Sweetney

the continued dominance of black round ass.

if you ever forget my url, just do a web search for “black round ass” on msn.

that's right. i'm number one with a bullet, baby. come here for all your black round ass needs.

yeah, uhh, about that article...

Mommy (and me): A generation of new parents are telling tales from the crib in blogs that revel in self-absorption.

[clears throat]

self-absorption?!?! umm, excuse me, but how is it that parents who blog just happen to get saddled with the label “self-absorbed,” when there are a billion fucking blogs out there written by single folk (more than those written by parents, i'd wager) about their rad night out getting wasted with their buddies and how cool their taste in music is, you fucking poseur? seriously, you're calling ME self-absorbed? writing on this blog is -- i shit you all not -- usually the only time i have on an average day to myself. it is quite often the ONLY thing i do each day that doesn't involve taking care of someone else -- my daughter, my husband, my fucking pets -- or doing things necessary to the health and happiness of our family (cleaning, laundry, shopping, blah blah blah). and so, yes, i blog for that reason, among others -- so that i might have a paltry smidgen of space and time each day that is my own, because otherwise I WOULD FUCKING LOSE MY MIND. does that make me self-absorbed? really? oh, i'm sorry New York Times (respectfully capped), you're right -- as a mother i should NEVER think of myself, and should spend every millisecond of each waking moment with body and mind fully and unflinchingly targeted at my child. that's what good mothers do, right? become wholly consumed by their children and diminish themselves in the name of self-sacrifice? of course. how could i have been so stupid?

[head explodes]

hotel.

this may be one of the coolest things i've ever seen on the interweb.

via zefrank.

the talking thing.

i remember back when M_ was just entering that formation-of-base-language phase -- spitting out random syllables, gurgles and guttural squawks without much differentiation -- and how i longed for her to be able to speak more clearly and more often, for her to be able to articulate her desires and needs, to communicate even the most basic of her thoughts, which i would doubtless revel in. i couldn't wait until she had enough of a vocabulary to tell me what she was thinking, what she wanted and needed, what interested and excited her. reflecting back on this now, all i can say is WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?

okay, okay, obviously i want her to talk now, as i did then -- just not ALL THE FREAKING TIME, as she now tends to. no, seriously -- it does not stop. ever. yesterday we were in the car for a total of 4 hours, driving to and from jamie's mom's birthday celebration (a tasteful affair held at the olive garden [hack]), and M_'s mouth did not stop moving during the entire trip. she talked about the buildings going by, the trees, the books she was looking at; she said “cars! cars!” more times than i can count, and “big truck!” several dozen times; she randomly blurted out “mommy!” and “papa!” for no discernible reason whatsoever; she jabbered intently to the stuffed animals riding along with her, as well as chatting amiably with her winter hat; she broke into halting, incomplete renditions of “jingle bells” and the theme song from “64 zoo lane” with regularity... an endless stream of language without beginning or end. need i even state that this can be, well, just a titch maddening?

i guess back when i was pining for the time of M_ grasping language, i was imagining that language being used purposefully, like to communicate or express something specific to another human being, not to aimlessly narrate the minutiae (both real and imagined) of every nanosecond of existence.

i know, i know -- how fucking naive was i?

sweetney.com's oscars 2005 challenge redux.

most humble apologies all around, but MY FUCKING MAIL SERVER ATE ALL YOUR BALLOTS.

i know. i'm sorry. forgive?

so please go HERE and resubmit your ballot; i've done all kinds of testing, and promise it works this time.*

finally, let me again dangle this carrot before you: THERE'S A PRIZE! and it'll be, like, cool and shit.

thanks, people.

*alternately, if you had a copy of your original ballot emailed to you, you can send it to me HERE.

thanks to defective yeti for all his help and patience.

her number one fan.

i'm a sucker for a girl in a jumper...

and yet no picture can fully capture the magnitude of her soul-crushing cuteness.

