Momnesia

• Paper towels
  
• Styrofoam plates
• Styrofoam cups
• Plasticware
• Milk
• Pancake mix
• Cereal
• Rice
• Grits
• Syrup
• Coffee
• Creamer
• Sugar
• Breakfast meats
• Cooking Oil
• Canned Goods
• Jar baby food (especially fruits)
• All size pull ups
• Size 4 and 5 Diapers
• Laundry detergent
• Bleach
• All cleaning supplies

From a certain position on our couch, I can see Emerson's bed quite clearly. So it was that I was sitting in that spot with a book the other night, when Emmie thrashed around in her sleep, trying to find a comfortable position.

A few moments later, a pink-quilted lump slid off the bed, out of view, onto the floor.

"Eeeeeeeeeeh!" I heard her revving up her whine motor. But then, abruptly, she ceased, and heaved a man-sized sigh.

"Oh, barnacles!"

A cloud of blonde curls rose from behind the bed, trailing a blanket, as she flopped back on the bed, face-first. She shot me a sleepy grin. I grinned back, hardly containing what I felt was very un-parental amusement.

"I fall off da bed," she said, as wryly as a 4-year-old can manage. "But I'm okay."

And she slept.

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My mom (Granny) had no idea what I was doing when I made her stand like this, in front of a sign that says "Granny's Funnel Cakes" at White Water in Atlanta. Hee!

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Scott made yet another wonderful dinner: brussels sprouts (shush! I love them!) And bacon-wrapped roasted chicken breast. I dug in while he stepped outside to make a call.

Three bites in, I discovered a surprise: cream cheese! And a terrible burning sensation!


Emmie laughed as I choked, and tears ran down my face. He had stuffed fresh hot peppers inside, and they were potent!

I downed lemonade like someone walking the Sahara - and Emmie laughed at that, too, of course; and told Scott all about it when he came inside. Chuckleheads.

Later, I saw him doing a strange dance on the porch. I didn't think anything of it. It IS Scott, after all. He's done weirder things. But as it turned out, he had made dinner, forgotten to wash his hands, and then gone to the bathroom...

You guys know where I'm going with this. You've done this to yourself while eating hot wings, at least once - admit it.

Ahhh. Karma is a witch.

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S.S.'s fiancee is nominated for Metro's Best Bartender, and he's rallying his troops to vote for her.

"Yeah, I had all my cousins in Israel, England, and India to vote for her," he laughed.
"How many cousins do you have?" P.B. asks.
"Come on, I'm Indian. There are a billion of us," he laughs.

Scott is cooking dinner, and Emmie and I have already had a bath. I'm not really into eating dinner tonight, but he's going to all that trouble, you know?

Then I look at the clock and gasp: It's so late! I need to be finishing housework and getting Emmie - and myself - ready for bed!

And just before I open my mouth to say this out loud, I realize: it is 7 p.m. And I have officially become my grumpy ol' grandmother.

I remember when we used to visit her in Birmingham. There was no running, no loud voices, no toys, no television, no bikes, no bare feet, no neighborhood wandering, no fun, and no staying up after about 7:30. And there was definitely no arguing about that.

Now, I look at the couch and book, and think about the fact that I've been awake since 3 a.m. All I want is to curl up with the whisper of pages turning - and maybe some obnoxiously girly music. I know I won't get it. There's still dinner, story time, and the inevitable Fight for Bed to get through. And I don't resent it. But I'd really like to crawl into bed with that book and drift off to sleep... Maybe wake, partially, around 11 p.m. to turn the light off, and then dream until 5 a.m.

God, I should just join AARP. I'll start having dinner at 4 p.m., lunch at 10 a.m., breakfast the night before... I'll scratch myself inappropriately, complain about the shrinking font in newspapers, and plan my "War Garden." Maybe I'll bake an occasional pan of dry, crumbly cookies with which to torture the neighborhood children. And when they dare venture into my yard to retrieve a wayward ball, I'll stick my head out the window and holler, "Get off my lawn!"

Hmm. Part of me looks, gleefully, forward to that. But for tonight, I'd be happy to have a few minutes with just me and my book.



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AUGUSTA, GA - I love sharing books and movies from my childhood with Emmie - "Goonies," for example. When we were @ my sister's house, "Ghostbusters" was playing On Demand. Now it's all Emmie can talk about:

"When der's sumpin strange in your backyard, who ya gonna call? GHOSTBUDDIES!"

Well, she did deconstruct the genre pretty well...

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"Hey!" Emmie shrieks as an ambulance passes. "Das da heroes what take da sick people to da dahtor an' dey not get dead!"

"Yep."

(Silence. And then...)

"Unless, dey take him to da EEEBIL dahtor. Den we gotta fight him."

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AUGUSTA, GA - "I want da dark rain clouds to come, and essPLODE into Krabby Patties falling DOWN on da ground so we can eat dem. And den dey'll be di-SCUS-ting, wit Squidward tentacles and poo-poo."

(Laughs enthusiastically)

"Is dat di-SCUS-ting?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I made it up."

You don't say!

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AUGUSTA, GA. - I interned on the copy desk at the Augusta Chronicle, and I know how many people see a story before it goes to press and online (it felt like 100, but it was probably closer to 10); so how do things like this get through?

Family break-in victim while woman in Augusta burn unit

Congratulations! You have managed to write a sentence without a verb!

You had so many other options for this headline (none of mine are perfect, but they are improvements):

• "Family victimized while woman struggles in Augusta burn unit"
• "Family home burglarized while woman lies Augusta burn unit"
• "Burglars hit family of Athens burn victim at Doctors Hospital"
• "Family burgled as Athens victim lies in Augusta burn unit"

There are smart, wonderful people who work at this newspaper. I know how many hours they work each week. These people work doctors' hours on a fast-food worker's salary. And when management of any company makes the decision to grind up their employees in the name of profit, while the company's owners spend every weekend jet-setting around the world (can you say Enron?) - then your product quality plummets. And make no mistake about it, bean-counters: Your newspaper is NOT just an advertising delivery service. Your product exists only as long as people are interested in the content. And so long as you run your staff so ragged that they are too tired to use verbs, you will never recover.

