Momnesia

Augusta, Ga. - I was so proud of myself. Before I put Emmie to bed last night, we had lunches, clothes, bags, and breakfast all prepped and ready to go.

This morning, as I'm finishing getting dressed, Scott sprints by: "I have torn this house apart, and I can't find her coat or her backpack!"

"Did you look on the chair by the door?"

"...Oh. Found it!"

Good for you.

Augusta, GA. - Scott is a well-known crappy gift giver. Some examples of gifts that he has given me:

• A pair of birds in a giant cage - they were messy, the dog wanted to eat them, and they never shut up! Back to the store they went. $50 wasted, then regained.
  
• A novel he bought under the misconception that I liked "historical romance" (I said "historical fiction," like "Artemesia" and "The Red Tent.") - that turned out to be a ridiculous romance. $13 wasted.
  
• A prenatal massage gift certificate from a company that never could offer a prenatal massage and kept trying to turn it into a facial. The business then went OUT of business. $100 wasted.

Last Christmas, he kept it simple, with a beautiful beaded cocktail dress from a major department store. I loved it, and I told him so, and I wear it every chance I get. $80 well-spent.

This year, he really wanted to be creative... despite the fact that I set up an Amazon and an Etsy wish list, just to break him of this creative-gift-giving habit (and also because pretend shopping costs less than actual shopping - anyone know where to get inexpensive not-ugly curtains?).

And so, because GIANT HINTS could not get through his deflector shields, there was much secretive workshop-type-stuff going on, and I was very, very concerned. But, also, I was excited! There could be inexpensive not-ugly curtains taking shape in there!

Alas, it was not to be. Because one day he forgot to lock the workshop door, and the wind blew it open just as I was getting into my car. There I saw the lamp I had asked him to throw out two months ago... only it was obviously being worked on.

"Honey, you're not refinishing that old lamp, are you?" I asked, apprehensively, not making the connection between my present and some random project he was working on.

"Oh (expletive)," he said, and stomped over to lock the door. That's when I knew. Oh. No. He was not going to - (sigh).

BEHOLD: The Penis Lamp!


You have to understand something about my husband: He gets an idea in his teeth and he shakes it 'til it's dead. He wraps himself in it. It fills his head. He wallows around in it like a pig in mud, and it becomes a part of him. Call it tenacity. Call it stubbornness. Call it insanity. It depends on how you look at it.

This is a great quality for an investigative reporter (see: ANIC corruption). It is a great quality for an activist (see: Aquaduct Park). It is not, necessarily, a great quality in a husband (see: Every argument we've ever had).

"Honey. I do not want a penis lamp in my house," I stated.

"It does not look like a - oh. OH," he said.

Turns out that Scott grew up with this lamp. It was in his grandparents' home for 50 years. So clearly he didn't think of it as phallic while playing in their living room at the age of 7.

"Oh, I guess if I had just gone to Windsor, and come home with a green box,  she'd have been satisfied," he complained to a friend recently. (By the way: Yes)

"Come on, Scott," the friend said. "You never saw a [crude word for penis] when you looked at that?"

"No!" Scott insisted.

"You're an idiot," the friend laughed.

Recently, Scott rediscovered it in their attic and decided to refurbish it for me, thinking I would love the unique design, the history, and the story behind it.

Well, I do love the story! Although, in all fairness, Scott remembers it differently...

"Mmm. I love edamame," I coo over the Pad Thai I made. I know it isn't a traditional ingredient - but it sure is good.

"Let me try," Scott says, and pops one in his mouth. "Mmm. Yum."

I go back to stirring.

"Hey, what's edamame?" He asks.

"Japanese soybeans. They serve them in those little green pods in Japanese restaurants," I answer.

"Oh... Why don't they call it something in Japanese, then?" He asks, in complete seriousness.

I can't help but laugh: "'Edamame' IS Japanese, you goober!"

To his credit, he grinned and shook his head at himself.

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Scott and I are getting ready to take the car to the shop.

"What's the fastest way?" I ask. He tells me. It requires me to turn left out of our driveway, from which one cannot see over the hill to the right. I'm not about to get broadsided, and I almost never turn left when I'm leaving.

"Uh-uh," I say, using married-people shorthand. "And you better not either, with Emmie in the car."

"Honey!" He sighs, rolling up his car window from the driver's seat of the be-stickered WGAC news car. "I'm a professional."

"You're not a professional DRIVER!"

