Sweetney

Let's start the weekend off on the right foot, shall we?

Because nothing says TGIF, MOTHERFUCKERS! quite like Stephen Colbert dancing a jig while singing "King Of Glory":

(Thanks for the heads-up, Angela!)

Oh hai, I upgraded mah website

SO! After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, including a brief period yesterday during which I seriously considered hunting down one specific "Customer Service" (SO airquoted) representative from my old web host and cutting his heart out with a pen knife, VOILA! Welcome to Sweetney 2.0, rev 3 (or whatever), now hosted on TypePad. I know, it doesn't look much different. Which was kind of the point, actually.

But then, durr, why did I move to TypePad after four years of self-hosting, you ask? Isn't that sort of a downgrade, you query? Am I just some kind of pussy, retreating to the confines of a managed host, you snort?

Yes. Yes I am.

Honestly, that's not far from reality. Truth be told, over the past four years the back-end (heh, she just said "back-end") and behind-the-scenes tech shit I've had to deal with relative to running Sweetney has been MASSIVELY PAINFUL. For while it's true that I'm geeky enough to enjoy code and design tweaking, increasingly I found that the amount of energy and time I was putting into that stuff was starting to eat into *actual writing* time. And increasingly this felt like a waste, and more frustrating than enjoyable. So why not simplify and streamline and cut out the techy BS so I can focus on my main goal: bringing delicious content (and contentment! because I'm concerned for YOUR happiness!) to you, the people? BINGO.

Massive shout-outs to my hero and savior Anil Dash for hand-holding me through some of yesterday's migration, and Jonathan Schrieber from FM for holding my hand during the parts when Anil wasn't. My palms are, indeed, sweaty with love for you both. Does that frighten you?

(by the by, y'all should make sure you have the right RSS feed for Sweetney, what with all these changes and stuff. The right feed is: http://feeds.sweetney.com/sweetney -- update accordingly!)

. . . . .

But before I go dunk my head in a celebratory vat of vodka, I need to attend to answering the following question for a little round-robin-type action Catherine and I cooked up:

"How (The Smiths, Nirvana, Debbie Gibson, *insert band name/artist here*) Changed My Life." Pick whatever band, performing artist, one-hit wonder - even just a single song, if you want - and write a post about how it moved / rocked / utterly transformed your adolescent / teenage / young-adult self.

I had a big long answer that involved lots of, you know, words and stuff. Words that described things. That were descriptive and imaginative and expressive and stuff. And then I decided to move my site and all four years of its content yesterday, so the words? They do not flow.

But I will say this: I know for certain that I would not be who I am today if it weren't for The Smiths.

And I know that sounds stupid and cornball, but when I was 13 years old I heard their self-titled LP for the first time, and it was revelatory. Over the ensuing years, as I stumbled forward through my teens and my obsession with the band grew, their music expressed perfectly my feelings of strangeness and alienation, my sense of being an outsider and not fitting in. In many ways, The Smiths made me feel, for the first time in my life, that it was okay to be lonely.

And they opened up a new world of music to me: The Smiths begat The Cure, all the 4AD artists, Creation Records, and so on. The soundtrack to my youth began with them. And my sense of being so alone ended. Beautifully, Iike so:

What band, song, album, or artist changed YOUR life?

. . . . .

Please to peruse more life-changing musical reminiscing at these fine Sweetney-approved sites:

Her Bad Mother: www.badladies.blogspot.com
Oh The Joys: www.othejoys.blogspot.com
Whoorl: www.whoorl.com
Mamalogues: www.mamalogues.com
Mrs. Flinger: www.mrs.flinger.us
IzzyMom: www.izzymom.com
Mom-101: Mom-101.blogspot.com
Girls Gone Child: www.girlsgonechild.blogspot.com

Next stop: TMZ

(Snapped after a long, harrowing night out dodging the paparazzi with Britney and Paris.)

(PS: If the sentence above actually came to pass in reality, I'd ask that someone please take pity on me and SHOOT ME IN THE FACE.)

