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!
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:
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.
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.
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.
. . . . .
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.
Things of note -- the good, the bad, and the fugly:
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.
. . . . .
Please to visit our other fine Flashback Friday participants:
(The One, The ONLY) Mamalogues
Oh the Joys
Mrs. Flinger
IzzyMom
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.
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/
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 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.
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.
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."
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.)
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.
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.
Listening to one of the, like, 50 NPR podcasts I currently subscribe to the other day, I caught a segment during which one of the disembodied voices whispering into my ear (from the radio! not mah crazy!) stated that “you can't truly appreciate life unless you spend a few minutes every day thinking about death.” I wish to god I could remember the context, but I can't, and it's beside the point, really. Because guess where I just so happened to be listening to this podcast? A cemetery! I believe Alanis Morrisette would say that's ironic, doncha think?
For a couple of months now I've been taking daily walks in a small, neighborhood cemetery about two blocks from our house in Baltimore. The entire plot is maybe as big as a football field, with a paved track-and-field-like oval-shaped circuit running through it and a small brick chapel in its center. It's like the Germans who founded my hood back in the early 1800s decided to mash-up eternal rest with the 400 meter dash. That's German efficiency for you: the place is the BMW of cemeteries. I wonder where the cupholder is?
The ever-so-slightly-phallic chapel
Initially these walks were undertaken with a Bataan Death March level of enthusiasm (HEALTH. IMPORTANT. MUST. KEEP. WALKING. BLAARGH.), but over time I've come to look forward to them. Getting out into the world and nature once-a-day and getting away from the hypnotic glow of the computer screen is good for my soul I've found, and I think there is indeed something to be said for standing before a silent field of gravestones every day. In fact, confronting my mortality daily hasn't been a bummer at all. Ridiculous as it sounds, when I'm walking the circuit of the cemetery I feel among friends, and at ease. It isn't spooky, or creepy, or disturbing in the slightest. It feels to me as though I'm visiting my neighbors, paying respects to those who walked the streets of my hood before me. Tipping my hat to my predecessors, as it were.
Let's just hope none of them come calling to borrow a cup of sugar.
What brings you a feeling of well-being or happiness that others might find, errm, odd?
1. I think I have the blogger's version of ADD right now. Are there any drugs yet available for that? BESIDES COKE, I MEAN. jeez!
2. Today marks 80 days since I quit smoking. (wee hurrah!) That's 1,920 hours worth of pure, unadulterated lung sacs, people. Not that I'm, err, obsessive-compulsively counting or anything. cough.
3. My friend Angela was over at our house last night (we have a standing date to watch “Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew” each Thursday, because we're so totally awesome like that), and gave good quote, as follows:
“Libertarians are like well-spoken retarded people.” - Angela
I'm thinking someone might need to get some sloganized bumper stickers, coffee mugs, and novelty t-shirts printed up, no?
4. Remember that whole bizarre and frightening “Inside Edition” thing? Well fasten your seatbelts, because the piece is airing TONIGHT*. As in... (gulp) mere hours from now. Which begs the question: if I being drinking NOW, will I still be conscious at 7pm when the segment airs? Or should I perhaps just go ahead and ask a friend to swing by around 6:30pm and bop me on the head with a hammer or something?
Hold me?
For the record, I am in reality much, MUCH more articulate, attractive, and funnier than I appear on TV. No, seriously. It's like TV is a car's rear-view mirror, and I'm an object that is much larger than it appears. Wait, that came out all wrong...
5. In light of the impendingness of #4, I feel I should now say: WELCOME, INSIDE EDITION OVERLORDS! Please make yourselves comfortable... kick off your shoes and have a cocktail, fer crissakes! And in case any of you were wondering, here's a sampling of what this blog is like when I'm not yammering on endlessly about my dorktastic dog. (Okay, so YES, there's still dog-yammering involved there... but we're talking a trivial 8% net dog-yammering when adjusted over 12 months. I should have some graphs and pie charts made -- maybe a powerpoint presentation, yes?)
