Sweetney

For Auld Lang Syne

What better way to close out the year than by looking back at where I've been? To that end, here are my 12 favorite posts of 2007, one for every month of the year:

1. The 'Oh My God I'm In So Much Pain I Could Die' Post
2. Somehow all of this is Bruce Willis's fault
3. Smart Folk: Not Like Us
4. Achieving Maximum Awesomeness
5. “Lisa, vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and Eskimos.”*
6. Puking: A Primer
7. You are what you read
8. Don't worry, I made a significant deposit in her Future Mental Health Care Fund this morning
9. Death, unlike hell, is not for children
10. One tiny dog. Massive amounts of stupidity.
11. My crazy husband. Let me show him to you.
12. Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1899

Good times, friends, good times.

Happy New Year (if a bit early), to you and yours.

SOTW | 12/29/07

Okkervil River, Unless it kicks
from the album The Stage Names

It's a new anthem for a new year, kids. (Sorry for the tardiness, by the by.)

[Track Only]

Life is elsewhere

I have a lot to say about everyone's scintillating, impassioned comments on my last post, as well as general thoughts about copyright and ownership and legalities I don't even pretend to fully comprehend, but am trying very hard to. Mostly I'm just glad this discussion is being had, as it seems one that touches many of us who share our lives on these intarnets. So, you know, rock on and stuff, people.

I'll be posting about all of that soon, and look forward to your responses. But at the moment I can't help but be distracted by what's outside my window. Here, perhaps this will help explain:

Standing before that scene puts everything into perspective to be sure.

Have a great weekend, everybody!

Superstar dork

Would trade all his fame and notoriety for a handful of moldering snausages. Just so you know who you're dealing with here.

Mele Kalikimaka, Muthaf*%kas Jr.®

What's more festive than a powder-blue ukulele? That's right, NOTHING.

We're pretty much damning her to Band Geekdom and years of social awkwardness and ostracism before she even enters school, huh? We're the bestest parents EVAR.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

All I want for Christmas is for FOX to stop using my copyrighted photos in their NFL broadcast without asking my permission

UPDATE!
. . . . . . . . . .

Is that so much to ask? Seriously?

SO. Here's what happened.

Earlier this afternoon I was in our kitchen doing dishes, minding my own business. Jamie was in the living room, watching some NFL football.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Suddenly, Jamie called to me from the other room, claiming I had to come see something. When I entered the room, he unpaused the broadcast he had been watching (thanks, TiVo!), and immediately I saw the image of an adorable pug, dressed in festive Santa gear, pop up at the bottom of the screen beside FOX's Happy Holiday's ticker. I vaguely remember Jamie saying something to me to the effect of, “Gee, that dog looks a lot like Truman, doesn't it?”, but I couldn't really process something as complex and nuanced as language at that moment, what with MY FREAKIN' HEAD EXPLODING ALL OVER THE PLACE. Because that adorable pug? That pug didn't just look a lot like Truman. THAT ADORABLE PUG *WAS* TRUMAN.

After making Jamie pause and rewind and unpause and re-rewind the incriminating footage several times, I was convinced beyond a shadow of doubt. FOX had gotten hold of one of my photos of Truman -- specifically one in a series I'd recently posted here with him wearing a Santa suit -- very slightly doctored the image by removing the flash-flare lighting his eyes (good aesthetic choice there, FOX!), slapped a superfluous Santa Hat on his head, and then dropped the purloined pic into the on-screen graphic rotation for their Saints/Eagles telecast.

I know. Can you even believe that bald-faced shit?

It took another appearance of Hijacked Truman on FOX's broadcast to convince Jamie. Always the eternal doubter and naysayer, it wasn't until FOX threw up on the screen a second, much larger version of the same photo, and I stood beside the television with my laptop in hand pointing studiously to my original photo and then to the nicked one on the television, that he became a believer. See for yourself:

EXHIBIT A: The original photo many of you already know and love:

Durr? You gonna eat that pizza crust or what?

EXHIBIT B: Shot of the screen during Truman's appearance:

OMFG! I've been sucked into an alternate dimension against my will! LE HALP!

EXHIBIT C: Detail of original and FOX's broadcast of the image:

I can has all rights reserved copyrights nao?

Yeah, so as you can imagine, I'm a teensy-weensy bit... oh, how shall I say? On the enraged, indignant, and generally pissed-off side.

I'm trying to imagine what went through the person's head that did this. Did they think that FOX, being a big ol' monolithic Capitalism-with-a-captial-C company could sort of, err, do whatever the hell they wanted? That the words ALL RIGHTS RESERVED and COPYRIGHT somehow didn't apply to them, despite being visible on my flickr stream and on every page of this site, respectively? Did FOX Broadcasting, without my knowledge or consent, sign a contact with Truman behind my back giving them rights to all extant images of his adorable, fawn-colored smushiness? I mean, I know Truman's a bit hungry for fame, but I never expected this kind of shameless Eve Harrington shit out of him. Traitor.

What really, REALLY sticks in my craw is that following all this I was forced not only to sit through several more hours of football just to make certain they didn't show the image again (yes, please shower me with your pity), but I also had to endure the endless tape-loop of FOX's NFL copyright warnings, which seemed to repeat every five minutes or so. Hilariously enough, FOX Broadcasting and the NFL are apparently very, very concerned about legal rights to their telecasts and rebroadcasts of their telecasts. They're concerned about -- ho ho, it's rich -- PEOPLE STEALING THEIR SHIT. But as far as them stealing other people's shit goes? Errm, not so much. See also: Please to go fuck yourself if you aren't us.

Oh and let's not forget that this is the corporation who sued YouTube over leaked TV Shows. Because people, traffic of content between the web and broadcast TV matters. Like, a lot and stuff.

Oh god, I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Listen, the bottomline is that this kind of thing has to stop. It's ridiculous. Hello, I OWN MY FREAKIN' CONTENT. How many times, and in how many different ways, do I need to say this? I have indicated on every single page of this site that my content is copyrighted. I have all rights reserved on my photos. So reason suggests that if you want to use a photo or some other content I've created on a national TV broadcast, YOU SHOULD ASK FIRST AND YOU NEED TO PAY ME FOR IT. And not in NFL-logo water bottles, commemorative hat pins, and autographed copies of The OReilly Factor For Kids. No no no. Greenbacks pleez, beeyatches. Dolla dolla bills, y'all.

In case it wasn't clear, FOX Broadcasting picked the wrong stupid Mommyblogger to mess with.

Oh and FOX legal -- if you're reading this -- you might want to get in touch. Jus sayin'.

PS: God bless us, every one! snort.

Oh my friends I've / Returned to wish you a happy Christmas*

Internet, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year is very nearly upon us. Are you filled to near gut-busting with excitement yet? I sure am. But since the innernets will soon become a virtual ghosttown, with dusty e-tumbleweeds rolling by and nary a fresh blog post in sight, I wanted to take a moment to spread some cheer and count my many blessings.

Okay, here goes: 1, 2, 3, 4.... 12. Blessings counted! ALL DONE! Cocktails, anyone?

And as for the cheer? Well just feast your eyes on this: The Most Appropriate Gift Ever Given, presented by a friend to my husband Jamie:

Warms your heart-cockles, don't it? Oh yes, it's real. (As is the spousal neuroses, natch.)

. . . . . . . . . .

Like most of you, I'll be taking a few days off from the innarnets to devote my time and energies to guzzling my way into a spiked egg nog-induced stupor. But before I go I want to sincerely wish each of you the happiest, most delightful, and peaceful of holidays. Be merry, be bright, and stay warm and fuzzy, kiddos.

Peace and Love,
Sweetney & Family

*A gift of song for you.
+ Another gift: You all need to be reading my friend Laura's blog. It's remarkable. Over/out.

Talk to the paw, etcetera

Ceiba, after several hours spent in the company of myself and Amy yesterday, and our incessant drunken cackling and shrieking:

Bitches, please.

Fancy

Her holiday dress. Black velvet on top, shimmery-gauzy gold on the bottom, with ruffly taffeta underneath. When she spins, the skirt extension is something to behold.

She loves it. God, she's become such a little girl, huh?

PS: New Site Of The Week for your clicking pleasure! Ahoy!

This post has been rated NC-17 by the MPAA, for gratuitous visible dog penis

I don't know if this is normal or not, but swear to maude, this is how the little dude uses his doggie bed:

(Sorry about the dog penis. I think you can handle it though.)

Does that look comfortable to you? I guess his Sleep Number must be Negative 20: I Like To Sleep On Jagged Rocks And Metal Spikes. Weirdo.

My dog needs to be a bigger dork. I don't think he's achieved Maximum Dork quite yet. He needs to work on that.

Look: I've started a flickr group! It's called Mah Fridge: Let Me Show It To You, and is somewhat self explanatory, I guess. I'm fascinated by what people eat these days (can I take a moment and give a shout out to Marion Nestle's “What to Eat”? SO mega-awesome), plus peeking into someone's fridge is sort of like rifling through their underwear drawer or something. Which, you know, interests me. What the hell is in there, anyway?

You should so totally join, right?

Of course the question is: Are they Schweaty?

Because if you're anything like me, you're somewhat hypnotized by round dangly things....

Also: SHINY. Perfection Achieved! [glazes over, begins drooling]

12/18/07

BRMC, Whatever Happened To My Rock and Roll
from the album BRMC

[track only]

PS: PSST! If you haven't yet, you should really download the Sweetney mixes I've posted in the left-hand column on the home page. If you like good things. And I'm guessing you do.

I lived in Colorado, once.

Though I realize that's far from an adequate explanation for this.

Waving and Drowning

When I was eighteen years old, I had a nervous breakdown.

Among other things, I spent two full weeks crying. Two full weeks of non-stop blubbering punctuated only by brain-flooding panic attacks, one of which nearly caused me to wreck my car driving home one night from some place or another (where I was doubtless -- you guessed it -- crying).

When the panic hit, my entire body locked, overcome by a type of non-deathly rigor mortis. It took every ounce of strength I had just to pull that car over to the side of the road, where I couldn't kill myself or anyone else (though at the time, the whole killing myself idea didn't really seem out of the question). I sat on the side of the road and -- surprise! -- cried some more, wondering how I'd get home, or if getting home even mattered anymore. I felt caught between two poles: crushing sadness and paralyzing panic, and both were unspeakably dreadful. I was eighteen years old, and there were moments when I felt that life was, in some profound way, simply over for me. That I'd never get back to that person I was before this huge crack opened up in my head and swallowed the world as I knew it. That something had come undone in me, unravelled, and that my brokenness somehow defined me. Hi, I'm a crazy person! And you? Wait, where you goin'?

I say all of this not as woe-is-me sharing of mah feeeel-ings, but just as backstory to where I am now. Which is... well, for one thing, medicated. But despite that still very much subject to some invisible currents constantly swirling around me, which I have no name for, but that steer the rudder of my emotional life pretty much on a daily basis. Some days the waves crash and the undertow is fierce, and I can barely get out of bed. Other days, it's as calm and still as mirror glass, and I look into it and it looks back at me, kindly.

When I was eighteen years old, I had a nervous breakdown. I got better (whatever that means). And though I've come close to going under again many times since, I've mostly managed to keep my head above water. Mostly. Nine times out of ten? Maybe?

(All of these awkward water metaphors naturally bring to mind Stevie Smith's brilliant “Not Waving But Drowning”:

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.)

Anyway, the past couple of weeks I've felt those waves lapping at my toes again. Gentle, not terrifying -- at least not yet. But persistent. Nudging. A little ominous. And so I've been consciously working on the Feeling Better and Being Good To Myself. Which need to be capitalized as they're sort of programmatic and campaign-like actions, not typically being one who is as good to myself as I probably should be. Because I suck at life.

So this morning I went to the gym (I KNOW!), and spent an hour shuffling on the treadmill while listening to NPR (NPR of course being like taking brain vitamins, right?). Then I went to Whole Foods and spent an absurd amount of money filling our cabinets and refrigerator with hyper-organic pure naturaltastic textured whole vegetable bark-like sugar-free goodness. (Or whatever). I'm salivating with anticipation. I think.

And now? Now it has come to this:

Look out, colon! There's a giant dose of EXTREME HAPPY coming your way! YEE-HAW!

As I understand it, this 2-week program is like having a high-pressure hose stuck down your throat and getting your insides vigorously power washed. Which, you know, HAS to make me feel better, right? Right?

What does your Feeling Better and Being Good To Myself campaign look like? And yes, I'm looking for ideas I can steal. Particularly if they involve afternoon cocktails and naps. Not to put words in your mouth or anything.

Nuclear kitty

Our Zelda, responding with envy to these guys.

I has xmas collar

mmmm... gingerbready.

In other news, I appear to have the flu... or something. Whatever this something is, it's bad. Can't get out of bed even to take your child to school and thereby spare yourself caregiving when sick bad. THAT bad.

Yeah so essentially I may be dead soon. FYI. Farewell, sweet internet...

Mele Kalikimaka, Muthaf*%kas!

Jamie got this last week, just in time for some Don Ho Christmas ackshon!

And if you aren't jealous of the uke, those PJ bottoms must be filling you with almost unbearable levels of envy right now. Don't deny it.

PS: New Site Of The Week available for your clicking enjoyment in the menu at the top of this page!

The Trumans of Christmases Past and Present

Your weekly Truman fix is merry and bright (bright as in gleaming, NOT as in intelligent), and desires only world peace... well that and to show its walrus to you:

Very Merry

12/11/07

The Ravonettes, Dead Sound
From The Album Lust Lust Lust

[Track Only]

Found Image (via Facebook)

Single Baby seeks Prince Charming:

Yes, even babies are tired of the dating scene. And marinating in their own feces. But ESPECIALLY dating.

Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1899

Friday night was Jamie's company's annual Holiday Party, which I was contractually obligated to attend (or something). It was held at one of the Threespot co-owners palatial estates homes, but the scene was decked out with high-end food and bar service manned by seasoned professionals, and no expense was spared.

And because I so totally rule, over the course of the three-ish hours I was in attendance I managed to make just about every single person there uncomfortable by, among other things, calling the tuxedoed wait staff brought in to work the swanktastic gig “servants” (not to their faces or anything, but more like: “Hey what is this, a Merchant/Ivory Film? I feel like we're back in 19th Century India, oppressing people and shit! Awesome!”) -- loudly, and with a lot of superfluous, broad hand gesturing and cartoonish facial contortions.

Needless to say, Jamie's coworkers loved the crap out of me.

Luckily I'd established a circle of tolerant friends at Jamie's work years earlier, ones who are willing to humor me and put up with my absurd shtick, including the great and powerful Bill Colgrove, one of the Threespot owners and the absurdly talented designer responsible for the look and feel of Sweetney.com (who is also apparently something of a vampire magnet, if this photo is any indication) (his neck does look supple and inviting, you must admit):

Tell me I look like Kevin Spacey and I'll punch ya, sucka. HARD.

I also got to spend some time with friend of Sweetney.com Adam Good and his lady Kat. Some of you may remember Adam regaling us with a humorous tale involving Rip Torn?

I have a story about Abe Vigoda too, if you wanna hear that one.

And then my camera's battery unexpectedly died, and absent that amusement I commenced with swigging pitcherfuls of pomegranate Martinis while secretly pretending I was Elizabeth Taylor's Martha from Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf. As is my way.

I think Jamie still has a job. Errm, fingers crossed?

Secret Crush Society

The last of the Rock-n-Romp Holiday Party series... I have a bunch of great photos of Secret Crush Society's set, and couldn't pick just one or two, so here's a bucket o' the rocktastic goodness that is SCS:

(May be related to drillcat?)

I love it when people randomly levitate!

The kids: Shock And Awe

During a song called The Dolphin, look who showed up!

I would like to make out with her. Please.

Answering the burning question: What happens during a snow day at the Sweetney household?

Well, it's getting pretty The Shining-esque over here today, that's for sure:

Everyone say it with me now: Poor, poor Truman.

And the shrieking? I don't get it. And DO NOT WANT.

Under the circumstances, what would you reckon is a reasonable hour to begin drinking, hmm?

Even So...

The first act during Saturday's Rock-n-Romp, Even So, had a freakin' awesome beatboxer perform with them. And beatboxing? Hard to beat. snort.


During the Audience Participation portion of the show, M of course thrust herself into the spotlight. She is the trained monkey of an evil Mommyblogger, after all.


Here Jamie attempts to extract M from the Rock Candy table, where she consumed about 40 free Dum-Dums in less than two hours. The resultant sugar crash later on was pretty incredible, as you might imagine.

Also, please visit the brand spankin' new Sweetney Site Of The Week by clicking on the icon at the top of this page!

Rock Candy

My good friends Joel & Angela (aka makers of M's best buddy Ruby) are opening a freakin' Candy Store (squee!) in our neighborhood (double squee!) in the next month or so, and Saturday's Rock-n-Romp show debuted some of their wares:

By the by, did you know Pop Rocks are now “XXTREME”? (I have no idea what that means)

I love how the string lights produced a floating orb effect on some of these pictures.... IT'S THE HAUNTED THEATRE! WOOOOOOOOOOO!!! (Oh and PS: PINK FRO ACK-SHON!!!)

(My awesome stage-side view from the table next to Rock Candy's) (Free mini-bubbles, anyone?)

Muffintophead

This week's dose of Truman proves that the scope of the problem known as “Muffintop” is not limited to the circulation-constricting pantaloons of hoochie-mamas:

Does this coat makes my head look fat?

Should it concern me that we got billing *under* the MD Uninsured?

(Some of you might recall that I do this little thing called Rock-n-Romp here in Baltimore -- rock shows with live local bands for kids and parents to enjoy together. Well we had a holiday show this Saturday, and I'm happy to report that it was a rousing success! I'll be sharing some images from that over the next few days.)

12/4/07

The White Stripes, Conquest
From the album Icky Thump

(I fully and freely admit to having something of a schoolgirl crush on Jack White.)

...And don't forget to grab a copy of the Sweetney Holiday Mix, if you haven't already!

Oh cursed Friday

It begins with my alarm not going off in the morning. It does not get better.

I rocket out of bed and race around our house chicken-with-head-cut-off style, unceremoniously stuffing my child into something resembling an outfit suitable for preschool public consumption (floral pattern paired with stripes? FUCK YEAH! She's five freakin' years old, man, anything works. It's not like Tim Gunn's around to judge (soto voce: He isn't, right?)), while simultaneously cramming a Quaker Breakfast Cookie™ down her gullet (yes, you heard right: BREAKFAST. COOKIE.), thereby lending support to my growing suspicion that I am indeed The Lamest-Ass Mother In The Galaxy™. At least I excel at something.

Squawking and clucking and flapping frantically around the kitchen, I slather one slab of bread with peanut butter, slap another on top, and cram the finished product into a plastic bag, tossing the bag into her lunchbox alongside a tube of yogurt and raspberry white grape juice. Nutrition is for days when we aren't late. In other words: NEVER.

We fly out of the house. When I drop M off at school, she doesn't cry and protest when I go to leave, as she still does on some mornings. This moment of mild relief is the day's absolute high point.

Believe