Side Note: Because there is a certain class of person who lurks on blogs just to leave asshole comments - a class of person who has no class - I've begun moderating my comments. Sorry, readers. Some people exist solely to suck joy out of the world.

Oh, yes, headline-readers. I did just go there! And I know that Alice Wynn will be singing that song in her head. And I am Not Sorry!

So, just wanted to say "thanks" to the new readers who happened by Momnesia. Google says my traffic is up 10% - probably due to the Metro's Best contest, but it might be due to other things. I hope that you enjoy your stay here, and I hope you come back. Leave a comment with a link to your own blog, or reach me on Facebook!

AUGUSTA, GA - Does anyone else notice how much yammering kids do? Is it just my child?

Sometimes I could swear that if she's not talking, she'll die. Because since the day she was born, it's been a constant state of noise around here.

One day, long ago when we didn't have a pile of crap teetering dangerously overhead every time we opened the door, I gave myself a time-out and went and hid in the hall closet.

It was dark, and musty, and not entirely uncomfortable. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the vacuum cleaner got a little too friendly. But it was quiet. And I stayed there for an hour, just sitting and breathing. When I emerged, I explained that I had gone for a walk to clear my head.

There's really nowhere for me to hide right now. And if Emmie isn't talking, she's making some kind of noise. Blowing raspberries. Humming. Singing. And just random vocalizations that freak me out. What does "oo-ah apanah oo-ah keeaweeah" mean? And why does she keep repeating it? Who are Lodah and Todah, and why has she started calling her father "Stacker?" And how is it, that while I love my child more than I will ever be able to express, she can emit the only range of noises that make me want to tear off my own ears and shove them down her throat?

Any ideas?


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AUGUSTA, GA. - The whoosh of rushing wind fills my head as the cargo bay door opens.

“I don’t want to die.” I beg the man standing in front of me.

“You’re not going to die,” he says – and pushes me out of the plane.

I am 10,000 feet over a bright green field, strapped to a man I do not know, hurtling toward a brutal, painful death. I am skydiving on a bet, a stupid bet that is going to kill me.

I never apologized to my little brother. My sister and I used to dress him in our old party clothes and call him “Susie.” He is scarred for life. This is why I am going to die.

“You are not going to die,” shouts the man strapped to my back. “We have a parachute.”

The parachute is made of silk and it will not save us. Our bodies will shatter upon the earth. Will they be able to tell us apart, or will they think that one huge person exploded in the field - perhaps while wearing a lovely silk dress? This is not the way I want to die.

“You are not going to die.”

I started a rumor in fourth grade that Kristen Gandy was really a boy. I was mad at her and I had just learned about sex-change operations. It followed her all year. This is why I am going to die.

I can almost hear him roll his eyes.

“We’re not going to die.”

My neck snaps forward. I am wrenched upward so hard that I can hear my vertebrae fracture, and suddenly I waft through the air. The sky is lit with a heavenly glow. I am dead.

“You are not dead. I pulled the ripcord. Enjoy the ride.”

I am making absurd doggie-paddling motions with my arms and legs. I will myself to cut it out and assess the situation. We are still falling, but will not die instantly. Now we will suffer.

In ninth grade, I ditched Greta Haug, a smart and sweet girl, for “cooler” friends who wore gothic clothes and listened to The Cure and Joy Division. For loving these bands alone I am going to suffer – and die.

“No one is going to die,” he shouts, and stops because shouting is no longer necessary. “Try to relax.”

“Relax,” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I bought that album. I deserve to suffer and die.

A truck waits at the edge of the field. Tiny people shade their eyes, studying our descent. Are they prepared for our mangled bodies, for the gurgling and gasping as we suffer and die? I am concerned children might be watching.

“No! It doesn’t matter, because we’re not going to die.”

The summer after high school, I scored press passes to Lollapalooza. Eddie Veddar climbed the back wall of the amphitheatre and dove off into the waiting crowd. I found myself crushed against him and kissed him, with tongue. For this assault, I deserve to suffer and die.

“Okay, get ready.”

The ground spirals up at us. I am not ready. I never returned “The Bell Jar” to that nice neighbor woman in Athens who had Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t remember I borrowed it. For sometimes thinking that’s kind of funny, I deserve to suffer and die.

The tiny people are now people-sized people running to meet us. Oh, God, they will be covered in entrails. They will never recover from the trauma. I try to wave them away. They wave back. Fools!

“Bend your knees.”

I curl into the fetal position. I dropped all of my classes one semester and used my loan money to party. I cheated on most of my boyfriends. I lied about cheating on them. They all believed me.

“Remember to go with the momentum of the landing.”

I never go to church. I don’t recycle. Sometimes I don’t walk the dog for days.

“Here we go!”

We are mere feet from the ground. I kick wildly. He shouts at me to stop. I wish my family long happy lives and brace for impact. My toes brush the ground and we are standing, back on terra firma.

“See?” he says. “We’re perfectly safe.”

A gust of wind grabs the unsettled parachute and jerks us back several yards. We land hard on our backs, me on top of him, like two stacked turtles.

“That was kind of fun,” I gasp, and gasp again, because I can. I am still breathing.

He groans. “I think you killed me.”

It's here! The 2009 Metro's Best Voting! I'm so excited to have made the final ballot!

If you don't mind too much, could you vote for Momnesia? There's no amazing prize at the end of things. It would just be really nice.

Thanks so much, and thanks for reading!

AUGUSTA, GA - Vacations to Remember: Can't believe there was no "Best Vacation Planner" in the Spirit survey!

I work at a newspaper, and I love it. But any public forum invites crazy people to step up and open their yaps: County commission meetings, radio call-in shows, newspaper complaint columns, and the never-ending Internet... nothing is safe.

