Sweetney

Emotional commerce

What is it with men and money?

To be more specific, is there something imprinted on their DNA that loosely translates to: Money is the salve for all ills, and the favored medium of communication with all other humans? Allow me explain why I ask.

After I picked M up from preschool yesterday we headed over to our local market to grab a few items for dinner that evening. In a fit of uncharacteristic optimism I allowed M to fully commandeer our grocery cart for the first time, which thrilled her to no end. You'd think I'd just solemnly bequeathed upon her the keys to the Space Shuttle, asking only that she not burn up on re-entry, such was her earth-transcending joy. Trailing slightly behind me as we weaved our way through the aisles, she swerved drunkenly left and right and back and forth, bellowing merrily "look at how good I am with the cart, Mommy! I'm so good!!!", and then, inevitably,"OOPS! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, MOMMY!" when she plowed headlong into mid-aisle pyramid displays or the shins of unlucky fellow shoppers. Whenever I paused to inspect a grocery item I had to stretch my arm out rigidly behind me, palm flat, to stop her from ramming me with her, ahem, abundant enthusiasm.

This went on for a while. Then, about mid-way into winding our way through the rodent maze of products, an eldery gentleman approached us. "WELL, AREN'T YOU A GOOD LITTLE GIRL!" he screamed in that oblivious way people who are hard of hearing do. "YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD HELPER!"

M's entire face morphed into a question mark, and she glanced furtively from side to side, checking to make sure she was the only good little girl within a reasonable radius. Assured that he was, in fact, addressing her, she shouted back merrily "I'M DRIVING THE CART!!!!"

"WELL THEN, HERE --" he pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and thrust it toward her. "FOR BEING SUCH A GREAT HELP TO YOUR MOM!" he nodded toward me and winked.

"Ohhh, no no..." I protested weakly, but of course it was too late. M had snatched the bill, and was oggling it lustily. For a moment I thought she might actually lick it.

"Thank you" I sighed, not really knowing what else to do. The man smiled, patted M on the head, and disappeared down the far end of the aisle.

"Can I get something with A DOLLAR? Something I would like to play with for A DOLLAR? Or some candy with A DOLLAR?" Each time she said "A DOLLAR" the words sounded like the definition of disbelief. How was it that she, a mere girl of five, had been given the fabulous gift of A DOLLAR, OMG?!?!

Meanwhile, I was of course reeling from the uncomfortable mash-up of feelings that experience produced. Why did he have to give her money? Why was it necessary to turn that into a transaction, to make praise and appreciation seem like insufficient tender? I tried to shake it off.

As we were checking out, M chatted enthusiastically with our cashier -- a middle-aged African American gentleman who I often imagined must've been something of a cassanova back in his day, what with his smooth "Hey baby!" greetings and easy, charming banter. Using my debit card to pay, I'd selected to get $20.00 back, and as Mister Smooooth extended his hand toward us with the money I heard M GASP. LOUDLY. I looked at her, and could see in her eyes the astonishment: YET ANOTHER MAN WAS GIVING HER MONEY! WTF?!?

The cashier chuckled, "No, baby, that's for your Mommy!", and the man in line behind me laughed, interjected something along the lines of "Oh man, I wish people were just handing out money too!" I turned to M to explain to her the circumstances and why this money was being given to me, but her face stopped me. It was red. Beet red. She was blushing, and I'd never seen her blush before, ever. "I want to get out of here now, Mommy" she whispered in a voice audibly strained against near-erupting sobs. "Okay, let's go" I whispered back, turning to thank our cashier, and then turning back again to see M vanishing into the store's enclosed entry space.

When I caught up with her she was already in tears. "I want to go home, Mommy!" she cried, and I knelt down on the floor in front of her to wrap myself around her body as fully as possible. I saw in her at that moment my own sensitivity, my own tendency to jump to hurtful conclusions and take things the worst possible way, even when they weren't intended as such. It broke my heart to see this part of myself in her. I'd hoped she'd be spared it somehow, that her skin would be thicker than mine and that she'd breeze through life with a tougher shell enveloping her, one that would repel those tiny invisible arrows I always feel striking at me. No such luck.

Just then, Mr. Smooth burst through the store's interior door, having seen M's tears from his register, I suppose. "Oh baby, come here, I'm sorry!" he said, and reached one arm out toward her. In his fist was a one dollar bill. My heart sank.

