Sweetney

Technical Difficulties

Are preventing me from posting my very first Sweet(ney) Talk column -- which I just KNOW you all are anxiously awaiting. But you're just going to have to anxiously await a little longer. So await with me, won't you?

(I'm sorry. My life is a hollow lie. I find amusement where I can.)

ANYHOO, in the meantime please to enjoy these hilarious ecards, which I have just spent the last hour sending out to everyone I know (haven't gotten one from me yet? JUST YOU AWAIT! bwahahahahaa!!!). (Sorry. Again.)

(True, dat.)

The Great Halloween Lantern Parade: Awe

10/30/07

Bloc Party, Flux

Yeah, you're definitely gonna wanna SEE this one as well as hear it...

The Great Halloween Lantern Parade: Chapeau

A Baltimore tradition, the parade was on Saturday. I took a few pictures during it that I'll be sharing over the next several days. This is the first.

Happy Halloween! Because time doesn't really matter, does it?

This post should be subtitled: Daylight Savings Time Can Suck My Left One (or something similarly drenched in subtle wit). Because yesterday my Blackberry cellular phone thingy -- AKA omniscient oracle of all the days of my life -- was nice enough to alert me to the end of Daylight Savings by automatically setting itself back one hour. Technology so rules, right? WRONG.

But of course I believed and trusted it. Whatever the Blackberry says goes, man. I mean really, who questions the Blackberry? Not, umm, me.

See also: I'm a fucking idiot.

It's almost like I'd never even watched Kubrick's 2001. Has HAL taught us nothing?

Anyway, we set all the clocks back in our house yesterday and happily began living a lie. Only this morning did I realize my error. Actually, it was Jamie who realized my error for me, and kindly informed me of the issue earlier today BY YELLING DIRECTLY INTO MY (still sleeping) FACE AT 7 IN THE MORNING (which I guess was really 8 in the morning?) THAT HE WAS GOING TO MISS HIS TRAIN TO NYC FOR AN IMPORTANT BUSINESS MEETING (!!!!!), BECAUSE NO TIME CHANGE ACTUALLY TOOK PLACE. LIKE, OMFG YOU NEWB.

Implied in all the yelling was that this was MY FAULT, of course.

But umm, dude, the Blackberry told me! How can I be blamed for this, I ask you? That's right: I CANT.

At any rate now I'm all discombobulated, and pretty quickly realizing that the only thing worse than adjusting to the yearly time change is having to adjust back to the pre-adjustment time a mere 24 hours after first adjusting to the time change. That never actually happened.

And yes, that was the sound of my head exploding you just heard. EVERYTHING IS WRONG.

The only thing that could possibly make this better would be some photos of the dorkiest dog in the universe dressed up in stupid Halloween costumes. sigh. But wherever would I find....

OH MY GOD, JESUS SAVES!

(cackle)

(I have no freakin' clue what this one is either)

Devil dog! Devil Dog! AIEEEEEE!!!

...

...

Stupid Blackberry.

BFFs

Yet another reason to love Baltimore

This flyer was recently posted all over the Baltimore neighborhood of Hampden:

No, not lost. Just AWESOME.

Thanks to Sugarfreak!

Goodbye Summer

The last of this until spring. From here on out it's icicles and snowmen in the yard, folks. (weeps)

Lantern

Is it just my imagination, or is that owl judging me?

. . . . . . . . . .

Also: Announcing The Sweetney Site Of The Week!

Every Thursday I'll be picking one fabulous blog from my blogroll to pimp out for a full week, with a link in the Thursday Daily Image post, and a prominent top-left-column image-link on all the sweetney.com pages for seven whole days. LET THE LOVE FEST COMMENCE!

Mah Puter

Newly graced with a sticker for my friend Angela's
soon-to-be-opened candy store (squee!).

“Is it gonna hurt?”

Yesterday, as I was digging through some old videotapes attempting to locate a headcleaning tape for our video camera, I stumbled across the long lost cassette containing video of M's birth, a small portion of which I'm sharing below.

Wait -- it's not what you think. I'm most certainly NOT giving the internet intimate knowledge of my nether regions. FOR BOTH OF OUR SAKES.