AUGUSTA, GA. - An early bathroom run, and I pop into the kitchen for a sip of water.
"Hey, (mumble mumble mumble)," my husband says, from the bedroom.
I go see what he wants.
"What, honey?"
"There's... just... lights everywhere," he moans.
"Psh! One light. And it was on for two seconds," I say, burrowing back under the comforter.
"I'm just trying to sleep in."
"Well, it's 4:50," I say, knowing he has to start making beat calls and doing traffic runs, soon.
"I know. But I'm not getting up until I have to."
"When's that?" I ask.
"I'm not waking up for 10 more minutes."

I think my laughter woke him up, anyway.

Me (reading from news feed): "Did you hear that Garrison Keillor had a stroke?"
Scott: "Oh, gosh, no... he must be pretty old, though."
Me: "He's not that old."
Scott: "He's pretty old - mid-70s, at least, right?"
Me: "67"
Scott: "He's not that old."
Me (reading from accompanying story): "'He is up and moving around, speaking sensibly, working at a laptop, and it's expected he'll be released on Friday,' the story says."
Scott: "Speaking sensibly? He hasn't done that in years."
Me: "Nice one, Scott. 'The stroke was an improvement.'"

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.

We were talking about something that excited Scott the other day.

"Man, I am so jizzed about it!" he called to me while I was in the kitchen.

Startled, I peered around the corner at him in the living room: "Uh... honey, I think you mean jazzed," I said.

He cocked his head at me. "What does jizzed mean?"

"Not what you think," I gritted my teeth at him, aghast that we were even having this conversation.

"Jizzed?" he asked.

"Ahh! Stop saying it!" I exclaimed.

"But what does it mean?!" he demanded.

"Just... google it!" I said, and ran out of the room.

Now you googled it too, didn't you?

AUGUSTA, GA. - J.C.: "So, are you gonna buy, like, a boat and gold dubloons and stuff with all your mad sales money?"
Me: "No. I don't want a boat."
J.C.: "Salespeople always end up with stuff like that."
Me: "We should probably buy a house before we buy a boat."
J.C.: "You could buy a houseboat."
Me: "Could. But we're not gonna."

Today I'm driving down Riverwatch to pick up Emmie and my husband calls on my only extravagance, a new cell phone. It was free, and the plan is actually cheaper than my old one, but I felt all reckless, splashing out $16 for a memory card upgrade so I can add more songs to it... if I ever figure out how to add songs to it at all, that is. Anyway, so I answer the phone.

Scott: "Guess what I'm going to get right now?"
Me: "I dunno. Crunk?"
Scott: "What?"
Me: "Nothing. What are you going to get?"
Scott: "A boat."

Aw, man...!

As it turns out, some dude was giving away a 44-year-old boat on craigslist, and my husband is just the kind of guy to see that and think: "How practical! A half-century-old broken-down boat!" To which I reply: "For me to poop on." I mean, he got irritated that I bought a fireplace screen for $5 at a yard sale because we might one day have a fireplace... and it was pretty. And he goes and buys a broken boat in anticipation that we might one day fix it.






Yet here it is, in our backyard - the backyard that we only rent - sitting on a trailer that my car might be able to haul if it's in a good mood that day. It has no lights, no seats and a hole in the windshield. The throttle hangs from a wire on the side of the boat, and the trailer is coated with rust. The motor works, though, and the fiberglass is in good shape - but I'm pretty certain that the yard sale we had on Saturday was for the explicit purpose of ridding ourselves on junk... not making room for bigger and badder pieces of junk.

I'm sure this will be a 2-year odyssey of biblical proportions. But I'll be honest: no matter how hard my husband works on it, I'm not getting into it until I see with my own eyes Moses part the Red Sea... or, in our case, Clarks Hill Lake.

Scott: "Where's my shaver?"
Me (killing zombies on the computer): "Idunno. GAH! Stupid stupid stupid!"

Scott: "Seriously. Where'd you put it?"
Me: "I didn't put it anywhere."
Scott: "So where is it?"

Me: "In the bathroom."
Scott: "I looked there."

Me: "In the medicine cabinet."
Scott: "I looked there."

Me: "In the bathroom closet."
Scott: "I looked there."
Me: "Obviously not well enough."

I go to check it out myself. Nothing. We stop and think.

Scott: "My shaver."
Me: "Yeah, I know."

Scott: "My silver-colored electric shaver."
Me: "Yeah, I got it, honey!"

I fight the urge to kick him and go back to my zombie game, but instead I close my eyes and try to picture the last time I saw it. Eureka!

Me: "Oh! In the console of my car."
Scott: "No it's not."

Me: "I'm pretty sure it is."
Scott: "No. I just used it."

He stands before me, an inch of stubble on his face, completely serious.

