Sweetney

There's a new pug in town... and he's much cheaper to feed!

My Aunt Elaine -- she of the cat chotchkies collection to end all cat chotchkies collections  -- recently sent me a small pug statue for our garden. Near as I can tell, she did so because she is irrationally compelled  -- much like the human-shaped alien pod-creatures from "Invasion Of The Body Snatchers" were irrationally compelled in their co-opting of bodies -- to spread her miniaturized animal replica collecting disease, and is driven to infect all other humans she knows with her compulsive disorder. (What can she say, she's a giver.)

Anyway, someone was not amused.

I swear, if he could speak, his verbal response would've been: "You have GOT TO be kidding me with this shit." He said as much with his eyes. Well, that and "You got any snausages? Huh? Huh? Huh? Snausages? Treats? Cookies? CAN'T YOU PEOPLE SEE I'M WASTING AWAY!?!?" Dork.

Landmark

I haven't mentioned something kind of important relative to the whole Weight Loss Challenge matter, something I suppose I probably should.

Sometimes it seems a bit imprudent to tell the internet all your personal bidness. Sometimes I feel like I should hold back from you, seeing how "you" -- the grand, sweeping collective "you" -- contains dear friends and delightful strangers, but also weirdos and off-the-chart crazies (and believe me, I've encountered innumerable folk who fall into all those categories, and some in-between). I go back and forth all the time about how much truly personal information I should be putting out, broadcasting to anyone and everyone with an internet connection, but lately I'm of the mind that I should be sharing more. That in the recent past I've been sort of stingy with my heart, with opening myself up, and that I need to cut that shit out and climb out of the protective rut I've cast myself into. Yes, "opening myself up" of course also means making myself vulnerable to attack, hurt, rejection, ridicule... which, you know, we all tend to try to avoid. But is being protected from pain worth living in a cage for? Which fate is the worse one?

So after much consideration I've decided, finally and decisively, to climb out of the cage. 

(Why am I getting a vision of a lamb standing alone in a field, with mountain lions and vultures circling?)

ANYWAY, about that thing. The thing I haven't mentioned.

I want to have another baby.

Which, you know, crazy, right? ME, of all people, wanting another one of those! If you'd told me two years ago that I'd now be gearing up to do this thing, I'd have called you crazy, laughed heartily, and then asked you in all seriousness if you were an agent for my mother. Because two years ago, I never had any intention of doing this ever again. I was DONE, and had told everyone so. One was enough, I'd fulfilled my biological imperative, and I couldn't imagine voluntarily going back into what I then called -- in low, creepy tones befitting the telling of a ghost story -- "The Cave": that dark, isolating, sleepless place of babydom I'd experienced. I couldn't fathom it. Why would I do that to myself?

But then I started involuntarily crying when I saw babies, fanning my face with my hand like some dottering old crone. It was some weird, Pavlovian-type response: Look at baby. Eyes begin watering. Feel lump rising in throat. Fan self with hand. And the more I had this reaction, the more I wondered about it, about whether I actually WANTED one of those again, but wouldn't admit it to myself, because I'm kind of a dork.

I found myself weighing the pros and cons of having a #2, and especially the differences in our situation now compared to how things were when I had M. Unlike back then, we now have something resembling a support system here in Baltimore. I have friends with kids now, whereas back then no one I knew had kids. And I've been through the drill of babydom before, I now know its perils and pitfalls, and will be much more unlikely to LOSE MY SHIT over small, inconsequential dramas. Like, I'll know that babies cry, it's what they do, and that my baby crying IS NOT audible proof that I am a terrible, horrible mother and I should be punished with lashings and many of them.

And so on and so forth with the thinking and reasoning.  But at bottom it's my gut that's done all the decision-making work, truth be told. I want another one. And I feel the window of childbearing opportunity rapidly closing -- I just turned 38 fer crissakes -- so it is, really, kind of now or never. Those eggs of mine ain't gettin' any fresher.

So here's the plan: I lose about 20 pounds, give or take, between now and the end of summer. I just can't see getting pregnant at my current weight -- by the second trimester I'd likely have to be rolled around, like the gigantic blueberry version of Veruca Salt Violet Beauregard (thanks, hosie!) -- and my goal is to have a much healthier pregnancy this time around than my first (I gained almost 70 pounds with my first pregnancy. NEVER AGAIN, OMG). I will not use pregnancy as an excuse to lower my head into the food trough and not raise it again until labor hits. I'm not saying I'm going to be on the cover of Fit Pregnancy magazine or anything, but I'm definitely going to be much more restrained and conscious of my choices, plus add in some exercise this time around.

