"Be careful, or I'm going to sentence you to eternal damnation," Jesus warned gently.

"NO!" Emmie cackled.

"Why not?"

"Because I already lib der!"

Jeez. Game over.

Y'all have heard me talk about Scott and his amazing sleep habits before... and here. Dooce.com posted a video that I am stealing and regurgitating, because if my husband were a dog, this would be him. You can see why it's so difficult for me to get a decent night's sleep, can't you?

My Husband, The Dog

AUGUSTA, GA. - After a morning working with the First Saturday Crew and a quick bath, Scott walked into the living room wearing the outfit that makes me want to sue the Dickies company for alienation of affection: a khaki one-suit that is at least a size - if not two - too big for him.

"Really?" I ask, looking pointedly at the jumpsuit.
"What?"

"Honey, that's appropriate for working at the canal. Not for shopping downtown," I say, trying to inject humor into a situation that makes me - shallowly - want to scream.
"But it's comfortable," he replies.

I sigh. There's no point in talking to him about it. He adores the thing.

"DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY!" Emmie shrieks repeatedly, her new (and very effective) method for getting our attention.
"What, honey?"
"Why doze pants and shirt all togedder?" she asks, head cocked to the side.
I can't help but laugh - hard!

If looks could kill... but at least I'd die RIGHT.

AUGUSTA, GA. - My eyeglass prescription is not some secret code to which I should not be privy, and I am not required to order my glasses from the store attached to your office. I understand that it's part of your bottom line, but if there is a $300 difference between ordering from you and ordering online, you can bet your sweet eye chart that I'm going somewhere else. Welcome to the free market economy. If you don't like it, find a way to end diplomatic relations with China.

Oh, and your support staff is AWFUL!

See you next year.

AUGUSTA, GA. - My husband and I enjoyed free tickets to the Augusta Symphony on Friday night, and then spent actual Valentine's Day cleaning out our many closets and boxes and random pieces of furniture in our apartment. Later that afternoon, I passed our piano beside where my husband was cleaning out this piece of crap particle board armoire that held way too many freakin' books. A fluffy, flowery Valentine's Day card perched atop the keyboard.

"Oh, thanks, sweetie!" The card was very sweet, very poignant. "But I didn't get you anything!"
"That's okay," he grinned. "That's the same card I gave you last year."

AUGUSTA, GA. - Thanks to President Obama, my husband and I are now closer to paying off his staggering medical bills. With the $13 a week increase, we will have them paid off in 5,769 weeks! Thanks, Mr. Agent of Change! This is way better than the 5,870 weeks that we previously anticipated!

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" Emmie is chanting my name, trying to get my attention. Every time I turn my eyes to something besides her, she starts up again. It is Attention Deficit Day at the Hudson household, and my job is to make sure she has an Attention Surplus before she goes to bed. But I'm checking my e-mail for client responses, because they often work odd hours and its my job to help them.

"Mama! Mama!" she continues.
"Yes, darling?" I ask, gritting my teeth a little. I managed to open one e-mail and read the subject line. My mother used to joke that she had changed her name, but that would just intrigue us into guessing her new name for hours. "Rumpelstiltskin" was a favorite, but I always guessed "Chewbacca." One day, I reasoned, it would be the right one. But it never was.

"Mama, can I play peeyooter when you done?" Emmie asks, pointing at the screen with a spoon dripping frozen peach puree on the floor. Nice.

"We'll see," I say, because saying "no" to her garners the same reaction as setting one of her dolls on fire.

"Mama! Mama! Mama!" she continues.
"Yes, sweetie?" I ask, a little exasperated. Got through the first paragraph.

"Can I play peeyooter when you done?" she asks again, ending the request with a charming - and deliberate - little grin. I chuckle. She flashes the grin again: "Can I play peeyooter?"

"Maybe, sweetie-pie. But it's getting late," I answer, and turn back to my e-mail screen.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" she calls, loudly, from two feet behind me.
"YES, darling, what IS it?" I whip my head around to look at her again. I haven't even through one e-mail in ten minutes.

