why does being a part of (and please forgive me for ever, EVER using this term, GAG) the blogosphere so frequently have to dissolve into interactions that make me feel like i'm going back to high school -- with all the horrible, painful, and infuriating associations of my original go round?
for future reference, i decline.
my first thoughts upon waking this morning: hey.... who filled my head with crushing pain and sloshing goop? and how long can i lay here before i'm forced to hurl my body toward the bathroom so i can puke? (answer: about 90 seconds.)
today = DOOMED.
going to crawl into the shower momentarily to see if the magical healing properties of hot water may help. send prayers, light a candle for me, etcetera...
in other doom-related news: the film version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? don't bother. utter crap.
friends, i am a beaten-down shade of a human being.
the past two days pummeled my ass into a frothing pulp. the ladies in da house will understand: twas the first two days of my monthly ordeal (and by the way, we need to come up with some better code words for menstruation -- i'm beyond the whole 'grandma coming to visit' shtick; help me out here, peoples), so i was pulled between two loathesome poles: utter physical exhaustion and temporary psychosis. at some point yesterday i decided: 1. life is a meaningless charade; 2. i am the worst mother in the history of forever; 3. i hate everyone, and the feeling is mutual; 4. everything exists merely to mock me -- for while i struggle, the world should STOP, not continue on as before, as if my misery was irrelevant in the grander scope of things. dammit.
another fun i'm-crazy-for-at-least-one-week-a-month tidbit: i somehow begin to think that i have powers of premonition, or that merely thinking about things may somehow will them into being. example: this morning i suddenly had this heart-stoppingly visceral sense, completely unprompted and out of the blue, that jamie had just been in a car accident. and for at least a few moments, this seemed utterly real. then i snapped out of it, and remembered: oh yeah, I'M CRAZY THIS WEEK, and shook it off. ALL BETTER!
finally, as if to just add youthful flair to my own personal carnival of angst, M_ has been going through this phase.... at least i hope its a phase, because if this is who she's becoming permanently, i may need to jump the first flight overseas and assume a new identity or something... anyway, to say my child is challenging right now would be an understatement: her stock response to everything right now is “NO.” she fights me on every imaginable issue -- there's hardly an event large or small throughout the day that isn't magically transformed into a seething nexus of conflict. because of this, in the past week i've had to physically carry her screaming, flailing form from at least three different public places on three wholly separate occasions. I AM BURNT, AND I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS... uhh DID I?!?! [gulp]
so yeah, umm [cough], that's what i've been up to. you?
had the most crapful of crappiest days (more on that tomorrow, once i've reconstituted my crushed soul by way of a little H20 and a ribbed circular jello mold), but if seeing the white stripes on the daily show wasn't the cure for what ails me, it was damn close.
praise hayzeus for The Jon and The Rock.
i very randomly stumbled across a CD of wedding pictures today while rummaging in the attic. thus, behold 2001: a matrimonial odyssey (warp speed remix)...
whaaa...you mean that counted?
apparently something was funny. something other than rich's suit, that is.
hey rich! love ya', man!
here again i'm gaping like a fish -- this time during our first dance.
darling, have i mentioned the zombification to you? braaaaains....
drinkin' and smokin' post-game. the end.
no reason. just, you know, sharing.
ps: kind of sad to realize i'll never be that, well, young again -- you dig? squandered, dammit! squandered!
no, seriously, ya'll be well and happy and chow down until you have to loosen your belt, like grandpa.
and then nap like you have never napped before.
love and gobble-gobbles,
xo sweetney
you're all just the sweetiest. thanks for the encouragement, understanding, and fellow feeling. it means more to me than you know.
this weekend i commenced with digging myself out of the cyberhole of my own creation (does anyone even use the term 'cyber' anymore? dude, that's like SO 1997!). my plan of attack thus far has included unsubscribing from, like, ten different email lists i'm on (which, now that i've reached the point of being desperate enough to be honest with myself, i haven't been reading or participating in for well over a year. SAYONARA, SUCKAS!), upping the spam filtering on ze blog (which may lead to the occasional unfortunate instance of valid comments being held back in comment purgatory until i approve them, but these are the sacrifices one must make in the name of sweet, sweet sanity), and designing an email filtering/filing system to help better organize and structure my e-crap. basically, i've made my online life into something resembling a nightmare of franklin covey-like efficiency... soon i'll be investing in those successories motivational posters, and talking about the power of a positive attitude (in truth, i'm much more aligned in both attitude and action with these, and in particular this, this, and this).
i've also decided to limit my online time to those moments existing wholly outside the M_verse, when she's at preschool or unconcious --- err, i mean asleep. all of these changes may seem ridiculously simple, but i've always been a little slow on the uptake, so it all feels somewhat revelatory.
okay, you can all stop laughing at me now.