You see, during M's delivery, Jamie hurriedly set the video camera down on a chair in the room, pointing it in the general direction of my hospital bed, so that he could have both hands free to deflect the rapid-fire iron-fisted blows I was endlessly hurtling at him. But I guess he was pretty distracted and shook up and stuff (people, you will not blame him a bit once you hear my patented ultra-excruciating Dying Heifer Wail -- take that, Tom Cruise!), because he positioned the camera so that you can see almost nothing except part of my arm and the back of Jamie's legs. Smooth move, Ex-Lax.

But the audio, oh my god, the audio. It's two and a half minutes of recorded time that captures the climax to the most important day in my life -- so intense that it's almost difficult for me to process fully. When I watched it (well, listened to it) yesterday, it made my heart race and my eyes well up to again listen to my daughter's entry into the world, to hear her first cry on planet Earth one more time. Though I was at the time drugged and slurring in a manner befitting a certain Trimspa Spokesmodel (RIP), I still think “Oh my god!” is the ONLY reaction I could've possibly had.

So here it is. What the single most important moment of my life sounded like.

Imperfect though it may be, I'm so incredibly thankful that we have this document.

And here's what that looked like:

After they put her in my arms, I was so overwhelmed by joy I could do nothing but gaze down at her and cry.

FYI: Yeah, it pretty much hurt like a motherfucker.

. . . . . . . . . .

Love, meet money: I have a new post up over yonder. Please to visit. Thankee.

Web (with eyeballs)

Where holiday decorating is concerned, we're all about being
understated and tasteful. Oh did I mention it glows in the dark?

Tuesday Monday Truman (plus some additional tasty random bits)

I know, I know -- I said that the festival of Truman humiliation would be on Tuesdays. But it turns out that Mondays are actually a much better day for me to post these on, having had the entire weekend to torment my dog (and photographically document said torment for your viewing pleasure). Plus who doesn't need a little pick-me-up on Monday, right?

My eyes are burning with the hatred of a thousand suns...

Sigh. Are we done yet?

(crown flying off as he shakes himself free of
the sparkly-feathery manacle)

[Tiara/crown suggested by reader Maria! Thanks!]

Monday is all better now, isn't it?

. . . . . . . . . .

A few other things I feel should note, in convenient list form:

1. Here's what I spent my whole freakin' weekend doing. SO NOT KIDDING. I'm really excited about the return of Rock-n-Romp, but perhaps even more excited by the prospect of having hardcore, professional-type help involved. It will make everything so much easier and less spirit-draining for me -- hell, maybe I'll even get to actually enjoy the shows myself in this new world order. MIRACLE OF MIRACLES.

2. FYI-ish: If you haven't visited ye olde MamaPop lately, dude, you're missing out. And did I mention that we've recently added Bossy, Mrs. Kennedy, JenB and Marrit to our stable of fabulous writers? (faints from too much joy)

3. After careful consideration of all your input, the title for my new column has been selected. Ready?

Sweet(ney) Talk

Suggested by Danny (thanks, dude!), this was a modification of a title I'd already been tossing around, and The People seem to like it. And who am I to question the will of The People? I am, after all, your dancing monkey, lest any of us forget.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who submitted suggestions. There were so many good ones, it felt a little Sophie's Choice-ish at the end there. But, you know, in a good way. Durr.

4. Finally, can someone please explain to me the usefulness and/or appeal of Facebook? I'm just not sure I get it entirely. Is it a networking tool? A means by which one reconnects -- whether one wants to or not -- with people from one's past? Just another drain on our nation's GDP and rapidly shrinking attention spans? What gives, Facebook?

Whatever it may be, I did find enough enthusiasm for it to go ahead and join a Facebook group called “Physics doesn't exist, its all gnomes.” I had to. The physics gnomes made me.

. . . . . . . . . .
PS: Internet, meet my new obsession. Sooooo deeeelicious it makes me slur and elongate my vowels.

Tree Ghost

Our whole front yard is infested with them! HALP!

10/22/07

Kanye West, Can't Tell Me Nothin'
from the album Graduation

This video is sheer genius. Nuff said.