6. Oh to hell with it.
I vant to be alooooone, far from the maddening crowds....
I has outside!
*UPDATE: Literally TWO EFFING MINUTES after I posted this, I got the following email in my inbox form the person at “Inside Edition” who'd written this morning to inform me the Truman piece would be running tonight:
“I JUST GOT THE NEW RUN DOWN FOR THE SHOW TODAY. THE SHOW WILL NOT BE AIRING THIS TODAY. Sorry for all the confusion. Due to Heath Ledger passing away we are doing a lot of pieces on him. I will let you know when the new air date is.”
Sorry everybody.
If you need me I'll be hiding under a large rock, mortified and blushing, until further notice. over/out.
EDIT: The CBC Radio podcast is up! You can download it here.
Though slightly better than hate mail proclaiming “I hope you die in a fire, bitch!!1!!!” (<-- actual quote from an actual email received by me just this month!), some recent unsolicited contributions to my burgeoning inbox include the following:
From: Oprah Winfrey's Secret
Subject: Lose 10 Pounds in Six Weeks, I Guarantee It!
From: Nigel Roy
Subject: Less weight - more pleasure and joy!
From: Royal N. Bland
Subject: LoseWeightFAST!
From: Miguel Hicks
Subject: Getting thinner can be enjoyable!
From: LoseWeight
Subject: Drop 20 lbs - fit back into those jeans at no charge!
So clearly I've been internet-profiled and pegged as a fatty. A hefer. A dimpled cow. Chunkaliscious, as it were.
Huh. I can't imagine why. snort.
Somewhat (but not really) related: if you're Canadian, or have always aspired to be Canadian, or are just someone who likes to dress up like a Mountie and talk “aboot” Moose (Mooses?), please be aware that I will be infecting the International Airwaves tomorrow (Thursday 9/24) with the voice attached to my massively fat ass on this here CBC Radio One “Search Engine” show. However, if -- like me -- you are unfortunate enough to not be Canadian, you can pick up the podcast here tomorrow.
Somewhat actually related: it seems breaking celebrity melodrama has temporarily backburnered the “Inside Edition” piece filmed last week, because apparently most humans who are not me think those stories are more important. AS IF. So I'm told the story will air soon, probably on the next truly slow news day (or so I imagine). As always, you'll know when I know. Because I'm a sharer like that.
In the meantime, I'm pretty sure you'll want to check this out. PYT, Pretty Young Thing.
What better way to close out the year than by looking back at where I've been? To that end, here are my 12 favorite posts of 2007, one for every month of the year:
Good times, friends, good times.
Happy New Year (if a bit early), to you and yours.
I have a lot to say about everyone's scintillating, impassioned comments on my last post, as well as general thoughts about copyright and ownership and legalities I don't even pretend to fully comprehend, but am trying very hard to. Mostly I'm just glad this discussion is being had, as it seems one that touches many of us who share our lives on these intarnets. So, you know, rock on and stuff, people.
I'll be posting about all of that soon, and look forward to your responses. But at the moment I can't help but be distracted by what's outside my window. Here, perhaps this will help explain:
Standing before that scene puts everything into perspective to be sure.
Have a great weekend, everybody!
Internet, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year is very nearly upon us. Are you filled to near gut-busting with excitement yet? I sure am. But since the innernets will soon become a virtual ghosttown, with dusty e-tumbleweeds rolling by and nary a fresh blog post in sight, I wanted to take a moment to spread some cheer and count my many blessings.
Okay, here goes: 1, 2, 3, 4.... 12. Blessings counted! ALL DONE! Cocktails, anyone?
And as for the cheer? Well just feast your eyes on this: The Most Appropriate Gift Ever Given, presented by a friend to my husband Jamie:
Warms your heart-cockles, don't it? Oh yes, it's real. (As is the spousal neuroses, natch.)
. . . . . . . . . .