</> end gratuitous fawning.

sweetney.com's oscars 2005 challenge.

cast your vote(s) HERE.

there is a PRIZE, folks. chop-chop!

voting will be open until 5pm EST february 27th (the day of the oscars).

ps: crazy-mad props to defective yeti!!

pps: the voting page uses the term "pool", when in reality this is more a simple contest. you aren't contributing anything; just voting and, hopefully, winning.

song of the week.

this is a cut from his forthcoming album, out in march, so the track prolly isn't the final version.

**********

SOTW eligibility: the song will be selected using the following criteria: if i were a character in a primetime network drama, what song would currently be played in conjunction with a brief-yet-revealing montage of me (doing the dishes; in repose; openly weeping; slo-mo laughing; playing with my daughter; partying like its 1999; pondering the impenetrable depths of the universe...you get the idea)? it will therefore be a song i like and find meaningful in some way right now, though the tune itself might be very old or brand spankin' new.

obligatory disclaimer: songs found here are for sampling purposes only, and i would strongly encourage folks to support these artists with cold hard cash by purchasing their albums. please contact me directly (sweetney at this url) if you have any questions/problems/issues.

the thought project.

this is really pretty amazing.

Danish thinker Simon Høegsberg conducted a social experiment over the course of 3 months where he stopped 150 strangers on the streets of Copenhagen and New York City and asked them what they were thinking about the second before he stopped them. He recorded exactly what they told him, and took pictures. The Thought Project is at the very least creatively entertaining, but I'm a bit moved by the resulting pictures and truely honest thought pattern stories.

via coolhunting

and now for something completely different.

Hieronymus Bosch action figures.

dude.

why i blog.

just working out some shit here, obviously. feel free to ignore.

my list so far:

1. i sometimes have things to say that i think might interest and amuse others.
2. i am horrible about keeping in touch with non-local friends; this provides a way for me to update my out-of-state peeps in one fell swoop.
3. relatedly: there are people from my past who i secretly hope are reading (JRH, if you're out there, say hello!).
4. i am a massive tech geek and dig tinkering with all things computery and interweby.
5. there are good people out there i do not yet know, but should know, who may stumble upon this site.
6. when the war of monkeys vs. robots comes, the bots will spare me.
7. it is fun; a pastime; a hobby.
8. it gives me a reason to write, but is low-maintenance/undemanding. kind of “creativity lite.”

i don't know about you, but i feel better already.

i can't possibly be the only one who has ever seriously questioned why they do this, what it means to do this...right?

cough.

this is not a confessional.

last night my friend claire came over for a few beers, and we talked about blogdom and our locations therein -- as well as blathering excitedly about robots and AI and some of the darker potentialities of the interweb. in more self-reflective moments i have struggled with how necessary this technology has seemingly become to me and my life, how essential it is to the way i live my day-to-day existence and conduct my relationships with people (some of whom i know IRL, as they say, and some of whom i don't). increasingly it appears to me that i live my life and construct my “reality” online as much as i do in the physical world, and at times this chafes at me for some reason i can't fully locate.

after our discussion ended last night, i began reading Life on the Screen: Identity in the Age of the Internet. within the first few pages there was a quote from a guy heavily involved in MUDs (Multiple User Dimensions -- basically online roleplaying games), detailing how his consciousness divides itself between the interface of windows on his computer screen; in some windows (the MUD environment, for example) he is a character he sees as wholly separate from what he identifies as his self, in others he is a variety of incarnations of “himself,” and so forth. but here's the kicker: “real life,” he says, “is just another window.”

and perhaps here's where that chafing comes in for me: i don't think i believe that -- at least not fully or yet. i have been online since online began -- in DOS, on compuserve, in the early 90s -- and heavily involved in many of its manifestations as it has grown and developed into the behemoth we know today. and yet i know that what i do online is not what makes up the nuts and bolts of life experience -- the things we typically remember as life. for me at least, "real" living is still very much fleshy and dimensional.

claire remarked at some point last evening that i am “reserved” here, in my blog, and this is true. those of you who know me offline know that the self-presentation here is me; i am quite tracey-like here, yet my blog-self is one very conscious of the publicness of this forum, and so the reserve. i am very aware of the fact that hundreds of people read what i write here, and while some of those people are friends and/or friendly, i am just cynical enough to believe that, indeed, there are hostile elements out there too. recently these suspicions have been confirmed as i've watched others be viciously attacked by complete strangers for nothing other than sharing their lives, for being vulnerable and open and wonderfully human. honestly, i admire those who are brave enough to lay themselves bare in their blogs, but those are guts i do not have.

i have long thought of the self and identity as something constructed, and so i unreservedly admit that the “me” here is a construct*... as are all the other “selves” out there writing blogs, however seemingly personal or intimate the writing may (or may not) be. there is no way to transmit the whole of who we are through this technology -- we select, we edit, we rephrase, we condense, we interpret, we reconstitute. at best, in all of that, we are able to articulate a portion of who we are and what our experience is, but its clearly the iceberg's tip. i have made good friends and personal connections through being on the internet, and hope to make more in the future -- its part of the reason i'm here writing all this in the first place. but know that what i'm sharing here is not a diary; expect no deep dark secrets or gut-wrenching confessions. well, unless the whole novelty socks thing counts (hey, it was gut-wrenching for me!).

your perspective and insights on these matters?

ps: for off-blog communication i can always be contacted via email at: sweetney at this url.

*just a little amendment, based on a couple comments i've received: let me clarify that in saying that "the 'me' here is a construct" i do not mean that it is fake or false or somehow or other not "me", but rather that everyone's self is constructed, both online and in the physical world. in both we *present ourselves* to others as we choose, depending on circumstances and comfort level and environment and probably a thousand other variables specific to each person and their life experience. anyway, the point i was ultimately making, i think, was that this is public space and therefore i am "public tracey" -- the me you would meet if we ran into each other tomorrow on the street, having no substantial history of friendship or knowing one another beyond online interaction. does that make sense? in saying that, i'm simply distinguishing what i'm doing or how i am here from the plethora of "diary"-type blogs wherein the author writes with a level of intimacy befitting, well, a private diary. which is not to say i reveal nothing personal here -- clearly i do -- but i do so in a more controlled and conscious way.

head.now.hurting.

feet of insanity.

my husband jamie has many qualities i find endearing -- a love of cutesy cartoon characters ala sanrio, a propensity to purchase items based solely on their cheesy humor value, and the ability to maintain high-level functioning for days on end with less than 4 hours sleep per night (which is perhaps more incredible than endearing, admittedly) -- but lately i've uncovered a unique proclivity heretofore unknown. it is a love that dare not speak its name... it is a penchant for ridiculous novelty socks.

i suppose this sock thing has something to do with the fact that his job often involves contact with clients for his company; while his workplace is run by ex-punk rockers and populated with brilliant misfits, he's often in the position where he has to be the professional "face of the company." so this footwear fixation is small subterfuge*; a minor defiance of business decorum that remains conveniently invisible.

isn't that adorable?!?

so i've gotten on board, and this week purchased a significant quantity of highly embarrassing footwear: socks emblazoned with images of mutant-looking cartoon frogs and the words "hip-hop" (HA! now THAT'S FUNNY!); socks decorated with care bears, hello kitty, and cookie monster from sesame street; unbearable podiatric confections that defy all logic and description... just for him (we won't broach the subject of my newly acquired supergirl slipper socks, k?). needless to say, i scored a few easy good partner points here.

and, perhaps somewhat predictably, poor ailing truman -- an innocent bystander -- bore the brunt of all this insane enthusiasm:

poor, poor truman.

*i think i actually meant to say "subversion" here...but it was before 8am -- what do you expect?

509 bandwidth limit exceeded.

what the fuck is up with the bloggies? what reject so drastically underestimated the amount of traffic this would garner? and do you have his email address, so i can send him assloads of hate spam?

my vote is my voice, muthafucka! now we see the violence inherent in the system! help, help, i'm being disenfranchised!

edit: in lieu of the bloggies, check out the noms for the razzies...which are probably a lot more amusing anyway (take that, bloggies!).

baltimore bands.

pardon me while i get all geographically-specific for a minute here...

yo, baltimore-area peeps: i'm looking for some recommendations regarding local area bands. the reason for my query is...well, sort of top-secret for the moment, but i'd love to hear from anyone who can name a band or two (or ten) from our fair city who:

1. rock.
2. rock in a way that is interesting/original (we're into post-punk, punk, indie, folk-punk, experimental and the like. no steve miller cover bands, pahleese).
3. bands whose members are not assholes.
4. bands who like to play live gigs.
5. did i mention that they should rock?

if you have contact info for them, all the better.

i'll explain later. in the meantime, please add your recommendations in "comments".

thanks, dudes.

ps: if you can, give me a sense of what the bands you're recommending sound like. comparisons might be odious, but i *do* need a general sense of what each band is like (genre? influences?).

wherein i'm all starstruck and shit.

my friend claire just realized that she lives next door to Kima from The Wire.

so now of course i must begin thinking of all sorts of plausible reasons to have to drop by claire's house, like, daily. so that i can, you know, commence with the stalking.

taking my psychological temperature.

today i got one of those emails from an ambiguous foreign dignitary named mr. adora, stating that my father's cousin's mother's dead uncle left me ONE MILLION DOLLARS....in a bank in zimbabwe, blah blah blah. and today, without really thinking about it, i hit reply and wrote:

DEAR MR. ADORA, PLEASE STOP SENDING ME SPAM.

yeah, i know. that'll teach em'.

out on the tundra.

a few shots taken today during a lull in the blizzard...

she did say that she wanted to be "the girl with the most cake."

proof that courtney love is indeed finally off drugs.

not that i'm hot shit these days either, but c'mon, wasn't it just like a month ago that she was looking all crazily wasted and anorexic?

snow day!

we're expecting up to 10 inches of snow here in baltimore today...everyone is inside, many stores are closed, and here i am, not knowing what to do with myself.

so i ask my baltimore comrades (and others snowbound in various geographical locations), what are you doing today, this most snowy of days?

i know you're out there. i can hear you breathing.

interweb searches that led visitors to this site today, v1.2:

slumber party pictures
round ass black girls
body painting
jonestown pictures
dreaming about feces

i now feel so much less alone in the world. thank you, friends.

"a romantic comedy. with zombies."

its like a dream come true, isn't it? netflix brought us shaun of the dead today, and this evening can't come fast enough for me (i have to wait until jamie gets home from stupid work to watch it, fie! fie!).

in any case, i am filled with gleeful anticipation. uhh, i mean abject terror (zombies, ya know).

which reminds me -- its never too late for you to visit here.

[snicker.]

song of the week.

get it while its hot.

**********

SOTW eligibility: the song will be selected using the following criteria: if i were a character in a primetime network drama, what song would currently be played in conjunction with a brief-yet-revealing montage of me (doing the dishes; in repose; openly weeping; slo-mo laughing; playing with my daughter; partying like its 1999; pondering the impenetrable depths of the universe...you get the idea)? it will therefore be a song i like and find meaningful in some way right now, though the tune itself might be very old or brand spankin' new.

obligatory disclaimer: songs found here are for sampling purposes only, and i would strongly encourage folks to support these artists with cold hard cash by purchasing their albums. please contact me directly (sweetney at this url) if you have any questions/problems/issues.

the horror. the horror.

upon waking this morning, i threw on my sweats (from yesterday), socks (from yesterday), gargled some listerine, pulled my hair up into one of those pebbles-from-the-flintstonesesque top-of-the-head ponytails, looked at myself in the mirror and thought: WHAT THE HELL HAVE I BECOME?!?! over the past two years i have devolved into a pitiable manifestation of the cliche "harried mom", complete with sensible shoes, ragged fingernails, and a notable absence of makeup (unless chapstick counts).

i need some sort of intervention. preferably one that involves a weekend at a swanky, all-inclusive spa* of some kind.

*alternately, a fifth of vodka, a large bubbly bathtub, and an enormous slab of cake -- ala marge from the simpson's visit to Rancho Relaxo -- would probably do at this point.

aside:

if this doesn't make you almost piss yourself laughing, you aren't truly alive.

it burns! burns!!!!!!

could i *be* a bigger dork?

who among you is on myspace?

who among you wants to be my friend?

c'mon! contribute to my timewasting fun!

altogether now: poor truman!

could it get worse? why yes, it could.

my life sucks so hard right now i hardly know where to begin.

i'm sick. M_'s sick (and i don't know what's worse -- being sick with a healthy toddler or being sick with a sick toddler...its like choosing between two methods of torture, each with its own special horrors). and now truman, who was already hobbled and pathetic, has taken things to a new level by 1) developing horrendous diarrhea (a side-effect from the pain medication he's on, i'm told) and 2) somehow managing to remove his cast during the night (after slathering himself in feces, naturally).

so we were back at the vet's this morning for epic bathing and cast reapplication. our vet is kind of hilarious -- he was some sort of "vet to the stars" until recently, so the waiting area is filled with pictures of him with johnny depp, angelia jolie, the cast of friends, etcetera, and their respective pets or animal costars. according to a greatly enlarged "talk of the town" piece from the new yorker hanging on one wall, he still heads to paris each spring for fashion week to take care of the designer's pets... valentino, dior, versace (which, as we all know from viewing the highly educational film showgirls, is in fact pronounced "VER-SAY-SE"). so what the fuck is the guy doing in baltimore, taking care of my gimpy, poop-coated pooch?

the world is rife with such mysteries, my friends.

after dropping truman off at the vets, we swung by the utterly evil whole foods (and if i need to break down for you why whole foods is evil, you probably shouldn't be reading my blog, dude) and picked up, among other things, an odwalla superfood por moi, because i like to fool myself into believing that overpriced green-colored sludge filled with a lot of all-natural ingredients i can't even pronounce will somehow miraculously save me from my pestilence. and yes, i feel guilty about patronizing the WF, but its like starbucks -- you can't escape it, and in some cases it has what you need when nothing else within a reasonable proximity does, so despite better judgment you succumb and find yourself of your own free will passing through the gates of hell.

i admit it, i am weak. particularly right now, what with the whole head-filled-with-pus thing going on, a whining, feverish toddler surgically fused to my hip, and a dog who should've been named FDR instead of truman. its like a grotesque circus of suffering and enfeeblement over here, and i'm the ringmaster. yay.

oh wow.

was this supposed to be...[struggles to contain gag reflex retching]..sexy?

ps: yes, i'm now officially sick. gawdammit.

save the wire.

apparently HBO is considering canceling their show The Wire, which i firmly believe is the best show on television -- perhaps the best show ever on television, considering the subtlety, intelligence and depth of the writing. anyway, someone's on the case and has an online petition up here, along with a link to a survey on the HBO site.

for the love of all that is right and good in the world, please help save The Wire.

props to geekpunk for the linkage.

of course.

the cherry atop the pile of shit that is my past 24 hours: i think i'm getting sick. while M_ is -- as cursed fate would have it -- JUST FINE.

you are now all obligated to feel, like, really really bad for me.

and i want genuine sympathy here, people. none of that "oh, poor tracey!" sarcasm bullshit.

what fresh hell is this?

so umm truman (our 5 month old pug, for those of you new to my world) broke his leg today in a freakish accident involving the convergence of his boundless excitability and out-of-town guests. basically, he was jumping up on our friend mike -- as dogs will do in greeting -- and fell backwards, landing on his left hind leg. after much yelping, cringing, and hobbling around pathetically on 3 legs, it became apparent something serious was going on, so we scurried off to the vets.

i'm exhausted after spending most of the day at the vets, so narrative details will have to wait until tomorrow. i have to go pick him up in about an hour, and grill the doc on how i'm supposed to keep a puppy known for his "tornadic piranha"-like personality calm and contained for SIX FUCKING WEEKS (the amount of time he'll have to wear a cast and, perhaps, one of those ridiculous conehead collar thingys). oy. no, on second thought, make that MOTHERFUCKING OY.

and did i mention that the cost of this (being that it was an emergency, and on a sunday) may run into the THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS?

help.

file under: huh?

steve albini talks of food.

to whet your appetite (ha. get it? snort.):

Q: Of all the bands you have worked with in the studio, which one had the most interesting or unusual eating habits while they recorded? Please describe.

ALBINI: Polly Harvey (PJ Harvey) ate nothing but potatoes, with occasional sauces, during the entire recording of her Rid of Me album.

recent searches that led folks to this site:

sorority rituals
chubby sex
my dead child

you people are FREAKING ME THE FUCK OUT.

re: post/language poetry.

schmutzie, here's lookin' atcha.

a few links of note (plugs) regarding the title subject:

the electronic poetry center (u buffalo) -- a wealth of info on language/postlanguage poets & poetry. jamie calls it "the mothership" re: language/postlanguage.

our friend mark wallace's page at EPC. he's rad. the poem How To Finish A Story, or My Correspondence School is, like, a landmark piece.

my husband's stuff in the DC poetry anthology.

look up anselm berrigan, his integrity and dramatic life really knocked my socks off. plus he is (was?) considered to be the heart throb of postlanguage poetry, and references songs from pavement and bonnie prince billy.

a few things i've written (in .doc format); "explanation" of pieces available in extended dance version mix of this post (click below).

read gertrude stein's tender buttons.

find a copy of Bruce Andrews and Charles Bernstein's L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E book.

take a look at all this stuff.

song of the week.

alright, i'm gonna try something new here and make available for download one mp3 a week (give or take, depending on bandwith usage). the song will be selected using the following criteria: if i were a character in a primetime network drama, what song would currently be played in conjunction with a brief-yet-revealing montage of me (doing the dishes; in repose; openly weeping; slo-mo laughing; playing with my daughter; partying like its 1999; pondering the impenetrable depths of the universe...you get the idea)? it will therefore be a song i like and find meaningful in some way right now, though the tune itself might be very old or brand spankin' new.

obligatory disclaimer: songs found here are for sampling purposes only, and i would strongly encourage folks to support these artists with cold hard cash by purchasing their albums. please contact me directly (sweetney at this url) if you have any questions/problems/issues.

so, without further ado: the song of the week.

truman's wish list: cutest.dog.toys.ever.

he claims he needs a full set of these:

but my favorite is among the cat toys:

more for your pets to covet here.

i was dreaming when i wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray.

last evening i finally got around to installing MT at jamie's URL http://www.rockheals.com

the plan is for him to start up a press of some kind -- publishing poetry, a zine, and perhaps some other things i'm not aware of that he has in mind. the present subheading on the site comes from the depths of my subconscious; for whatever reason, the shuffle-play that resides in my brain has had prince's 1999 on a loop of late (that and dan zane's all around the kitchen -- thanks, noggin!). i'm just thankful its not raspberry beret or something -- were that the case, i might be compelled to shoot myself in the face.

oh and by the by, thanks for all the juicy, succulent brains. mmm.....braaaaains....

a little something from the 12 year old boy inside me.

clicky clicky.

i need more disposable income.

so i can buy all of these.

especially this one, though.

friendster is now the oracle at delphi.

it knows all. it sees all.

Top artists in my network

1. Bjork
2. Radiohead
3. Pixies
4. The Smiths
5. Bill Evans
6. Postal Service
7. Joy Division
8. Beatles
9. The Cure
10. David Bowie

i am so totally *firing* my friends. i mean, bill evans?!?!

be the box.

and i know we're all in mourning over the passing of the marriage of a certain couple whose collective attractiveness is way overrated, in my opinion, but that doesn't mean that now isn't a good time to get your atari adventure on.

it also doesn't mean that now isn't a good time to get your double negatives on, apparently.

all these double-knit strangers, with gin and vermouth...

the verdict is in, and indeed, vodka is a winner.

except that when one starts drinking ANYTHING at, oh, 5:30pm, its not terribly likely that the evening will be a long one. pathetically enough, i only lasted till 11:30pm at saturday night's slumber party (just after a viewing of Mean Girls, following an epic round of group finger/toe nail painting which, incidentally, nearly resulted in a jonestown-like mass death-by-nailpolish-fumes). as if just to make this all the more lame and humiliating, the following morning i was informed that everyone else stayed up until 4:30 in the AM. in all honesty, i can't even remember the last time i stayed up that late...i think i made it until about 2am this last election eve, but then i was running on energy derived from pure unbridled rage and bitterness, so that doesn't really count.

so yeah, the upshot is that i'm old and i suck. not really news, is it?

but, to reiterate (and conveniently change the subject): no hangover. evidence suggests that, because of how its processed, vodka has fewer of these things called congeners, which apparently aid in hangover production (since i'm too lazy to be bothered, this is all explained here). so yay vodka. or boo congeners. or something.

tonight i'm gonna party like its 1982.

i'm leaving for DC shortly to attend a slumber party. yes, that's right. slumber. party.

its my friend debbie's 35th birthday. and so the denial and regression begins.

things to bring:
1. a buncha cardamon cookies jamie's baking right now...mmm.
2. vodka, the anti-hangover alcohol.
3. fuzzy slippers, hello kitty pjs.
4. my dvd of showgirls -- always a crowd pleaser.
4. debbie's gifts, which includes (and debbie, if you're reading this, LOOK AWAY NOW) a copy of judy blume's are you there, god? its me, margaret, to jive with the spirit of the evening.

things to not bring:
1. maturity.
2. dignity.
3. self-respect.

yep, i think that just about covers it.

eve black, meet eve white.

sometimes i feel as though too much is wanted from me. sometimes i feel totally and utterly dry; that i don't have enough energy to be everything i need and want to be, including a better-than-decent mother, partner. sometimes it gets overwhelming.

and then i remember: this is what i wanted. to be challenged, appreciated, relied upon.

protect me from what i want.* heh.

psst! wanna really cool job?

if you're in the commutable DC area and are in the market for a really awesome job with really awesome peeps, check this shizzle out (this is where jamie works, and as he will attest, it is rad).

interested parties: hit me email stylee (sweetney at this url)

from inside the impenetrable fortress called sweetney.com.

thanks to the advice and assistance of lalitree and eebmore, i have managed -- in the course of one morning, no less -- to upgrade to the latest version of movable type, install mt blacklist AND install closecomments. all of this in an effort to combat the evil, loathesome comment spammers, who deserve their own level of hell in the inferno. so yeah, i'm feeling pretty good about me inside me right now, at least in the realm of technological facility.

::deflector shields UP::

just try to come and get me, mutherfuckers! moohoohahaha...

No one wants to hear what you dreamt about, unless you dreamt about them.*

so i had this dream last night....that i was in a sorority, of all things [insert that exasperated snuffling noise people make when they're all disgusted and shit]...and that this sorority was entirely populated by women associated with chunklet magazine (and in reality that's gotta be, what, .5% of their workforce?)...and they ALL HATED ME. and by "hate" i mean that they could not bring themselves to speak to me without like, you know, throwing up in their mouths a little. as i recall it, this noxiousness directed at my person was related to my dating some indie rock band dude that one of the chunklet chicks liked (now that i think about it, this sounds an awful lot like some idiotic drama from my actual life during the 1990s). and the intensity of their hatred was such that it seemed -- even in dream-level, suspension-of-disbelief-in-full-effect consciousness -- utterly remarkable. thus my dream-self was reduced to the junior high mantra: "why don't they like me??" [voiced in escalating nasal whine]

analysis/interpretation: not only don't you want to hear about all this, but you HATE ME. why oh why must you all hate me so?!?!? [whimper]

*ps: name the song this comes from and win...uhh....my eternal respect. which is worth, like, A LOT. seriously.

comment spam killaz.

MT geeks, help a sista out:

i've been recently inundated with comment spam (like, ridiculous amounts. daily. help.). one way to solve this problem that i'm aware of involves implementing MT Blacklist, but this would mean upgrading to the most recent version of MT (i'm currently using MT 3.0D). so my question is: how hard is it to upgrade? will it hurt? am i likely to, like, wreck my whole site and/or "accidentally" delete all my previous posts in the process if i do something wrong? anyone have some really simplified instructions on how to do this, ala "MT upgrading for dummies"?

national delurking day.*

that would be today, or so i've read. which means ya'll got some commenting to do, buckos.

so say hello, dammit. don't make me come over there.

*note: offer extended through 1/6, since -- being the big ol' dorkhead i am -- i didn't post this until almost 11pm on 1/5. d'oh!

buy a cigar, help tsunami victims.

our friend john has a cigar up for bid on ebay, with proceeds going to the red cross to benefit those impacted by the tsunami in south asia.

clicky clicky.

My Father gave me this cigar after the re-election of W in November. He
thought it was a real funny joke and laughed and laughed about it. "You
better celebrate with your George W. Cigar -- har har har."
Well, I didn't know what to do with it, and in good conscience, couldn't
smoke it, as I was a devoted Kerry supporter, and certainly no lover of W.
None of my friends wanted it either. So, I decided I would sell it here on
ebay, and donate the money from the auction to the Red Cross, to benefit
recent victims of the Tsunami.

consider bidding, or pass on the link as you see fit!

the pottymouth thing.

if you've read more than a few sentences on this blog, you may have noticed that i, well, swear like a goddamn sailor. and, for the record, yes, we (meaning i) are working on this particular facet of my self-presentation whilst in the presence of my fair daughter, so that i don't end up with a kindergartener whose first utterance to her teacher is "what up, beeyatch?" (though please note that jamie is actively working on getting M_ to say "kick ass!" (ala cartman)).

but that said, we're all adults here...right, motherfuckers?

MOM = Meddling. Omniscient. Maternal.

i just got an email from my mom detailing how she'd been thinking about the setup of the rooms in our household, and had we thought about reconfiguring our downstairs so that our present dining room (an expansive space with lovely bay windows) would become our living room, and vice-versa? "Just wanted to mention it to you in case you wanted to try switching them and see how it looks.  It would give M_ more room to play."

what makes this all the more amusing is that my mother lives in south africa. the woman is quite literally on the other side of the world, and yet is still compulsively rearranging the furniture in my home on a different continent. she's visited our house a total of *ONE* time, for about 3 days this summer. i'm just waiting for the swatches of fabric for slipcovers and drapes to arrive, the furniture catalogs with items carefully circled in red pen and earnest marginalia: "this would look great in the new living room!"

all i can say is thank god i get to pull this shit on M_ in about, oh, 30 years or so.

poopocalypse.

i am our house's director of shit.

today M_ woke up from her afternoon nap covered in crap. okay, clearly she didn't just magically wake up bathed in feces -- evidence suggests a desperate struggle with her full-to-capacity diaper, and then, perhaps, a fit of artistic inspiration which led to freeform body painting and the general slathering of her immediate environs... i heard nothing on the baby monitor to suggest anything was amiss, but when i walked in the room, her eyes -- upon meeting mine -- immediately registered LEVEL 10 HYSTERIA. i did my best to console her, cradling her sobbing, poop-covered body against mine despite, well, the fact that she was covered in shit. something like 3 hours later, everything and everyone was fully and finally cleaned up... just in time for the dog to crap on the floor immediately after i'd changed the cats' litter box.

yeah, poo and me -- we're tight.

fascist toddler tea party.

M_'s favorite thing to do these days is to have a tea party. my first issue with this is: where the hell did she learn about the concept of tea parties? i mean, its not like we've been coaching her toward feminine domesticity, attempting to draw her toward antiquated social rituals popular in the 19th century... anyway, her version of "tea party" resembles not so much something out of edith wharton as a diagnosis out of the DSM-IV, consisting mainly of the organization and sorting of various fake plastic foodstuffs, play dishware, and cutlery, usually by color rather than type or use. trying to put the "food" on plates and/or suggest that we might actually "consume" some of it results in what amounts to a stern toddler reprimand, and the relocation of both food and plate back to their respective color-coded piles.

so at this point i'm thinking either she's the next martha stewart or on her way to developing some sort of bizarre, heretofore unknown eating disorder.

in either case: please, hold me.

and now for a little thing i like to call Critical reportage.

at one point during M_'s bath tonight, jamie and i were, as my mom would say, "horsing around" just outside the door to the bathroom, and i let out a little scream. a few seconds later -- upon entering the bathroom -- jamie reported that M_ had "pooped in the tub" during that time. meaning that, as my mom would say, the "hubbub" we created quite literally scared the shit out of her.

stay classy, internet.

my new years eve, in pictures.

yeah, something like that.

also: best cookies, 2004.

[M_ [heart] mommy]