If you're happy and you know it wag your tail

When we brought Truman home three years ago, M was still very much a toddling toddler, and it was unclear to us at the time how close of a relationship would ultimately develop between dog and child. While we hoped for the best, and tried to encourage interaction between them, Truman's relentless, manic puppy energy, coupled with his tendency to assume the form of a fluffy, fawn-colored projectile whose one goal in life was to systematically mow down small children in his path like bowling pins (all the more satisfying to target because of the impact shrieking!), was just a wee bit off-putting to the still unsteady and very mowdownable M. And so, for what seemed like a long time, Tru's frenetic-spastic puppyishness and serious lack of boundaries made M keep her distance.

But over the past two years, Truman has calmed and mellowed, and M's grown bigger and stronger and more sure-footed. He can no longer topple her with a single, decisive leap, and now it's her that's doing the chasing, around and around our downstairs squealing -- from living room to entry foyer to kitchen to dining room -- trying to tackle him and give him a hug.

Tables? Freakin' TURNED, dude.

Corny as it sounds, some days I can't help but get a little misty when I see them together. A girl and her dog. Harassing and tormenting and teasing one another, just like God and nature intended. Love may be too small a word.

He's so excited, he just can't hide it

(pant pant pant) Did you say WALKIES?!?!? (pant pant pant)

OMG! All Online Data Lost After Internet Crash!1!!!

I don't know if you've been tracking The Onion News Network, but I'm pretty well sold on its radness at this point. Exhibit A:

Genius, people. Sheer Genius.

Garfield Minus Garfield

I have a difficult time articulating exactly WHY these are so funny, but there's something deliciously surreal about them that cracks me up.

Garfield Minus Garfield

threespot

Because you care (oh let's pretend!), here are some photos I took at Jamie's workplace, threespot, this weekend:

I don't know about you, but I for one kinda wanna work there now.

Hey, Let's Go!

Allow me to infect you with share with you the song that's been playing non-stop in my head for the past several days thanks to M, the HAPPY! HAPPY! theme song to My Neighbor Totoro:

Look at all my many friends! Ready, set, let's goooooo!!!

You're welcome.

Stop the world, I want to go lie down for a bit

Hiya, hon.

Just popping in to say that I'm not so much suffering from writer's block as I am from incessant, low-grade illness coupled with incessant, low-grade depression. I'm not sure which came first -- it's a classic chicken-or-egg situation -- but regardless, here we are. Snotty and sad, despite struggling mightily to be neither. Oh whattawuld, whattawurld.

I should also add that my house is a rickety, teetering pile of stinking mess, that I've worn essentially the same clothing for three days straight, and that I owe a bunch of people stuff I promised them days and days ago -- paperwork, and other important-seeming things -- which taken altogether makes me want to retreat to the safe, cradling embrace of my couch all the more.

And yes, I do realize that I could've used the energy it just took me to write all of that down to actually DO SOMETHING. Thanks for pointing that out. Now please go to hell.

I know, I know. It's a cycle. I'm in a low period, I will, like the South, rise again. Nothing to do but ride it out, and try not to break too much important shit in the process. Still, every time it sneaks up on me I wish I knew some secret -- had some kind of magic wand I could wave -- to break this dark spell.

(I kept her home from school today, selfishly. Just having her here means I kind of almost HAVE TO be a little better, a little less wretched and glum.)

Come Armageddon, Come Armageddon, Come...

I took this on the approach to Baltimore coming back from DC this weekend. Post-Apocalypicious!

Weekly Flickr Timecapsule

A superfabulous idea. Sign up (free!), and get an email every week with last year's photos. Awesome!

Black Kids, I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You

  From the EP Wizard Of Ahhs

Currently #1 on M's personal Top 10 list! With a bullet!
[Track Only]

Why I oughta pound you!

Oh, the comic facial expressions.

We met up with our friends Jon and Eric this weekend in DC. Jon -- here on the left -- was threatening fisticuffs, I believe. Clearly he's not yet properly acquainted with the awesome power of the Sweetney FISTS OF FURY.

Operating Instructions

Really? You mean you can't just hose em' down? Well color me embarrassed!

The full set of images are a must-see.