Yes, I understand that the intention behind these monetary exchanges was good natured. I get that these men meant well. But where does this come from exactly, this sense that money is an appropriate conduit for emotion, a fitting and proper means by which to express feeling? Because that? That I just don't get.

Candy and chocolate on the other hand? Now THAT'S what I call a salve for all ills and a favored medium of communication. Silly menfolk, will they never learn?

I am the proud co-owner of a bouncing baby LLC

Some craziness in the mail yesterday:

I own a company. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up.

"Because there's no bumper sticker to celebrate mediocrity"

As a confirmed child pimp, I SO NEED THIS BOOK:

Tips, man. Can't get enough of em'.

A brief excerpt:

ALSO: "Learn How To:

• Determine your traumatizing “type”
• Cultivate your children’s resentment
• Give your children enough material to write a memoir someday
• Defend your choices against others who’ve opted to traumatize differently"

Orderable (it's a word, I just made it up) here (and while you're at it, you may want to also pick this book up, because I can't tell you the number of times the wisdom of poo has helped me get through tough parenting decisions). Two thumbs up, five gold stars, it's the feel-good book of the summer, THE END.

I'm too old for ALL of this shit

Things of note -- the good, the bad, and the fugly:

• I'm gonna be published! Like, in a real, actual book and stuff! I KNOW! It's like someone confused me -- a lowly child-exploiting pimp -- with a real writer! Oh, inverted world!
  

• I am (yawn) A PIMP! YES, AGAIN! BUT IN AN ALL-NEW PIMPTASTIC WAY: I PIMP OTHER BLOGGERS! BLOGGERS I KNOW AND LIKE! FOR SHAME ON ME AND ALL OTHER PIMPS/HOS LIKE ME WHO LIKE OTHER BLOGGERS! (yawn)

• In case you hadn't caught on yet, the word of the day week (month?) is "Pimp". I have no idea why this is the case, but clearly IT JUST IS. Do not question the wisdom of the hive mind! Go out and use it whenever and wherever you can, my friends. Everyone else is doin' it. Sheep say Baaaaah!
  

• I'm almost 38 years old. I'm almost 38 years old and last night I stayed up until (gasp!) 2am, and over the course of the entire 6-hour evening spent lustily chitty-chatting with a my friend Angela I consumed a grand total of 3 glasses of wine (double gasp!). This equation -- 38x2am+3wine -- naturally means I feel like a whole convoy of tractor trailer trucks filled with anvils did the hokey-pokey on my whole entire self -- my corporeal form right down to my immortal soul -- all night whilst I slept. Exaggeration and melodrama aside, I feel certain I might be dying. (ROSEBUD!...)

• In an ill-advised fit of pre-38x2am+3wine optimism I promised some very, very special ladies that I would participate in this week's Friday Flashbacky thingymajigger, and since I actually umm kind of wrote this week's question, I feel as though I should really follow the fuck through and do some bootstrap-pulling-upping and so HERE:

Q: What was the first movie you ever saw?

A: Jason and the MFing Argonauts, beeyotches!:

And to answer your question: YES, my parents clearly hated me with the fiery passion of a thousand imploding suns.

So what was your first movie experience, and did it by any chance give you evil skeleton-based nightmares that left you emotionally and psychologically hobbled for years? No? Just me? Really? Huh.

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Please to visit our other fine Flashback Friday participants:

(The One, The ONLY) Mamalogues
Oh the Joys
Mrs. Flinger
IzzyMom

Welcome To Baltimore

(aka "Bodymore, Murderland")

Unbelievably, these two stores exist side-by-side just down the road a piece:

Because there's nothing more patriotic than shootin' stuff. I mean, clearly.

Sadly, the recession appears to have hit the Killin' Things Industry pretty hard. Lawd, now where will I go to get my knives and "black powder"? ALAS AND WOE.

Mom Pimps R Us

I have some things to say. And I beg your pardon if my words gush out ungracefully and artlessly, because all of this has provoked some strong emotions for me, and stirred up what I see as a long-festering crock of rancid bullshit that finally and permanently needs to be chucked into the dustbin of cultural history. So here goes.

Please note that after I say what I need to say here, I will never, EVER again entertain this subject. And not because it makes me angry, and indignant, and astounded at people's stupidity -- though all of that is true. But no, I will never speak of this again mostly because I find the topic ABSURDLY BORING. I mean, I thought we'd collectively addressed the whole ultra-hysterical "Are Women Who Write About Their Lives And Have Kids Evil Narcissistic Child-Exploiters?" thing a looong while back. Apparently some people need a refresher course. Or need to have complex concepts regarding writing and identity applied with a sledgehammer, because their brains no worky gudd.