Like most of you, I'll be taking a few days off from the innarnets to devote my time and energies to guzzling my way into a spiked egg nog-induced stupor. But before I go I want to sincerely wish each of you the happiest, most delightful, and peaceful of holidays. Be merry, be bright, and stay warm and fuzzy, kiddos.
Peace and Love,
Sweetney & Family
*A gift of song for you.
+ Another gift: You all need to be reading my friend Laura's blog. It's remarkable. Over/out.
When I was eighteen years old, I had a nervous breakdown.
Among other things, I spent two full weeks crying. Two full weeks of non-stop blubbering punctuated only by brain-flooding panic attacks, one of which nearly caused me to wreck my car driving home one night from some place or another (where I was doubtless -- you guessed it -- crying).
When the panic hit, my entire body locked, overcome by a type of non-deathly rigor mortis. It took every ounce of strength I had just to pull that car over to the side of the road, where I couldn't kill myself or anyone else (though at the time, the whole killing myself idea didn't really seem out of the question). I sat on the side of the road and -- surprise! -- cried some more, wondering how I'd get home, or if getting home even mattered anymore. I felt caught between two poles: crushing sadness and paralyzing panic, and both were unspeakably dreadful. I was eighteen years old, and there were moments when I felt that life was, in some profound way, simply over for me. That I'd never get back to that person I was before this huge crack opened up in my head and swallowed the world as I knew it. That something had come undone in me, unravelled, and that my brokenness somehow defined me. Hi, I'm a crazy person! And you? Wait, where you goin'?
I say all of this not as woe-is-me sharing of mah feeeel-ings, but just as backstory to where I am now. Which is... well, for one thing, medicated. But despite that still very much subject to some invisible currents constantly swirling around me, which I have no name for, but that steer the rudder of my emotional life pretty much on a daily basis. Some days the waves crash and the undertow is fierce, and I can barely get out of bed. Other days, it's as calm and still as mirror glass, and I look into it and it looks back at me, kindly.
When I was eighteen years old, I had a nervous breakdown. I got better (whatever that means). And though I've come close to going under again many times since, I've mostly managed to keep my head above water. Mostly. Nine times out of ten? Maybe?
(All of these awkward water metaphors naturally bring to mind Stevie Smith's brilliant “Not Waving But Drowning”:
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.)
Anyway, the past couple of weeks I've felt those waves lapping at my toes again. Gentle, not terrifying -- at least not yet. But persistent. Nudging. A little ominous. And so I've been consciously working on the Feeling Better and Being Good To Myself. Which need to be capitalized as they're sort of programmatic and campaign-like actions, not typically being one who is as good to myself as I probably should be. Because I suck at life.
So this morning I went to the gym (I KNOW!), and spent an hour shuffling on the treadmill while listening to NPR (NPR of course being like taking brain vitamins, right?). Then I went to Whole Foods and spent an absurd amount of money filling our cabinets and refrigerator with hyper-organic pure naturaltastic textured whole vegetable bark-like sugar-free goodness. (Or whatever). I'm salivating with anticipation. I think.
And now? Now it has come to this:
Look out, colon! There's a giant dose of EXTREME HAPPY coming your way! YEE-HAW!
As I understand it, this 2-week program is like having a high-pressure hose stuck down your throat and getting your insides vigorously power washed. Which, you know, HAS to make me feel better, right? Right?
What does your Feeling Better and Being Good To Myself campaign look like? And yes, I'm looking for ideas I can steal. Particularly if they involve afternoon cocktails and naps. Not to put words in your mouth or anything.
It begins with my alarm not going off in the morning. It does not get better.
I rocket out of bed and race around our house chicken-with-head-cut-off style, unceremoniously stuffing my child into something resembling an outfit suitable for preschool public consumption (floral pattern paired with stripes? FUCK YEAH! She's five freakin' years old, man, anything works. It's not like Tim Gunn's around to judge (soto voce: He isn't, right?)), while simultaneously cramming a Quaker Breakfast Cookie™ down her gullet (yes, you heard right: BREAKFAST. COOKIE.), thereby lending support to my growing suspicion that I am indeed The Lamest-Ass Mother In The Galaxy™. At least I excel at something.