True Internet Dork Mom Confessions, Pt. DEUX

(Part Un, because you're a completist.)

sweetney: dude, m's getting into Hannah Montana. i'm going to die.
kdiddy: hahahaha
sweetney: so wrong
sweetney: isn't that a pre-teen thing?
kdiddy: i don't know. i think that's what it's geared to but i know a lot of kids around that age are into it
kdiddy: a lot of kids in k's class are into her
sweetney: m loves music. it makes sense. and yet i still want to die.
kdiddy: i was getting ready to take k up a little bit ago, and i stretched
kdiddy: and my shirt went up a bit and he saw my stretch marks
kdiddy: of which i have about 8 billion
kdiddy: and he said, “ew, when did you get all those scratches?”
kdiddy: i was like, “they're stretch marks and YOU DID THAT”
sweetney: that's some good parenting right there
sweetney: kudos
kdiddy: thanks!
kdiddy: i pointed out my favorites
kdiddy: like, “look at this one. it's huge!”
sweetney: dude, even if i got in shape, i could never, EVER wear a bikini
sweetney: my life is, essentially, over
kdiddy: yeah. my shit got so fucked up
sweetney: i can't really decide who is more at fault: jamie or m?
kdiddy: i blame the kids
kdiddy: they didn't have to be all restless and shit
sweetney: i guess i can just spend the rest of my life tormenting and guilting them both. you know, to be on the safe side
sweetney: yes, why do the children have to MOVE and DEVELOP in-utero? JEEZUS.

Oh come now, you know you so want to be our friend.

Or umm, you know, not. cough.

What are you doing Sunday night?

Because people, you NEED to be hanging out with me and all the other Gorgeous Ladies Of MamaPop during our Oscars 2008 Extravaganza. Yes, that's a need, not a want.

The festival of betchy snarkitude will start this Sunday at 7pm ET, please to consult the details here. After the show, we'll spend some time braiding each other's hair and talking about which boys we think are the dreamiest. It's going to be totally tubular.

In the meantime, this just gives me an excuse to put up the following video of tasty-deliciousness:

(swoooooon.)

Also see part 2 and part 3.

PS: SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAAAAAY!!!

My desktop makes me all weepy

It's almost as if I WANT to hurt myself. (Photo of K & M from our beach house vacation aroundabout New Years.) OH, LE SIGH.

"I don't want to be this way. But I am, so don't be mad. Be understanding."

This piece, about a girl with Autism who communicates lucidly through her computer, completely blew me away. Powerful, powerful stuff.

Additional video here. Carly also answered some viewer questions here.

It's amazing how little we understand about Autism (and about the brain generally). I heard a piece on NPR recently that discussed how Autistic children sometimes emerge temporarily from the disorder when they have a fever, as if there is a perfectly "normal" child trapped beneath a veil of Autism. (I just did a search -- that piece can be heard here.)

Here's hoping all of these breakthroughs lead to a cure -- or at least some newer, more effective treatments for Autism.

What Truman's doing when no one's around

Yeah, that's right. Getting himself a little hawt pugglet ackshon (thanks, Bruce!).

Sweet little lady

There are times when I look at her and see a glimpse of the lovely woman she's going to grow into being. This photo captures one of those times.

And I hope when she does grow up, she'll still wear goofy cartoon cat t-shirts. Just like her mom.

I am Tracey's compromised immune system

I've spent the last 24 hours looking directly into the fabled Heart of Darkness, fighting internal parasites and buckets of mucus. Fortunately, I can report with almost 100% certainty that the fabled Heart of Darkness in no way resembles a bald, bloated, and shirtless middle-aged Marlon Brando. So that's good news, I guess.

I don't know that the cold I caught is a virus so much as it is A MERCILESS KILLING MACHINE, a viral version of those giant man-eating intergalactic bugs seen in movies like “Alien”. Indeed, if this virus could, I do believe it would eat my face off and burst from my chest, like I'm some sort of fleshy piñata.

Bottomline, I am clearly not well.

But to make up for my inability to construct complete sentences that actually make some kind of sense, I bring you the following portrait of perverse creepitude, because I want everyone's day to be as surreal and discombobulating as mine:

I call it “Pug Wearing Pug”, or “How To Get Ahead In Creeping People The Fuck Out” (homage)

You kind of hate me a little bit now, don't you?