I should add: I realize it might be harder to get pregnant now, what with my impending decrepitude and all. Much, much harder, in fact. The first time, back when I was a spry 31, Jamie just stared really intensely at my belly for thirty seconds and VOILA! I was pregnant that month! I'm thinking there might be just a wee bit more trial and error involved now, though how much I don't know. I'm trying to remain optimistic, and not focus on that side of things too much. I think we'll try, and try, and keep trying for a while, and if it doesn't happen within some reasonable period of time we'll probably consider adopting. For while I deeply admire and respect women who go the fertility treatment route, I don't think it's for me. If after six months to a year I'm not yet chock full o' baby, I'll probably just take it as a sign that biological reproduction isn't in the cards, and take the detour to the land of adoptionville. Which is, I realize, a whole other enormous topic, and one I don't plan to dig into quite yet, but I figured I should lay that out there.

Sooooo.... that's it? I guess? The story behind the story. The goal behind the superficial weight-loss goal. And a preview of wonderful things to come, or so I hope.

This is my brain on radio

I've recently rekindled my decade-long mad, passionate love affair with the weekly radio (and now TV!) program This American Life (and if you aren't similarly swoony over Ira Glass and the show, what the hell is wrong with you exactly?). Yeah, I've been sending TAL roses again, leaving it little love notes, staging candlelight dinners... you know how it goes. Anyway, in the process of becoming more deeply embroiled in radioland again I came across this show called Radiolab out of WYNC, which I think can be best described as something akin to TAL's little science-geek brother. Or maybe a younger cousin. Or perhaps even a genetically engineered bastard love child (if that's, umm, even possible). In any case, if you like TAL, you'll definitely dig on some Radiolab... just trust me on this one, mkay? You can subscribe to the Radiolab podcast here.

Radio: it does a brain good. Four out of five neuroscientists agree.

. . . . .

The Mommyblogging anthology I'm featured in -- Sleep Is For The Weak -- is now available for your pre-ordering pleasure! The contributor list is pretty stellar, and I'm beyond geeked to have been included.  Thanks to the magnificent Rita Arens for all her hard work in making this happen!

Four Minutes With Truman

Okay, so this is pretty much the definition of excessive, but seeing how Tru has been kind of getting the short end of the posting stick round these parts lately, I figured it's his due.

This is what I do when I'm not blogging: I spend hours laughing at my dog. No, seriously.

Feel free to openly mock me for my cloying dog-talk banter. But really, if you were going to talk to Truman, what would YOU say?

Anyway, please to enjoy the Trumantastic awesome with your morning coffee and a danish of your choice:

This post is dedicated to one of my all-time favorite visual artists, Robert Rauschenberg, who passed away two nights ago. I feel certain he would have understood and appreciated the Abstract Expressionism inherent in the soul of Truman's being. RIP, Bob.

The Sweetney Weight Loss Challenge 2008

So the folks at Nintendo sent me a Wii Fit, which, you know, cool. It's always nice to get free stuff, and I certainly looked forward to trying it out, which I did this afternoon when it finally arrived on my doorstep. (If you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about, you can check out this Wii Fit trailer on YouTube, which should help explain the babbling that follows.)

People, I am in love. Technology GOOOOOOD.

Not to gush -- and perhaps this great first impression will fade over time -- but the Wii Fit actually appears to somehow, by witchcraft or spirit-conjuring or just superior Japanese technology too advanced for our western understanding, make exercise FUN. Oh brave new world that has such awesome in it!

So after toying around with the thing for most of the afternoon, I had an idear. Here's what I'm thinking. We all know I've long punished myself over my weight gain of the past few years (and if you didn't know it now you do. There, I said it, and I'm not sorry). I could use to lose a few pounds. Or, umm, 20(ish). So why not put this new-fangled technology to a real-world test, with an actual human trying to lose actual poundage (that would be me)? Mah Guinea PIgness: Let Me Show You It.

Here's what I plan to do, beginning tomorrow, Wednesday 5/14:

1) Cut my measurable caloric intake to a 1400 calorie-per-day low fat diet (yes, I will actually record everything I eat to make certain I stay on track. I'm choosing the 1400 number because it is the caloric intake I've been regularly told I should shoot for to lose weight healthfully, even without exercising)

2) Walk a minimum of 30 minutes, 5x per week (I've already started doing this, but I haven't been tracking my caloric intake, and so I've noticed no changes in my weight as a result of this exercise)

3) Use the Wii Fit a minimum of 30 minutes, 5x per week (I'll attempt to vary my use of the various training programs included on Wii Fit, dividing the time spent exercising as equally as possible between Strength, Balance, Yoga, and Aerobic Training)

I'll follow this program for at least 8 weeks -- longer if I'm getting good results. I'll report at least weekly on my progress, more often as circumstances (or my own frustration level and need to vent) merits. It will be helpful to be beholden to the internet, to have to fess up every week and lay it all out there. Y'all will keep me honest.