Squawking and clucking and flapping frantically around the kitchen, I slather one slab of bread with peanut butter, slap another on top, and cram the finished product into a plastic bag, tossing the bag into her lunchbox alongside a tube of yogurt and raspberry white grape juice. Nutrition is for days when we aren't late. In other words: NEVER.
We fly out of the house. When I drop M off at school, she doesn't cry and protest when I go to leave, as she still does on some mornings. This moment of mild relief is the day's absolute high point.
So it's been a little over two weeks since I quit smoking. And I know that I'm now officially entering decrepitude and living on Old Lady Time because that seems like freakin' yesterday. Doans pills and a hot water bottle, anyone?
Anyway, yes, I am still quit. (QUITTER!!!) And I'm pleased to say that I haven't cheated once -- not even in the realm of nicotine gum, lozenges, or patches -- and though the first few days were an unremitting hell of physical withdrawal, I passed quickly from the smoking cessation version of the DTs into a miraculous recovery of a sense of overall physical well-being: I frankly haven't felt this energetic and physically alive since I was in my early 20s (when I of course never appreciated energy and health, or a lack thereof, unless it somehow interfered with my main life objectives at the time: drinking copious amounts of alcohol and flirting with cute boys (in that order, in most cases)).
Gee, it's almost as if I'd been RELENTLESSLY POISONING MYSELF EVERY DAY, SEVERAL TIMES A DAY, FOR FREAKIN' DECADES. (smacks forehead) (and gives self The Finger)
And with these feelings of healthfulness has come a kind of, well, optimism. Something along the lines of: Well, if I can feel THIS much better making this one, single change, how much better might I feel if I removed some of the other toxins from my life that I've been marinating in?
Okay, before you start looking at me sideways and wondering who the hell I am and what I've done with Tracey, please know that this does not mean I'm going to start listening to The Grateful Dead, playing hacky-sack, or wearing tie-dye. I am committed to bodily cleanliness, loathe the smell of patcholi, and firmly reject anything and everything smacking of overly-earnest college student hippieism. I have never been, and never will be, anything remotely close to touchy-feely, and my love is far from free. None of that has changed.
I am, however, very interested in not slowly killing myself and those I love with potentially toxic, chemical-laden substances that we may be thoughtlessly putting in, on, and around our bodies. Call me crazy.
This experience of quitting smoking has made me think a lot about my biology -- about human biology generally, to be honest. And let's all face facts: those of us who eat Standard American Diets consume a whole lot of processed crap chock full of chemicals and additives and genetically-engineered food-like substances that our bodies were never intended to process. Next time you're in the grocery store, just randomly pick up packages of any kind of pre-made food and marvel at the dyslexic alphabet soup of language under “Ingredients”. What the hell ARE those things? A lot of it borders on frighteningly Frankensteinian. I mean, yes, these chemicals and additives came from substances found on planet earth, but beyond that their origins are unclear. And logic would suggest that if we can't spell, pronounce, recognize, or comprehend these things in our food, our bodies might have just a wee bit of trouble dealing with them as well.
Like, DUH. (gives self The Dread Double Finger)
Continue reading "The one where I get all crunchy-granola on your ass" »
I'll tell you all this right now: my husband is fucking insane.
He has... how shall I put this? A very on-again off-again relationship with reality. It isn't so much that he's lost his grip on The Real, but rather that he willfully chooses to ignore it, editing out select portions of The Truth Of How Things Are that don't exactly jibe with his wants and desires.
What do you call that? Selective Stupidity? What?
True, there's an incredibly charming side to this aspect of his personality, and it's definitely something that attracted me to Jamie when we first began dating. Because, quite often, this detachment from reality thing manifests as a kind of exuberant, ecstatic, seize-the-day attitude -- something that is difficult to argue with without feeling like a Scrooge and/or being overcome with self-hatred. I mean, he's right: OF COURSE we should jet off to Vegas for the weekend... and buy that really expensive Tiffany ring... and spend $300 on one meal. You only live once, right? RIGHT?