Me: "I'm almost positive."
Scott:"Fine! I'll go check again!"

He harrumphs out of the house like a teenage emo fan. I go back to killing zombies. He comes back in, running his shaver over his chin.

Scott: "Why you gotta hide my stuff all the time?"
Me: "Told you. Hey, do that over the sink!"

Scott: "Because you put it there."
Me: "Whatever."

Scott: "Stop taking my stuff."
Me: "Excuse me. I have a world to save from the walking dead. This is way more important than your shaver."

Scott's cleaning out his car. It smelled so bad on Friday that I refused to ride in it. So he's emptying his trunk, the apparent source of the bunch o' funk. Thirty minutes later, he still hasn't identified it.

"I don't know what it is!" he exclaims, as he wanders back in the living room, arms stuffed with clothing, books, fast-food bags and other assorted items previously located in the car.

"Keep searching," I advise strongly. "Whatever it is... it's leeching life out of my body just from the memory of the stink."

He goes back for more and returns with a grin and a pair of dirty socks. "I don't know what it was, but the smell seems to have gone away some," he says, oblivious to the stink bombs in his hands.

I decide not to press the issue: "Toss those in the laundry basket and I'll get a load started in a few," I say. "And why don't you grab the Oust out of the bathroom cabinet and hose down the car?"

"Why don't YOU..." he sticks his head back in the room with a thoughtful pause. "Just have a great idea?"

He wanders off to clear the air. Thank god. And while he's outside hosing, I put the socks in a plastic bag and dump them in the garbage can outside. It's the next best thing to setting them on fire.

A.C.: "The forces of the universe just really don't want you to get any sleep do they?"
Me: "Nope. Because at midnight last night I was awakened by 'DON'T GO FOR SECOND BEST, BABY, PUT YOUR LOVE TO THE TEST YOU KNOW YOU KNOW YOU'VE GOT TO MAKE HIM EXPRESS HOW HE FEELS AND MAYBE THEN YOU'LL KNOW YOUR LOVE IS REEEEEEEAAAALL!'"
A.W.: "What? Why? Were you in a gay bar?"
Me: "In 1990? NO. Just my husband watching old videos on YouTube."

Madonna - "Express Yourself"

"Good lord!" Scott says loudly, shocking me out of a dead sleep. I glance at the clock. It's 4:15 a.m. on a Sunday.
"What?!" I exclaim, alarmed.
"I... (sigh)," his eyes are closed. Is he still asleep?
"What?!" I demand, impatiently. He'd better not say "nothing."
"Nothing." he heaves, punching his pillow back into place.
"Really? 'Cause you woke me up so you better tell me," I warn, thoroughly irritated.
"Look, you have to understand," he pauses for about 15 seconds. I consider smacking him in the arm. "Under the covers, there is a news story..." he pauses again.
Is he trying to get all sexy with me? Because at this point I will punch him in the nuts.
"What are you talking about?" I demand.
He opens his eyes and glares at me.
"What?" I ask.
"What are you doing?" he asks. He glances at the clock. "It is 4:18 in the morning."
I stare at him: "Are you serious?"
"What do you want?" he demands. "I was asleep!"
"Wha-?! Are you- I- Gah!" I flop over with my back to him and glare at the alarm clock. 4:19 a.m... on what may very well be the last day of my husband's life.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Despite the poorly reproduced Go-Gos lyrics above, I did not, in fact, get a vacation this weekend. I drove through TWO hail storms and a microscopically close near-collision with a boat pulling pickup truck who wasn't watching where he was going. He only missed my car because I pulled off the road quickly. He ended up hitting the van in front of us. I got out of the car to check on them, getting pounded by hail and driving rain, only to have them jump out and start cursing at each other. In other words, they were just fine. I drove on.

So my visit with my family was to be relaxing. But all I did was work and worry. I didn't have the right gift for my nephew's birthday party. I was going to have to miss the party because of work. I couldn't spend enough time with Emerson because I was cooking and doing dishes and cleaning and fixing my parents' computers. I wasn't getting enough sleep and I was going to be useless at work on Monday. What kind of trouble was Scott getting into while I was gone? Was he getting enough sleep? Was he missing us?

So I left a little early on Sunday. Traffic was speedy, but not reckless (thank you many state patrol officers!). Emmie slept from Madison to Walton Way. When I got home... disaster.

I don't understand how I can go out of town for two days (48 hours, people!), leave a normal-looking house behind and return to a complete wreck? How can he not do the dishes for two days? Why is the laundry piled on top of the dryer? Why is there a crapload of dirt on the floor? Where does the dirt come from? He's not Swamp Thing, for crying out loud!