So I get a lot of crazies on the phone where I work. Today, I spoke to "Selene." She calls a couple of times a week to ramble about the classes that she organizes. I can almost hear the granola rattling around in her brain. After one particularly grueling 15-minute conversation, during which I almost fell asleep during her nonsensical patter that is utterly free of organization, I finally cut her off.

"Okay, so I have all the information except the location," I said.
"Well, I don't want to tell you."
(There is a moment of silence in which I consider stapling my ears shut so I don't have to hear her anymore.)
"You don't want to tell me?"
"Well, I'll tell you, but I don't want it in the paper."
"You want people to just guess where the classes are going to be?"
"Well, they can call, and I might tell them the location, but sometimes I get some people who are really mentally ill. You know?"

Yes. I do know.

"I mean, I want everyone to be able to come. It's a great stress reliever, and, as we know, stress is the cause of all wars."
"Oh!" I say, with a laugh. "I thought it was a shortage of chocolate."
There is a moment of shocked silence on the other end of the phone. I hope she isn't lighting some Wiccan revenge candle - oh, I know. That's not fair. Really, I don't have a problem with Wicca. I have a problem with Wiccans.
"You know," she said, quietly and seriously, "that stuff is really bad for you."
"I know," I say. "Sugar and caffeine and fat."
"Yes, but as you get older you can't digest it and it really clogs up your system," she says. "It's just really awful stuff."
I am unwilling to deal with her anymore.
"Yeah, but you know what else it is?" I ask.
"What?"
"It's yummy!"
She sputters and stutters, laughing stiffly. I intervene before she begins to spew marijuana smoke out of her ears.
"I'm just joking," I said.
"Yes, well, I have to go."
Click.

Wait, did SHE just hang up on ME?!

AUGUSTA, GA. - There comes a time in everyone's lives when we sit up and think, "Aha! THERE'S my million-dollar idea!" But not each of those epiphanies bears out as we think it should. Here is a list of some of those disappointments, in no particular order.


1. Prodyne® Automatic Sugar Dispenser - Ideal for all sorts of everyday uses - coffee, cereal, baking, wasting my frickin' time... Just push a button for a precisely measured 1/2 teaspoon of sugar... unless it gets wet, gets tipped over, the batteries run down, or it just breaks, because you've decided that using a spoon is just too much work! Included refill funnel conveniently stores in the base. Or, you could just use a spoon.



2. PFI/Toyland 3 in 1 Digital Keychain Camera - Features 2MB memory, USB cable, and software CD. TWO MEGABYTES of memory?! You'd be better off buying it to use as nunchukus in the case of ninja attack. And if you win, you can taunt them with your tiny photos!


3. Tamrac® Carrying Case for Compact Digital Cameras - Dual Foam Technology secures your compact digital camera. Two Universal Memory & Battery pockets on the front keep you fully prepared. But isn't the whole point of getting a compact digital camera so you don't have to carry all that crap?!




4. ThinkFun Rush Hour - Pure bumper-to-bumper fun, the manufacturers say. They lie.




5. Waring Pro Cordless Wine Bottle Opener - Wine bottles open with ease (even with synthetic corks), thanks to this rechargeable unit. Yeah, look, they're called wine keys - and they were already cordless!




6. Time Life® Sweatin to the Oldies Complete Collection - This complete collection includes over 380 minutes of fantastic low-impact workouts. Because one DVD of Richard Simmons and his jazz hands is never enough.




7. Coleman® Remote Control Lantern - Where are you putting your lantern in your huge tent that you need a frickin' remote control?




8. Presto® FryDaddy® Deep Fryer - Family-size fryer makes delicious chicken, fries, and more. People, it's a pot. You probably have several already under your counter.





9. Waring Pro Martini Maker - Electric martini maker just plug it in then shake or stir. I want to know who shook a martini and thought, "This is just too much work." Because I want to find them and slap them.




10. Smartshopper Grocery List Assistant - With this handy, easy to use organizer, you'll never find yourself at the grocery store wondering what you need, or forgetting a crucial ingredient. Yes, you will. No microchip can change that - unless it's in your brain.

When little girls attack, it looks an awful lot like an army of pink-clad princesses marching forth from preschool to pubescence. What are the lasting effects of this obsession?


Augusta, Ga. - Wearing an outfit seemingly cast off from the set of the old “Solid Gold” television show, my daughter spins around with her arms held gracefully at her side.

“It’s a wunnerful dweam come twue,” she gasps, quoting a line from “Cinderella.”


Dr. Keri Weed from the psychology faculty at the University of South Carolina-Aiken explained that each infant is born with unique traits, and that some things are constitutional — inborn, but not necessarily genetic.

“Then those constitutional traits get shaped and modified as they interact with family and people in their environments,” she said. “But they do form a fairly strong initial bias. You being an active child, your parents may very well have allowed that… If the same child was born to a different set of parents, they could very easily discourage those behaviors in a girl.”

Weed explained that Emmie’s obsession with princesses and other such girly things is within the range of normal. When gender identity begins to form around the age of 2, children begin to be able to identify themselves as either a boy or a girl. They seek out toys, objects and experiences that reinforce that identity. It’s similar to how a teenager who was not me might have listened to a lot of The Cure because she identified with their ennui... (Read More)

I am a babbling idiot. Drool dangles from my lip. I sit slack-jawed in front of the man who would be my boss – if anything would come out of my mouth. He has asked me a question, the answer to which I practiced in the car on the way here, and yet I have no idea what to say. In fact, I have forgotten what he asked. If it were possible for human beings to will themselves into oblivion, I would. I am trying. But he’s still waiting for an answer and I still don’t have one.

“What can you bring to the position?”
I know this one! Oh… err…

I am dressed to the nines in my expensive-looking grey suit and black shell, faux pearl earrings, black leather shoes, matching belt, subtle makeup, and most hairs in place. Booger check – did I do a booger check? I did. I sit with my hands folded to hide the chewed-off stubs of what were fingernails when I had a job, and try to sound like I know something about the sporting event in which he will play for charity. It seems to work.
“Oh, do you golf?” he asked.
“Well… no, not really.”
“Oh.”
“I did shoot a 77 once, but it was on the front nine.”
“I see.”
Lie. I should learn to lie.