Fine. So to begin at the beginning: I started blogging in the early 2000s, before I was a mother. I started blogging because I love to write, because my dream since I was in sixth grade was to be a writer, and yes, ultimately to make a living from words. When I began writing this particular blog incarnation back in 2004, however, I did not make money from blogging. Let me stress this: I BLOGGED FOR YEARS AND I MADE NO MONEY. I did it for the love of writing, and then later also to connect with other women who, like me, were somewhat shell-shocked at the trials of new motherhood and the unexpected changes and challenges it brings to one's life. I never had any intention of turning my blog into a money-making endeavor, and I did not know of a single personal blogger who had ads or made money off their blog. As far as I knew at the time, that wasn't even something that was possible, and therefore it was not an issue.

I stress all of that because there seems to be a pervasive misconception that we all pumped out babies and then immediately took up blogging to take advantage of the fresh, delicate-yet-meaty marketable content that motherhood offers. That in our hearts -- our black, crusty, egocentric hearts -- our blogs were and are about nothing more than making a quick buck at all costs. It's a sick notion, and honestly something I have to believe was generated by someone who has never had a child of their own, and therefore can't possibly comprehend how strong the impulse to protect -- above and beyond anything and everything else -- one's offspring is, and how all of us consider our children, not our blogs, to be the center of our individual universes. It's a notion that would, in truth, be hilarious, were it not for the fact that it apparently makes for good copy in the media and gives anonymous douchebags an excuse to extend the reach of their stupidity and hate.

But those people? I really don't give a shit what they think. I'm not here to defend parents who blog against child-free assholes who don't know what the hell they're talking about and can't possibly defend their baseless, misdirected animosity. YOUR HATERADE? I WILL NOT DRINK IT.

So, putting all of that aside, let's focus on the real issue at hand. And near as I can tell, that issue is, phrased in the form of a question: Do I, as a woman who also happens to be a mother, have the right to compose a memoir of my life?

I'll let you ponder that for a moment. Take your time. (whistles)

Okay, so I'm guessing if you're at all reasonable and sane, you decided that YES, I have the right to compose a memoir of my life. Even if I'm a (gasp!) mother. So glad we got that out of the way and can all move forward.

Tea, anyone?

...Alright, I realize there are some sticky points that question didn't cover. I realize that some of you are jumping up and down, straining to hold back a torrent of "BUT WHAT ABOUT"s and "BUT WHAT IF"s and "OH MY GOD WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?"s. I get that. And I'm so flattered by your concern. But. BUT.

But the truth is? It's none of your fucking business. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, and I don't mean to be coarse or rude, but it needs to be said. Internet, I love you, I do. But how I live my life, how I choose to raise my child, and what I choose to write about or not write about relative to anything and everything in my life and the life of my child is not up for discussion or in need of your input. PERIOD. Rest assured I will always have my daughter's best interests at heart and not yours. Sleep easy tonight knowing that periodically we do, in fact, feed her, and most nights allow her to sleep on a clean straw mat by the back door. But even that's not really your concern, is it? No, it's not.

I'm glad we had this little chat though. And now, let's all move on, and enjoy those parts of our lives we DO share together, shall we?  After all, there are fantastically useless yet entertaining YouTube videos to be watched, and the internet's not getting any smaller, am I right?

Un-Sexy Back, Take II

In honor of Earth Day:

This is my favorite photo of all the ones I took in California. For so, so many reasons, I don't think I could list them all.

Un-Sexy Back

My trip to California last week can be summed up in two words: DOANS PILLS. I didn't have them, but oh my god how I and my elderly musculoskeletal system wished I did.

Tuesday, the day before I left, I pulled something in my back. Well, several somethings. I'm pretty sure this happened when I stupidly lifted a 30 pound box of cat litter, as I frantically endeavored to prepare our home and all the living creatures in it for the three day siege of studied neglect and organizational anarchy that is my husband being in charge of our household. I do what I can, and leave the rest up to the gods.

(For your information, I am now of the mind that the creation of 30 pound boxes of anything is an affront to all humankind. Especially all of humankind's spine and lower back. There should be a law or something.)

So I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn on Wednesday to catch my early morning flight out of dodge only to discover that I was magnificently hobbled. As in, every step was an aching clusterfuck of anguish, a tumult of cramping and seizing agony. I somehow managed to pack and get myself out the door -- in between frequent pauses to choke back the strangled screams involuntarily spasming in my throat.

And then? I spent 6 hours crammed into an economy seat on a plane. I'll just let you imagine for a moment what that was like. As a side-note to flesh out your mental-picture-conjuring, I will offer that during my flight I enthusiastically glugged down two atrociously bad glasses of red wine from two teeny-tiny wine bottles, and very nearly wept openly at the pathetic Hilary Swank romantic comedy "P.S. I Love You" (or, as I like to now call it, "P.S. My Acting Career Is Over"). DON'T YOU JUDGE ME. YOU DON'T KNOW MY PAIN.

Over the course of the 48 hours I was actually in California, several things happened.

1. I spent a crapload of time with this whore (who I call "whore" with the deepest love and affection, since she's pretty much like my sister and I feel that level of connection with her, despite her total epic whorishness)

2. Magical camera-gifting gnomes sprinkled gold dust, SLRs, and videocameras on our heads (OUCH!)

3. Amy and I met, fell in love with, and were photographed by this woman, who I so totally want to be when I grow up

Squeezy McEyesockets and Squinty McGlarekins

4. I got a massage, during which the masseuse said to me, and I quote: "Yeah, your back is pretty fucked up"

5. I whined. A LOT. (DON'T YOU JUDGE ME. YOU DON'T KNOW (yada yada yada...))

6. I watched -- of my own volition, and because I enjoy suffering, apparently -- a PBS documentary about cancer. And quickly realized just how good my back pain felt

All told, back drama aside, the trip was whorishly profitable a lot of fun. Mera is going to be speaking at BlogHer, by the by, and you should so totally catch that shit if you can, fo shizzle.

And, of course, my back got all better only after leaving California. It's like I'm being punished. BY LIFE.

You can stop laughing at me now. Dammit.

My girl who wears glasses

Oh OF COURSE they're pink. Was there ever any doubt that they would be pink? (She selected them -- I won't be held responsible.)

After picking these up yesterday afternoon, M spent the entire ride home excitedly exclaiming about how she COULD! SEE! THINGS!!!!

Look, Mommy! Look at that bird! I see that bird! And that stop sign! I can see that stop sign down there! And that tiny cloud! It's SO TINY!!!

You all know I'm not one to get all unnecessarily mushy and stuff, but lawd did my heart strings get a few good hard yanks. It's like the world's new in her eyes all over again. I can't help but feel a few twinges of guilt over all the things she's missed seeing (or seeing clearly, rather) until now.

Mommy Guilt: It's What's For Dinner.

Keepin' it fo' realz

Yesterday I stumbled across this flickr group, started in the spirit of Self Portrait Truthiness. And because my need to over-share is almost a sickness at this point, I immediately went off and snapped the following pix of mah abode, unretouched and unvarnished and uneverything (I SWEAR!), for your viewing pleasure (click thumbnails to embiggen):

Not very exciting, I'm afraid. I thought about spicing it up a bit -- adding the stray dildo and/or lube, perhaps some questionable *ahem* literature *cough* here and there -- but that sort of tweaking would be contrary to the whole keeping it real point, yes? And the reality is that my daily life is, indeed, far from contrived porno-level exciting. Unfortunately. Though to my credit, who else do you know that has freakin' Godzilla attacking their dining room table on a daily basis, huh? ME FTW!!!1!!

Next up: photos documenting my yearly gynecological exam. Because it doesn't get any grittier or uncompromisingly real than a visit to ye olde hoo-ha ville. Brace yourselves, put your seat back into its upright and locked position, and don your protective goggles.

. . . . .
In somewhat actually interesting news, this dork and I are leaving tomorrow for what I hope will be Tracey & Amy's Excellent Adventure, complete with comic time travel and lots of dooooooooood (no, seriously: DOOOOOOOD!). We'll be spending the remainder of the week in California near San Diego, checking out some AV equipment provided by our john sugardaddy gracious corporate host, and hangin' in/on/around the beach, hopefully with umbrellaed drinks perpetually lodged in our whoring fists. I'm a small person with small dreams, yanno?

Anyway, since this trip is going to be all about the images and the video, any suggestions regarding things you'd like for me to document along the way? Images you'd like to see, or photo/video vignettes you'd like to propose? Theater or movie scenes you'd like Amy and I to (melo)dramatically reenact? Totally manufactured moments you'd like me to ineptly fabricate for your amusement? I'm your dancing monkey, and I'm taking requests!

