Momnesia

Augusta, Ga. - Emmie is commenting on a recent photo and using some distasteful language in describing it. No woman likes to be described as big and fat.

"Look, Emmie, we've talked about this before. I understand what you mean, but you can't say those words to people. You'll hurt someone's feelings."

She considers what I've said.

"Is bid a rude word?"

"Depends. If you say it to a mountain, no. If you say it to a teacher, yes. Car, no. Doctor, yes."

"An' if I say it to a mailman, iss rude. If I say it to a lamp, das not rude. Juss people!" she says. She catches on quickly. "But mom? If I say it to a people das not a person but is kind of weird, is it rude?"

Hell, I don't know. What kind of question is that?

"Um, well... Do you mean someone who is acting weird, or someone who makes you feel bad?"

"No, like a alien."

"Well," I laugh. "I wouldn't chance it. They might bam you with their rayguns!"

"Yeah!" Emmie agrees. "So if I say it to a alien, dass rude."

"Yeah, I'd go with that, to be on the safe side."

"Or bacon. Dey don't like dat."

"Bacon?"

"Yeah. You can't call dem dat."

"Okay. Don't call an alien 'bacon.'"

"No. 'Cause dey will smash you."


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Augusta, Ga. - We're talking about my golf game with my dad that we enjoyed yesterday, laughing at my score and the many layers in which I was bundled.

"When I play golf, I do it Payne Stewart style," J.C. laughs.
"What - in knickers? Or dead?" J.C.2 replies.

Oh, so wrong.

Augusta, Ga. - I try to teach Emmie manners, but I also try to teach her to think for herself. Those two goals battled one Friday night.

About three weeks ago, the Knology installer was here, the laundry was backed up, it was Friday night, and everything was so crazy that week that we just ordered a pizza while I tried to keep Emmie from campaigning for the cable employee's vote in the next preschool election.

"I lite your hat," she said. "Do you wanna play dolly dolls?"
"Okay, Emmie. Let's let this gentleman do his work. It's late, and he'd like to go home to his family, too."

Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Pizza Hut, thank god. I needed her to sit still for about half an hour so that I could get my brain to stop spinning.

"Mama!" Emmie shrieked with delight when I opened the door. "It's Da Pizza Man! Hi, Pizza Man!"
"Hellooo!" he called back, with a cheerful smile and a wave.

"Emmie, he has a name. Don't call him the pizza man," I chided, gently. I don't want her to be one of those folks who see people working in service roles - delivery people, servers, mechanics, etc. - and thinks less of them. That's hard work they're doing.

She narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips. Uh-oh. I had done the unthinkable: I had stood in the way of her efforts to gather another future constituent.

"Mama?" she said, with disarming sweetness and a conniving lilt. "Did he bring da pizza?"

"Yes, of course," I said, scribbling a tip on the credit card receipt and fumbling the boxes from the delivery.

"Wull, den, he's Da Pizza Man," she grinned, triumphantly.

Da Pizza Man just about laughed himself off the porch.

Augusta, Ga. - This is - mostly - a list of phrases I've been compiling for a while. But today I heard one that took the absolutely breath right out of my lungs for its sheer absurdity. I'll end with it, because nothing - NOTHING - can top it.

1. "Back in the Day" - People who use this phrase un-ironically are living in the past. But, guess what? There is a present AND a future! And the rest of the world? Yeah. We're not missing you in either.

2. Staycation - I put down marketers just like everyone else, pretending I'm not working in their ranks. But I have to give the creator of this vacuous mash-up some props for the sheer speed with which his or her phrase caught on. But the word "vacation" does not mean "travel." And for those of us with conferences and such on our calendar, the word "travel" does not always mean "vacation."