How to get along with people

Tacked to the wall in our guestroom. Helpful tips include: “Be careful of another's feeling. Wit and humor at the other fellow's expense are rarely worth the effort” and “Pay no attention to ill-natured remarks about you. Simply live that nobody will believe them. Disordered nerves and a bad digestion are a common cause of backbiting.” I think I know some people who need to get their nerves ordered, don't you?

Your Opinions Wanted

Since the internet invariably does my best thinking for me, I once again turn to y'all for suggestions and advice. Please to provide, oh great and powerful internet hive mind.

The upshot is that I'm going to begin writing a column in cooperation with the site True Mom Confessions, probably in the next week or so, and I'm in charge of coming up with some sort of title for said column. It'll be part advice column, part me reflecting on my own experience(s) as they relate to select confessions posted on the TMC site. Or something. Anyway, the point is to do something not unlike my recent post “Retrospectively”: to say to other mothers out there that I dig their rap, that I am hip to their jive, and that they aren't alone.

All of this is great, except Tracey's brain no worky when presented the whole coming-up-with-a-title part of the deal. So this is where your input comes in. All ideas wanted! I'll be your BFF? Oh pretty, pretty please?

Here's what I came up with on my own:
Sweetney Says
Sweetney Talk
Retrospectively

Now you see how much I suck. HALP?

Hit me, people. America is counting on you.

EDIT: In addition to providing new, fresh ideas in comments (please??), you can also vote for one the titles that I came up with in the poll below, if you prefer. Lamers.

Opinion Polls & Market Research

. . . . . . . . . .
PS: She's gonna punch me in the head for this, but I just nominated mah dear Amy for the Best Parenting Blog Weblog Award. Go vote (by clicking the little “+” button on her nomination (I think?))!

PPS: Amy, please remember: I bruise easily. Oh and stay away from the face, k?

Comrades

Jamie insisted we put the little one out alongside the other on our front porch, “so it won't get lonely.” Sometimes I wonder if I am indeed the only adult in this household (and a poor excuse for one, at that).

Narcissist

This dude's been hanging out on our bathroom mirror all week, checkin' himself out. “OMG, I'M HUUUUUGE!!!” Just in time for Halloween. I guess. Creeps me out, man. Especially when I'm all naked and stuff. [shudder]

Up Through Five: The Story So Far (Deeply Abridged)

Five is such a nice, round number. It's easy to divide things by five. It's prime. It's quittin' time. It's when happy hour begins, and when darkness begins to fall during half of the year. It fits neatly in one hand and often it's just about dinner time. It is odd, but untouchable. And so I thought it a good place to stop and review what I've learned so far, having run through a quintet's worth of parenting years. Here are just a few of the highlights:

Cheerios are magical, as are little yellow goldfish. Have them with you at all times. Forever and ever, amen.

If you can, have two children as close together as possible. You'll have to suffer through a couple of years of an increased workload, but then magically your kids will begin to be more independent than an only child, having had to share your divided energy and attention up until that point. Most importantly: they will begin entertaining each other, and you will never want for a playmate for your child. This is parental GOLD.

Baby Einstein is bullshit. Don't drink the kool-aid.

Bribery is not only acceptable, it is expected. Sometimes it's just plain impossible to get a toddler or preschooler to do something without a trade of some kind. Cut your losses and give in when it's most expedient to do so. It doesn't make you a bad parent, it makes you a sane parent. SANITY GOOD.

Your mother knows more than you'd probably like to admit.

Don't invest in expensive baby or toddler clothes. Even those from The Gap are too pricey. They'll grow out of them faster than you can say Ludicrous Waste Of Resources. Buy a few packs of onesies, some socks, and a few cardigans and pairs of leggings at Target and be done with it.

Relatedly: babies don't need shoes. Cut that shit out.

Bedtime must-reads include: Goodnight, Gorilla; Runaway Bunny; Goodnight Moon; Polar Bear Night; Kitten's First Full Moon. There are of course more, but if you have those you're golden for at least the first two years.

If Cheerios are magical, baby wipes are the fruit of the Gods. Always carry a small pack of these. Even at age five, you will need them daily.