Sure, I participated along the way. Sure, I've reaped the rewards of living with someone who's knee-jerk reaction is to always say YES!, damn any and all consequences. I'm not denying that Insanity Has Its Benefits, and that I've enjoyed those.
But my willingness to stretch reality for shits-n-giggles has it's limits, folks. And they were recently reached -- nay, pressed beyond -- when Jamie began campaigning for us to buy an old $900,000 stone church.
I'll let that sink in for a moment. Do you need some smelling salts? Because I sure do.
Alright, so let me get this part out of the way: is the church awesome? Yes, yes it is. It's a mammoth stone-and-stained-glass relic of Old Baltimore, complete with a freakin' antique pipe organ. It's huge and beautiful and kick-ass.
It is also NINE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS. That's the number nine, with five fucking zeroes. In case that wasn't clear.
Continue reading "My crazy husband. Let me show him to you." »
Today is a special day, dear internet. A horrible, yet wonderful day. To be perfectly frank it's a day I've been dreading for a long, long time, yet knew was coming, was inevitable, was necessary. A personal day of reckoning, if you will. For today is the day I'm quitting smoking.
[Insert here the sounding of majestic horns heralding my imminent triumph. Or strains of George Michael's “Freedom”, whichever you prefer.]
[Then inserts sounds of me retching, because at the moment I'm fairly overcome with fear and nausea, to be perfectly honest.]
I've been smoking on and off since I was thirteen years old -- with some degree of seriousness since I was around eighteen. That's a minimum of twenty years, or essentially the whole of my adult life. Meaning I'm not sure I know how to be an adult without smoking. Perhaps through quitting I'll regress back to my early teens, begin making mix tapes in earnest and brooding in my bedroom, and then reenter adulthood afresh without a rancid butt dangling from my fingertips? Absent the whole dreaded having-to-attend-high-school bit, that wouldn't be so bad, would it? Can you hear the terror rising in my voice yet, or am I masking that adequately with humor? Umm, ha-ha? HA?
In the midst of this past weekend's parade of The Shining-like torments, I decided that M and I needed to go shopping. Because there are really only two possible things to do when life is getting you low: 1) eat items primarily composed of chocolate, preferably in a quantity equivalent to the size of your own head; 2) buy stuff. And since I'm on a diet (which I've hesitated to mention here, because it seems like some sort of self-defeating curse activates the second I do, though I have lost over ten pounds shhhh! okthxbai!), the whole head-size-chocolate option was kind of out. Sadly.
So we headed off to Target, and bought a bunch of stuff we probably didn't need (as is the way of Targetdom. Is it even possible to visit that place without spending at least $100?). But in the process discovered a third -- and heretofore incompletely realized -- spirit-uplifting option: dressing your dog up in a humiliating costume and taking pictures of him to post on the internet:
Why you do this? Why?
I am filled with self-loathing and the odd desire to go hump some flowers
Mmmm... honey...
Oh thank you sweet baby Jesus for life's small pleasures.
For the past two weeks Jamie has been working ridiculous hours, often not getting home until I'm nearly in bed. It's crunch time for a web project they've been working on at his company, a project which I have vowed to not disclose details about to the internet under pain of death and/or dismemberment. But suffice it to say it's big and involved and high-profile, and that it has become a gigantic, soul-sucking black hole at the center of our family life. When I do catch the odd, fleeting glimpse of Jamie at home I now say “Oh, do you still live here?” -- and it's not much of a joke, really.
This weekend he worked the whole of both Saturday and Sunday, leaving me -- already exhausted and run ragged -- in the role of Head Stooge to one very unsympathetic five-year-old. More than once over the course of that 48 hour period I found myself reaching what I call Maximum Density: the point at which my skillfully constructed facade of sanity, patience, and calm begins to crack under the brute, head-poundy force of unrelenting preschooler irrationality. I begin hissing words through my teeth. My body tenses. My hair becomes rigid (okay not really, but you get what I'm saying). Words sputter and crash Tourettes-like from my mouth: IF I HAVE TO SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME... I'M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN... NOT ANOTHER WORD... NO NO NO... ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME... ARE YOU DEAF? (Answers: Yes, you will; ORLY?; But I have to tell you something!; Yes yes yes; No; Huh?)