after laying awake for an hour writing this post in my head, i've realized i might as well get up and type it all out. i've probably been needing to write this for a couple months now, but honestly haven't had the guts to put it all down, concrete-like. bear with me.
of late, some of my betters, who -- need i say it? -- i greatly admire and adore, have decided to take this whole blogging thing to another level, dedicating themselves to a greater extent to both their writing and audience. yet in the wake of the manifest commitment of others to this blogging thing, i feel more and more that i'm presently not up to the task of even maintaining sweetney, at least not in the fashion i have thus far. simply put, what was once an enjoyable pastime, then a downright obsession, more recently has felt like a burden. i have, frankly, felt a lot of anxiety about posting here lately (or, as the case may be, about not posting here lately), and -- most disturbingly -- i've become slowly conscious of living my actual, 3-D life through some sort of internet-related filter. meaning: 1) i find myself compulsively adhered to my computer, frequently to the detriment of all else (checking email and comments and blogs when i should be engaging with M_, for example), and 2) i've become aware that i am, more often then not, processing my experience -- both in the moment and in retrospect -- for consumption on the internet. thus i am never fully present in my life in a sense; constantly viewing the ins and outs of daily life through the lens of my blog, unable to simply live and enjoy living without hearing the constant drone of how will i present this on the internet? in my head. its become exhausting and unmanageable. and you deserve better. and i deserve better. and god knows my daughter deserves better.
i came to blogging -- first on livejournal, then here -- in search of real human connection. in that sense, the internet has been so very good to me: probably a good 90% of the people in my life who i consider true friends have been gleaned from my experience on the internet in one form or another. but lately i feel my e-life has become unwieldy, and that i'm connecting with no one as a result. the sheer amount of email i receive in a day fills me with dread, but even more dreadful is the fact that over the course of the past year i've gotten some genuinely heart-rending and humbling emails from people who've been moved in some way by something i've written here, or felt a real connection with me or my experience, and i've been unable to find the time to respond to them. and honestly, that kills me, and i'm forever feeling guilty about not being able to manage my time in such a way that i'm available to people (i should add here: available to both people in my “real” life as well as those existing strictly in my online one), and that fact alone has sucked a great deal of pleasure out of doing this. perhaps this is old fashioned of me, but i feel like i need to be a real person to anyone who feels compelled to contact me, and at present i just can't be that, and yet i just can't stop being bothered by it. and so we are at an impasse.
so you see, all of this has kind of conspired to make me reconsider what i'm doing here. and -- before people freak the fuck out -- NO, this is not a letter of farewell. i have no intention of ending what has, in the past, been a great source of entertainment, amusement and downright joy for me, and led to so many good things in my life. sweetney is important to me, let there be no doubt. but i do feel that i need to step back for a while and come to terms with the behemoth i've created and find a way to manage it so that i again feel the joy in it that i once felt. i need to achieve some sort of balance and appropriate proportion i have yet to grasp between my online life and my dimensional one -- suggestions and advice welcomed regarding that, by the way. in the short-term, however, i will likely be posting less as i try to get some perspective and find a way back to enjoying the internet as i once did. i hope to return full-force sooner rather than later, with my head back on straight and the kinks worked out. i hope ya'll will stick with me through this.
thanks in advance for your patience and understanding as i work through my shit here, peoples. and, as always -- and i probably don't say this enough -- thanks for reading.
today is not a good day to be M_'s mother.
this morning we went to the maryland science center, which has a preschool “storytime” (yes, quote-unquote; it mostly consisted of a pimply teenager who vaguely resembled anne hathaway pre-makeover in the princess diaries dispensing a rather harrowing account of the insidious and pervasive nature of germs and disease while proffering goofy flashcards of cartoon microbes fashioned to resemble a hammer (for the poundy “headache germ”) or an enormous mutant ear (for the “earache germ”)... i can't decide if i was more disturbed by the undercurrent of germ hysteria and its being inflicted on defenseless toddlers or by the horrible charade that this was science). after surviving this we wandered around the exhibits for a good hour -- or rather I wandered; M_ bounced wildly, sprinted, and/or careened through the place like a meth-addled squirrel. yet -- and here's where the badness begins to creep in -- all good thing must end, if only because mommy only had $2 in quarters to put in a meter that doled out a paltry 15 minutes per (and so, if you think about it, the blame for our premature leavetaking really rests with the parking authority. those heartless motherfuckers.). my hand thusly forced, i began the slow process of easing M_ toward the exit, all the while trying to warm her to the idea (at home you can have pizza for lunch! and play with your viewmaster! and snort a few lines of fun dip! (okay so that last bit might be a tad excessive)).... that is until she hurled herself to the floor and began shrieking “I CAN'T GO HOME!” over and over and over again.
at first i tried to talk her down, uttering in my calm, friendly mommy voice reassurances that we'd be coming back next week... that this was a temporary parting with our beloved science center... that the science center would always be with us, in our hearts, forever... but my words only seemed to generate an increase in shriek volume and intensity, as she tried to drown out calm friendly mommy with MEGA-XTREME pissed off M_. people turned from their interactive scientific explorations and silently stared. it was all very distinctly not good.
and this is about when things began to spiral out, and when i started to become The Parent No One Wants To Be. you know what i'm talking about -- the one you see very nearly dragging his or her screaming, flailing child from a public settting, breathlessly muttering cliched threats to the offending child a la “you stop this now, or we're never going anywhere ever again!” -- the one you feel a complex mixture of pity and contempt for, imagining yourself somehow above such public spectacle-making (and i say that to the childless reading this; any of you with kids know the sad truth). yes, that was me today. i was the bad parent. the bad parent with the brat. in fact, i came *this close* to allowing that time-worn old school ultimatum -- “you want something to cry about? i'll give you something to cry about!” -- to pass through my lips. but alas, my heart just wasn't in it.
instead i simply shamed her relentlessly during the whole car ride home: “we do not act this way! that was very bad! if you behave this way we're never going back! you were a very bad girl!” etc., though in my defense i'm 95% positive she heard nary a word, what with her incessant hysterical whining, wailing, groaning and screeching sort of blotting my voice out within the car's echo chamber-like configuration. when we reached home and the tantrum continued unabated, i then pulled out the famous “straight to bed without a meal” maneuver, as seen in the classic film mommy dearest (or was that the “you're never going to bed again until you eat that meal” maneuver? i always get those confused...). dear god, its like i'm standing on the shoulders of giants!
and so in conclusion, to sum up: i feel horrible and exhausted and like an enormous flaming failure. AND i have a headache.
somebody fix me up one of melissa's momtinis, i'm going DOWN.
so i went to the doctor YET AGAIN this morning, and we all know how much i love going to the doctors. its a like a mini vacation or something... A VACATION IN THE DARK, FIERY PIT OF HELL. anyhow, the reason for this visit relates to my recent ear infection -- namely that while on antibiotics for that, a myriad other unrelated gastrointestinal issues i've had for a long time completely abated. backstory: for the past couple of years i've had what i now recognize as symptoms of an ulcer -- burning, gnawing stomach pain relieved only by eating or taking antacids -- which previous doctors misdiagnosed or ignored. because doctors are ASSY, my friends. but while on antibiotics last week, i felt better to an almost ridiculous degree. i felt not only that these stomach problems were miraculously gone, but also that a fog of lethargy and fatigue lifted... its that whole you-don't-know-how-sick-you-really-are-until-you're-well thing. so yes, i again braved a most dreaded and foul doctor's visit, emerging from the trial with... well, not much, honestly: a few weeks worth of prescription antacid and a form directing me to get some blood work done to test for ulcer-causing bacteria. better still, i actually cried when the doctor told me he wasn't just going to whip out his prescription tablet and load me up on the antibiotics (embarrassing as it was, at least it was that silent, tear-trickling sort of crying, not the sniffling, sobbing and heaving sort of crying), and you know that there's nothing better than the awkward physician pat of condolence -- i live for that shit, man. so yeah, i'm fairly bummed. all of this means i have to not only live with my roiling, painful gut a little bit longer, but that i also have to go to a stupid lab and get stupid blood drawn -- an excursion positioned just one tier lower than going to the doctor's on tracey's most hated things to do list. sigh.
i did manage to score a flu shot out of this whole ordeal, though. so while you're all feverish and bedridden this winter with the flu, i'll be all impervious and shit over here... though of course clutching my stomach and vomiting blood. but still.
these preschool trips are going to kill me. or at the very least my will to live. a bounty of photos after the jump...
[oh yeah, and the flash-meets-reflective-garb effect gets real old real fast...]
Continue reading "the baltimore fire museum: an unqualified flop." »
i'm obsessed with mosaics -- the process, the product... i've been buying craploads of old dishes, antique tile and stained glass, for weeks. i've been trolling ebay daily, looking for materials. i spent a good hour yesterday, safety glasses on (because, you know, safety first), installed in the basement, hitting ceramics and glass with a hammer. i purchased tile nippers, for crissakes.
and i have yet to even begin to make a single thing.
paralysis, anyone?
i've been running around all morning trying to get our house back into shape after a good week and a half without doing any sort of cleaning whatsoever because of my crippling bout with the pestilence. and, as anyone with a toddler, three cats, a demented pug, and a cleaning-disabled partner knows (anyone? helloooo?), under those circumstances a week and a half without cleaning is tantamount to sending out an all-points-bulletin to the world of disease and filth: please, come nest in our home and slather yourselves upon every surface! we never close! let the unbridled festering and putrescence begin! WOOO-HOOO!!!