There was a time, back in my 20s, when eating fairly low-fat-ish and doing a little walking would peel the pounds right off me. Of course, back then I was running on an almost two-pack-a-day diet of cigarettes as well, which doubtless elevated my metabolism and quelled my appetite in ways I can't replicate now other than by upping the ante sharply exercise-wise. I'm kind of hoping Wii Fit will be that extra push I now need as an old lady of 38 to start FINALLY dropping the weight.

Here's hoping, fingers crossed, and godspeed pound lossage!

. . . . .
EDIT: Before anyone gets their panties in a bunch I just wanted to add: NO, Nintendo is not paying me to do this challenge or write this post (or any ensuing posts), and NO, I did not agree to do anything whatsoever for Nintendo in exchange for them sending me the Wii Fit (including but not limited to a positive review/mention on this blog). What I'm doing here is completely of my own free will and without any monetary exchange or obligation involved whatsoever. This is entirely about me wanting to lose weight and seeking motivation and support, NOT about providing product placement. THE END.

Manners are magic!

Her, rushing breathlessly into the room for no apparent reason whatsoever: Stand up!

Me: Uhh why?

Her: Just stand up!

Me: M, you know that's not how we ask for things. What's the magic word?

Her: [Thinks for a minute] Abracadabra!

Me: [hysterical laughing]

Her, genuinely confused: Abra-stand-up-cadabra?

For my next trick, I'll make this cookie DISAPPEAR!

I live in a zoo, I look like a monkey and I smell like one too. HAPPY?

It's mah birfday, betches! Today I'm 38 -- which is what, 480 in dog years or something? I am very nearly antique, a period piece from a time before cell phones and plasma TVs. Somebody get me some Doans pills and a Reader's digest, STAT.

Saturday night I celebrated my birthday out with some fine-ass local ladies. We had dinner at Golden West (hipster hangout in Baltimore lauded by Rolling Stone as a notable site in the Bmore music scene, which of course means I was the oldest person in the whole place), and then retired to my friend's candy store for further libations and playing of the Rock Band, finishing off with a screening of Mariah Carey's horrendous filmic travesty Glitter, served MST3K-style.

Being the classic front woman of rock that I am, I of course hogged  the microphone -- mah presssshusss... -- during most of the evening. A few crucial Rock Band learnin's gleaned:

• I cannot sing Kurt Cobain's vocal range. Like, at all. It just sounds like I'm trying (and failing) to hock up a loogie, and nobody really wants to hear that.

• Despite never having intentionally listened or exposed myself to Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead Or Alive", I know every single goddamn word of that thing. I suspect Mtv is somehow to blame for this, like most unfortunate music-related things of the past 20 years.

• The Beastie Boys "Sabotage" is freaking impossible to sing without calling to mind Conan O'Brien's version and thus becoming incapacitated by laughter.

• I fucking ROCK at Radiohead's "Creep". 94% with a bullet, baby! Of course, after seeing that, my friend Debbie turned to me and said "Uhh, dude, I was sitting right in front of you. That was no 94%". Then my friend Caroline added "Yeah. That was, like, 92% at best." Naysaying haters. And with that I took away all of their microwaved movie butter flavored popcorn. Because, you know, fuck em'. Orville Redenbacher would agree.

By the by, I most certainly could NOT rock any Mariah Carey. I do not communicate with the dolphins.

Mother's Day brought the release of my 5 things list for the Baltimore Sun. I actually got one of those things, too -- A MACBOOK PRO, PEOPLE. It's so pretty, I'm trying real hard not to lick it. I'm sure forwarding my list to Jamie before publication helped usher that purchase into being. Shameless Gift Pandering? I HAS IT.

I plan to spend most of today nuzzling and caressing my new laptop, whispering terms of endearment in soft, low tones into its built-in microphone, batting my eyelashes and pursing my lips at its built-in camera-eye. If only it had a Jon Stewart VR simulation program... YOU HEAR THAT, JAMIE? CHRISTMAS ISN'T THAT FAR AWAY, DUDE.

Because I'm still marinating in emo juice, making my own doomtastic gravy

Please accept this COMPLETELY RAD video in lieu of more pointless whining on my part (you see how much I love you? I think of you and only you first!). It's an art piece, a comedy routine, a deft deconstruction of racism, class, sexism, and homophobia (among other things), and (last but not least) a high school valedictorian nominee speech, all delivered by a kid sporting what can only be described as THE MOST AWESOME HAIR EVER. Basically, it is my dearest hope that my own daughter will grow up to be this smart and fearless and funny:

Read about the ensuing controversy (because, as we are both painfully aware, people are TEH DUMBZ) here.