We all think Dora is dumb. It's okay.

Do not entertain your child every moment of every day, as you will live to regret it when at age five they expect you to keep them constantly occupied (not that I would know or anything, ahem-cough). Begin, when they are toddlers, instilling a sense of ownership in your child with regard to their own amusement.

When you have kids, some if not most of your single and/or childless friends will slowly but surely begin their disappearing act. It's not your fault or their fault. You just chose different, and not terribly complimentary, paths.

Play your music for them, not some saccharine dippy-happy kid-centric crap. They'll love a lot of the music you love -- you'll be surprised -- and the rest they'll just have to learn to ignore or tolerate. Don't give in to the lame, friend.

Resist the temptation to get a puppy when you have a young child. While undoubtedly cute, puppies -- at least for several long, arduous months -- require about the same energy expenditure as a toddler. You might as well have another kid -- at least somewhere down the line you can get them to do chores.

TV is your friend. Used in moderation and tuned to channels chock full of pseudo-edumacational programming, there's no harm in it, and don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

The cliches about every child being different and there being no right way to do any of this -- just the right way for your own particular child -- are true, just like the cliches about it being the hardest yet most rewarding job in the world are true.

Guilt comes with the territory. Every damn day. You're not alone.

Oh and PS: none of us know what we're doing either. We're all just flailing blindly, figuring things out as we go along, and making a lot of mistakes in the process.

What would you add or omit? What would be on your own Things I've Learned Thus Far list?

School days

Snapped yesterday before school. Yes, that's a GoTart she's eating. Because in the realm of nutrition -- as with parenting generally -- I am teh awesome!

Truman Tuesday

It would seem that the dorkiest dog in the universe -- which it just so happens I am the keeper of -- has a posse! So, per your requests, I'll be featuring tasty nuggets of photographic goodness courtesy of Truman der wunderdog each Tuesday, to satisfy all your pictures-of-half-wit-canines needs. After all, who am I to deny Truman his adoring (if somewhat misguided) (and possibly insane) public?

I call this one Land Sea Lion (like “Land Shark” but, you know, not all head-eating and stuff):

Is my freakish curly tail not deeeelicious? Tell me you
love me and my chubby inbred mutantness. C'mon!

The archetypal “I didn't do it” sheepish look.
Which he oft has reason to use. Like, HOURLY.

Have some thoughts about situations you'd like to see Truman pictured in? Couture you'd like to see his fuzzy girth crammed into? Items you'd like to see him humorously juxtaposed with? Send your ideas to me at sweetney at sweetney.com or leave em' in the comments here -- if I use your suggestion(s), you'll get credit, kudos, and a little of the ol' linky-love (if you are in possession of a blog/website/etcetera... and really, who isn't these days?)! doitdoitdoit!

New Fishy Friends!!!

From left to right: Steve; Spongebob; Ariel; Gary.
The other Spongebob seems pleased, no?

10/15/07

Radiohead, 15 Step
From the album In Rainbows

It's Radiohead gone jazz... or something. I'm still processing the album as a whole, but this track's a stand-out.

Retrospectively

This morning as I was dropping M off at school, I ran into a haggard-looking mother I hadn't seen before, toting an infant in a carseat with one hand while dragging a sobbing two-year-old boy into the building with the other. As we were checking our respective kids in for the day, I asked off-handedly if her little boy wasn't feeling well. Shoulders slumping, she sighed: “No, I don't think he's liking school very much. He does this every morning.”

I could see in this woman's eyes a kind of crushing defeat I remember feeling back when I first brought M to preschool as a toddler, when every morning brought a fresh hell of heartwrenching, spirit-crushing guilt as she wailed for me NOT TO LEAVE HER! IN THIS PLACE OF DESOLATION AND EVIL! ALONE, FRIENDLESS, AND MOMMYLESS! OH WHY GOD, WHY?!

What kind of mother -- nay, HUMAN BEING -- was I, anyway?