This is the recipe for disaster I’ve cooked up. Poorly choosing my last employer resulted in being laid-off when they restructured. Now I’m back in the wilds of the job market, stalking my prey, and finding hunting more difficult than I remembered. I no longer lull with my confidence and kill with my wit and style. I am a blundering fool.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Who? Me?

I have all the right tools: a college degree with a decent GPA, solid references, a strong portfolio, a first-rate resume, and a vast network of contacts – which is how I came to be at this interview today, one of only two candidates, the other an intern with no writing experience. And I am blowing it.
“So how did you hear about this position?”
Oh, I’ve known her for years… Can’t seem to remember her name, but dark hair, brown eyes… you know, the one I was talking to when you came out of your office.
“Valerie?”
“Um, I think so.”
“Uh-huh.”

In college I won awards for impromptu public speaking. I’ve led committees, taught classes, given seminars, presented papers at academic conferences. I have given radio interviews, acted as an extra in several movies, worked as a disc jockey, and trained in front of a camera. My mother used to call me “The Mouth of the South.” I am not known for my silence.
“Should I rephrase the question?”
Question? What question?

I’ve answered these questions in front of the mirror, with my husband, in my head. I’ve met this man before. We sat on a panel together. I worked with his nephew, who works for the same company. The other two employees in the office are lobbying for me. He doesn’t even care for the other candidate. I have everything going for me - but nothing is going right.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Probably still sitting here.

I don’t know how many interviews I’ve gone on in the last two months, but we’re well into double digits by now. I’ve done telephone interviews, in-person interviews, and even email interviews. I’m like the Cal Ripkin, Jr., of interviews – without ever having stepped foot on home plate.
“Okay, well, we’ll let you know by Monday.”
Damn.

One of our reps answers his ringing telephone.

S.S.: "Yes, I'd love to be able to help you."
Customer: "Great! What's your name?"
S.S.: "My name is [redacted], spelled [redacted]."
Customer: "Oh, they got Asians over there, now."
S.S. (A wry grin spreads across his face): "No, I'm American."

We all turn, horrified, to look at him. To his credit, he just keeps grinning.

AUGUSTA, GA. - "Gozzzilla!" Emmie sang this morning, looking at me expectantly. I had been singing it with her this weekend, after joking that I was a dinosaur going to eat her. I know Godzilla isn't technically a a dinosaur, but whatever people. Don't bother me with details.

"Ohhhhh, no! They say he's got to go!" I sang...
"Gogogozzilla!" she sang. "WOOOoooooooo."

"Ohhhh, no!" I continued, and she interrupted:
"Der go Pinocchio! Gogogozilla!"

I suppose that nose could do some damage...

AUGUSTA, GA - It was inevitable. Everyone I know has done it. And Emmie, as exceptional as I think she is, is not the exception, in this case.

She cut her hair.

The beautiful curls that reached to mid-back - the ones complete strangers coo over; the ones I curl around my fingers as she sleeps; the ones I have never been able to keep tangle-free - are gone.

"Dey were in my face," she explained. But now they're a half-inch from her hairline.

She was rocking a not-so-rockin' mullet before noon today, and I burst into tears like an idiot. I couldn't stop crying over hair! After 10 minutes of this, she started crying, too. Great. What an excellent mom I am!

I gathered us together and we ran over to the salon, where they put together a custom shoulder-length cut with layers that make her look less mangled... but she reminds me, weirdly, of 80s phenom Kristy McNichol. Anyone else remember The Pirate Movie? Anyone?

She loves the cut ("Iss byootifuwl!" she exclaimed, and shook her hair like a model in front of a wind machine). It does keep her hair out of her eyes, and I have seen her impatiently pushing it out of her face rather a lot, lately. But I still took all of her so-called "safety" scissors away and put them in high places that she cannot access.

"Dis sign say, 'No crazy aliens wif mad faces an' pointy heads - only people," Emmie said.

Well, pretty much!

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Me: "What does 'error in parameters scanning' mean when you send an e-mail?
Heather: "Sounds like something is wrong with your parameters."
Jason: "Yep. Your parameters are all screwed up."
Me (laughing): "Y'all can just bite me, seriously!"
Heather: "How can I bite you if I can't scan your parameters?"

Text to Publisher: "Just realized 2 of our literary luminati nominees aren't eligible. Whatcha wanna do?"

Reply: "Not have the category."

Text to Publisher: "BESIDES that. There are other nominees you know, two of which trailed only a few votes."

Reply: "OK. R they authors?"

Text to Publisher: "No. They're trash collectors. But they have some poetry in a notebook somewhere.

My soul is garbage
It cries out, "Recycle, fools!"
Refrigerator

Reply: "Tard."

I'm going to take that to mean, "Yes, hard-working employee. I approve of your solution. Please continue with your awesomeness."

Each line is from a FB friend's update...

Kiss is everywhere
All does not seem well
The Sonoran Hotdog crosses the border
Today is so beautiful!
Oh how I Wish, wish, wish...
But the dust has settled.

Me to Staff: Metro's Best categories have been sent to edit. No changes.

S.S. to Me: What about Metros best place to get mugged?! Or metros best place to score a cheap hooker? At least best fried pickles?

Me to S.S.: How Metro's Most Annoying Indian Salesperson? (I'm not being racist: He freelances at a radio station on the side with the moniker Your Friendly Everyday Indian)

S.S. to Me: Yeah! That's a good one! But watch me lose to a white dude somehow... Damn the man!

From Mom to Me: Alert! Huge virus coming! I just checked this with Norton AntiVirus and Snopes, and you should not open any message with an attachment entitled 'POSTCARD FROM HALLMARK, 'regardless of who sent it to you. It is a virus which opens A POSTCARD IMAGE, which 'burns' the whole hard disc C of your computer.

From Mom to Me, two minutes later: Stacey, I tried to send you an e-card, and it came back. Are you still working for The Metro Spirit? I checked it and sent it twice. What's going on? Mom.