3. "Become a reality" - This may be the writer in me talking, but there were few other writing techniques from students that pissed me off more than this phrase. "The plan to build a giant animatronic dinosaur in the middle of downtown Augusta may soon become a reality." "One day, flying cars will be a reality." First, the entire construction is passive. Second, the verb is passive. Third, the object is ephemeral. It's The World's Least Descriptive Sentence! Only way to piss me off more? Start a story with a song quote. That's an automatic stupid-deduction in points.

4. "No soup for you!" - "Seinfeld" has now been OFF the air for longer than it was ON. Stop with the Soup Nazi, will ya?

5. Anything Dane Cook says - In his sellout standup shows, he will crack wise on such groundbreaking subjects as: airports, driving, the differences between men and women, and how people want to be friends. When he gets married, you'll get to hear stories about his wife, and how she annoys him! The only difference between Dane Cook and Henny Youngman (besides the fact that Youngman wrote his own jokes, and Cook does not) is that Youngman's jokes had punchlines. Cook's jokes hinge on his personal brand of ultra-confident douchebaggery. Dude is not funny.

6.  "I loves me some" - I like Toni Braxton, too. I think she's underrated, in general, because people are more impressed with the pterodactyl-like screeching of sopranos than nuanced altos. But, apart from that, the first time that I'm aware of anything like that phrase being used in pop culture is in "Porgy & Bess." And since few people know more about the Gershwin opera than Fantasia Barrano singing "Summertime" on American Idol, then it's not some pseudo-intellectual reference to high culture. It's ignorant. So shut up.

7.  "I Have Been Searching So Long" - No, folk musicians, you haven't been searching for anything as long as it feels like I've been listening to your song.

8. Literally v. Figuratively - Again, the nerd-writer in me despises using these words - ever - because no one seems to know their meaning. If you think you know what they mean, reverse the meanings. THAT is what the words actually mean. People use the word "literally" to mean "figuratively." But they don't use "figuratively" at all. Maybe that's because when using a phrase figuratively, it should be pretty obvious. Like, I wouldn't say someone is "literally larger-than-life," because they'd be the size of King Kong, and no one would get it. So you just say someone is "larger-than-life," and figurative part of the statement is implied by the obvious disparity between the possible and impossible. But, look, people use the word "literally" when they DON'T mean that something is literal. "I literally fell out of my chair," is a phrase I saw someone write, recently. Now, there are several problems with that sentence. One, unless you mean that you word-for-word fell out of your chair, set the word "literally" off with commas. But if you're using it in a hyperbolic sense, in order to add emphasis, you're just murdering the word. Because if you fell out of your chair, in the actual-literal sense that your ass hit the floor, then that's emphasis enough.

9. "No-Brainer" - This is a phrase used a great deal in business to describe a decision that should be made with little waffling or discussion. The problem is that it's often used in order to discourage discussion about a decision that needs examination. But calling something a "no brainer" make you look like a no-brainer if you question it. Sometimes it's used to describe a task that someone without a brain could do. But, you know what? They really couldn't. Because they don't have a brain!

10. "Artisanal Water" - An artisan is a skilled craftsperson; not quite an artist, but extremely good at what he or she creates. Small-batch cheese makers, organic wineries, master potters, and award-winning hand quilters can all be identified as artisans. So unless that water was bottled by GOD'S OWN HAND, it is not "artisanal."


What phrases annoy you?

Augusta, Ga. - We have a new laundry "room" in our house, which is to say we have a smallish pantry that tries desperately to hold our washer and dryer in their entirety, and is mostly successful.

Except.

There is always an "except." Because it was foreseen in my life that there should be no easy way. That I am destined, forever, to spurn yon normalcy and suffer through a lifetime of "WTF?"

And so, 'except' is that Hot is Cold and Cold is Hot. Now, I have a policy of "cold only." There are environmental and electricity-bill-type concerns that influenced that, but basically I don't like my clothes shrinking up. But the settings on our washer are as follows:

• Cold Cold
• Warm Cold
• Hot Cold

Which are now - if you are following along in Opposite Land:

• Hot Hot
  
• Warm Hot
• Cold Hot

Do you see how every freaking cycle now has "hot" involved? The setting I had most arduously avoided?