I looked at this mother and thought about all the things I wish someone had told me as I waded through those early years of parenting. All the reassurances I never got (or, I suppose, never fully believed if I did get them), all those moments when I felt completely adrift and alone, and nowhere near up to the task of caring for a young child. The emotional toll more than anything else left me feeling flailing and frantic on a daily basis. It often felt to me as if someone important had handed me a piece of paper with the beginnings of an unfathomably complex mathematical equation written on it, one that when completed would solve all the problems of the earth and humanity, saying to me only: “Here. Figure this out.”

And though obviously the reality of the situation was far from that weighty or dire, the intense and pressurized feeling of responsibility, and the overwhelming sense of my impending inescapable failure, filled me with deep, black dread. During M's infancy and toddlerhood, dread was my elevator music: a low, droning hum playing in the background of my every waking moment. Who thought I could do this? What kind of drugs were they on when they entrusted this tiny, needy human to me? And can I please have some of those drugs, because to be perfectly honest I could really use them right now. LOTS OF THEM. Do you by chance have something sedating in a Value Bucket-size?

I'm not sure how and when this changed, exactly. To be sure, I still have my moments -- many documented with regularity here -- when being a parent confounds and frustrates me, when I feel inept and impatient in the face of the relentless and ever-evolving challenge of caring for a human child. It's like trying to hit a moving target: once you think you have an issue or problem in your sights and fully sized-up, it moves and shape-shifts into something altogether different, and does so endlessly, exhaustingly.

But I don't often feel that level of ultra high anxiety I used to these days. Maybe I've gotten used to the trials and tumult of parenthood and adjusted my internal Threat Level emotional responses accordingly. Maybe it's just that she's older now, and isn't so completely dependent on me for everything. Or maybe it's the drinking... Yeah who am I kidding, it's probably the drinking.

So this morning, in my best confidential and on-the-downlow voice, I confided to this wilting fellow mother: “Oh I KNOW. She [pointing to M] was practically hysterical every morning when I brought her to school for, like, an entire month. It was HORRIBLE. But then one day, suddenly, POOF! -- she was fine. It was like I wasn't even there when I went to leave. She couldn't have cared less.” All true.

Immediately her face brightened, relief almost visibly washing over her. “Really? Oh god, I can't wait for that day...” she exhaled, smiling weakly. “It'll happen. Hang in there” I called as I scooted M off to her classroom.

I knew it wasn't much consolation, but at least it was something. Because I also know from experience that sometimes just a few simple words from a total stranger can be enough to at least temporarily cut through that thick fog of maternal loneliness and guilt: I've been there, I know where you are, and it gets better. No really. It does.

. . . . . . . . . .

PS: Psst! Hey kid, want some awesome art on the cheap? Then check out my latest Fall Shopping Guide Post. (And you can thank me later.)

The bathtime fun never ends (Or: Hail Satan!)

Her: “Mommy, have I told you recently about my lord and master, SATAN?”
Him: “[pant pant] Yeah Yeah! Satan! Heh-heh! Satan! Yeah! [pant pant]”

Best. Slippers. Evar.

This, my friends, was a purchasing NEED, not a want. I think you understand.

Bzzzzzz

In the midst of this past weekend's parade of The Shining-like torments, I decided that M and I needed to go shopping. Because there are really only two possible things to do when life is getting you low: 1) eat items primarily composed of chocolate, preferably in a quantity equivalent to the size of your own head; 2) buy stuff. And since I'm on a diet (which I've hesitated to mention here, because it seems like some sort of self-defeating curse activates the second I do, though I have lost over ten pounds shhhh! okthxbai!), the whole head-size-chocolate option was kind of out. Sadly.

So we headed off to Target, and bought a bunch of stuff we probably didn't need (as is the way of Targetdom. Is it even possible to visit that place without spending at least $100?). But in the process discovered a third -- and heretofore incompletely realized -- spirit-uplifting option: dressing your dog up in a humiliating costume and taking pictures of him to post on the internet:

Why you do this? Why?

I am filled with self-loathing and the odd desire to go hump some flowers


Mmmm... honey...

Oh thank you sweet baby Jesus for life's small pleasures.

What was waiting for me on my desk this morning

My husband so rules.