"I wanna play peeyooter!" she says, with a little whine tinging the request.
"Doodle, please don't whine. And if Mommy can't get through her e-mails, you'll never get to use the peeyooter," I reason. "So you have to be patient."

"oooOOOHHHooo, I know what's the problem is," she says.

"Really? Is it you?" I ask, giggling to myself.
"No! No, is I gotta finish my peaches, and DEN I can play peeyooter," she says, smiling brightly, palms up, as if to say, "You see? I figured it out on my own."

I guffaw into the keyboard.

"Honey, just let mommy finish her e-mail and then it's all yours," I concede, and turn back to the screen.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" she calls, waving her hand in the air like an over-eager classroom achiever.
"Yes. What. Is. It. Now?" I grit.
"I gotta check MY e-mail TOO!" she grins.

I give up.

Media Watchdog Alan D. Mutter's analysis of the daily newspaper industry:

Six of the 11 publishers covered in today’s edition of the Default-O-Matic either are at the brink of default or already have gone over it.

The publishers most likely to be unable to satisfy the terms of their debt are MediaNews Group and Morris Publishing, according to the latest ratings from Moody’s Investors Services, a company hired by borrowers to gauge their likely ability to repay their debt. Click here for more...

AUGUSTA, GA. - By Mark Fitzgerald for Editor & Publisher, Published: Feb. 3

Morris Publishing Group, already looking at a bankruptcy option, said its lenders are giving it more time to avoid defaulting on its loan agreement after it missed a $9.7 million interest payment that was due last Sunday.

Under the agreement, Morris, publisher of The Florida Times-Union in Jacksonville and The Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, has until March 3 to avoid defaulting on the $278 million of senior subordinated notes due 2013.

However, the group of lenders, including JPMorgan Chase & Co., reduced the amount of money Morris can tap from its revolving credit facility to $70 million from $100 million. In a filing with the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC), Morris said accessing any amount above $60 million requires the consent of a majority of lenders.

The new agreement also increases the interest rate on borrowing by a half a percentage point.

Standard & Poor's Ratings Services reacted to the filing by downgrading Morris' credit rating on Morris to D, its lowest rating and one indicating default, from CCC. S&P said skipping the interest payment puts it in default.

Morris has said it hired Lazard Freres & Co. as financial advisors to "restructure" the company. Lazard is advisor to Tribune Co., which last month filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. Morris also announced the hiring of a law firm with a strong bankruptcy practice.

More details of the amended credit agreement are at E&P's business-oriented blog Fitz & Jen blog.

AUGUSTA, GA. - A.C. called me today and told me how she is livid because she's 73 months pregnant and can't hardly get anywhere without a winch and a Sherpa. But worst of all? People keep touching her belly! Strangers! Complete strangers stop her in the store and feel her up! Can you believe it?!

That outrage was sarcasm. EVERY pregnant woman is accosted in public places by complete strangers. Only very few of them are complete pervs. The rest are crazy ladies with baby envy. Sometimes it feels like they're asking you questions that seem innocuous so that they can profile you, stalk you, and follow you home to cut the baby out of your still-living body, then eat your liver right in front of you. But that so rarely happens. Don't worry.

Anyhoodle, I told A.C. that we should just make her a t-shirt that says:
But then I had a brilliant idea: "Why don't you just hire M.C. Hammer? I hear he's looking for work."

Seriously, think about what an awesome publicity stunt this would be for someone who could afford it: M.C. Hammer acts as assistant/bodyguard, and whenever anyone approaches a waddling babymaker, he throws himself in front of the pregnant lady: "Can't touch this..." dum, dada, dum, dadum, dadum! And then he can Hammer-Dance little circles around her, like a force field.

When M.C. Hammer was but a wee blog newbie, I stumbled across his blogspot site while covering the funeral of James Brown. Hammer was in town to pay his respects. He actually e-mailed me back when I contacted him through his site. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Hammer, if you're out there, protecting the pregnant, please.... don't hurt 'em.

Hammer on the Arsenio Hall Show. Don't care what you say about him, he reminds me of James Brown, the way he works a performance.


His inspiration reaches far and white: