Sweetney

Five

Her, calling down to me from upstairs: “MOM!”
Me, sipping martinis & eating bon-bons downstairs: “Yes?”
Her: “What does credit card debt mean?”
Me: ?!?!?!!!
Me, using my words: “Umm... it's when someone buys things with money they don't have.”
Me, parenthetically: (???)
Her, incredulous: “How do they do that?!?”
Me, sighing: “I don't know, honey. I just don't know.”

They grow up so fast, don't they?

Good readers of Sweetney, my daughter is five years old today. FIVE. I can't fucking believe it. Can you believe it? All the fingers on one hand, people, ALL THE FINGERS ON ONE HAND!!!

(faints)

(struggles back to consciousness)

I want to say something here worthy of her, something that won't come out sounding saccharine or cornball or sentimental. But let's face it: not.gudda.happen. Because the truth is, in trying to talk about my daughter, all I have are words that are heavy and drenched with feeling.

Last night, as I was putting her to bed, I blew her mind: “This is the last time I'm ever going to read you a story when you're four!” She was suitably impressed with that mildly mindfucking factoid, and though I'd intended to make her smile and giggle, inside I felt the beginnings of a sob creeping up and across my chest as I said it. My baby, my baby.

Because whatever jokes I make (and clearly I make a lot of them), my daughter is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me in my small irrelevant life, bar none. She is the sweetness, light, and endless joy of my existence. Her smile is the reason I get up in the morning, and having her here to wake up to each day is a gift, her life is a gift to me. And the love I feel for her is so ridiculous and enormous and absorbing it makes my heart ache and my eyes well-up with tears of happiness (seriously, does anyone have a tissue?), and yes, it makes me sappy as all hell. My baby, my baby.

These days when I call her “baby,” she protests. “But I'm not a baby!” she says, with the preschooler version of haughty disdain.

And I say: “You will always be my baby, no matter how old you get. When you're as old as Mommy is now, you'll still be my baby.” True, dat.

My baby five years ago:

My baby today:

I love you, my sweet birthday baby.

And now I must go wrap a Mt. Everest-sized pile of gifts.

. . . . . . . . . .
Please to be noting: A mighty mofo delurk is a-comin'. Be not afraid, my friends.

Birthday Girl

A girl and her crackberry

You really can't start em' too early.... (kidding, it's mine, though she probably knows how to use it about as well as I do (not saying much, admittedly).)

Love In The Time Of Calamity

Last night I was watching TV, and realized we have absolutely nothing on TiVo suitable for both kids and adults. On the one end there's Kim Possible and Sagwa the Chinese Siamese Cat With A Long-Ass Stupid Title That Never Seems To End Oh My Stinkin' Hell Show, and on the other there's Californication and Weeds and Curb Your Enthusiasm. Oh and some World Series of Poker thrown in for good measure. We try to cover all the Seven Deadly Sins in our television viewing, you know. We're completists.

Watching the absurd follies of Larry David and his cohorts, it struck me that many, many people I'm close to have been having a horribly suck-ass time lately. Much more than usual. And not the comically well-timed sort either, sadly. Everywhere I turn it seems there's an excess of grim news, misfortune, and accident. Death darkening doors. Estrangement and desertion. I'm not sure what to make of all of it. Should I be plotting moon phases? Consulting old Farmer's Almanacs for insight regarding possible influences written in the changing seasons? Or should I just sit quietly, and wait for the fog to roll back out?

Its easy, at times like these, to feel that the world is coming apart. To let hopelessness take root. And so despairing, to lose sight of things.

But then, as often happens, I found myself at the end of the day perched on my daughter's bed with her, reading The Runaway Bunny and choking back sobs with the turn of every page.

The story is, of course, about constancy, devotion, and a selfless love that seems almost supernatural. It's a meditation on what is most important in our humanity, and how that is unbreakable.

It's about being a Mother.

As I read, all of this flooded into my mind: everything I needed to reminded of. Everything that truly matters floated back to the surface -- wood from a shipwreck that would buoy me to safety.

Well that and to put baby carrots on our shopping list. M loves those fucking things.

Puppy Love

Our friend Justin (who a certain preschooler happens to have an enormous pre-crush on), making his roommate's much-inferior-to-Truman Pug pretend to fly for M.

9/25/07

Iron and Wine, Boy With A Coin
from the album The Shepherd's Dog

I've always loved them, and I'm digging the new sound (and who can resist the handclap hook?).

Not at all bitter. Nope.

Having a kid is totally cramping my style, that much is clear.

You may recall some recent mention here of my husband's well-deserved victory in our CityPaper's annual “Best of Baltimore” issue, a win that bestowed on us the distinct honor and privilege of gaining entry to their exclusive BoB party last week. And since I am sort of moldering in middle-age with a child strapped to one leg (they should make holsters) and therefore rarely (okay NEVER) cavorting about town with the cool kids, I was beside myself with excitement about attending. A party! With adult-type peoples! The cream of Baltimore's hip, insider crop, in fact! Oh, and did I yet mention OPEN BAR?

Huzzah! A drunken octopus on yon invite!

Yep, roger that. I'm all over that shit like a monkey on a cupcake.

Knowing that this party was coming up, I had to -- like most parental units -- jump through several flaming hoops ahead of time just to be able to go. First, I had to secure childcare at a friend's house. Second, I had to synchronize my watch by atomic clock to make absolutely certain I'd be on-point to retrieve our child at a reasonable time, or at least before she turned into a whining, flailing pumpkin and our friend was driven to unceremoniously toss her ass out on their back porch, like sack of potatoes FILLED WITH PURE EVIL (worse yet: PURE STARCHY EVIL!). Third, I had to dig through my wardrobe and find clothing that 1) was befitting a hipster gala in the year 2007 (umm, good luck with that! (snort!)), 2) was (relatively) clean, 3) didn't smell of some odd combination of Cheerios and Gogurt. YES, THE BAR HAS BEEN LOWERED. AGAIN.

Having settled those issues (well, to one degree or other), the evening of the much-anticipated party came. I was, in the words of Alan Greenspan, irrationally exuberant. I dressed with care, changing my clothing selections multiple times for good measure. I put on fucking MAKEUP, man. I applied goddamn hairspray, fer crissakes. And then I waited for Jamie to get home so we could go.

And waited. And waited. Aaaaaaand WAITED.

We'd planned to arrive at the party right when it started at 6:30pm, so I could cram in as much adult party time (see: BINGE DRINKING) as possible, figuring if I left the shindig by 8:30pm I could retrieve M and wisk her home and to bed before her personal witching hour of whining & flailing doom began. That would give me two full hours. Two full hours of blissful I'm not just a parent, I'm a hoooman beeeing! time. Oh joy.

Jamie called from the road around 6:15pm. He'd hit some bad traffic on the way home. He'd be late. He'd be very late.

I wilted.

All told, by the time we finally got to the party it was almost 7:30pm, meaning I had just enough time to slam down a single drink (weeps) and snap these pictures before I had to turn right around and get back into the stupid car. POINTLESS. FAIL!

Revelers beneath the ominous all-seeing Domino Sugars sign

Baltimore cityscape as Missile Command screenshot

The Baltimore Museum Of Industry: presently spotlighting our city's two main products -- Gang Murder & Crack!

Justin, Jamie, Lauren & delicious beers. You're winners, babies!

And sadly, that was it. I raced back to our friend's house and arrived just in time it seemed, as the tension-filled countdown to Preschooler Detonation had clearly already commenced. After putting my daughter to bed at home, I watched some TV. I had some snacks. And I tried very hard to weep quietly, so as not to wake up THE ADORABLE PIGTAILED MONSTER WHO HAS STOLEN MY LIFE FROM ME.

Oh, but I kid the life-stealing monster! Umm, I mean THE LIGHT OF MY GOT-DAMN LIFE.

So now, in an attempt to exhaust this topic fully and thereby purge the kernel of resentment that's taken up residence in my heart, here's a few other things that having a kid has unfortunately put the kibosh on for me:

• Crocodile wrestling
• Picking up hitchikers
• “The Lifestyle”
• Ingesting psychedelic drugs
• Snake charming
• Running out to the store to get things on a moment's notice
• Come to think of it, leaving the house at all on a moment's notice
• Sorority rushing
• Acting out old Gladiator movies using authentic weaponry
• A variety of activities involving nakedness
• Playing LPs backwards
• Drag Racing
• Openly watching “Rock Of Love” or “Charm School” on VH1

I could go on and on, of course. But enough of my festering bitterness -- what's on your resentment-inducing MIA since parenthood list? And late at night when everyone else is asleep, do you lie awake thinking about these things, and do the tears come?

There there, dear.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Aside: I've decided to relocate my Daily Photo (I prefer the generality of Daily Image, honestly) Entry over on a dedicated page, so as not to clog the delicate pipes of mah index page. Please to enjoy (like, every day! DUH!)! I'm also working on a Song Of The Week page, and I'll let y'all know when that's fully operational and ready to rock. Song Of The Week page ahoy!

And a Note to the three of you who care: No, we haven't yet replaced Nemo (or gotten a tortoise, per Mrs. Kennedy's influence), and Jamie and I are still deadlocked over the convertible issue (though I believe the resounding chorus of “BAD IDEA!” from y'all might've swayed him ever-so-slightly away from folly... fingers crossed).

Polehugger

[insert ye olde “keeping your daughter off the pole” joke here]

Not-Quite-So-Bad Housekeeping

If you've been reading Sweetney for any length of time it probably goes without saying that I've been guilty in the past of vigorously complaining about things on this here blog without actually doing anything about the object of complaint (oh hai, innumerable posts about needing to diet and get in shape! (cough))... BUT NO MORE! I am a new woman, one who is all about action and results! Less talky, more do-y! With annoying superfluous exclamation points and stuff! So it is in that spirit (SPIRIT!) that I present the results of yesterday's epic decluttering and organization fest, which I like to call MISSION: M's FORMERLY REPULSIVE PLAYROOM. Behold the no-longer-completely-hideous-and-shameful play space:

I'd just like to note, for the benefit of all my fellow geeks in the hizzouse, that's an old skool Apple G-4 cube she's rollin' with there. Holla.

Omigod, you can actually SEE THE FLOOR! INCONCEIVABLE!

If I'd been brave enough to take a “Before” photo you'd be stunned -- almost as if you'd been held down and tasered at a John Kerry speaking event, Bro -- by my mad decluttering skillz, believe me. Imagine if you will what it would look like if the entire toy section at Target underwent a missile attack, and then a photo was snapped of the resultant wreckage just moments after the last Polly Pocket stopped smoldering. That would be very close to what this room started off looking like. SO NOT JOKING. Is like magic, no?

Of course this is just room one -- I have eight more to go (heavy sigh), including a basement so repulsive I won't let my daughter enter it, and an attic that has slowly transformed over the course of several years into something resembling what I envision a 300 pound rat's nest might look like. But one room at a time, sweet baby Jesus, one room at a time...

Edited to add: Apparently I am a “Popular Parent Blogger.” I have no idea what it means. Isn't that akin to “Popular Elective Surgical Procedures” or something? Am mentioning anyway. Do not know why.

Mutant

Or “Mr.Splotchy.” Take your pick.

RIP

Yesterday afternoon I went into M's room for episode II of my twice-daily Poking Of The Fish, and found Nemo face-planted in the colorful gravel at the bottom of his tank. OH CRAP.

Still not believing he could actually be dead at this point -- since he's faked us out more than once over the course of the past week, the little shit -- I retrieved our fish net and used the thin handled end to conduct a cursory physical examination. Poke, poke. Nothing. Not so much as a fin flutter. That was one dead fish, man. Don't think you can get much deader. This fish is no more. It has ceased to be.

As a side note, this week I couldn't help but be continually reminded of the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch, and have been silently performing both sides of the dialogue in my mind:

Oh Monty Python, is there anything you can't make funny?

Not so funny, of course, was M's response to the news that Nemo had finally and definitely gone to the great fishbowl in the sky. Her genuine, heartfelt mourning over this loss was touching... if somewhat disturbing. Because she was, probably for the first time in her life, grappling with the matter of death, and clearly struggling to understand it. “Will Nemo come back tomorrow?” she asked, through tears. And later, perplexingly, “When I die will I still be in your belly?” It's as if she's searching for an out in this whole death thing, an escape hatch of rebirth or reincarnation -- something to temper the crushing enormity of death's permanence. But then don't we all?

I held her, dried her tears, and gave her a lollipop. I'm sure I probably could've handled things better -- made the moment into something exploratory and instructive about life and the world -- but all that seemed to matter was stopping the tears, the pain. Making things all better. Isn't that what Mommies do?

Car Wars: The Wang Strikes Back

Hey, do you guys smell that? (sniff-sniff) It's a little something like... the odor of burnt hair mixed with motor oil sludge, right? Do you know what that is? It's the smell of pipin' hot marital discord, that's what!

Let me begin this by saying that I've never been a car person -- someone who invests buckets of money into cars and/or aligns their identity and sense of self with an automobile. Since getting my driver's license at age 16, I've had exactly four cars: a Chrysler K-Car that was a hand-me-down from my mother, which I drove for two years until something in its transmission locked up one snowy Michigan morning and it ran over my foot, shades of Christine-style; a lo-fi Ford Escort that was a replacement for the evil demon attack car, given to me by my parents on my 18th birthday; and two Toyota Camrys that were both gifts from my very generous car-molting Aunt Elaine. The last of those two Camrys I still have today: a champagne-colored 1998 model that, admittedly, has seen better days. Over the years it's developed all sorts of minor quirks and defects -- a broken automatic door-lock button on the passenger side door, a blown sound system speaker, a dashboard clock that has retreated back into the recesses of the surrounding console, never to be seen again -- but honestly? I couldn't give a shit less. My criteria for whether or not an automobile is viable is as follows: 1) Does it move, and do so reliably and with an overall lack of discomfort on the part of the driver? And 2) There isn't a #2.

And you should know that Jamie has historically been of a similar mind. Fact is, I had to practically pry him physically from the hideous beater he owned when we met -- a shit-brown early 80s Dodge Spirit that was so heinous in every conceivable aspect that even I had to concede that it was time to throw that baby back (preferably into an erupting volcano or the yawning maw of the Great Pit Of Carkoon (that toothy sand pit thing from Return Of The Jedi)). We replaced that junker with a gently-used Toyota Echo, a fuel-efficient Little Engine That Could that's been serving him well for the past 4 or so years. Practical. Reliable. Appropriate for his hard-wearing daily commute to DC. Perfect.

And so relative peace has reigned in the Automotive Realm of The Sweetney Kingdom... well, until last week.

We've been casually going back and forth for some time about the idea of getting him a hybrid, a choice that seems to make a lot of sense in light of his extended dance mix version commuting and our shared concerns for (and guilt about) the environment. But then something odd happened. Like one of those old Folger's coffee commercials -- “Tracey's husband has been secretly replaced with a tired cliche of American manhood in mid-life crisis... Will she notice?” -- I've been dealt the ol' switcheroo.

Which is to say: he now wants a fucking convertible. And he's using words like “Saab” and “Mercedes” and (OMFG!!!) “Lexus.” Those are bad words. Those are words that hurt. GET BEHIND ME, LEXUS!

Do you think it would help if I chatted casually with him a little bit about the general enormity and girth of his penis? Yes? No?

Needless to say, we're at an impasse. It is now Me, Ms. Cheap-n-Practical, versus Him and His Aging Wang (WANG WANT CONVERTIBLE! WANG SMASH PRIUS! GRRAAAAAHHH!). We may not make it out alive or (ahem) intact.

So as with all important things I turn to you: The Delphic Oracle-like, impartial, and all-knowing internet. Please to select one of the following options, and potentially help to save our marriage:

How should the Sweetney family resolve their current automotive-related dispute?
1. Let Jamie get the stoopid convertible. With the long commute and all he deserves it, and allowing him to purchase it bestows on you a points value equivalent to three years worth of blow jobs, so everyone wins!
2. Your husband has plum lost his mind. A convertible would not only be impractical and wasteful, but ultimately it would fail to make his penis appear any larger than it actually is. It's a lose-lose, man. Go green!
3. Other -- I'm going to explain my thoughts in the comments and tell you what to do, because none of the other options apply and I know better than you nah nanny nah-nah.

I'm counting on you and your collective wisdom to help guide us, dear internet. (And was the “nah nanny nah-nah”-ing really necessary? SO immature.) Though I must add that none of your responses should include calls for a “version 2.0” of the options, use words like “interactivity” and “optimization” in referencing the choices, or suggest ways that we could “monetize” this situation. DO YOU HEAR ME, INTERNET? ARE WE CLEAR? Alrighty then.

Song Of The Week (plus a buncha other stuff)

Band Of Horses, “The Great Salt Lake”

This one goes out cheesy Long Distance Dedication style to Danny, who has been a really caring, supportive friend to me over the course of what's been a pretty rough year. He probably won't even like this song (because he's a dork), but that's not really the point. The point is: “If ever beat down / We know who we are...”

Track Only

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Today's Fish-That-Wouldn't-Die Update: Is it a bad sign when a family pet begins to resemble Lon Chaney?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And finally, in It's Going To Go To My Husband's Head news: His press won our CityPaper's “Best Whatever It Is” (oh HA, CityPaper, you SLAY ME) in this year's Best Of Baltimore issue for the CD they put out of our pal Ric Royer's spoken word/poetry/art thingy (okay, maybe “Whatever It Is” isn't so far off base) called There Were One and It was Two: Annotated Artifacts from the Doubles Museum. (Available here for purchase, if you're into that sort of thing.) Congrats, other Sweetney!

Dirty little secrets

I am a poor excuse for a housewife, as my husband can attest. Above and beyond the aforementioned clutter issue, I often leave loads of damp laundry in the washing machine until they molder and smell like sweaty troll feet, mounds of unfolded clothes crumpled in the dryer or in laundry baskets randomly dotting the landscape of our household for days on end, and piles of filthy dishes marinating in the sink simply because I hate nothing more than emptying the dishwasher (OH, THE UNBEARABLE AGONY). There is visible mold and mildew on the upstairs bathtub shower curtain. There's cat litter tracked throughout our basement where the wretched litter boxes (yes, PLURAL) dwell, cat-sized petri dishes growing god knows what. It isn't laziness exactly, but more like studied inaction-as-protest in response to the scourge of filth relentlessly encroaching on our living space. I mean, I clean something, and then a week later IT NEEDS TO BE CLEANED AGAIN. Will this hideous nightmare never end?

Of course there's more to the story than just rumpled laundry and a few dirty dishes. So in the spirit of full disclosure and unburdening myself of my sins, here's a short list of things housekeeping-wise that I do not do, EVER:

1. Wash baseboards or door/window trim (I mean, C'MON!)
2. Clean behind the toilet (eww!)
3. Vacuum under area rugs or furniture (I don't even want to know what might be living under our couch at this point)
4. Dust anything located above eye-level (out of sight, out of mind, dude!)
5. Clean lightswitches or doorknobs (which are both likely festering with Bubonic Plague at this point, come to think of it)

And so on. Mine is a housewifery of least resistance without a doubt, and while I'm not always proud of the results of that stance, I'm owning it, man. We all have our dirty little housekeeping secrets: our rat's nest-like junk drawers and dank, wretched basements, our closets packed with crap near to the point of involuntarily bursting open like a misfired gag can of peanuts stuffed with spring-coiled snakes.

[tiny voice:] Umm, don't we?

(This is your cue to jump in with the making-me-feel-better Me Too!-ing. Better yet, tell me truthfully: what is your dirty little household secret? I promise I won't tell anyone... heh.)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Having said all that, my domestic failures and inadequacies haven't stopped me from contributing to this fall home shopping guide from JCPenney (or Jacques Pennay, if you're a complete flaming dork like me). True, I'm contractually obligated in blood to do so. But wholesale bartering of my soul aside, I like to think that my contributions there over the next two months will present something like the inept everywoman's perspective on the home (my first post, on the subject House Porn, can be found here). Like if Martha Stewart were a mouthy aging ex-punk rocker tightwad. IT'S A GOOD, CHEAP THING, MUTHAFUCKAS!

And in other, somewhat-related-to-blogging-and-commerce news, it looks as though this as yet unnamed Big Book O' Mommybloggers I have some stuff in will, in fact, be published. Like, on actual paper and stuff. Which would make me an author or something? Maybe? Definitely waaaay weird, but stranger things have happened I s'pose (like errm this, for example (shudder)).

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Today's Fish-That-Wouldn't-Die Update: Still undead living! On the advice of the all-knowing internet, I am now withholding food (as a possible cure, not for the purposes of assisted suicide-type starvation). Must be increasingly vigilant in keeping the fish away from my daughter's braaaaaains: as the hunger mounts, so does THE EEEEVIL.

Death, unlike hell, is not for children

So first we had Wallace the self-de-hairing cat, who by way of self-abusive licking performed the feline equivalent of the endless handwashing stereotypically seen as a hallmark behavior of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in humans. (On the up-side, Wallace can also be used to remove those troublesome fabric nubbins from sweaters -- get your own OCD cat today!) Then Truman the retarded wonderdog went toe-to-toe with some chain link fence and lost. LOST TO FENCING. Oh, the halfwitted humanity.

In summary, it's safe to say we've established that the Sweetney family pets are defective, masochistic rejects. But oh mah lawd, nothing in our recent experience has come close to the epic pathos, drama, and stupidity of this weekend's Aquatic Deathwatch 2007 (sounds much more festive than it actually was, BELIEVE ME).

It began a few days back when I noticed that M's beta fish Nemo was acting, well, sort of listless. “Floaty and deanimated” were the words that came to mind. Instead of his typical acrobatic swirling about in his tank, I discovered him drifting near the surface of the water, leaning lightly against the front wall as if to say: DUDE, I'M FUCKING DYING OVER HERE!1!!!. Usually frenetic and eager at his daily feeding, now the poor little guy's tiny front fins barely twitched when I opened the top of the tank and dropped a few ground-up flakes of food in.

So we all know where this is going: straight down the toilet with a single, decisive flush.

Except it didn't. It hasn't. He's the fucking Energizer Bunny of fish. The Thing That Wouldn't Die of fish. The unstoppable evil zombie fish that can't be killed because ITS ALREADY (UN)DEAD.

Saturday morning I checked in on him and went so far as to call time of death (10:40am, if you must know). You may recall that the last time our family dealt with fish death Jamie and I chose to secretly replace the Original Dead Nemo with a Living Nemo Imposter, basically because we're pussified cowards who'd rather avert our gaze and deceive our child than suck it up and have the dreaded Big Death Talk. But now, with even The Nemo Imposter exiting, we seemed to have little choice. It was time to do some serious motherfucking parenting, yo.

The Talk went something like this:

Jamie: Honey, we have something to tell you.
M: *blink*
Jamie: Nemo was sick, and he died.
M: WAAAAAAAAAAH! I MISS NEMO!!!!!!!
Me: Its okay sweetie, it happens.
M: (quietly snorfling)
Me: You know... the circle of life and shit.
Jamie: (shoots daggers at my skull)
Me: I MEAN, fish don't live a long time.
M: Can we get another fish?
Jamie: Yes.
M: (inappropriately chipper) OKAY! CAN WE GET IT TODAY?!!?
Me: What, no period of mourning? How about a little respectful time and distance before we move on to callously replacing the dead, huh?
Jamie: (shoots flaming battleaxes at my skull)
Me: Alrighty then. Anyone up for ice cream?

So I think that went well. Except that at the end of this conversation, when I went to scoop Nemo's remains from his tank so that we could do the traditional burial at sea, the sucker MOVED. Moved, as in NOT DEAD YET.

Oh jesus fucking christ.

That was Saturday, and the death vigil continues still. A few times a day now I go in and poke the seemingly dead fish, only to have him spring to life and swim furiously around the tank for a few moments, thereafter drifting back into a limp, corpse-like pose on the surface of the water, as if to give us the finger while gurgling: HA! SUCKERS!

Stupid faker fish.

And I know its wrong, but since he's quite obviously on his way out and sloughing off this mortal coil and all that, I have to admit I kind of wish he'd get on with it already. This endless death rattle mambo is excruciating. WON'T HE THINK OF THE CHILD(REN)? Go to the light Nemo, go to the light...

And now I'm strangely hungry for a tuna melt.

Tags: children, daily, family, humor, kids, life, motherhood, mylife, parenting, pets, death

links for 2007-09-14

• Book Deal for Writer Who Fabricated Parts of Memoir - New York Times
  Perhaps the funniest thing written for the NYT, ever
• Should Americans have fewer babies to save the environment?
  Another errm take on environmentalism
• 404 Error Pages: Reloaded | Design Showcase
  404 never looked so good
• Robot maker with a penchant for realism builds artificial boy - CNN.com
  creeeeeee-py!
• Hit her, baby, one more time | Salon Life
  Thanks to Amy (Amalah) for posting about this on MamaPop
• Toddler masturbation: as common as it is taboo. Babble.com
  Funny, but we call it "Private time" too!

Friday Show & Tell, and an observation

For the letter B, the little Sweetney selected Alien Bear, so named because of his odd (for stuffed bears) minty-green hue. I know what you're thinking: the lack of imagination is staggering.