(Contains No Actual Poop) (Or So The Packaging Claims)

Why you're so money and you don't even know it

For the past two weeks Jamie has been working ridiculous hours, often not getting home until I'm nearly in bed. It's crunch time for a web project they've been working on at his company, a project which I have vowed to not disclose details about to the internet under pain of death and/or dismemberment. But suffice it to say it's big and involved and high-profile, and that it has become a gigantic, soul-sucking black hole at the center of our family life. When I do catch the odd, fleeting glimpse of Jamie at home I now say “Oh, do you still live here?” -- and it's not much of a joke, really.

This weekend he worked the whole of both Saturday and Sunday, leaving me -- already exhausted and run ragged -- in the role of Head Stooge to one very unsympathetic five-year-old. More than once over the course of that 48 hour period I found myself reaching what I call Maximum Density: the point at which my skillfully constructed facade of sanity, patience, and calm begins to crack under the brute, head-poundy force of unrelenting preschooler irrationality. I begin hissing words through my teeth. My body tenses. My hair becomes rigid (okay not really, but you get what I'm saying). Words sputter and crash Tourettes-like from my mouth: IF I HAVE TO SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME... I'M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN... NOT ANOTHER WORD... NO NO NO... ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME... ARE YOU DEAF? (Answers: Yes, you will; ORLY?; But I have to tell you something!; Yes yes yes; No; Huh?)

All of which begs the question: how do some of you people do this all day every day by yourself and maintain some modicum of mental health and stability? I'm dead serious here. Because at times like these I honestly start to feel as though I may have a chip missing or something -- that my version of humanity came with a woefully inadequate supply of some essential Mothering nutrient that would allow for the much-extended dance version mix serenity and patience I see in many of my Momrades (comrades+Mom=). I just don't have that, whatever that is. Am defective, I guess. (shrugs)

While I'm thinking about this though, I should perhaps mention that I believe I'm also missing whatever it is that makes some parents actually appear to enjoy getting down on the floor and acting out elaborate action-figure-fueled scenes of their child's devising. Sorry, but I just don't get it. I mean, I'm all for imaginative play and such, but is it really absolutely necessary for ME to get directly involved? When did being your child's playmate become a parental requirement, exactly? And is there a loophole somewhere I can wiggle through? After all, I DO have a whole stack of New Yorkers sitting in front of me that desperately need to be read, and almost the whole season of “Tell Me You Love Me” TiVoed and patiently awaiting my eyeballs. PRIORITIES, PEOPLE!

(You may now pat yourself on the back for being better at this whole parenting gig than me. GO YOU! YOU SO WIN! If I had a medal or something, I'd award it. Or beat you over the head with it until your screams slowly subsided. I can't decide.)

And now that I've managed to drain away all your sympathy toward me and my harrowing solo parenting predicament, let me distract you from my inadequacies by pointing you to this here Great Mofo Delurk Blogroll as well as my impending participation in this year's NaBloPoMo (Kool-Aid? DRUNK).

Did that work? No? Okay, well then howabout this adorable whistling puppy?

SUCKA!

. . . . . . . . . .

EDITED TO VERY RANDOMLY ADD:

I haven't laughed that hard in a while. Those hand claps sure do bring the rock. (Thanks, Bill!)

10/8/07

Mobius Band, Friends Like These
From the album Heaven

BONUS VIDEO TIEMZ NAO:

The New Hair

Someone is clearly not amused

One tiny dog. Massive amounts of stupidity.

Friends, we may very well be in possession of the dumbest canine on the planet. (Is there some kind of booby prize for that? Like a giant silver chalice filled with poo, inscribed with our dog's name and the telephone number of the nearest emergency vet? (Attractive AND functional!) Or something?)

To be completely fair, I think Truman has a great deal of one kind of intelligence, just little to none of all the others. He has what modern psychology refers to as Emotional Intelligence, meaning he's quite adept at things like gauging the moods of his owner-humans, and when might be the best time turn on his patented Head Clown In The Idiot Parade act to make us all laugh, or the appropriate moment to lunge in for a sweet nibble on M's nose to make her squeal with glee. He's quite clearly figured out what we find amusing and irritating in his behavioral bag of tricks, and is skilled at manipulating those in various ways to his advantage. Generally speaking, he's funny and goofy and actively entertaining, which I suppose could be accurately described as Merits Of The Not Completely Stupid. But put his talent for being Mister Personality Plus aside? Dumb as a fucking rock.