(Sigh)

I picked up as fast as I could, tossed some dirty laundry in the washer, swept Emmie back into the car and did the grocery shopping, got her home and settled in, then flew back down to work to lay out calendar pages and load reviews to the website. I was at work until 11:15, came home and comforted my husband after he learned that the daughter of a friend of his had died that morning. I was up at 6:15, out the door by 7:30, and went and paid the rent because Scott didn't do it this weekend.

I needed a break. I haven't had a day off since September of last year. I didn't get one. It will be the end of May before I can use my final week of vacation. You'd better believe that I'm taking a break then. Scott will be on Baby Watch for a couple of days while I go out and have fun with friends.

The difference? He'll never have to pick my underwear up out of the floor when he comes back home.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott won TWO AP AWARDS this year. He got an honorable mention in Best Use of Sound, which is all the more incredible since he does the vast majority of his mixing from our home computer, using an odd, individual kind of jerry-rigged mixture of digital and analog technologies.

But in the most fiercely competitive category, he won First Place for General Reporting for a story he did on the Augusta Commission in which one of the commissioners went off, complaining about the others. It wasn't this commissioner's finest moment, but he stands by his opinions and refuses to back down from them. He's a principled kind of guy.

Anyway, we're so excited for him, and so proud. I think he needs a present. A sexy one.

"Good lord!" Scott exclaims.
"What?"
"I'm been holding forever!" he says, pointing to the phone at his ear.
"You know, that phone has a call timer, and I don't think it counts to 'forever.'"

But Chuck Norris has. Twice.

"We have a no-jeans policy at work," Scott explained to me.
"Your fly is open," I pointed out. "They got a policy about that?"

So I wrapped up some work stuff during which I finished laying out the calendar pages but did not touch any of the extra administrative stuff that is very much sitting on the side of my desk chucking spitballs at me at regular intervals. I call Scott.

"Hey, honey, will you check and fridge and list off the things we need? I'll stop by the store on my way home."
He begins listing off the usual: deli meat, bread...
"uh, let's see... some iceberg lettuce..."
"Iceberg lettuce? Uh-uh. I'm not buying that. I'll get romaine."
"I said iceberg, beeyatch!"
We crack up laughing for a few minutes. Iceberg is nothing but water and chlorophyll, while romaine has a couple of vitamins clinging somewhere on the leafy green sections of the plant, at least. But he's all "lalala, I can't hear you!" That, ladies and gentlemen, is my 36-year-old husband in a nutshell.
"What else?" I ask.
"Hmmm... yogurt, soda, cheese..."
"Mmmkay. Yogurt... Diet Coke... Sprite... sliced cheese..."
"The block is fine."
"The sliced is more convenient for sandwiches," I reply.
"Actually, I find the block more convenient."
"No, you don't! You just want the block!"
"That's right! And don't forget my iceberg, beeyatch!"

Scott is snoring so loud that the windows are rattling.
"Honey? Will you roll over, please?"
(snoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorrree....)

"Sweetie? Can you roll over, please? You're snoring kind of loud."
(snoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorrree....)

I shake him gently.
"Scott. Will you roll over? Honey, you're snoring."
"mmmmm."
"Scott? Can you roll over?"
"mmmhmm."

(sigh)
I try to roll him over.
"You're snoring, honey."
It's like trying roll over a gorilla.
"mmhmm." he says.
MMhmm to what?

"Scott. Roll over."
"mmhmm."
"Hey!" I push him again, trying to get him on his side.
"wassa madder?" he mumbles sleepily.
"You're snoring. Can you roll over?"
"Look, everyone around here has chops," he says.
...
"What?!"
"Everyone here-"
"No, I heard you. I just don't know what you're talking about. Can you roll over?"
"No. If you have the ammunition, step forward. If you don't, don't"

Part of me wants to smack him upside the head, but it's too funny. What goes on in his head? I start laughing, which finally wakes him up. He rolls over and looks at me.
"What. are. you. laughing. at."
"What ammunition are you talking about?!"
(dramatic sigh) "Fuck. off."
He tosses himself out of the bed and slams the bedroom door on his way out. I heard the back door open and slam behind him. He's having a cigarette. That's the thing to do when you're half-asleep.

I'm still chuckling when he comes back in, slamming the door, still angry, but I doubt he knows why.
"What are you laughing at?!"
"You!"
"Why?"
"Do you even know why you got out of bed?"
"Um... no."
"There you go."

We quiet down and begin to doze back off to sleep....

(snoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorrree....)