"Oooh, good news," Scott said. "The cold-hot setting is actually the cold-cold setting."

"No, I think it is now the hot-cold setting," I said.

"No. See, the hoses are switched in the back -"

"Yeah, I know -"

"Can I tell you sumpeend? If you mind, I gotta tell you sumpeend," he says, imitating Emmie.

"Okay, so the cold-hot is actually the cold-cold," he finished. "I'm going to keep checking it, but I think it's okay."

"No, honey, if they're switched, they're just... um... switched. The hot-cold is the cold-hot, and the cold-cold is the hot-hot," I explained.

"No, it's not putting out hot water right now."

"That's because the hot-cold is now the cold-hot," I said.

"No, see, the cold-cold is hot. But the hot-cold is not hot."

"No, it's not hot right now. Because it's cold. But the cold will be hot later."

Fascinating conversations we have around here. And my clothes are still being shrunk.

Augusta, Ga. - It's late on Christmas Eve, and Scott has a plan.

Run for your lives!

No, I'm kidding. His plans usually work out pretty well... like the penis lamp... but that's a story for another time.

"Santa's going to bring the Christmas lights inside," he says, gleefully, having already arranged them around Emmie's small (but expensive) pile of Santa gifts. He has trailed lights from the door, over the television and tree, around her gifts, and back to the door. What is the point? Does Santa have tiny light footprints? I don't know. One thing I'm sure of:

"... Santa's going to set the house on fire."

"Santa is not going to set the house on fire," he says, rolling his eyes. "I want it to be special for her."

"What's special about having your house burn down?"

"Shut up."

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Augusta, Ga. - I have what I think is strep throat, and I'm couching it for now. Reading "Hound of the Baskervilles" (which may never end) and drinking lots of Diet Coke. I mean orange juice! Yeah...

Emmie has been very sweet, asking me how I feel, sharing gentle smooches on my cheek, and bringing me little treats:

• An unwrapped cough drop that she found somewhere in the house, "so dat you not be coughing"
• A My Little Pony, still dripping wet from the bath, "so dat you not be lonely"
• Her soft, flannel Tinkerbell blanket, "so dat you not be cold"
• A cup of lemonade, filled to overflowing, and dripping all the way across the carpet from the kitchen to the couch, "so dat you not be firsty"
• A Christmas ornament, which she tried to insert into my ear piercing (ouch!), " so dat you be Chrissmass!"

Later, I'm going to drag my butt out of bed to make dang Santa cookies with her. But for now, I have to throw a crusty cough drop in the trash, get a towel for the pony and the lemonade, find a Band-Aid for my ear, and snuggle up in a Tinkerbell blanket with my Doodlebug to wait for Christmas.

Augusta, Ga. -
"Mom? Is it Chrissmass?"

"Almost. It's Christmas Eve."

She gives a gasp of delight, and then frowns: "But der's no snowflakes in da air."

"No, we don't live in a city where it's cold enough to snow."

"But do I hab skapes?"

"Skates? Yes, you have your pink ones."

"But do I hab skapes for da ice?"

"No, it's not cold enough to go ice skating."

She gives a little frown and stares out the window. After a few minutes of watching her watch the squirrels chatter in the trees, I can't tell what she's thinking.

"Whatcha doing, Doodlebug?"

"I'm finking to start ober," she answers.

"Start over what?"

"Start ober da world."

"Why?"

"Cause I don' like my city."

"Well, what city do you want to have?"

"Da city wif da snow."

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Augusta, GA. - Through the haze of not-listening-trying-to-work, I pick up a few phrases from conversations around me. Words like "protest" and "crowd" and "sidewalk," and some part of my brain makes a note to ask about it in a few minutes. Then the rest of my brain promptly forgets.

"Hey, Stacey? They're pushing your car."

"What?"

"Those teenagers? They're pushing your car."