Remember Truman's recent scuffle with our chain link fence? A scuffle which ended in him tearing out a decent-sized swath of his own hair in the process? Well one might think that such an experience would dissuade the average canine from engaging in that particular behavior again, what with the pain and hair loss and general unpleasantness involved. But then let's remember that Truman isn't an average canine, oh no. He's a moron.

Yesterday after Jamie returned home from work, he ran his hand over Truman's back and felt something wet. “Oh god, I hope it's not blood!” he gasped, jerking his hand away reflexively. And guess what it was! GUESS!

(sigh)

Another patch of hair gone, but this time with some blood. Or bloody ooze. Or perhaps our dog is making his own gravy? Anyway, it was some moist bodily nastiness that I was frankly in no mood to investigate and explore in fine detail. I washed, dried, and Bactined the crap out of the general area, all the while verbally admonishing the stupid dog for his stupidly stupid stupidity as he gazed up at me intently, looking deep into my eyes with an expression that said “Gee, I wonder if her eyeballs taste like snausages?”

Since then I've done a full perimeter sweep of our entire backyard, scouting out both sides of our fence for any obvious gaps or defects, with no luck. To be honest, I expected to find at least one partially dug Hogan's Heroes-type tunnel somewhere along the line -- a visible indicator of Truman's desperate, clawing attempts to flee what he apparently views as a death camp-like existence which he must escape at all costs. Like its freakin' Doggie Dachau over here or something. OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, MY DOG IS ROBERTO BENIGNI. (That makes almost too much sense, actually.)

So in the absence of an obvious solution (fix fence, fill in hole(s), all better!), there seems to be a number of possible next steps we might take, some being more tenable than others:

1. Never let Truman outside again, resign ourselves to living in fecal filth and putrescence
2. Wire our fence with low-voltage electricity, wait expectantly for the tell-tale scent of burnt hair -- SHAZAM!
3. Tie him to some sort of lead that prevents him from reaching the Fence Death Zone
4. Take him for several daily walks (YEAH, RIGHT)
5. Let him in the backyard but watch him like a hawk the entire time he's out there (YAWN)
6. Do nothing different and hope against hope that he catches a clue, grows a brain, or otherwise works this shit out on his own

Bet you can't guess which of those options I'm leaning toward. Here, I'll give you a hint: it's not numbers one through five.

I guess it's too late to return him, huh? Bring him back to the breeder: “Oh hai, this one is defective. Can I exchange him? Perhaps for something in a soft chocolate brown, AND WITH A GOTDAMN BRAIN?”

. . . . . . . . . .

PS: Please to enjoy my epic on hardwood floor care (no, for serious). Because I love.

Engaged in a rousing game of “Who's Fatter?”

Maxine: “i has chair... so step off, inanimate mutant!”

Amy, Noah and Heather

Hey! Everyone turn your head! (D'oh!)

Would it kill ya to comment?

THE DAY OF RECKONING HAS COME.
ONE WOMAN.
ONE BLOG.
YOUR MOTHERFUCKING COMMENTS.
YIPPEE-KI-YAY, MOFOS.

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

So please drop a quick Hello, Hey, or Hi in comments, just so I can stop feeling eerily watched by a thousand silent eyes.... and whatever else you'd like to add, including an answer to the following query, if the spirit moves: If you had a theme song, what would it be? And if a blog entry posts in a forest, and there's no one there to read it, will the rabid squirrels still gather and tear it to shreds?

C'mon, give me some lovin', peoples.

. . . . . . . . . . .
Unrelatedly, I have a new gig over at True Mom Confessions, snarking bi-weekly about celebrity. Those of you who actually endured watched “Hey Paula” will doubtless appreciate my inaugural blurb (“Warriors.” snort.).

I wanna hold your hand

M & Noah. Ah, young love...

