Sweetney

We Covet

Allow me to introduce you to mah bouncing bay-bay:

Because CLEARLY I didn't have enough going on, or enough things to do on the internet, Catherine of Her Bad Mother and I decided to throw ourselves headlong into another project, called We Covet (frankly, I have a thing for the word "covet", and am ever so glad to be able to deploy it here on the intarnets).

So what is this new site, you ask? Here's the four sentence(ish) break-down:

We Covet is a blog written for women by women about consumer goods, services, design, and style -- the good, the bad, and the ugly that we all encounter on a daily basis. Here we review products and product design, heralding the greatness of things we love and thumbing our noses at things we don't -- from makeup to toys, clothing to cameras, furniture to cleaning products, you name it. We want to share our finds and findings with you, have a few laughs, and make life prettier, easier, and more fun for our readers. Better living through consumerism! HUZZAH!

I wanted to create a space where I could share with other women my unvarnished, dead-honest opinions about things I buy, use, and yes, covet. A space that while being intimate and reflecting my taste(s), is a touch less personal than Sweetney, so I don't come off sounding like a cheesy infomercial (or, alternately, a devotee of Adbusters). Anyway, I'm really, really excited about being able to talk style and design and let my consumerist roots show a little, and I hope you'll enjoy peeking in on our design finds and product findings, and maybe in the process find a thing or two that you'll covet, too.

I'd love to hear any feedback, suggestions, ideas, or tips you might have about the site. And both Catherine and I want to feature reader picks for products and services they love, so please don't hesitate to email us at any time: wecovet@gmail.com

So please, go check it out, and let me know what you think!

Panda of my heart

Today's Flashback Question: My Favorite Thing (Or, 'These Are A Few Of...') - post a picture of an object or objects (we know that your children are your most valued whatevers, but we're going OBJECTS here. Books, art, photos, mementos, shoes, garden gnomes, television set, whatever) that is/are dear to your heart. What would you grab if your house were on fire?

Me & Teddy, circa 1972

At first I thought about some of the old jewelry I have, passed down to me from now-deceased ancestors. Then I thought about some cherished books and irreplaceable photographs, both charting out memories of my youth. And yes, I did think about my computer -- just for a fleeting second, I'm not a total asshole -- and how much work it would take to even partially reconstruct its contents. The horror... the horror....

But honestly? Teddy is the only object I can imagine cutting a sizable gash in my heart if I were to lose it. The only object I own that is bound to me in a way that that feels almost primally, gutwrenchingly emotional. And hey, listen, I know it's irrational, and perhaps even a little dumb -- I'm thirty-seven freakin' years old for crissakes, not THREE -- but I'd dump the lot of antique jewelry I own to save his fuzzy old ass from a fire.

Teddy currently lives in M's bedroom, not in mine, mind you. I may be sentimental and prone to irrational fits of nostalgia, but I'm NOT fucking creepy, man.

What about you? What's your most cherished, will-snatch-from-a-fire-above-all-else favorite thing?

. . . . .
Mah fellow fabulous Flashback betches:
Her Bad Mother: http://www.badladies.blogspot.com 
Mrs. Flinger: http://mrs.flinger.us
Girls Gone Child: http://girlsgonechild.blogspot.com
Whoorl: http://whoorl.com
Oh The Joys: http://othejoys.blogspot.com
IzzyMom: http://izzymom.com
Mamalogues: http://mamalogues.com

Thank you Easter Bunny! (bawk! bawk!)

Jamie was out of town this past weekend, so M and I spent our Easter morning at the Baltimore Zoo, enthusiastically  participating in the continued enslavement and subjugation of our animal brethren FOR THE KICKS, BRO. Oh and while we were keepin' other species down, we also had breakfast with the Easter (totally fake, dude in a suit) Bunny, who is apparently in cahoots with The Man, and a traitor to his own kind. Bastard.

All told, it was a lovely day. And here's the photographic evidence to prove it:

Did your Easter involve animal oppression by any chance? Because I'm sensing a theme here.

It probably won't surprise you to hear that the first thing I said when I saw this was: "Oh, I'm so totally blogging that."

Our friend Jon, being all DC famous and stuff in this Sunday's Washington Post.

We've known Jon for years -- Jamie worked with him in DC, at two different places of web design employment, in fact -- and through the passing of time he's become someone we go on vacations with, celebrate holidays with, and drink many mimosas at brunches regularly with. That's sort of the top-shelf definition of Good Friend, right? So obviously upon seeing this I immediately emailed to get his take on his new-found, trendsetting fame. His unedited response:

So, here's the deal.