I glance outside to Broad Street. There's a crowd of middle-class teenagers holding signs and videotaping themselves. Sigh... Come on. My car's beat up enough already. I don't need an episode of C.O.P.S. to make it worse.

I stride towards the door. J.C. (no, not that one) hurries after me with gentle reproach in his voice. "Um, Stacey...?"

"Hey?" I call politely. They turn, as a group, to look. "Do you guys need us to move our cars?"

"Um..." they look uncertainly at one another, and at the girl videotaping.

"Because we'll be happy to help you - there's no reason for you to touch the cars, but we'll be happy to move them, if you'd like," I say, with what I hope is a broad, friendly smile, and not a look that says I'm going to chomp on their faces if they don't cut it out.

"No, we're okay," one girl says. The crowd is noticeably more subdued. One poor little guy in back looks like he'd run away, if not for the loss of cool points.

"Okay, well, just let us know if we can help," I say, with a merry wave, and walk back in the office.

They disperse quickly.

Augusta, Ga. - I seem to have the wrong fax number, and I need to fax over a contract to a client, so I call over to the main desk.

"Hi, I'm so sorry to bother you, but may I have your fax number, please?"
"We don't accept faxes."

"Oh, no, I mean, I was trying to fax a contract to (xxx)."
"Yes, but we don't accept faxes."

"Um... ever?"
"Not from the public."

Who ISN'T the public?!

"Okay, well, I was just talking to (xxx) and she gave me the wrong number, I think."
"Yes, that's because we don't accept faxes from the public."

"No, she has a signed contract with us, and I just wanted to fax her over a copy."
"To who?"
"To (xx)"
"Oh, well, she gave you the wrong number."

(sigh)

"Yes. Could you give me the correct number?"
"I'll transfer you."

Oh, okay. I'll just ask her for the number again. Just then, I hear a high-pitched SQUEAAALL!

She transferred me to the fax machine!

Augusta, GA. - I'm trying to explain ad changes to H.Y., and muddying things pretty darn well.

"So, can we just use the banner they sent?" she asks.

"Yeah, with modifications, that will work. Because all advertising has to be approved by Charlaine Harris' people, and the banner has already been approved."

"Okay, good, because I'm still opening it. It's locked up my computer because it's so frickin' huge. Whoever built must have done it in GiantLand with no regard for us wee humans."

Augusta, Ga. - "So, you guys, here's my plan: Graphics will develop the Sarcasm and Just Joking fonts, and we'll market the crap out of it. Everyone gets a cut," I pitch to the design team this morning.

"Ah ha," D.M. muses. "Jason, tell them what we came up with yesterday."

"Sandwich," J.C. says, with intensity.

"The sandwich font?" I ask, confused. He closes his eyes with despair at my stupidity.

"No. Turkey. Corned Beef. Ham. Bacon. Swiss cheese. Rye Bread. The Clueben."

"Um, sounds good, except for the corned beef and rye bread part."

"But that's the 'euben' part of the sandwich."

"It's The Clueben," D.M. says, with reverence.

"The Clueben," J.C. repeats. "They'll only ever make one sandwich after this."

Augusta, Ga. - I got in line at Barnes & Noble, and then got back out to look at a display. And then I got back in to make my purchase.

"I'm sorry! I suck!" I said to the nice grandmotherly clerk at the counter.

"It's okay," she said, and rang up my sweet white elephant gift for the exchange at work. "I'll put your receipt in the bag, you have a nice day, and you don't suck."

Well, at least I fooled one person.
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Augusta, Ga.-

We're outside the calendar store at the Augusta Mall. There's a guy lurking around, his very DNA clamoring for attention.

"Look: That dude thinks he's Robert Pattinson," I observe.

A.C. watches a moment: "He's wrong."

Augusta, Ga. - Scott comes shuffling in with a coffee mug and a wry grin.

"You remember how I told you we had a month's worth of newspapers coming?" he says.

"Um, yeah...?"

"Well, they gave us a week."