You say it's your birthday? It's my birthday too, yeah!

M is home today, as her entire school is closed for, and I quote, “Professional Development.” Nonsense, I say! Howsabout “developing professionally” by oh, I don't know -- actually working with children? As per your profession? I mean, what's on the agenda for today's skillset-building seminar over at the preschool, instruction on building more structurally sound block towers? The most expeditious way to hose down five-year-olds who've gotten just a little too enthusiastic with the acrylic paints? WHAT?

Perhaps a better (and infinitely more pressing) question would be: how many hours of The Wiggles do you think my daughter can watch today before her head explodes? Five? Six? Not that I'd allow that or anything. cough.

Anyway, this weekend was a whirlygig of a blur of Birthday Party Madness that must be shared. I got on that beastly carnival ride early Saturday morning and rode it hard, straight on til Sunday night.

The puking, as you might imagine, was INCREDIBLE.

Saturday the wee Noah was up to bat for birthday glory. He's the son of my friend Amy. She has a blog. Perhaps you've heard of it. snort.

Not-at-all-half-assed monkey party theme in full effect, hombre.

I love how my daughter weasels her way into shots. Like “Hey, this is *my* family too, right?”

Amy goes in for a desperately needed candle adjustment. THANK GOD YOU'RE ON IT, AMY.

I also got to spend some time during these festivities with the lovely Heather, who did an excellent job saving my comfy chair for me when I needed to temporarily abandon my during-party seating so as to obtain various food and beverage refills. Being a personal seat-saver is high on my list of Qualities Most Desired In A Friend, as I think of it as indicative of one's loyalty, fidelity, and willingness to piss off others while rabidly guarding a comrade's territory. = TRUE FRIENDSHIP.

Sunday was my own dear daughter's party, and OH THE SHAME, I HAVE NO PITCHERS. But wait -- before you write me off as a completely incompetent and unfit parent, let me explain.

It was at Chuck E. Cheese's.

And okay, so maybe that just confirms (nay, EMBIGGENS) my parental incompetence and unfitness in your mind, but in my own defense, that place is death to the photo op. If you've never been, imagine the animatronic horrors of The Country Bears Jamboree from Disneyland, with some Max Headroom, Studio 54, and child psych ward flava mixed in. I couldn't get my eyes to focus long enough to even think about snapping a photo. AND IT WAS SO GODDAMN LOUD, HOW IS A PERSON SUPPOSED TO THINK CLEARLY IN THAT PLACE ANYWAY? YES, I'M SHOUTING.

(sorry about the shouting.)

Anyway, the point (I guess?) is that SHE had fun. I mean, it wasn't MY birthday, fer crissakes. (Thank you god.) She wanted it, she asked for it, she got it. But oh lawd, that Upchucky Cheese place is mass-marketed wholesome family fun meets inner-city crack house, essentially. I swear to gawd, M and her friends spent a good two hours just twirling around in circles giggling maniacally, all hopped up on the reconstituted from 100% pure Pixie Stix sugar-dust “fruit punch” they were swilling. WHEE!!! CRACKATTACK!!1!!!

On the upside, she also made out like a bandit in the gifts department, meaning I shouldn't have to purchase a single got-damn toy for her again until christmas. So I call it win-win, man. A little crack never hurt nobody, right?

BUT to make up for my inability to provide you, teh intarwebs, with your recommended yearly allowance of birthday party photo goodness, here's a picture I took of M a mere 19 hours before her drug binge crackfest party, at our neighborhood's annual fair:

Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?

Done! Now you nearly feel like you were AT the party, right? It's as if you can almost actually hear the strained retooling of Huey Lewis & The News songs to make them palatable to five-year-olds when sung by a 6 foot tall robotic mouse. And this without the singed corneas and aftershock-like post-strobe seizures you'd be enduring had you been physically present. Oh and the total loss of self-respect, of course. You lucky, lucky bastards.

Birthday Boy

10/1/07

Rogue Wave, Lake Michigan
From the album Asleep At Heaven's Gate

Pop-y-Folky? Folky-Pop-y? Or howabout just plain Magically Delicious? YOU DECIDE.