All of which begs the question: how do some of you people do this all day every day by yourself and maintain some modicum of mental health and stability? I'm dead serious here. Because at times like these I honestly start to feel as though I may have a chip missing or something -- that my version of humanity came with a woefully inadequate supply of some essential Mothering nutrient that would allow for the much-extended dance version mix serenity and patience I see in many of my Momrades (comrades+Mom=). I just don't have that, whatever that is. Am defective, I guess. (shrugs)
While I'm thinking about this though, I should perhaps mention that I believe I'm also missing whatever it is that makes some parents actually appear to enjoy getting down on the floor and acting out elaborate action-figure-fueled scenes of their child's devising. Sorry, but I just don't get it. I mean, I'm all for imaginative play and such, but is it really absolutely necessary for ME to get directly involved? When did being your child's playmate become a parental requirement, exactly? And is there a loophole somewhere I can wiggle through? After all, I DO have a whole stack of New Yorkers sitting in front of me that desperately need to be read, and almost the whole season of “Tell Me You Love Me” TiVoed and patiently awaiting my eyeballs. PRIORITIES, PEOPLE!
(You may now pat yourself on the back for being better at this whole parenting gig than me. GO YOU! YOU SO WIN! If I had a medal or something, I'd award it. Or beat you over the head with it until your screams slowly subsided. I can't decide.)
And now that I've managed to drain away all your sympathy toward me and my harrowing solo parenting predicament, let me distract you from my inadequacies by pointing you to this here Great Mofo Delurk Blogroll as well as my impending participation in this year's NaBloPoMo (Kool-Aid? DRUNK).
Did that work? No? Okay, well then howabout this adorable whistling puppy?
SUCKA!
EDITED TO VERY RANDOMLY ADD:
I haven't laughed that hard in a while. Those hand claps sure do bring the rock. (Thanks, Bill!)
Last night I was watching TV, and realized we have absolutely nothing on TiVo suitable for both kids and adults. On the one end there's Kim Possible and Sagwa the Chinese Siamese Cat With A Long-Ass Stupid Title That Never Seems To End Oh My Stinkin' Hell Show, and on the other there's Californication and Weeds and Curb Your Enthusiasm. Oh and some World Series of Poker thrown in for good measure. We try to cover all the Seven Deadly Sins in our television viewing, you know. We're completists.
Watching the absurd follies of Larry David and his cohorts, it struck me that many, many people I'm close to have been having a horribly suck-ass time lately. Much more than usual. And not the comically well-timed sort either, sadly. Everywhere I turn it seems there's an excess of grim news, misfortune, and accident. Death darkening doors. Estrangement and desertion. I'm not sure what to make of all of it. Should I be plotting moon phases? Consulting old Farmer's Almanacs for insight regarding possible influences written in the changing seasons? Or should I just sit quietly, and wait for the fog to roll back out?
Its easy, at times like these, to feel that the world is coming apart. To let hopelessness take root. And so despairing, to lose sight of things.
But then, as often happens, I found myself at the end of the day perched on my daughter's bed with her, reading The Runaway Bunny and choking back sobs with the turn of every page.
The story is, of course, about constancy, devotion, and a selfless love that seems almost supernatural. It's a meditation on what is most important in our humanity, and how that is unbreakable.
It's about being a Mother.
As I read, all of this flooded into my mind: everything I needed to reminded of. Everything that truly matters floated back to the surface -- wood from a shipwreck that would buoy me to safety.
Well that and to put baby carrots on our shopping list. M loves those fucking things.
Having a kid is totally cramping my style, that much is clear.