"Really? I haven't seen it."

"At the old house. Even though I gave them the new address."

Awesome.

Augusta, GA. -

We're having a slow morning, and Emmie is watching cartoons while eating her breakfast.

"Mom?" Emmie says.
"Yeah, Doodle?"
"Where do babies come from?"

What - seriously? She's four! Don't I get a little bit longer before I have to try to explain this without giggling like a schoolgirl?

"Um, why do you ask?"
"Mom," she reproaches me. "Where do dey come from?"

"They come from their mommies and daddies," I said. "They grow in their mommies' tummy."

She considers this for a moment.

"But, mom, Flapjack say dey come from seaweed."

I laugh heartily at this. I had expected a more serious conversation, not something related to a cartoon.

"Well, sweetie, Flapjack also has talking whales. So I'm not sure you should be taking biology lessons from a cartoon," I giggle.

"No, no!" she says. "Dey say dat some babies come from seaweed."

"Well... maybe seaweed babies come from seaweed mommies..." I acquiesce.

"No, no! Human babies!"

"I don't think that is correct, sweetie."

She frowns a little, and goes back to watching the cartoon. I sense the conversation is over, so I go on about my breakfast-making business. But I hear her mutter to herself.

"Wull, das wut Flapjack say..."

Augusta, Ga. -

"Honey, I'm going to get the mail," I call to my husband as I survey the front yard through the windows. It's dark outside, and wet.

"I comin' too, Mama!" Emmie thunders to the front door. She loves the mailbox, even though it's practically IN the road.

"Okay... Don't get hit by a car," Scott calls.

"Or eat by a elephant!" Emmie calls back, cheerfully nonchalant.

"Or trip and fall in the dark on the pecans!" Scott calls, as I slip on my shoes.

"Or get smash in da head wif a tree!" Emmie calls back, a grin on her face.

"And don't go in the street!" Scott yells, as I open the door.

"Or get chomp by a zombie!" Emmie wiggles her eyebrows and fingers menacingly.

Whoa, zombies? I slam the door shut.

"Wuss wrong, Mama?"

"Uhh..."

I'm not afraid of zombies. I'm not afraid of zombies. There's no such thing as zombies.

"I wanna get da mail."

"Juuust... a second..." I peer out the windows. All clear. For now...

"Less go, Mama! Maybe ders anudder Chrissmass card!"

Crap... I'm not afraid of zombies. I'm not afraid of zombies. There's NO SUCH THING as zombies.

"Whatchoo say, Mama?"

Did I say that out loud?

"Come on..." I open the door and grab the broom next to the door. (Sigh) I really need therapy.

Emmie pokes her head out, innocent curiosity etched on her face.

"Ders no zombies, Mama," she shrugs, as though commenting on the weather. Partly cloudy with a chance of zombies. Scattered undead with a light wind from the northeast.

But her comment snaps me back. When did my ridiculous neurosis get so bad that Emmie knows what I'm thinking? Good lord. Someone slap me.

"There's no such thing as zombies," I declare to Emmie, put the broom back, and take her hand on the precarious front steps. Stupid pecans roll under our feet until we reach the grass.

"Mama?" she questions.

"Yeah, Doodle?"

"If ders no such fing as zombies..."

"Yeah?"

"Den wuss DAT?!" she shrieks and points over to our left. I jump and whirl and clutch her to me - and maybe even pee a little - trying to figure out what she sees. Nothing! Just the neighbor's ugly bushes! Then a strange sound emanates. Emmie is having trouble breathing. What on earth?! I kneel and shove the hair out of her eyes, patting her back, just as she stumbles on her feet and lands on her side in the moist, cold grass.

"I TRICK you, Mama!" she shrieks.

Son of a... She is laughing at me!

And hard. This is so funny to her that she is wheezing, holding her stomach - and, of course, broadcasting our location to any peckish zombies that might be out for an evening stroll... FOR BRAINS.