Reply from Me to Mom: No, Mom, I do not work for The Metro Spirit anymore. I've taken a job with Hallmark. I'll get right on your e-card issue because that is my primary concern in life. Besides, didn't you just send me an e-mail telling me not to open any e-cards?

From Mom to Me: Pfffffftt! I'm deleting you!

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This is Emmie's letter to her grandparents (my parents):

Dear Granny + Dadada,

I love you very much because you're my best friend. You love me.

My butterfly got dead. I want him back to normal. I want him to be real.

I love swimming because I love swimming with my floaties but daddy make me swim with not floaties.

Mama give me some school supplies and mama and daddy take me to my new school all day long because they're very sweet. I love them very much.

Name maker! I put everything on the stuff for packing in my own backpack. And I love the teacher. (Editor's Note: We bought a labeling machine)

I miss you. I wanna come to you. Well, das de end of da story. I don't know how to say bye-bye in Chinese. So I say bye-bye.

Love,
Emerson

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AUGUSTA, GA. - Our crazy-ass neighbors gave Emmie a Blow-Pop today. Even though I had specifically told her to stay away from them, that was all it took to regain her good graces. Great. A week ago, they were machete-wielding weirdos. Today: The frickin' candy man.

Later this evening, after I had put her to bed early for acting like a frickin maniac all day, I heard her calling "Hellooo! Hellooo!" and went to check on her. She was standing at her window waving at the neighbors.

"Emmie," I sighed. "I don't want you talking to those people."

"But," she protested, as I tucked her back into bed. "Dey gib me a lollipop."

"I know, sweetie, but they're not good people. They did some really bad things, and mommy is afraid of them. So I don't want you to talk to them anymore."

"Dey do bad things? But dey're nice! Dey gib me a lollipop wif bubble gum!"

I decide that it's time to get serious. These people are unpredictable, and I don't want her to get hurt.

"You're just going to confuse her," Scott calls as he walks by.

Rubbish. What does he know?

"Listen carefully to mommy, sweetie. That man tried to hurt mommy. They are not good people, and I don't want them to try to hurt you."

She looks at me, her sunny brow pinched together. "Dey try to hurt you?"

"Yes. And I don't want -"
"Ohhh," she interrupts, with relief. "No, mama. You mate a bistake. Dey not try to hurt you."

"Really? Cause I had to call the police," I tell her. "It was a very serious situation. Now please -"

"Da police?!" She squeals over my protest. "To come and tate dem away?!"

"Yes, because-"
"But dey LIB here!!"

Wait - what?

"Yes, I know, but people can't do things like that. People can't try to hurt their neighbors. They did a bad thing, so I had to call the police."

"But! Mama! Das where dey LIB! Da police goeend TATE them AWAY! Das not good!"

Crap. How did I become the criminal in this conversation?

I try to Disney-fy the explanation for her: "Honey, those are the bad people. They do bad things to people."

She throws her arms around my neck for a moment, then takes me face between her palms: "No, mama! Cheer up! Dose aren't da bad people. Dey're GOOD people! I know it! Dey gib me a lollipop, and dat's good! Dey are good people. I know dis. I promise."

I look at her kind face, as she tries to reason with me and what she obviously feels are my irrational fears. The enormity of her innocence crushes my anger and mistrust at my drug-addled neighbors. It's true that they're very sweet to Emmie. They go out of their ways to talk to her, to bring her small treats, to offer to babysit. Of course, I'm not INSANE. That's never going to happen. But they aren't all bad. I'm sure that if the house were on fire, they'd call 911 for us... after borrowing our phone, first...

"Sweetie, you are so good, and you are so beautiful inside. But mommy has to remind you that they did try to hurt mama."

"Dey did?"
"Yes, honey. I'm sorry."
"But... How?"

Do I tell her? Should she know? Is it too much, or just enough? She's a smart girl, and - uncertainly - I decide to put my faith in her: "The man had a knife, and he scared me, and that's why I called the police."

(Stunned silence) She looks at me with incredulity etched into every feature.

"He hab a knife?" she asks in a tiny, hushed voice. My heart breaks a little for her. I didn't want her to know this about the world so soon. I want her to believe in magic and goodness, so that she can pass them on to other people - other children, who might need them more than she does.

"I'm sorry, honey, but - yes."

Slowly, her expression changes... Her eyebrows separate, her chin raises, and her mouth opens wide. She's smiling! And, shockingly, she begins to giggle!

"He hab a knife?" She giggles.
I frown and watch her face, "Yes..."

She giggles harder. Then it hits me: She doesn't believe me!

"Emmie, he had a big knife called a machete, and-" she begins to cackle.

"A bid knife called a bashetee?!" She falls back on her bed, rolling. "He hab a BIG KNIFE called a BASHETEE?!"

Emmie thinks this is the punch line to a bedtime story! I can hear Scott's smirk from three rooms away. Fine. He told me so.

I sigh and grin and plop Emmie back in the bed with a tickle. Only two of us need to be vigilant against evil in the world. I'll let the third wear her rose-colored glasses a while longer.

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AUGUSTA, GA - This is the picture Emerson drew of me. Notice a few key elements. First, that I have no arms. Second, that I look like an M&M. And third, that my piehole is wiiiiide open. Probably not an accident.

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This is Emmie eating calimari for the first time at Malibu Jack's off Furys Ferry Road. Irritatingly, she refused to reference it properly.

"I like dis booger cheese," she said.

"Honey, it's calimari," I corrected, gently.

"Iss booger cheese," she laughed.

"No potty talk, young lady," I tried to sound stern, but booger cheese does sound REALLY funny.

"Boogers not go in da potty," she laughed, uproarously.

(Sigh) Why is she so much smarter than us?

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Augusta, Ga.

AUGUSTA, GA - This showed up on our front porch yesterday. It was skittish, but sweet. I let it into the house for a minute so Emmie could pet it. She was beyond thrilled, but Scott set his jaw and bitched the whole time.

"Honey, it's just for a minute," I assured him.
"We are not keeping that animal," he said.
"No crap," I replied. I don't even WANT a pet.