It was the Saturday of my birthday weekend and I decided to dress up. Course, fortunately or unfortunately, my sense of style is still stunted by the 2 years I went to an Episcopalian private school in Florida where I had to wear a tie every day. So, for some reason, when I wear a tie or really any sort of formal clothing, I like to fuck shit up. So, I saw my tuxedo shirt and thought, hello, let's put a tie over that. And let's wear jeans.

I have this thing for very long walks on my birthday. So E and I were walking all over town having a a good old time. Around lunch time, we were in Georgetown and just about to cross Wisconsin when Suzanne D'Amato and her photog stopped me.

Suzanne pulls me a side. She starts talking to me about my clothes. Um. Hmm. Cool. I mean. I like when people talk to me. But, I'm thinking, "I think you have the wrong person. Perhaps you should talk to my boyfriend." And, a funny thing happened: as Suzanne asks me about my outfit, I realize almost all of the clothes are either borrowed, handed down or old ass vintage. Erik's tie, my dad's old blazer, and a tuxedo shirt I bought off a neighbor who had purchased the stock of a costume shop that closed down in Richmond last year.

The more I talked, the more I realized I was, perhaps, not the type of person Suzanne usually talks to. The only brand I could drop was the H&M hat that I practically live in. And when Suzanne called me to fact check my info she said, "Would you say you have an over-the-top style?" Um, no. No Suzanne, I don't. Which is why I told her "I like the contrast between something old and something new." But really, I meant the style you are praising me for was forged out of rebellion to a dress code, and has become the uniform I feel most comfortable in. But, who would print that?

In conclusion, our friends are the supermegaawesome... their awesomeness makes me slightly weepy, in fact, almost as if it were composed exclusively of freshly-chopped onions. Seriously, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we're the luckiest people alive, having the friends we have. Oh and PS: I'm so totally going to be all Liza Minnelli and rely on hip, cute gay men to keep me young. Seriously, they're like a shiny, delicious elixir of youth. Plus? Great for helping pick out accessories. BONUS!

Jon also has a blog here. He is pure tasty goodness, and you should also love him, as we do.

Spring (spirit) Break(ing)

This week is M's Spring Break from preschool, which means she's here at home with me -- bound tightly to my right leg like an enormous, fleshy barnacle coated in Disney Princess patterned cloth -- every day until April freakin' 1st. HELLO, THAT'S NEXT MONTH, PEOPLE.

Okay, so it's really only one week away... but boy oh boy does that whole flipping-of-the-calendar thing somehow make the time seem all the more daunting and epic. A DIFFERENT MONTH! APRIL, NOT MARCH! WOE!

Yes, I'm a total pussy. What of it?

So we're basically riding a slow-ass train to nowheresville this week, as I try (ineptly, as is my way) to balance all my various interweb work-type duties, my home/life duties, and the unrelenting spastic and needy insanity that is preschoolerdom.

Needless to say, there will be a whole lot of drinking.

But in the name of curbing my burgeoning alcoholism, let me also ask you, the all-knowing internets, for advice: what would you do to keep a 5-year-old entertained for one full week?

Any and all suggestions welcome, with bonus points and shiny gold stars for ideas that might also allow me to continue doing things like my work (dollah dollah bills, y'all!), household chores, and urinating and defecating alone.

I await futher directives from you, o mighty internet overlords.

Like hot butter on what? POPCORN.

Gnarls Barkley, "Run"

Yes, that's Justin Timberlake hamming it up as the show's host. I'm starting to think that JT is the "special spice" that all musicians believe they must add to their magnum opuses now to ensure success. Not that more of Justin is a bad thing, of course.

Anyway, I for one cannot wait for this album to drop next month*. Squee!

*Thanks to Eden for pointing out that, duh, the album has already dropped. So, you know, I guess I should go buy that. (I'm dumb. Forgive?)

O hai, I upgraded your Easter

I can has mah dignity back nao?

Much love to each of you, my friends inside the computer, on this lovely spring day.

Now go eat some bunny-shaped chocolate fer crissakes!

Come check out the weird shizzle I find on the internets

Newsflash! The fine ladies over at Sk*rt have seen fit to make me an editor, meaning you'll be seeing a whole lot of the quirky, odd, funny, and geeky stuff I dig up on the web landing over on their pages. HUZZAH!

If you haven't heard of Sk*rt before, it's basically a women-centric Digg (ie: more gossip and fashion, less misogynistic BS and idiotic comment flame wars) -- hey, if Guy Kawasaki sees fit to sing its praises, it's worth a look-see, right?

Go check it out and be converted.

PS: You can follow the posts I submit by grabbing the RSS feed on this page (or by simply bookmarking that page, as it will collect all my posts in one convenient place). YAY!

No hell below us, above us only sky

Allow me to introduce you to this week's Flashback prompt:

Where were you when...?
Our parents' generation can recall exactly what they were doing when JFK was shot - it's a cultural moment that defines a generation. What big cultural event occurred during your childhood/youth that you recall clearly, if juvenile-ly? What was its impact on you?

Oh the possibilities.

I remember the Challenger explosion, when Reagan was shot, and when MTV, CNN, and HBO each launched. I remember the oil crisis of the 70s, when the Berlin Wall fell in the 80s, and vividly recall fighting to stay awake into the wee small hours of the morning to watch the spectacle of Prince Charles and Lady Diana's royal wedding.

In other words, I'm old as crap.

But the cultural moment from my childhood that I remember most vividly was John Lennon's death.

I was ten years old and sitting in my fifth grade classroom that December morning when my teacher announced that Lennon had been shot and killed the night before. I think her plan was to craft from his death some kind of "teachable moment." Yes, death is inexplicable and often unexpected, children. We cannot always make sense of it, but we can honor the life of the person who died by remembering them. Ashes to ashes, circle of life, we return to the soil from whence we came. Now let's all hold hands and have a moment of silence and blah blah blah empty clichéd sentiments BLAH.

Not that I blame her for trying. Sometimes the only thing holding us upright and keeping us from being flooded with torrents of incomprehensible black terror is the safety of cliché and well-worn sentiment. Dust to dust, amen.

But unlike a lot of other kids my age, I was a fan. No, wait, not just a fan. That word is much too small, too mild.

I grew up in rooms filled with John Lennon's music, cherishing my parent's old Beatles albums the way my daughter loves the stuffed dog friend she drags with her everywhere we go, its faux fur so drenched to the follicles with her life experience that even a good soaking can't wrench the crusts of her memories from it. I remember being five years old and roller skating in our garage to "Abbey Road." I remember at seven wearing deep grooves in the absurdly thick vinyl of their third LP "Something New," and later, at age nine, passionately fixating on Lennon's 50s throwback solo album "Rock 'n' Roll" and it's timeless, jangly pop. I wasn't just a fan, and I didn't just love The Beatles. Rather, The Beatles were, for all intents and purposes, the very substance and spirit of music to me as a child.

After hearing from my teacher about what had happened, the rest of the day was gray and jittery, like the projection of a mangled old thirty-five millimeter reel. Something in the world had shaken loose. I'd never lost anyone close to me before, no family or friend had ever died during my lifetime, and so I had no reference points to make sense of what I was feeling. Really, it was death -- its mystery and its frightening permanence -- that was rattling around in my skullcase, making the world shudder. My ten year old brain just couldn't get a handle on it. I barely spoke a word the rest of the day.

At three o'clock I shuffled home from school alone, following the wide dirt footpath that ran from my grade school out into a vast Colorado prairie, pockmarked by countless prairie dog mounds and scraggly tufts of spent Indian grass. In the distance, I could make out the first peaked roofs of our nascent housing development, and beyond that the immutable Rocky Mountains, smothered in December clouds heavy with snow.

I don't recall crying, though I know that I felt like crying. Instead I stopped and gazed back in silence at the trail behind me, at the bridge over the creek edging school property I'd crossed, shadowed by a dark ribbon of trees at its banks. The path I'd taken, and the whole of the physical world around me, seemed to sag perceptibly under some heavy but invisible weight. It was the same weight, I guessed, that I'd felt pulling at the contents of my chest all day long, tugging my insides ever more insistently downward, back to the dirt beneath my feet.

What cultural moment from your childhood left its mark on you?

. . . . . 

Other fine ladies participating in this week's flashback:

Her Bad Mother: http://www.badladies.blogspot.com
Whoorl: http://whoorl.com
Oh The Joys: http://othejoys.blogspot.com
Mamalogues: http://mamalogues.com/
Mrs. Flinger: http://mrs.flinger.us/

Meet my daughter's (imaginary) boyfriend

Our good friend Justin was featured in this week's Baltimore Citypaper for his new book Secondary Sound. Well that and because he's just generally freakin' awesome, and has excellent taste in both clothing AND preschoolers. For that alone legions of journalists should write about him and sing his praises, don't you think?

Okay, clearly I'm biased. But this excerpt from the Citypaper article about his book objectively shows just what a rad, smartypants fella he is:

Communication--in language and ideas--is the medium and the message of Sirois' recently published book, Secondary Sound. In it, the narrator creates two peculiar lists. One includes "text, pictures, sound, video, liberation"; the other "development, marketing, immersion, adaptation, obsolescence, art." Sirois says these lists are stages in the development of new media and technology, and he admits to being fascinated by the paths they trace.

OW! MAH BRAINZ! Why you gotta be so smart, homeboy?

Anyway, I just wanted to give him a shout-out, and tell him we love him, cuz we do. ESPECIALLY a certain 5-year-old, who shall remain nameless.

PS: Psst! Buy his book on amazon here. okthxbai!

When Truthiness becomes TMI

First off, at the risk of sounding cornball, I cannot for the life of me adequately express how all of these photos and all of these posts -- by so many amazing, brave, beautiful women I can't even list them all here -- have inspired me. I've been completely floored and humbled by the response, by the honesty and courage of everyone who has participated. In fact, I think the only way I can really show my gratitude and honor all the awesome truthiness you've put out there into the world over the past week is by continuing to follow the no-bullshit, total honesty tack. Like so:

This week I went out and bought myself some fat girl clothes.

And I don't say "fat girl" with even the slightest twinge of disdain, or mean it in any derogatory fashion whatsoever -- let's just get that little disclaimer out of the way all upfront-like, m'kay? Rather, I say it in the "let's call a spade a spade" voice of someone recognizing the reality of their own physicality. Hi, I'm Tracey, and I'm a fat chick.

Of course, one person's fat is another's chubby or pleasantly plump, but let's just say I'm girthful in such a way that for the past year I've been straddling that borderline that falls between the clothes you can buy in the "normal" ladies section of the department store and those shoved off in the dark, dank "big women" clothing ghetto. To avoid entering The Ghetto, I've been desperately clinging to a few pieces of clothing that I've long been barely able to squeeze into (o hai, muffintop!), refusing to go out and buy things that actually fit me properly because, like, OMG, I'm SO TOTALLY losing all the weight next month! NO, FOR REALS THIS TIME. I MEAN THAT SHIT.

But my precious delusions have been getting kind of threadbare lately, and the feeling that I honestly just can't face the anguish and humiliation I feel every time I try to squeeze into the jeans I've continued to wear despite the fact that they stopped fitting me a year ago has been growing stronger. It's just teh dumbz. I mean, who do I think I'm fooling? Do I really think I'm enacting some kind of masterful, David Copperfield-type dazzling slimming illusion by cramming myself into clothing two sizes too small? Or that by wearing shapeless, generic T-Shirts that hover around my body I've somehow magically concealed that I'm not a size 6? Riiiight.

So, umm, screw it. If I'm going to be fat, I might as well have some nice, cute fat girl clothes and stop being such a frumptastic piece of self-punishing shit about it, equating "buying clothes that fit" with "admitting defeat".

Still, am I honestly happy about all of this? No, no I'm not. And that's not because I think fat people are bad, or because I think they're ugly, or because I have any kind of issue of any sort with anyone else's weight whatsoever, period. Really, I could give a flaming shit. I've always embraced people for WHO THEY ARE -- fat or thin, beautiful or homely, stylish or frumpy -- the only criteria for entree into my circle of friends has always and forever been that you MUST be smart and you MUST be funny (and, if we're being perfectly honest here, being willing to talk enthusiastically about really awfully reality TV doesn't hurt). But when it comes to evaluating myself? Well, I have to admit I still long to get back into the body I had ten years ago, before becoming a wife and a mother. That I still have some vanity left in me, for better or worse. That I still endlessly diet, and struggle every day, trying to get back there. And that I dearly hope I will, sooner rather than later, if only because I felt much more comfortable in my own skin back then, more myself somehow. 

So that's my honesty, my TMI truthiness for today. Hi, I'm Tracey, and I have self-image issues. Hi, I'm Tracey, and I struggle with this body I own every single stupid day. I sure wish I didn't, but I do.

. . . . .

Unrelatedly, I just found out I'll be speaking at BlogHer again this year. Errm, who else is going? And will you hold my hand through all the potential catty/cliquey/claustrophobic weirdness that is the natural by-product of cramming hundreds of women together in a single space for several days? [begins twitching uncontrollably]

Well that was awkward

After her induction into the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame last week, Madonna elected to have Iggy Pop perform her song "Ray Of Light" instead of performing herself. And the resulting video footage is CRINGETASTIC. Nothing beats watching a bunch of people dressed to the nines squirm in their seats. Even Madonna looks like she might be thinking: "Oh crap, what did I do?"

So awesome. Oh and PS: Iggy, you're coming up on an age in your life when it might be time to think about putting a shirt on. Jus sayin'.

Kiss me, I'm Irish(ish)*

Well my weekend was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

The only highlight to speak of was getting drunk at my friend Angela's candy store's Grand Opening on Saturday, proving once again that I will turn any occasion -- however inappropriate -- into a means by which to transform myself into a crapulous, wildly gesturing maniac (who would like to GIVE YOU A HUG! HUGZ 4 EWERYBODY!). I think, but I'm not 100% certain, that at some point during the proceedings -- perhaps after I'd taken it upon myself to walk over to a restaurant several doors down for the sole purpose of buying a full bottle of wine off of them (and lo, it was a bottle of Maryland red (represent!) that set me back DOUBLE DIGITS! Someone stop me before I put mid-grade gas in my car at its next fill-up! I'M OUT OF CONTROL!1!!) -- I may have told a complete stranger, apropos of nothing (that I can remember), that they could "like, totally crash at my house, borrow my car, whatever," and offered to pick up someone's shift bartending at a local lesbian club later that evening. Yeah, I have no idea.

Beyond that spot of blistering, high-voltage thrills, I watched a lot of television. Which, you know, I normally do quite a bit of anyway. BUT NOT IN HAIKU.

Joel McHale on TV
Chat stew and dog's tail clipped
My underwear wet

---

My So-Called Life
Remembering '94
Grunge fashion sucked

---

That Juliet hag
Ratted out sweet preggo Sun
I'd punch in the face

I could go on and on. But I'll spare you that particular torment. Because I love.

Any plans to celebrate Saint Patty's today? Or did you -- like me -- get your fill of public drunkenness and/or green-tinted beer this weekend?

. . . . .
*I am, in fact, quite Irish (hence the unspeakable, unpronounceable horror that is my gaelic-flavored maiden name, Gaughran). This fact probably serves as a neat explanatory footnote to the aforementioned public drunkenness. I also love potatoes and leprechauns, if that helps with authentication any.

Photo Timecapsule: March 9th - March 23rd, 2007

I signed up for that awesome Photojojo twice-monthly flickr timecapsule, and have been so enamored of the dispatches I thought I'd share them here. Here's this week's selection, two photos from one year ago:

I took this during SXSW last year, walking around Austin with this dork and this dork and this dork. That there's a three Armadillo bus stop, pardner. sho nuff.

Psychotic Candyland clogs I bought for M last year. She barely wore them, and now they're too small for her, of course. (weeps)

And so endeth the saga

I know that many of you followed the story of Truman versus Fox, and so I feel I owe it to y'all to provide some kind of finale to that melodrama. So here it is [insert fanfare], in cold, hard digits.

The people at Fox apologized voluminously for their mistake, and offered payment for their use of the purloined photo. I came up with the figure above based on some research on photo licensing; I only wanted what was the fair, going rate, since  -- despite feeling genuine outrage and indignation at the outset -- I never intended to try to "cash in" on what was obviously some poor green intern's error. Could I have sued and hit paydirt? Yes, probably. But in all honesty, I don't need Fox's money, and the idea of getting into a legal battle with a multi-national corporation ranks high on my list of Things I'd Never Like To Do In My Life, EVAR. This seemed a neat and tidy compromise, fair to everyone concerned. Plus $500 buys a whole lotta snausages, people.

What was most important to me throughout this whole debacle was setting some kind of high-visibility precedent with regard to the use of copyrighted material of private individuals on the net. To use this circumstance that fell into my lap to make a point, to underscore the viability of blogger's claims of ownership to their self-generated content on the web and the relevance of copyright laws relative to that content. That's it. O hai, I own my shit, please to not be taking it from me without asking. Okthxbai!

And now? I'm glad it's over. The best thing that came out of all of this is that Truman now has a posse, and it delights me to no end to see the genuine affection people seem to feel for him. He is, truly (if cornily), a joy in our life, and I'm so happy to share him with others. But beyond that, this whole debacle has mostly been a pain in my ass, and a chapter I'm happy to close. Finis.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ungraceful segue: Have you seen how the Self-Portrait Truthiness pool has grown? Tis filled to the brim with awesome sauce! I've enlisted a few of my extra speshal betches to participate today, and if they don't convince you to suck it up and post your own photo to the pool, well, I GIVE UP. (Though while I'm giving up I'll be verbally taunting and nah-nanny-nah-nah-ing you, BELIEVE IT.)