Before I return to my place on the couch, where I'll lay blowing my nose and crying (I'm not a good sick person) until lunchtime, I ask ye: what's your favoritest thing(s) to do when you're too sick to do much of anything at all? I'm looking for ideas, obviously. Magical pestilence cures and suggestions on how to recycle/repurpose about 15 metric tons of snot-coated tissue also welcome.

links for 2008-02-19

• The World's Greatest Music Collection - eBay (item 140206309501 end time Feb-21-08 06:00:00 PST)
  WOW. Anybody got a spare, errm, 3 million?
• Fun Size Countries: The Insane Histories of the World's 6 Tiniest Nations
  I hereby declare my bed a country: Snoozslyvania.
• Alltop.com Moms
  Guy Kawasaki sent me a link to this yesterday -- a convenient little aggregator, no? And it's nice to be listed alongside such fabulous bitches. (By the by, there's also a Celebrity blogs section featuring MamaPop! Woot!)

Attack of the 50 foot sculpture

Another Baltimore City landmark, the infamous Jonathan Borofsky piece “Male/Female” outside Penn Station.

GRAAAH! GIANT ALUMINUM HERMAPHRODITE SMASH CHOO CHOOS! snort.

Music to scrape your car's windshield by

It's been a long time since I've posted a new mix here for your listening enjoyment, mostly because the voices in my head have been demanding showtunes, NOTHING BUT SHOWTUNES, which turns out to be something of an impediment to mix-creation. But after many long hours of negotiation, and the application of a sturdy tinfoil hat, I've managed to quell my internal demons just long enough to bring you the Sweetney Winter 2007-2008 Mixtacular, a collection of some of my favorite tunes from the past year.

Some of these songs are also M's favorites, which she's bludgeoned me with over many a month -- see if you can guess which ones (coughtrack10cough).

Please to enjoy with a warm beverage of your choice (spiking with alcoholic liqueur optional, but recommended).

links for 2008-02-16

• Parent Shock: Children Are Not Décor - New York Times
  I'd pretty much like to punch all of these people in the face.
• Barack Obama Is Your New Bicycle
  Is he awesome? You decide.
• top 9 unique structures soon to be built | deputydog
  Holy freakin' crap!

No good can come of this.

Stupid humans.

Seriously, does anyone know of a reanimation story that goes well?

Yeah, me neither.

Yeah, I'll be adding that link to my Bookmarks Toolbar Folder

Because I'm a flaming dorkwad of dorkwaddyness, I'm very excited to announce that today I'm getting my very own extra speshal edition of Friday Eye Candy over on MamaPop. I picked all the hotness, based upon on my own personal wants/needs/desires. Sick and twisted as those might be.

As you may have guessed, Jon Stewart tops my list. Because in case you didn't know, I so totally heart that dude. Like, times infinity.

Mine! Mine! MineMineMINE!!!

So please avail yourself of the soul-and-groin-searing images of my beloved(s) over yonder... but keep yer got-damn paws off mah can-day! HISSSS!!

PS: New Site of The Week! Get a-clickin', pardners!

Self-Portrait as Madam Forewoman

Snapped in an old mirror hanging in the Baltimore City U.S. Post Office and Courthouse yesterday.

Explain to me how this works, exactly.

Incredibly tiny cubes? What?

I took this yesterday at the Baltimore City Old Post Office and Courthouse, where I'm serving my Jury Duty. Not only was I picked for a trial, but I'M THE FOREPERSON. OH THE INCREDIBLE POWER.

I'd say I'm “drunk with power”, except I'm suffering perhaps the worst hangover of my life this morning (right before having to leave for jury duty! Awesome!), and just typing the word “drunk” makes me a bit queasy at the moment. Hangover cures I can deploy to miraculously improve my state of being before having to, umm, stand in court and speak and shit would be much appreciated. BARF.

Paraphrase Theater: Star Wars

Jury duty, Day One. Wifi at the courthouse is making the experience only mildly hellish. After all, how bad can it be when I get to sit on my ass all day and watch stuff like this:

And now to partake of The Circuit Court of Baltimore City's delightful three day old coffee served in a microscopic styrofoam cup. Yay.

PS: Also, swear to god, one of my fellow jurors is stalking me. Yes, already! He's shadowed me to two "quiet rooms" in the courthouse, and has now positioned himself at the table directly across from me. Total creepster. Is staring at me uncomfortably, tugging lightly the edges of his dark pubic-hair-like beard.

My life = filled to overflowing with awesome sauce.