This morning, between traffic runs, the big goober went and bought cat food.

"Uh, honey?"
"I know, I know," he said, obviously disgusted with himself. "But if it stays outside... it's a sweet cat."
"Psh!" I scoffed. "You mean it's OUR cat."

Dangit!

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AUGUSTA, GA. - Yes, it IS 2:30 in the morning. And I AM posting. That's because the police just left our house. At 1:45, our idiot neighbor, Michael Avery, decided to start hollering my husband's name repeatedly: "Eey, SCOTT! SCOTT!! SCOTT!"

That's how we know he's still alive. Because if he's breathing, he's asking for something. Can he use the telephone? Can we drop him off at the store? Can he bum a cigarette or a beer? A sandwich, or a kidney, or whatever? This man is 49 years old and works at a car wash. Yet, he doesn't own a car.

This would be the third time THIS WEEK that the fool has started hollering at us at oh-god-o'clock. The first time, I woke Scott. The second time, I told him to hold it down unless it was an emergency. This time, I'd had it. Scott is AT WORK from 5 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. six days a week. He doesn't need this crap. So I told him to shut his piehole. I'm going to relay his responses in plain English. But it was very difficult to understand him because he was bombed out of his mind. There was a lot of me repeating, "What?.... What?!" In fact, I'm just going to write him in an approximation of an English accent. Because he still sounds crazy - just imagine .

Me: "Michael, it is 1:45 in the morning. I told you: If it isn't an emergency, I don't want to hear from you after 10 p.m."

Michael (standing outside his front door in boxers and a tank top, waving a machete): "I say, old chum, did you, perchance, come to my house and chop down my bushes with this machete?"
 
Me: "Did I what? Is that a machete? Are you serious?"

Michael: "Yes, ma'am, I am serious. I desire to know if you perpetrated this grievous offense."
 
Me: "Michael, I don't chop down bushes with reckless abandon. Maybe one of the yard people left it by accident. But it is 1:45 in the morning, and these things can wait until daylight!"

Michael (pointing the machete at me): "Oh, I do not think so. Were you the individuals who called the rental agency and filed a complaint about me?"

Me: "No, I didn't call them. But I'm going to on Monday, just so there's no unwarranted suspicion. You can't keep waking your neighbors up every time you need something. Scott goes to work early, and he needs his sleep."

Michael (waving the machete and stomping around - really, he's doing a fantastic impression of a Maori welcome dance): "Aha! I thought so: You DID call the agency! I suspected it was you, and now I am certain of it!"

Me: "This is ridiculous! Do not wake us up again like this. My husband needs his sleep."

Michael: "I think you mean to say that you require YOUR nightly rest."

Me: "... Are you high?"

Michael: "Are you high?"

Me: "Absolutely not. Now shut the hell up and let everyone sleep!"

Michael (muttering): "Yes, female dog. You need YOUR sleep."

Me: "Don't you call me - look, don't come borrow our phone anymore. And we're not taking you anywhere in our car. Do not bother us. Don't talk to us. Don't ask to borrow things from us."

Michael (walking closer to me and chopping at a nearby tree with the machete) "Oh, you cross onto my property, and ruin MY bushes, and then you raise the subject of TELEPHONES? Why don't we discuss your husband. I see him. I know what he does. Let me raise this name, and, simultaneously, make an important point: Austin Rhodes."

Me: "What does he have to do with this?"

Michael: "I repeat: Austin Rhodes."

Me: "What about him?"

Michael: "Please, perchance that you did not hear my comment upon first utterance: Austin Rhodes."

Me: "... okay...?"

Michael: "He is a redneck."

Me: "Okay... And?"

Michael: "And so are you."

Me: "Fine. Whatever. But, for the last time, I didn't chop your stupid bushes. And if you can't be quiet, I'm going to call the police."

Michael (jumping and shouting and brandishing the machete menacingly): "By all means, call them! Be my guest! I shall cross onto your property, and enter your front door through a precise kick! I shall also cause serious damage to your vehicle so that when your husband is driving with your child..."

Me (interrupting, and dialing the telephone): "Okay, idiot. I'm calling the police and telling them that you threatened me, and that you're waving a machete."

Michael: "Oh, I say!"

As the 911 operator answers the line, Michael throws the machete across the yard and storms back inside his apartment, turning off his porch light. Momentarily, officers are on their way.

Two officers respond and bang on Michael's door. He has dressed himself in a polo and chinos. They see that he is intoxicated, they find the machete he tossed, and they question him about his activities. In his usual incoherent manner, he claims to work for E.G. Meybohm, for the Augusta National... I'm pretty sure the C.I.A. was next. Luckily, they didn't buy it, and they didn't care. That wasn't the point. They asked him about what happened, question me as to precise location and whether or not he touched me (is he still alive? Then, no).

He tries to tell them that I'm making things up. He insults me, my husband, our parentage, and the whole of the Austin Rhodes-listening free world, for all that has to do with anything. They run a warrant check, and it doesn't help him that he has priors - nothing serious, a DUI, small things. But they dress him down verbally, warn him not to talk to us again, tell him that he's their first suspect if any property damage occurs, and take the machete away. He goes back inside, but not before stopping to give me a long, menacing glare.

Me: "Nuh-uh, Michael. Not scared of you."
Officer: "Sir, go inside."
He does. Slowly.

They can do one of two things, they tell me. They can file this as an incident report, and keep an eye on the property. Or they can file it as a criminal complaint, and I can take a warrant out on him in the morning, for terroristic threats - although I won't be required to. But a criminal complaint is... more? Actually, I don't quite understand what the deal is. Isn't it just paperwork? Ah, well. They advise me that if they had seen him with the machete, it would be a different matter. But right now, it's a he-said/she-said situation.

I trust their judgment and go by their recommendation to file an incident report. I know they'll keep an eye on the property by driving by several times during the night, as they've assured me. They seem to be good officers. So as not to be accused of stealing the machete, they toss it back in the yard where he'll be able to find it in the daylight - but not at night. [Update: my husband totally found it the next morning and took it.]