You may recall some recent mention here of my husband's well-deserved victory in our CityPaper's annual “Best of Baltimore” issue, a win that bestowed on us the distinct honor and privilege of gaining entry to their exclusive BoB party last week. And since I am sort of moldering in middle-age with a child strapped to one leg (they should make holsters) and therefore rarely (okay NEVER) cavorting about town with the cool kids, I was beside myself with excitement about attending. A party! With adult-type peoples! The cream of Baltimore's hip, insider crop, in fact! Oh, and did I yet mention OPEN BAR?
Huzzah! A drunken octopus on yon invite!
Yep, roger that. I'm all over that shit like a monkey on a cupcake.
Knowing that this party was coming up, I had to -- like most parental units -- jump through several flaming hoops ahead of time just to be able to go. First, I had to secure childcare at a friend's house. Second, I had to synchronize my watch by atomic clock to make absolutely certain I'd be on-point to retrieve our child at a reasonable time, or at least before she turned into a whining, flailing pumpkin and our friend was driven to unceremoniously toss her ass out on their back porch, like sack of potatoes FILLED WITH PURE EVIL (worse yet: PURE STARCHY EVIL!). Third, I had to dig through my wardrobe and find clothing that 1) was befitting a hipster gala in the year 2007 (umm, good luck with that! (snort!)), 2) was (relatively) clean, 3) didn't smell of some odd combination of Cheerios and Gogurt. YES, THE BAR HAS BEEN LOWERED. AGAIN.
Having settled those issues (well, to one degree or other), the evening of the much-anticipated party came. I was, in the words of Alan Greenspan, irrationally exuberant. I dressed with care, changing my clothing selections multiple times for good measure. I put on fucking MAKEUP, man. I applied goddamn hairspray, fer crissakes. And then I waited for Jamie to get home so we could go.
And waited. And waited. Aaaaaaand WAITED.
We'd planned to arrive at the party right when it started at 6:30pm, so I could cram in as much adult party time (see: BINGE DRINKING) as possible, figuring if I left the shindig by 8:30pm I could retrieve M and wisk her home and to bed before her personal witching hour of whining & flailing doom began. That would give me two full hours. Two full hours of blissful I'm not just a parent, I'm a hoooman beeeing! time. Oh joy.
Jamie called from the road around 6:15pm. He'd hit some bad traffic on the way home. He'd be late. He'd be very late.
I wilted.
All told, by the time we finally got to the party it was almost 7:30pm, meaning I had just enough time to slam down a single drink (weeps) and snap these pictures before I had to turn right around and get back into the stupid car. POINTLESS. FAIL!
Revelers beneath the ominous all-seeing Domino Sugars sign
Baltimore cityscape as Missile Command screenshot
The Baltimore Museum Of Industry: presently spotlighting our city's two main products -- Gang Murder & Crack!
Justin, Jamie, Lauren & delicious beers. You're winners, babies!
And sadly, that was it. I raced back to our friend's house and arrived just in time it seemed, as the tension-filled countdown to Preschooler Detonation had clearly already commenced. After putting my daughter to bed at home, I watched some TV. I had some snacks. And I tried very hard to weep quietly, so as not to wake up THE ADORABLE PIGTAILED MONSTER WHO HAS STOLEN MY LIFE FROM ME.
Oh, but I kid the life-stealing monster! Umm, I mean THE LIGHT OF MY GOT-DAMN LIFE.
So now, in an attempt to exhaust this topic fully and thereby purge the kernel of resentment that's taken up residence in my heart, here's a few other things that having a kid has unfortunately put the kibosh on for me:
I could go on and on, of course. But enough of my festering bitterness -- what's on your resentment-inducing MIA since parenthood list? And late at night when everyone else is asleep, do you lie awake thinking about these things, and do the tears come?
There there, dear.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Aside: I've decided to relocate my Daily Photo (I prefer the generality of Daily Image, honestly) Entry over on a dedicated page, so as not to clog the delicate pipes of mah index page. Please to enjoy (like, every day! DUH!)! I'm also working on a Song Of The Week page, and I'll let y'all know when that's fully operational and ready to rock. Song Of The Week page ahoy!