Please visit my brave posse of beautiful betches (my originating post here):

Her Bad Mother: http://www.badladies.blogspot.com
Breed Em And Weep: http://www.breedemandweep.com
Oh The Joys: http://othejoys.blogspot.com
IzzyMom: http://izzymom.com
Mrs. Flinger: http://mrs.flinger.us/
Mamalogues: http://mamalogues.com/

An update for the fans/fanatics

You'll all be happy to hear that Truman's life was made immeasurably better this weekend when we presented him with a new Mister Snorty Hedgehog II, sequel to the former Mister Snorty Hedgehog (RIP) (pours a little out for OG Homie).

The first MSH was long Truman's favorite chew toy, so beloved that he actually LOVED IT TO DEATH, finally tearing a hole in its abdomen and extricating the noise maker buried deep within its belly, source of a satisfying snort sound when properly squeezed. That was a dark day in Trumandom. That will live in infamy. Or something.

omg, i has new hedgehog! (chompy chompy chompy)


o noes! she took mah hedgehog! halp!

School Of Real

Confronted with an unexpected, last-minute playdate cancellation yesterday, I decided it was time for me to bring out the big guns. Yes, that's right: I decided it was time to go rent "School Of Rock" and force M to sit down and watch it with me. Teh awesum rock funneh: let me show you it.

Simply and directly put, I demand that any child of mine like this movie. I mean, if she didn't enjoy Jack Black in that film, and laugh voluminously at his amped-up rock-geek antics, I'd pretty much have to assume that something went awry at the hospital, and our real daughter was switched at birth with a bland and humorless imposter-child. OMG, she'd probably hate on Spinal Tap, too. WOE!

(Meanwhile, I'd imagine our biological kid off somewhere in rural Virginia, tormented by her faux parents love of Contemporary Country-Western, openly poo-pooing "Coal Miner's Daughter" and instinctively condemning Loretta Lynn as "a second-rate hack wannabe Patsy Cline." Atta girl!)

ANYWAY, of course she loved it. So much so that now she's asking to go visit Jack Black, wondering aloud if he'd teach her to play electric guitar, if she could be in his rock band. Yeah, the line between fiction and reality is still a little blurry for our girl. I'm not clear on whether this ongoing fantasy-reality mash-up is normal for a kid her age, but we mostly try to roll with it. The other day she asked, quite earnestly, if we could hang out in our backyard that night and wait for Totoro and his ghost bunny friends to come play with her. Involuntarily, I chuckled slightly at this, and her error dawned on her. "Mommy, is Totoro a real thing, or not?" It pained me a little to have to answer honestly, to fulfill my duty to reveal the truth to her, and in doing so drain just a little more magic from her world.

PS: Have you seen how awesome and gorgeous the Self-Portrait Truthiness pool is getting? I am in AWE of you ladies, your beauty and bravery. AWE, FO REALS.

Liam Finn, "Second Chance"

From the album I'll Be Lightning

Thanks to my husband's amazingly great taste.

Wow, I suck.

19

REALLY? I couldn't even break 20? I'm disappointed in myself a bit, quite frankly.

(Yeah, you're going to want to check this one out. You never know when that kind of self-knowledge might come in handy, yanno?)

[via]

Truthiness in self-portraiting

The moment I wake up
Before I put on my makeup
I say a little prayer for meeeeee...

(Is in need of many prayers. And a facial.)

Welcome to what I look like when I wake up in the morning. No make-up, no comb through my hair yet... hell, I haven't even brushed my teeth. This is what 37 year old motherhood looks like. Try to keep your breakfast down.

I post this for two reasons. One, I think we're all very good at glossing over and covering up, and let's face it, that's kind of lame and cowardly. We all promote our best head-shots, our most flattering angles, and stuff under the rug the reality of what we REALLY look like without tweaking and all manner of artificial support. I'm no different, of course: I edit and select all of the images I post here, and am loathe to publish photos that make me look less-than-attractive(-ish). But I'm not a head-shot, and my life most certainly isn't lived in soft lighting, and truth be told I rarely (okay, almost never) wear makeup. This is pretty much who I am. Internet, meet my everyday reality, in all its haggard ingloriousness.