Officer: "He could come in and claim that was a $500 machete and then this guy's face [jerks his thumb at his fellow officer] would be on the 6 o'clock news."

Me: "You guys have way more to worry about than just catching bad guys, huh?"

Officer: "You have no idea."


MONDAY UPDATE: It seems Meybohm has received so many complaints about him that they began eviction proceedings on Sunday, after hearing from Scott about the incident. We sent Emmie over to her grandparents' house last night, and I've stayed awake until 4 a.m. the last two nights, trying to make sure nothing unsafe happens. I don't know what we're going to do tonight, but I'm pretty freaked out.

This came in my e-mail. First of all, there's nothing stylish about that. Second, I don't wear clothes with the word "sweat" in the name. And, finally, this involves some kind of sewing. I don't do sewing. I can replace a button, but I will never forgive the button for detaching itself in the first place. The only voluntary sewing I'll ever do is if an appendage is somehow separated from my body. And even then, I'd rather use a stapler.

Emmie's scared of the dark, and she can't quite reach the light switch panels in the house. One evening, as she was going to use the bathroom, I heard her feet pounding back into my bedroom.

"Mama!" she gasped, holding her arms up for me to hold her.

"What is it, honey? I thought you went to the bathroom?"

"I did. But ders awready somebody in der."

"Who?"

"Da ghost!"

And the little girl inside me shivered with fear. What? I froze. Oh, wait. I don't believe in ghosts... Do I?

No. Yes. No... No. Be reasonable.

"Honey, show me the ghost."

"I can't. It's abbisible."

"Honey, where's the ghost?"

"Da ghost dats going pee-pee."

We walk (slowly) to the bathroom, everything shrouded in darkness. I hear it: the tinkling of water. And for a heart-stopping moment, I see a shadowy form shimmering in the doorway.

Emmie looks at me with wide, frightened eyes, and I'm strengthened by a mother's bravado. I flick on the light. As expected, there's nothing there, and it only takes me a second to locate the source of the noise.

"Look, honey. There's no ghost." I left the back of the toilet tank and show her the water trickling steadily. I should probably fix that.

Her eyebrows go up, her mouth open in a wide grin. "OHHhhh! I thought it was a GHOST!" she laughs and shrugs. "Iss just wadder."

And she's never mentioned the ghost again.


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I finally understand something about former editor Tom Grant that eluded me for the past five years. You know all these crazy people he had writing for us? I won't name names, but let's just say that they're socially challenged. So, anyway, this week, they've all come out of the asylum.

• One acted like a complete drunken fool at a recent event (the Black Panthers? Really?)
  
• One left a mile-long racist rant in our whine line (no, we're not going to print it)
• One has decided to engage in advocacy for bee venom therapy, despite the complete lack of empirical evidence to back it up (but, hey, go ahead and sting yourself with bees all you want)
  
• And one is pairing with the Queen Crazy in town to attack "the powers that be [that] continue to control the media in this local area for their agenda... The dogs are there for reason to sit in front of the big house." (Because we're all being controlled, people. CONTROLLED!! I am writing this blog with a gun to my head! Help me!)
  

Tom didn't take pity on them, in their insanity, to help them to learn and build their resumes - and even to help normalize their reputations. He kept them in control! Now that he's gone, there is no one to watch them!

I foresee bloodshed in the office...

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We've had Emmie so far off her schedule, and in so many different places this summer, that bedtime has become quite a battle.

"Emmie, time for bed."

"No," she'll reply, mildly, with a sidelong glance at me.

(Sigh) "Okay, you're going to lose a story, sweetie."

"I not," she'll insist, just as matter-of-factly as though she were saying that she doesn't have three eyes.

But most nights, with some extra "hugs and mooches and zrrbrrts," she settles down.

Not Monday. Monday was Waterloo.

Three books, two beverages, one bathroom break, and a new night light later, I thought she was settled in for good. But just before we turned our lamps off, in she crept, crawling past our insistence into the middle of the bed, in pink footie pajamas that were not the ones in which I had dressed her for.

"But, but, but..." She reasoned, with her I'm-Being-Reasonable face, palms out and down, through our directions. "Lithen. I wan' tell you sumping."

(Sigh. Gritted Teeth) "What. Do. You. Want. To. Tell. Us."

"I jus wan hug you and mooch you and snuggle wif you. And den I won hab a bad dream, wif a bad lady, an I sleep all night an not wate up an you not wate up an you not hab bad dreams and den we all be happy! Mate sense to me."

It made sense to us, too, dangit.

But I wasn't willing to get kicked in the head all night by our newly-anointed white belt. So I told her that her choice was that she could either sleep in her own bed, or she could sleep on the floor next to me.

"OKAY!" she ran into her room, got her blanket and pillow, and snuggled up on the wooden floor next to me as I turned out the light and tried to stifle my guilt. Was it okay for her to be on the floor? I honestly thought she'd choose her bed... Conflicted, I decided to let her choice stand.

Just then, her hand snaked up to clutch my arm: "Danks, mama. I be happy."

She was fine with this! The floor wasn't hurting her. She wasn't kicking our asses all night. She wasn't scared. We were all going to sleep - do you hear me?! Sleep! All night, I hoped!

I. Am. A. Genius.

Satisfied with the situation, I relaxed. Every so often she'd reach up, or I'd reach down, to pat each other. We were all getting what we wanted, and Scott was already snoring.

And just as I was drifting off to sleep, I felt her clamber gently into the bed between us. Curses! My sleep-addled brain thought. But then she snuggled against me, and kissed me on the arm: "Mama, you da bess mama eber." And I reached out my arms to her, folded her within them, and dreamed.

(For a couple of hours, at least, until I moved to the couch to get away from the Horizontal Ninja.)


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AUGUSTA, GA - So, there's a former co-worker I've let get under my skin recently. She wasn't a pleasant person to work with, but she had a variety of medical conditions to deal with and it was not easy on anyone to see her lose her health insurance.