Truman *Is* Orson Welles!

Halp! My dog is becoming a sphere!

“Wot? You callin' me fat er sumthin'?”

I foresee many IAMS Weight Control Nuggets in someone's future.

Preschooler reality is like a never-ending Mad Lib in which every blank space is filled with the word “BUTT”

(Last evening:)
Me: “Make sure you get a good night's sleep, because we have to go vote tomorrow morning.”

Her: “Vote for what?”

Me: “Tomorrow we vote for who we want to run for President.”

Her: “Oh. Can I vote?”

Me: “No. You aren't old enough to vote yet, sweetie.”

Her: “Mommy. That is SO not cool.”

Me: “Well, when our nation has a referendum on Cuddliest Cartoon Character, or on which Disney Princess is awesomest, I'm sure you'll be one of the first called to serve.”

Her: “Yeah. Called to serve MY BUTT!”

Why does everything have to culminate in something butt-related? Why, sweet baby Jesus, WHY?

But anyway, since we're talking politics, have you seen any of the “Yes We Can” parodies yet?

Well now you have. And aren't you glad?

In other news related to my spectacularly good citizenship, on Wednesday I have Jury Duty. I have never Jury Dutied before, in all my 37 years. I am a bit afraid of the duty, to be honest. (DOODY!! snort!) Any duty advice from those of you who've previously done the duty? Duty tips? Nuggets of (snicker) duty advice, as it were?

Oh god, I'm just as bad as my daughter, aren't I? (And I'm guessing the fact that I find something like this uproariously funny is just self-incrimination.)

PS: Humble thanks to Catherine for listing me as one of her favorite blogs in Wondertime Magazine. I'm all blushy and stuff.

links for 2008-02-11

• Sci Tech News - Marriage may tame genius
  Oh crap. Well, that explains a lot.
• YouTube - The True Story Of The Traveling Wilburys
  Part one of a documentary on the late 80's supergroup (did I ever mention I'm an ELO geek?)
• YouTube - Stewart & Colbert vs Conan
  Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert & Conan O'Brien duke it out

Just chillin' on the couch, watchin' The Dog Whisperer

He gets all upset when we watch that show. Stares intently at the screen and tilts his head quizzically, as if to say, “why you dogs so mad? Have you no snausages?”

Neutral Milk Hotel, In The Aeroplane Over The Sea & Holland, 1945

Ten years ago, one of my top 5 favorite albums of all time -- Neutral Milk Hotel's In The Aeroplane Over The Sea -- was released. The impression it made on me at the time, and continues to make on me now, is inestimable. It is gorgeous, moving, with a humble sincerity and authenticity backing its gigantic sound. It's one of those albums that has always made me feel connected to other people, almost as if by understanding its greatness you're automatically inducted into some secret society of appreciation. We accept you, we accept you, one of us, one of us...

Bottomline, if you don't already, you so totally need to own this album. Trust me on this one.

Two of my favorite tracks:

In The Aeroplane Over The Sea

Holland, 1945

Stereogum has more video, along with an overview of the band's general awesome. Happy Neutral Milk Hotel day, kiddos!

As if to simply underscore my earlier point(s)

Because you care enough to hit "send."

snort.

Her classic 'I don't like waiting in the car' face

What's the Valentine's Day version of The Grinch? Oh, that would be ME.

God knows I love my husband. I do. It's not even a question really, because if I didn't love him he'd most certainly be dead by now.

As someone with a fairly strong misanthropic streak, I'm kind of prone to being irritated at people to some degree or other the vast majority of the time. It's nothing personal, really! I'm sure you, your friends, your family, your dog, are all very nice and smart and deserving of a cookie. Perhaps even SEVERAL cookies. But to be perfectly honest, y'all -- globally speaking -- just kind of annoy the crap out of me, what with your ridiculous, ill-informed opinions and ideas, your questionable tastes in any number of things, your inability to properly use turn signals while driving... your, umm, relentless breathing. It can all be a bit much sometimes.

So it should come as no surprise that my perspective on romance and it's looming national consumer holiday might be seen as a tad, well, deflating.