And two, I'd like to meet YOU in your stripped-down, unvarnished loveliness, as well. So I've created a handy-dandy flickr group called Self-Portrait Truthiness, and I invite each of you to post one or more photos there of yourself as "the real you." Interpret that as you will, bearing in mind that honesty and keeping-it-real is the goal. The truth will set us free... or at least be entertaining for a few days. snort.

So let's do this thing! I double dog dare you. Yeah, I said it. Whatcha gonna do, punk?

Kid A

Her: Hey! Don't fast forward through commercials! I LIKE the commercials!

Me: They're just trying to sell you stuff, M. Stuff we don't need.

Her: HUSSSSSSH! HUSH, LITTLE BABY!

Capitalism: 1, Parenting: 0.

(Speaking of capitalism: Awesome Radiohead kids shirt and others yonder.) (We also got the Beastie Boys tee.)

New Formula Preschooler: Now With More "NO!" And Extra Stompy

As much as I love my daughter, and lawd knows I do in great big gobs, I may soon need to move to a residence separate from the one she lives in. Just for a little while. Just until she becomes, you know, SANE AGAIN.

I'm not sure when all of this began. Maybe two weeks ago? That's when I started noticing it at least, and coming to conscious full-stops in the face of her behavior, thinking to myself: Gee, what got into her? And WOAH, I guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning! And Hmm, I wonder if cocktails before lunchtime would be viewed by others as foreshadowing a drinking *problem*?

For example, last night I was struggling to get M into the bathtub, accompanied by the drone of her whining that she didn't want the water they way *I* like it (skin-sizzling hot), but how *she* likes it (tepid at best). So I ran the bath, erring on the side of lukewarm-ish, and directed her to please get in (PLEASE! I asked nicely and everything!). She dipped one toe in and jerked backward, recoiling as though I'd just pressed a red-hot poker to the tender sole of her tiny foot. "HOT! HOT! HOT!" she yelped, hopping up and down for hotness-emphasis. I dipped my entire arm up to the elbow in. It was barely warm, nowhere near hot.

Already exasperated, I slumped against the tub, arm still dangling in the water. "M, this is not hot. It's just how you like it. Now please, stop this and get in."

Her whole body stiffened. Her lips curled inward, turning white as she pressed them together. One leg lifted, then stomped down, BOOM. "NO!" she spat.

Let me say now that I would never hit my child. NEVER. I never have, I never will. I don't believe in corporal punishment, I don't believe in using fear and pain as tools to control anyone's behavior, least of all someone who isn't even old enough to wipe their own butt. But so help me god, there's something about the look in her eyes at these moments -- the audacious, open defiance -- that makes my blood boil and my fists involuntarily clench. It's almost like some kind of switch flips inside my brain when she shouts "NO!", turning me from mostly calm and stable Mommy into I BROUGHT YOU INTO THIS WORLD AND I WILL TAKE YOU OUT Mommy. At least twice in the past couple of weeks I've caught myself yelling at her. "NOW!" -- it's the blunt instrument approach communication-wise, raising the decibel level to compel action. And if that fails? I have no idea.

Think it's too late to return her, or exchange her for a different, more compliant kid? Something in a beige, perhaps?

This near-daily, ongoing power struggle is exhausting, and for the past two weeks I've found myself fearing these outbursts, hoping they won't come, dreading the thought that they might. I've been putting a lot of energy into imaginative pre-dreading -- you know, reliving past conflicts and extrapolating from them scenarios for possible future conflict which I then role play in my mind. Where dread is concerned, I find it pays to be prepared. Plus I'm skilled in psychological self-torment. It's a gift.

For the time being, we're trying to offer concrete consequences for her defiance. Not listening, "NO!"-ing, general belligerence, and tantruming all lead to privileges being removed, such as TV viewing, computer time, and play dates. Of course, removal of those things is also punishment for ME, because without them she begins whining incessantly, claiming to "have nothing to do" and to be "bored." It seems the grand and glorious imagination of children we've all heard tell of was GREATLY exaggerated, as mine appears to be lost without Nick Jr. (or Nick Jr. dot com, for that matter). Which probably just underscores what a bad parent I am, but whatever. She eats. Several times a day. It's all good, right?

Anyway, the taking-away-of-things-she-enjoys seems to be good incentive to not behave like an asshole monkeybutt doo-doo head. So far, so good. At times like these, I feel as if I'm getting a whiff of the future: a foretaste of a decade down the road, when I'll be taking away car keys and confiscating cell phones. I'm sure when that time comes I'll look back on all of this and laugh at myself, chuckle at my comparative greenness. And then I'll go to M's bedroom door and whisper a loving goodnight to her, secure the intricate series of iron chains and deadbolts I put in place there when she turned Thirteen, and set the hair-trigger ESCAPED TEENAGER ALERT alarm to "STAY."