I can't even believe this kid wasn't made valedictorian. I for one would've paid good money to see him deliver that address.

The darling buds of May

Around the house and garden this morning:

Unrelatedly, today marks 6 months since I quit smoking. To celebrate, I shall stop and inhale the scent of flowers deeply today, my nasal passages untainted by nicotine residue for perhaps the first time in my entire adult life. Yowza.

Explanatory notes on my supreme nonfiction*

I know, I know, I've been being kind of cryptic around these here parts of late. And not having comments open probably hasn't helped. I apologize, most sincerely I do.

But you see, a couple of times a year -- like grim clockwork, and usually around the time of a change of seasons -- things in my brain take a sharp turn for the worse. The best possible description I've been able to come up with is that it's like the world is set on a dimmer switch, and during these episodes the brightness level of everything around me slowly dials down to black. It's a process: I don't just wake up one day wholly mired in a La Brea Tar Pit of depression and crazy. It kind of creeps up on me. And the whole "creeping" part of it is mighty disturbing, might I add. At times it feels something like what I imagine watching yourself drown or be buried alive would be like, being fully conscious yet unable to stop or escape the dark thing swallowing you up.

Oh the depressive melodrama. I'm sorry. You deserve better. Perhaps a little ditty by Poe instead, hmm? gurgle.

Long time readers have been here and back with me before. In the case of those of you with a particularly strong masochistic streak, here and back several times over. And I thank you for putting up with my mercurial bullshit, dear gentle, tolerant readers. Soon I'll be right as rain and posting delightfully lighthearted dog photos again, I promise! Your dancing monkey will return with new dances! PREPARE TO BE DAZZLED... AT SOME INDEFINITE POINT IN THE NOT-SO-DISTANT FUTURE... OR SOMETHING. 

For the time being though, I don't have much to offer that isn't painted black, beyond that I was asked by the Baltimore Sun to submit a list for the Mother's Day edition of the paper of 5 tangible things I'd like to have (calls for "World Peace" and "more time" need not apply -- we're talking concrete consumer goods and services, people). Absent my own responses, which I have to withhold for use by the good people at the Sun, I ask all ye mamas: What 5 tangible things would YOU like for Mother's Day? (were money and the bounds of bland reality no object.)

C'mon, humor me why doncha. Lord knows I could use humoring right about now.

. . . . .

*Nods to Wallace Stevens

Thank you, Tom Waits

Though it may be a dark night of my soul, I'm blinded by his brillance:

Thank god the good old man is back.

Non compos mentis commandments

Do not think. Do. Thinking is self-indulgence you cannot afford. Doing will keep your mind elsewhere and away from the gathering dark.

Paint your toenails pink. The lightest, shiniest pink you can find.

Plant flowers. Dig your fingers into the earth. Feel the sun beat your neck raw. Let the day escape you.

Keep your head down. Steady as she goes, captain, steady as she goes.

Walk, and keep walking. Walk, though there is nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Locomotion means life, stasis signals death. Do not stop for death, Miss Dickinson.

Write it down though you feel your voice waning, your sense of self escaping you, your fingers -- much like your poor brain -- stiff and cramping. Make concrete whatever you can, and make language a lens by which to see what is real in this thick fog of boggling nonsense.

Sing in the shower. Or cry. Or, better still, do both.

It's true that no one can truly know another's pain. Do not expect others to understand, but do not allow yourself to rest in that separateness either.

At her bedtime, tickle your daughter so that she laughs her truest laugh -- a laugh of pure abandon stripped wholly of self-consciousness, glowing warm with joy. This and perhaps this alone will hold at bay the monsters beginning to surround you, their claws softly drumming your windows in the fading light.

Scientific Reason: FAIL!

I don't like bees.

What? No no no, bees are good! They pollinate all the fruits and vegetables and grains we grow that get made into the food we eat. Without bees we'd be in big trouble!

Bees scare me.

Honey, you're scared of yellowjackets. Those aren't like bumblebees.

Yellowjackets aren't bees?

Well, no, they aren't bumblebees. They're different. Like how different breeds of dogs aren't all the same.

Some dogs say "woof!" and some say "yip!"

Exactly. And things like that depend on their biological makeup, and that makeup determines lots of things about how they look and act. Yellowjackets are more aggressive than bumblebees, for example.

Mom?

Hmm?

Can I tell you something?

Sure. What?

Dogs don't wear makeup.

. . . . .

5-year-olds: 1, Biological Determinism: 0