And now the observation: 4 (well, now almost 5) year olds behave exactly like drunken elves. (Or rather, exactly how I imagine drunken elves would behave, not knowing any personally.) (Clearly I need to spend more time in the dewy forest. Or The Shire. Or Middle-Earth or whatever.)

That is all. As you were.

5 easy things you can do in 15 minutes or less to help save the planet

During my therapy session with The Ninja this week, one thing became crystal clear to both of us: I have a pretty fucking grim outlook on the present state and future of life on planet earth. I've always been something of a pessimist to one degree or other -- a part of my temperament I'm certainly not proud of, but sort of an unfortunate fact of my life nonetheless. But in talking it over with The Ninja, something else became clear as well: this gloom-and-doom attitude not only isn't promoting my mental health and stability, it's also become something of a ridiculous and embarrassing cop-out.

Because of course it's infinitely easier to bitch and moan about the environment and global warming and ring your hands over the general sorry state of the planet and the myopic earthlings that people it than it is to actually step up and do something. And while I've never been much of a treehugger or anything even remotely like an environmental activist, I'm thinking its about time I shut up and put up, if only to quiet the voices of doom and gloom rising in my head. Do you hear those, too?

“I don't wanna go to school today”

Isn't it a little, umm, early for this? I mean, I anticipated this struggle come puberty and teenagedom, but freakin' PRESCHOOL? This is not a good kind of precocious.

It's going to be a very long day.

Rocking Horse Loser

I'm more like a BetaMom, if we're being perfectly honest

Last year at BlogHer, the fine ladies over at AlphaMom asked to interview me. And I was all “BRING IT, ANCIENT GREEK ALPHABET BITCHES!” (because I'm classy like that), and then unwisely proceeded to drink my weight in Yahootinis (something of a feat of strength), and plop myself down in a hotel room chair before the shimmering visage of Leah of LeahPeah to get mah semi-inebriated chitty-chat on.

Oh hai, I'm joining a cult!

In an effort to do something resembling actual involved parenting (and honestly, just typing the words “actual involved parenting” made me pull a muscle (though I won't say where)), tomorrow M and I are attending a Family Yoga class, which runs weekly thereafter. This naturally begs the question: does Costco sell Super Jumbo Mega sized multi-packs of Ben Gay? Because I'm going to be needing that shit in great quantities. And perhaps a full body cast. And a mobility scooter. And for those kids to get off my lawn.

Song Of The Week

Manchester Orchestra, “Wolves at Night”

My favorite thing about this video? Dude's wearing flip-flops! He's bringin' flip-flops back! heh.

Track only

Did he say “Tastes Like Mama”?

I say I say I say THANK YOU INTARWEBS.

Declutter Mission Improbable

A post which should probably be subtitled: Oh My God My House Is In Dilapidated Shambles And How Did I Ever Let Things Get To This Point iiiieeeeeee! (A bit wordy that, I admit. Obviously we'll edit it down for the film version).

About every six months or so I wake up one day, take a look around at my house, and feel as though the walls themselves are tightening around me. Space itself seems to be contracting, as objects (ie: Pointless Plastic Crap) are expanding and multiplying all around us simultaneously. Everything is simply too much -- the clutter, the lack of room to move freely (I've all but given up my penchant for Interpretive Dancing), and every surface seems to taunt: “Just TRY to find a place to put a drink down. C'mon, I DARE YOU, BITCH.”

Yesterday marked the reemergence of that old biannual torment. This is not my beautiful house! In fact, I'm not entirely sure I can *find* my house with all this crap everywhere.

So at this juncture, what does any sane person do? GO TO IKEA TO BUY MORE STUFF! But, you know, organizational-type stuff. Stuff to help me with my stuff. Stuff to make the stuff I already have prettier. Stuff to put stuff into, to hide stuff. Why doesn't IKEA just make a gun that shoots out magic lazers that make your stuff actually invisible, since that's kind of what they're going for anyway? They could name the superinvisogun “Krappdie,” in keeping with their needlessly difficult Swedish Alien Naming System. ZORK!

On the good ship Humerus

Ahoy! Shiver me timbers! Avast! Etcereraaaaaarggh!!!!!

(Our NYC poetry friend (and covert pirate), Gina.)

Dear America

You need help. We all need help. Because this? THIS is a problem:

I only say this because I love you. But no, for serious: Professional. Fucking. Help.