(source)

To be blunt, from my perspective, Marriage (since it's generally regarded as the culmination of romantic endeavor) is simply about finding someone whose idiosyncracies and issues don't make you want to kill them or gouge your own eyes out with a relish fork. Because as many of you know, Marriage is a long-ass haul, and roses and heart-shaped chocolate boxes aren't going to get you very far, I'm afraid. From what I've seen, over the passing of years mushy sentiment and romance invariably fades in marriage, and what remains is a love based instead in friendship, commitment, and good old fashioned motherfuckin' PATIENCE. As a friend of mine recently said, “I can say that I love my husband with all of my heart and be telling the truth. But what might be TRUER is if I said I can tolerate him and his bullshit more than anyone else I've met so far. But that doesn't sound as sweet.”

BINGO.

Maybe I'm being too Scrooge-like here, but I just can't get behind the forceable romance of Valentine's Day. It's way too contrived, too sickly-sweet and divorced from reality. Yes, yes, I love you... now can you take the fucking garbage out for crissakes?

Besides, I like my True Love Always declarations presented in forms less perishable and conventional than flowers and candy. Like products from the Apple Store, for example. Hey, Jamie! Hint! Hint!

Love means never having to endure outdated technology, am I right?

Now you can all pile on and tell me what a killjoy I am. I'm strong. I can take it. DO YOUR WORST, HOPELESS ROMANTICS.

Putting the Rock back in Candy

My good friends Joel and Angela are opening a candy store in my neighborhood tomorrow. And yes, that sound you just heard *was* my head exploding from too much joy.

M and I stopped by the store this afternoon to oogle their delicious wares and leave trails of saliva in our wake. BEHOLD:

Me, I'm a gummy person. Don't get me wrong, I heart chocolate in all its myriad forms. But I must admit to being more than a little afraid to have this much gummy candy within walking distance of my house.

'Sticky fingers' is her middle name

For you locals, I'm including store info and such below from Rock Candy's grand opening announcement, because these are good people who deserve to be supported, and also because OMFG CAAAAANDDDDDDYYYYY!!! NOM NOM NOM!!!

The rest of you? You have my sympathies, dudes.

That's right! Tell all your friends! This Friday, February 7th Rock Candy
will be opening it's doors so you can gorge yourselves on candy!

We'll open at 11AM and we'll stay open until 9. Hopefully, we'll have
some diversions going on in the theater, and *cross your fingers* a candy
related movie around 6PM or so.

But for now, come buy some candy and/or novelties! See you there!

Directions
http://www.rockcandybaltimore.com

It took a couple of years, but I've now eaten all your brains.

Yeah! Take that, you people with heads! 100%, Grade-A, 600 thread count PWNAGE!!!!

I feel oddly accomplished. And more than a little gassy.

Where I'm texting from

Yes indeedy, we live in an age of compressed distances, an age in which getting an quick cameraphone love note from your husband -- who is off on a business trip in NYC today -- looks like this:

Jamie: “view out the client's office window... howdy lower manhattan”

I like this modern age, man.

links for 2008-02-06

• 10 Ways to Sabotage Your Marriage
  In case you were looking for, like, tips and stuff. snort.
• YouTube - 20 minutes or so about why I am 4Barack
  Stanford Law Professor Lawrence Lessig on why Barak Obama is the right choice for America.
• Breaking News: Series Of Concentric Circles Emanating From Glowing Red Dot | The Onion - America's Finest News Source
  Freaking HILARIOUS

Playing flaming possum

Around noon today I received a call from M's preschool teacher, a bright and sunny, naturally blonde and almost impossibly buoyant woman, whose disposition resembles a cross between Doris Day and every character Julie Andrews has ever played.

(Well, except her roles during that unfortunate late Blake Edwards period. Sad, really.)

Basically, think a less grumpy and taskmaster-y Mary Poppins... Or a less Nazi Germany-bound Maria from The Sound of Music (Nazi Germany-based tales do tend to be just a bit of a bummer, you must admit).

Her voice tends toward the melodic and sing-songy, and bluebirds and small woodland creatures are drawn to light upon her shoulders... Let's just leave it at that, m'kay?

Anyway, Ms. Sweetness and Light rang to inform me, in the nicest and gentlest of terms, that my daughter was running a 105° fever, and so perhaps I wanted to come retrieve her before she became so hot that she just spontaneously burst into flames, hmm?