"Are you kidding me?!"

"Yes! I mate a jote on you!" she screams between howling laughter.

"It was a rhetorical question."

Emmie is not concerned with Socratic method. She is too busy lying in the grass trying not to throw up from all the frickin' hilarity on which she has gorged herself. She gasps, clutching her stomach, and slowly devolves into soft giggles.

"Mama, wuz you scared?" she asks, rather unnecessarily, I think. I mean, I was either scared or a cobra snaked down my underwear.

"No, I was just playing," I lie - TOTALLY LIE - to her. "There's no such thing as zombies."

"I know, Mama. Das juss a story. But I fink you WUZ scared." she grins. This child is very pleased with herself.

"Was not."

"Wuz too."

"Was not."

"Wuz too."

... Yeah. Was too.

Augusta, Ga. -

Two co-workers having a conversation...

"Those jeans really are flattering on you."

"You may enjoy my heinie as I walk away."

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"We were listening to NPR and these women were saying that, other than Obama's election, this was the defining moment in their lives, because Disney made a movie about black people," A.C. says.

"ONE black person. The rest of them are animals - and she spends most of the movie as a frog," I say.(Editor's note: that is an exaggeration; the princess's mother and a Voodoo priestess also make appearances)

"Yeah, the prince is...?" A.C. asks.

"From a fictional country. The only black man in the film - her father - is dead," I say.

"Yep," A.C. agrees.

"I don't remember Disney ever making a movie with a black man in it," I say.

"'Song of the South?'" A.W. chimes in.

Me: "Oh, no, you didn't..."

Augusta, Ga. - I'm at the gas station on Deans Bridge Road, for obvious reasons. But the pump won't take my card.

Swipe.
Nothing.
Swipe.
Nothing.
Swipe...
BEEPBEEP! BEEPBEEP!

All the other patrons turn, like "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," to stare at me.

"See Clerk," the pump flashes.

I look down at the debit card's magnetic strip. Looks fine. Looks... Like my Bi-Lo Bonus Card. LOL!

I trot inside, chuckling to myself, and explain.

"Yeah, you can't use that here," she says, so seriously that I laugh in appreciation of her dry humor. A couple of the patrons milling near the register grin, too.

"That card won't work," she says, again. And I realize she must have misunderstood.

"No, I know, I wasn't - it wasn't a Bi-Lo credit card. It was the bonus card. I just pulled the wrong card out of my wallet, and..."

She's looking at me with a frown on her face. Dull eyes squinting narrowly. Ooookay...

"... So, if you'll just reset the pump, I'll get it right this time."

With an odd reluctance, she reaches over, slowly, to quiet the loud beeping.

I return to the pump and start again. Credit here. Swipe. Enter zip code...BEEPBEEP! BEEPBEEP! "See Clerk," the pump flashes.

The pump must be broken. I pull forward to another and start again. Credit here. Swipe. Enter zip code...BEEPBEEP! BEEPBEEP! "See Clerk," the pump flashes.

Great horny toads. I trot back inside. She eyes me, warily.

"Yeah, something's wrong..." I say, uncertainly. She interrupts: "I told you you can't use that card here."

"What - my bank card?"

"Your Bi-Lo card."

"I'm not - no, I - look!" I hold up the blue bank card.

She looks at it like it might be lying to her. Maybe she thinks it's a Bi-Lo Bonus Card in disguise...? I don't know.

"What if I just pre-pay inside?" I suggest, ready to go to another station.

"Okay..." She agrees, uncertainly. "But you can't use-"

"The Bi-Lo Bonus Card, yeah, I got it. Will my bank card work?"

"Oh, yeah, you can use that, just not -"

"Yeah, okay," I grit my teeth, hand her the card, and muster all of the politeness I can manage. "Just authorize $20, please."

It works. I pump. I replace the nozzle... BEEPBEEP! BEEPBEEP! "See Clerk for Receipt," the pump flashes.

I don't think I need it that badly.

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