C'mon, Pilgrim. America is counting on you.

Smirky McSmirkingpants

I love this photo because her goofy smirk really perfectly captures a big part of her personality, her silly, goofy sweetness.

Oh, my lovely girl.

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PSST! We Covet! Don't say I never did nuthin' fer ya.

True Internet Dork Mom Confessions Vol III

(I fully realize that no one else in the world finds these posts as funny as I do. But I live each day clinging to the hope that one day all other humans senses of humor will grow to be as sophisticated and honed to a razor sharp edge as mine. snort.)

Per usual, the following is ripped from the headlines actual idle timewasting IM conversations between myself and Kelly (aka kdiddy) last evening:

kdiddy: i was telling Tom that the first two times i got rick rolled, i didn't know what rick rolling was
kdiddy: and i thought people were just sending me a video of rick astley and i was like, "oh word. thanks! this is my jam"
Sweetney: rickrolling is getting close to jumping the shark IMHO. it's almost 10 days since i first became vaguely aware of it. SO passe.
kdiddy: hahahah
kdiddy: it's vaguely classic though
kdiddy: it won't have the fervent following of lolcats
kdiddy: but may pop up every few years a la all your base
Sweetney: yeah, and probably be funnier each time
kdiddy: of course, in about two months there will be an article about it in the wall street journal
Sweetney: because of all the accumulated funny
kdiddy: and we'll be like "KEEP UP GAWD"
Sweetney: stupid people from the previous generation!
Sweetney: why don't you go have a fucking cold war or something. GAWD!
kdiddy: rofl
kdiddy: i was telling angela that the kids in my marketing class don't really...get the internet
Sweetney:  did you get up yet?
Sweetney:  after rolling on the floor and laughing, i mean
kdiddy: yes, i'm up. cold wars bring the lulz
Sweetney: how old are they, these marketing kids?
kdiddy: dude, they're like 21
kdiddy: and they're all, "who reads blogs?"
Sweetney: WOAH
kdiddy: they don't think that blogs will play any kind of serious role in new media
Sweetney: the internet is OVER
kdiddy: and i'm like "you're just fucking stupid"
Sweetney: that's creepy man
kdiddy: but anyway, we were talking about marketing strategies of jones soda
Sweetney: maybe the next gen is gonna give the web the bird
kdiddy: and my prof pulled up the site and they had an example of one of their lolcat bottles
Sweetney: rad
kdiddy: and they were like, "what are lolcats?"
kdiddy: dude.
Sweetney: NO!
kdiddy: you should have seen me trying to explain that shit
Sweetney: NO! NO WAY!
Sweetney: how many of these weirdos are in your class
kdiddy: i was all, like, upset
kdiddy: because FUCKING LOLCATS MAN
Sweetney: reality = FUCKED WITH
kdiddy: and so i'm going, "well, there are these pictures of cats...and you add captions to them in impact font"
Sweetney: (snort!)
kdiddy: "but there's a certain grammar that you have to use"
kdiddy: "and generally a few key phrases"
Sweetney: without certain vowels
kdiddy: "and also there's the lolbible..."
kdiddy: they were probably horrified
Sweetney: that's just insanity
kdiddy: they looked at me like, "you are most certainly smoking crack, madam"
Sweetney: so you were the old crazy crack lady today? talking about CATS?
kdiddy: then i started speaking in lolcat to try to help illustrate
kdiddy: "den ceiling cat sez 'i can haz light'"
kdiddy: i eventually gave up
Sweetney: before they straightjacketed you
kdiddy: precisely

And to answer your question, NO. No, we couldn't be any dorkier.

Previously: Numero Uno, Numero Dos

Comparisons = odious

This morning I got an email from someone at The Baltimore Sun, a person working on a new parenting blog for the paper, giving me a heads-up about this.

I'm always humbled and grateful when someone takes the time to recognize my writing, and certainly I realize that this person intended her post, and the comparisons drawn therein, to be received as favorable and flattering to me. But honestly, my gut reaction to this when I first saw it could be summed up in four words: PLEASE KILL ME NOW.

Because though I understand that Dooce is something of a phenomenon, and that it is easy to see her influence weighing heavily on parenting blogs everywhere -- particularly when looking through the eyes of someone not intimately familiar with the vast scope of the parenting (gag!)blogosphere(gag!) -- let's be clear: I am not an iteration of Dooce. She's swell, and more power to her, but no. And no thank you.