(shudder)

Try Try Try to Understand, He's a magic man

Last night Jamie stayed overnight in DC at a friend's house to watch the football season opener, drink some brewskies, and engage in the vaguely homoerotic-tinged behavior typically associated with male bonding (intimate-proximity arm wrasslin' and overheated discussions of gladiator movies, I reckon). So being home alone and carefree as I was, how did I take advantage of all this rare and glorious time to myself?

Well I spent a good chunk of it pondering the finer points of one Derren Brown.

Something is clearly very wrong with me. HALP.

Poultry dorks

The organizers and readers of last weekend's poetry blowout. When I took this picture, I told them all to do their best boy band album cover photo imitation. I think the results (pensive, brooding -- yet friendly and accessible!) speak for themselves.

Jamie (back); Justin (far left); Arlo (middle left); Gina (middle right); Dustin (far right).

Recalling the greatness

I posted about Louis C.K. here and on MamaPop a long while back, but then today my friend Kelly reminded me of the awesome, which you might have missed if you're living in some kind of backward-ass bizarro world devoid of all that is right and good. I've probably watched his HBO special Shameless about fifteen thousand times (give or take a thousand), yet the funny never, ever gets old:

Kelly's going to see him perform live tonight in Pittsburgh. I want to beat her face in with a rock, such is my jealousy.

Pointlessly applying the obvious with a sledgehammer

A recently captured artifact for my ever-expanding People Are Fuckin' Dumb file:

The LOL Long Cat Strikes Back

dun dun dun dun-duh-dun dun-duh-dun...

To truly appreciate, you simply must see the full-sized original.

Fur & Hair Monthly

Well all of our animals are still breathing. That counts for something, right?

And because I OF COURSE obey teh intarwebs in all things, I've decided to take the wait-and-see approach with Truman's boo-boo-cum-baldspot. He seems completely fine, and the ouchie in question appears to now be a much less angry pink than it was a day or so back (more of a soft, gentle pastel and less an eyelash-seering fuchsia). If he suddenly begins, you know, vomiting blood or something, well then obviously I'll concede that teh intarwebs don't know what the hell they're talking about and ferry him off to the soothing, antiseptic embrace of Vetland. Fingers crossed.

In other All My Pets Are Defective Turds news, we did finally get the test results back for Wallace, and guess what?! He's a neurotic basketcase! KITTY NEWSFLASH!

I am not an animal! I'm a hu -- Oh wait, nevermind.

Song Of The Week

Which is, by the by, taking up so much space in my brain this week it may soon be broadcasting out my ears as if they were speakers (not that that would necessarily be a bad thing).

Modest Mouse, “Florida”

Not quite as lucrative as one in the hand

Select one answer only, please

So -- speaking completely hypothetically -- let's say your small(ish) dog came in from the yard one otherwise uneventful afternoon with a large chunk of hair missing. And let's also say that though unsightly and perhaps a little raw-looking, this silver-dollar sized patch on the back of said hypothetical dog's neck showed no signs of blood, or (pardon me) pus, or any serious abrasion even. Just a clean pink patch, the hair perhaps torn off during some sort of ill-conceived Escape From Alcatrazesque jailbreak that ended after tangoing with a little chain link fence. One might hypothesize.

She doesn't wanna grow up to be a Debaser (sad, really)

Over the course of the almost five years of her existence, Jamie and I have spent a lot of time trying to expose our daughter to music we jointly deem Good. And, for the most part, we've succeeding in implanting a few small seeds of our own taste into her musical lexicon. She enjoys The Shins and Gnarls Barkley, John Vanderslice and The Mountain Goats, Elliott Smith and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and will often request to hear specific songs from these artists, much to the overabundant, self-congratulatory pride of her music nerd parents.

Though I should probably add that she does love the Kids Bop. Something must be done about that. Shall I commence with the beatings?

Poetry Tonight

I've been remiss in mentioning that my supremely talented husband will be reading selections of his fine poultry tonight, along with several other NYC poetry-types, and you locals should show up! I'll be there -- once I get the youngin' settled in for the night and the babysitter adequately drugged.

Festivities commence at 8pm at Carriage House, 2225 Hargrove Street (between St. Paul & Calvert). BYOB MUTHAF*%KAS! More info about the reading series can be found here.

Hope to see you there!