One hundred and five degrees... Doesn't the human brain just boil in its own skullcase aroundabout that temperature, making its own gravy? (mmm... braaaaaains.....)

So naturally I leapt into my car and motored over to the school at top speed to retrieve my freshly sauteed child. When I entered the classroom and made eye contact with M, she's was almost suspiciously matter-of-fact and casual about the whole thing from the get-go.

“Oh yeah, I have a fever... Say, Mommy, can you make me some Mac & Cheese, and can I lay down and watch TV? AND I DON'T NEED TO GO TO THE DOCTOR, OK MOM? OKAY??”

Hmm.... Odd.

I felt her forehead, and indeed, she was a bit warm-ish. So I bundled her off to the car, and then home, and once there filled her with pasta and cheese, and queued up “My Neighbor Totoro” for the gazillionth time.

And now? She seems FINE. Like, RIDICULOUSLY FINE. As in not even the mildest trace of illness, near as I can tell. So what was this parental panic-attack-inducing 105° fever crap all about? I DEMAND ANSWERS, SIR AND/OR MADAM!

My only explanation? The only thing I can come up with that rings true and makes absolute, perfect sense?

She's a Firestarter.

Oh come now, you can't tell me you don't see it:

Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.

On the bright side, at least she doesn't see dead people. What can I say, I'm just a glass-half-full kinda gal. snort.

Best. T-shirt. Evar.

“I [heart] Bmore” - as worn by our friend Justin:

"Lost" Easter Eggs

This one goes out to my fellow "Lost" geeks: you really, really don't want to look at this site until you've seen the first episode of this season.

Fair warning, kiddos.

Will.i.am, "Yes We Can"

I continue to feel torn about the candidates, but I can't help but find this sentiment moving. It's heartening to see people on the left sounding genuinely hopeful and inspired again, after so many years of disappointment and (speaking for myself here) disillusionment.

Fox likes stealing people's stuff, apparently

From Pitchfork: "Yes, That Was an Arcade Fire Song in a Super Bowl Ad":

We knew these guys were sports fans, but would Win, Regine, and the gang really sell their music to Rupert Murdoch so that he could advertise his football television program?

No, no they wouldn't.

Turns out Fox never even asked the band if they could use their song, and they certainly weren't given permission to do so.

NIIIIICE. Truman's in good company though, I guess.

Wet sausage

It was bath time this weekend... guess who wasn't lovin' it?

(Clearly going into shock) Halp me yellow duck!

Why you do this? WHY?

Anybody have a recommendation for doggie shampoo that smells a little less, errm, doggie? The stuff we're using is Green Apple scented (supposedly), but it makes Truman smell like wet tennis shoes filled with fruit salad or something (YUM!).

Great.

My results from the Facebook quiz "What German Philosopher are you?" Which, yes, I'm apparently dumb enough to not only take, but also entertain.

Because let's be real: nothing cheers the heart and lifts the spirit quite like having a social media site tell you you're a Nazi.

To Here Knows When

My best friend during my teens and twenties was John (I once wrote a love letter to John, which you can read here). He's a music writer, and the Arts and Entertainment Editor at the San Francisco Bay Guardian.

Anyway, this afternoon I got an email from him with a link to a post he'd written. The subject line of the email was “For 'ol times sake.”

That last picture? I was eighteen years old when I took that picture. It was freaking 1988.

I'm going to go throw up now. And cry. And tell those kids to get off my lawn.

Herpex: Side Effects May Include Teletransportation

snort. Ad parodies sticking it to the pharmaceutical industry make me almost unreasonably happy.

A slow winter's morning

She's home from school today. Freezing rain, the roads shining with sinister black ice.

Stretched out on the floor with a crayon and paper halo encircling her, she carefully draws a carrot, then a strawberry, then a silly green monster with gigantic elephant ears.

I look down at her, a ripple of surprise rushing through me as I note the absurd length of her body, how she's becoming less and less my baby. Bittersweet.

A wave of rain drums the window. More juice please, Mommy! More Spongebob, Mommy! A pink slipper shaped like Hello Kitty's head dangling on one foot.

She's still a little kid. At least for one more day.

Kermit or Miss Piggy? Hmm...

Your remaining Presidential candidates.... and their muppet avatars.

That sort of clarifies things in an odd way, doesn't it?