Friends, I have had my dusty old blonde bob well over ten years, and my sailor's mouth far longer. I have been taking photos all my life -- showing them in museums and galleries back in the early 1990s, in fact. I started blogging about motherhood before Heather was pregnant with her daughter. And with all due respect, my dog can't balance a goddamn thing on his head.

I know it's tempting to draw these kinds of comparisons. That it is, well, easy. But that easiness at times seems to slide nearer and nearer to just plain laziness, and -- when positioned relative to everything I do here on Sweetney -- can feel a little reductive. Mildly insulting, even.

Hi, I'm Tracey. My blog is Sweetney. I'm not the most original or special person in the world, certainly. But I'm ME.

In Memorium

High on the list of the best emails I've ever received, this from my actor friend Marc (click for enlargo-version):

Condolences, Marc. But really, isn't having a soul just an impediment to you as a working actor? snort.

And now, a message from Truman

Tracey's life boring. Truman life more interesting than Tracey. So today TRUMAN BLOG!

This one goes out to all the ladies

Yes, you're now going to have that song stuck in your head all day. And you're welcome.

Camp Baby: The More You Know (insert rainbow here)

We learned a lot about fomites. Fuckin' fomites, man. (Note: Apparently wearing a 1950's housewife get -up somehow helps when dealing with fomites. Who knew?)

Oh lawdy, people. I swear to you that I've been trying all weekend to come up with something all-encompassing to say about The Joisey Experience, but it's just not flowing. Those of you who have been to BlogHer doubtless remember well that post-trip feeling of "OMFG, how do I even begin to sum this up?", and this conference feels much the same, containing as it did a lot of small, wonderful, hilarious moments that are hard to verbalize (or hard to verbalize in a way that doesn't come off as dorky and sentimental, rather). So, umm, I give up?

Kristen's way of saying she loves me

I guess what I came away with more than anything was a feeling that this is my tribe. Despite the fact that these women may live hundreds of miles away from me, there is some undeniable thread connecting us, a kinship that feels easy and natural and real. I love these ladies. Dammit.

I totally pushed the gorgeous KristinD out of the frame just so I could show everyone the awesome black shit I have caught in my teeth. God, I SO RULE.

Izzy is radiantly glowy and naturally beautiful. And so she must die.

I have no doubt that if Catherine lived in any proximity to me we would be best friends in the traditional sense. And yeah, I'm sad she lives in stupid Canada (shakes fist at mounties and bacon and syrup), but I'm just glad I found her at all, yanno?

LOOK AT THAT CLEAVAGE! LOOOOK AT IT!!!!

So yeah, it was sort of like an extended dance version Girls Night Out mix, and I'm ever so glad I went.

As for the actual content of the conference itself, I think this video of Catherine giving a break-down of one of the sessions we all went to called (I kid you not) "What's Going On Down There?" may serve to enlighten you regarding the garden of womanly delights that we all enjoyed at Camp Baby:

I apologize for the jittery un-steadycam ackshon, but I was laughing so hard I was literally shaking.

. . . . .

PS: Have you We Covet-ed lately? Don't miss out on the awesome. Because, like, DUDE.

i has queer guy

Me & Ted Allen last night (who I need to send this e-card to. snort.).

More photos -- and tales of the wackiness that ensues when you mix red wine with baby products -- coming soon!

A little something to tide you over

Here Truman deploys the classic pug head-tilt. I give it a 4.2.

Self Portrait with car seat (I don't know if I've mentioned this here before or not, but this kid's camera is by far one of the best purchases we've made toy-wise for M, like, ever.)

. . . . .

Sooo... not like you hadn't noticed or anything, but posting is going to be (and uhh is already?) kind of light this week (or L-I-T-E, if you prefer). Besides the launching of We Covet (yay!) and all that went with that, I'm going to Joisey today and won't be back until very late Friday.

I still love you, though. I love you very, very much, intarwebs. BRB, okay?

Do note, however, that I'll be surrounded by other bloggers during my 3-day stay in the Garden State, so there's a decent chance that drunken blogging will take place at some point or other over the next couple of days. Keep your eyes peeled and your fingers crossed.

Checking in at Rock Candy Baltimore

Marie Antoinette Head Pops? Check.

Yet another reason to love my friend Joel? Check.

Diet sabotage lurking around every corner? Check.

Did I mention the store has wifi?

Man, I'm kind of doomed, huh?