Over the last couple of days, she's said a few things to me that I've been turning over in my mind. Accusations about my character, my integrity, my skill, my value as a friend to others.

And it's hard to know how to separate the truth from her desire to cause pain and what seems to be her complete inability be truthful.

I know who I am. I know that I'm a hard worker. I expect good in people. I am always surprised to find when someone is lying or manipulating people. I write well. I try to be better than I am. I like to help and educate people. I like to learn new things. I like a challenge, a harmonious environment, and an occasional break in routine.

But I also know what my flaws are. I'm mouthy. I say inappropriate things in a sometimes misguided attempt to make people laugh. I can get down or angry about general stuff and let that creep into my personal interactions. I'm messy, and can't hold a logical train of thought for very long. There are some words I will never be able to spell without help from spellcheck. Scott just told me that I'm too sensitive, which transitions nicely into...

The ex-coworker (we'll shorten that to "e-cow" for future reference) nailed a lot of my flaws in the absolute least flattering terms.

1. I complain a lot. I really do try to make people laugh, but if done in a negative way frequently enough, I guess that would sound like a constant stream of complaints.

2. I'm polite to people's faces, but I say negative things to my friends behind their backs, which she says is fake. I thought it was called having manners, but taken too far it IS fake.

3. I'm stupid and inexperienced and nobody likes me. Well, I can't argue about the first two, because they apply to all of us in some ways. But the last, I mean, SOMEBODY likes me, right? At least my husband and daughter, I hope? Surely I'm not SO disagreeable as to turn EVERYONE off?

Here's my question: How is one supposed to sort the legitimate complaints about oneself from the mean-spirited e-cows out there? Is it good, when people lash out this way, that I take it to heart? I have been diligently trying to reason through her criticisms. Or am I giving the e-cows of the world too much credit and causing myself (and my long-suffering husband) undue stress?

I have also been reminding myself that even the best intentioned self-examinations can yield unpredictably negative results. And no matter who or what I'm dealing with, the only thing I can control is my own reaction.

And, finally, is this appropriate blog material - or is this part of the too-mouthy personality trait?

All of this lends an unfriendly tone to the inner voice that whispers in my ear. It steals away some of the confidence I've stockpiled, and renders me slightly less able to function at my best.

So what do we think? Is ignorance bliss? Or should we shoulder the burden of other people's perceptions, regardless of how positive or negative they are?

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AUGUSTA, GA. - I'm so sick and tired of national and local mouthpieces questioning the status of Barak Obama's citizenship. While I'm not all that happy about his performance so far, choosing this issue upon which to make your stand just shows your ignorance of your own country - and influences me to lean closer to advocating an IQ test for voting rights.

For the last time - not that my blog gets so much readership that it will cause a national collective silence on the matter - Barak Obama is a U.S. citizen, and it doesn't matter where he was born.

According to U.S. law, a person is a U.S. citizen not only if they are born on U.S. soil (a common misconception), but also if they are born to U.S. citizen parents (or, in Obama's case, his mother). In fact, even if he had been born in Indonesia, where he and his mother moved after her second marriage, he would still retain his U.S. citizenship, because his mother is (and was) a citizen of the U.S. But seeing as how he was born in Hawaii (a U.S. state for the members of the "idiocracy" who probably also think that Puerto Rico is a foreign country) to a mother who was a U.S. citizen, whose parents were also U.S. citizens (not necessary, but another level of protection from the Minister of Where People Live in the cabinet of the government of the idiocracy), that means - you guessed - he's a U.S. citizen!

For further proof, refer to the several billion articles on the Internet that discuss how one becomes a U.S. citizen. If you're too lazy to do that, or if you don't know how to do a proper keyword search (using subject-specific neutral keywords like "U.S. citizenship at birth" as opposed to the more psychologically appropriate "Obama not a citizen get him out of office I'm scared of black people"), here are four very reputable links:

1. From the U.S. government
2. From FindLaw
3. From NoLo
4. From Snopes

And, for good measure, a copy of Barak Obama's Hawaii birth certificate.

Now, please, plant your flag of political opposition on the issues, and not on sour grapes served on a platter of congealed fear and panic.

AUGUSTA, GA - When our upstairs neighbors moved in two years ago, they seemed like nice people. Two students working their way through school, blah blah blah...

But let's just say they were an active couple.

One night, we were sound asleep when the sound of glass breaking alerted me to a burglar. In fact, the glass landed heavily on top of me in the bed!

"Waaaaaaaaahhhh!" I shrieked, throwing the covers off and springing up in bed, ready to unleash my hidden ninja skills upon the intruder.

"Shush! It's okay! Just don't move!" Scott exclaimed, already rounding the foot of the bed and disappearing briefly into the darkness beyond the doorway. Before I could even gather my breath from the shriek, he reappeared and rapped smartly three times on the bedroom ceiling with the broom handle.

"Wha- what's going on?" I demanded sleepily, shakily, squinting as he flipped on the bedroom light.

"Our neighbors were at it again," he groaned, glaring upwards. "Their exercise... Well..."

He gestured to the bed and floor, and I saw, as I followed the line of sight from his glare to the covers and saw that the glass globe cover had been shaken from the ceiling fan fittings and shattered against the foot board of our bed.

I heard muffled laughter and rapid footsteps overhead, as we began the tedious process of cleaning the mess.

"They sure have a lot of energy," Scott snickered.

"Yeah..." I sighed, with dramatic wistfulness. He tossed a sock at me, and I laughed.

Those neighbors moved out a year ago, and we've never found a globe that fit the ceiling fan - although I haven't tried that hard. And while we offered to take the apartment upstairs, too, for another couple of hundred dollars a month and a two-year extension on our lease, the owners instead let it sit open, unrented, for the last year.

But last weekend, a new couple moved in. And tonight, when a rhythmic thump-thump-thump began overhead, I looked at the bare bulb above my head and grinned, glad I hadn't replaced the glass.

And, after a few minutes, I was glad that not everyone has the same level of stamina. I should get more sleep with these neighbors living above us.

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