And a Note to the three of you who care: No, we haven't yet replaced Nemo (or gotten a tortoise, per Mrs. Kennedy's influence), and Jamie and I are still deadlocked over the convertible issue (though I believe the resounding chorus of “BAD IDEA!” from y'all might've swayed him ever-so-slightly away from folly... fingers crossed).
Yesterday afternoon I went into M's room for episode II of my twice-daily Poking Of The Fish, and found Nemo face-planted in the colorful gravel at the bottom of his tank. OH CRAP.
Still not believing he could actually be dead at this point -- since he's faked us out more than once over the course of the past week, the little shit -- I retrieved our fish net and used the thin handled end to conduct a cursory physical examination. Poke, poke. Nothing. Not so much as a fin flutter. That was one dead fish, man. Don't think you can get much deader. This fish is no more. It has ceased to be.
As a side note, this week I couldn't help but be continually reminded of the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch, and have been silently performing both sides of the dialogue in my mind:
Oh Monty Python, is there anything you can't make funny?
Not so funny, of course, was M's response to the news that Nemo had finally and definitely gone to the great fishbowl in the sky. Her genuine, heartfelt mourning over this loss was touching... if somewhat disturbing. Because she was, probably for the first time in her life, grappling with the matter of death, and clearly struggling to understand it. “Will Nemo come back tomorrow?” she asked, through tears. And later, perplexingly, “When I die will I still be in your belly?” It's as if she's searching for an out in this whole death thing, an escape hatch of rebirth or reincarnation -- something to temper the crushing enormity of death's permanence. But then don't we all?
I held her, dried her tears, and gave her a lollipop. I'm sure I probably could've handled things better -- made the moment into something exploratory and instructive about life and the world -- but all that seemed to matter was stopping the tears, the pain. Making things all better. Isn't that what Mommies do?
For the letter B, the little Sweetney selected Alien Bear, so named because of his odd (for stuffed bears) minty-green hue. I know what you're thinking: the lack of imagination is staggering.
And now the observation: 4 (well, now almost 5) year olds behave exactly like drunken elves. (Or rather, exactly how I imagine drunken elves would behave, not knowing any personally.) (Clearly I need to spend more time in the dewy forest. Or The Shire. Or Middle-Earth or whatever.)
That is all. As you were.
Isn't it a little, umm, early for this? I mean, I anticipated this struggle come puberty and teenagedom, but freakin' PRESCHOOL? This is not a good kind of precocious.
It's going to be a very long day.
A post which should probably be subtitled: Oh My God My House Is In Dilapidated Shambles And How Did I Ever Let Things Get To This Point iiiieeeeeee! (A bit wordy that, I admit. Obviously we'll edit it down for the film version).
About every six months or so I wake up one day, take a look around at my house, and feel as though the walls themselves are tightening around me. Space itself seems to be contracting, as objects (ie: Pointless Plastic Crap) are expanding and multiplying all around us simultaneously. Everything is simply too much -- the clutter, the lack of room to move freely (I've all but given up my penchant for Interpretive Dancing), and every surface seems to taunt: “Just TRY to find a place to put a drink down. C'mon, I DARE YOU, BITCH.”
Yesterday marked the reemergence of that old biannual torment. This is not my beautiful house! In fact, I'm not entirely sure I can *find* my house with all this crap everywhere.
So at this juncture, what does any sane person do? GO TO IKEA TO BUY MORE STUFF! But, you know, organizational-type stuff. Stuff to help me with my stuff. Stuff to make the stuff I already have prettier. Stuff to put stuff into, to hide stuff. Why doesn't IKEA just make a gun that shoots out magic lazers that make your stuff actually invisible, since that's kind of what they're going for anyway? They could name the superinvisogun “Krappdie,” in keeping with their needlessly difficult Swedish Alien Naming System. ZORK!
Well all of our animals are still breathing. That counts for something, right?
And because I OF COURSE obey teh intarwebs in all things, I've decided to take the wait-and-see