A few minutes with Gen-X Andy Rooney

Listen, you people with the bands, making up the dumb band names up? You need to cut that shit out.

Perhaps I'm alone in this, but lately it seems to me as if there's some kind of contest going on for who can come up with the most ridiculous, dorktastic rock band name of them all, and that increasingly the competition is getting -- as Tyra Banks would say -- FIERCE. To wit: on my most recent mix (available for your downloading pleasure in ye olde sidebar), I have songs by Okkervil River, Vampire Weekend, The Arcade Fire, and Architecture in Helskini. I guess these names are supposed to sound mysterious and, umm, pretentious arty? Or something? FAIL ART KIDS FAIL!

Don't get me wrong -- these are great bands who make great music. But is our reserve of band names so bankrupt that we now have to -- as a people -- resort to this kind of annoying Madhatter's Acid Trip Tea Party use of language? IS IRRITATING. TO ME.

Archetypal band dude: "Well, our first choice was The Police but that's taken, so howsabout we go with BURNIN' LOUNGE JUNKIES?"

Because, you know, there's nothing cooler than a barfly heroin addict with 3rd degree burns. Yep, I don't know about you, but that SO makes me wanna rock out. snort.

And don't even get me started on the vagaries of band name fashion, such as the recent scourge of Wolves -- Wolf Parade, Wolfmother, Sea Wolf -- yeesh, I'm nodding off just thinking about it.

I guess bands could all just keep reloading this page, until they find something that sticks. A sampling of the potential greatness:

1. The Cobalt Anvil Project (Dropping The Rock on your vulnerable, helmetless skull [gives The Goat])
2. Pool of Jugglers (Eat your heart out, Dadaists!) (I secretly kind of like this one)
3. A Fistful of Wookiees (Anything that mentions Wookiees = CASH MONAY)
4. Three Vicious Monkeys (Same goes for Monkey$$$$ - dolla dolla bills, y'all!)
5. leafgun (Oh the dichotomous irony! Nature, meet the cold hard steel of industrial killin' writ artfully in all lower case. English majors, REJOICE!)

I think you see where I'm coming from and/or going to with this. Horse = dead and thoroughly beaten. So can we call a naming truce, band peoples? Howsabout some nice definite articles followed by nouns, hmm? Those are always good. The Cars. The Shins. The White Stripes. Simple. Classic. Not trying too hard. Think about it, yes?

(Has emo band, The Reverse Sneezes. Note dramatic
black eyeliner and soulful, yearning eyes.)

PS: Wholly unrelated: have you seen how far the LOL Cat Bible has come lately? I recall seeing Genesis back in the day ("back in the day" on the internet = 6 months ago), but had no idea it had grown into a real interpretation of the entire Bible. If nothing else, you'll want to check out The Book Of Job, and The Song Of Solomon. Holla back, fellow (ex-)Catholics! (I anxiously await the LOL Cat version of The Book Of Revelations (O NOES!!1!!!).)

The Kooks, "Always Where I Need To Be"

Garage band retro Strokestastic, this is irresistibly catchy pop candy. Enjoy!

My Head Exploding: A Story In Three Parts

Part I:

Her: “Mommy, what's a tampon?”
Me, glossingly: “Uhh, it's something women use during their periods. cough.”
(perplexed pause)
Her: “What's a period?”
[audiable countdown emanating from my skullcase]: beep... beep... beep... beep...

Part II:

Checkout girl at grocery store, after bagging my groceries and piling them haphazardly on the conveyor-belt beside her: “Have a nice day! Do you need any help taking these out to your car?”
Me: “No, but can you give me some help by actually putting them into my cart?”
Her: (silent, eyerolling fuming)
Me: “Does this store not employ baggers anymore or something?”
Her, visibly annoyed: “No, we have them, we just don't USE them very much.”
Me: “Because getting customers to do labor you're supposed to saves the company money?”
Her: (blank stare)
Skull: beep... beep... beep... beep...

Part III:

Marion Cotillard: “I'd like to thank the Academy... Oh and 9-11 and the 1969 moon landings were faked.”
Me: “Durr WHAT?”
Skull: beeepbeeepbeepbeep KABLAM!

Hello Kitty Tree

(Because we heart the kitty in all her myriad forms.)