so i've been walking around with a spray-bottle of bleach all morning, and as a result can no longer smell or taste anything... that doesn't smell or taste like bleach, that is. in any case, i finally feel like doing things again, things other than laying on the couch, laying on the bed, reclining in the easy chair, etcetera. and the reason for this rapid recovery is, well, that i conned my doctor into calling in a prescription for antibiotics for me yesterday, without actually having to go to the doctor. i eliM_ted the middle-man, in effect. and while i'm kind of perversely proud of my persuasive powers, and know that i was indeed nursing an ear infection and was therefore in need of said drugs (i'm not a doctor, but i play one in my mind), i also know that this transaction was, in the grander scope of things, PURE UNMITIGATED EVIL. i've heard in about 15 years all the known antibiotics in our arsenal will be useless against the mutant superbacteria we're aiding and abetting through our overuse of them, but with delicate flowers like myself gulping antibiotics down with abandon because we essentially weren't meant to survive and reproduce, i'd say we can safely cut that figure in half. i know, i know: I SO RULE.
all of this of course means that in less than a decade i'm shit out of luck (as my father would say), and will be forced to add those attractive white paper air filter masks and surgical gloves to my daily wardrobe. but like the good american that i am, in the meantime i'm gonna throw caution to the wind and live in The Now, man. load me up with more antibacterial soaps and purell, motherfuckers! I'M INVINCIBLE!!!
okay, well, maybe a little vincible. sniff.
i'm thinking about having 11.3.05 tattooed on my right upper arm... delicate script numbers, of course... perhaps encircled by a wreath of flowers, with tiny birds flitting around the numbers... or do you think that might look, you know, cheap?
anyway, just so we're clear about what a complete and utter dork i am. i know i should be cooler about this (or at least pretend to be cooler), but i'm just plain not all that cool, and i'm really really bad at pretending to be anything i'm not.
okay, i'm done. thanks for humoring me.
-- M_ has decided that i look like woodstock, the bird from peanuts cartoons. i have no idea what this is about, nor do i see any likeness, but she's very insistent about it [pointing to sticker of said cartoon bird that she got at preschool:] “look! its mommy! mommy, its you!! look!!!”
umm, weirdness.
-- jamie, the best husband ever, brought home a couple get-well-soon gifts for me this evening: truman capote's in cold blood (which i've of course been wanting to read forever, as it combines two of my favorite things in the universe: literate, smartass gay men and true crime), and two pastries from some fancyshmantzy bakery joint in dupont circle (some sort of pear-laden pastry and a chocolate cakey one. mmm.....forbidden pastries...). jamie so rulz.
-- i had my very first random instance of being recognized in public for le sweetney today. while in line at the grocery store, no less. and my immediate thought was: oh my god, i hope this person doesn't see the complete crap i'm buying (okay, i did put the box of gingerbreadman cookies back, but still, preprocessed convenience foodstuffs comprised the bulk of our spread on the little grocery store conveyor belt thingy. internet, i am lazy and probably somewhat vitamin deficient. do you still love me?).
-- if i have to listen to tyra banks say the increasingly cringeworthy word “fierce” one more time i'm going to have to fiercely throttle her boney supermodel ass. oh, and p.s., will someone please inform ms. banks that she is NOT oprah? having a talk show and ceaselessly professing yourself to be just one of the girls, yo, does not an oprah make. no, you also need a lifelong weight problem and a quadrillion fucking dollars. and a publishing empire. and a very real shot at the presidency (if you wanted it, of course. but why would you want to deal with all that bureaucracy when you could just BUY change?). so check yourself, skeletor.
-- if you're anything like me (meaning if you're, uhh, depressive and anxiety-ridden), you might wanna check this out.
i somehow managed to dismantle my alarm clock while still asleep this morning and so woke up at 9am in a panic, since M_'s preschool begins at 9am and holy fuck do i need M_ to go to preschool today. picture in your mind me then springing to life and frantically whirling around the house tasmanian devil style, whipping things into shapes necessary to our departure, destination: almighty, life-giving two-and-a-half-hour preschool. M_ hardly knew what had hit her, and she was out the door before she could ask.
this beginning doesn't bode well. and have i yet mentioned that my sinuses feel as though sinister elves visited me in the night, packing my head full of concrete?
on the brightside, this was one of the first things i read this morning. thanks, merlin.
its almost as if i woke up today hell-bent on self-immolation. ever wake up in the morning and find yourself from moment one just careening wildly down a path of self-destruction for no discernible reason? oh -- and you're not in your teens or early 20s? and so its kind of shocking, kind of sad, and yet oddly expected -- as with the inevitable visit from that distant fucked-up relative you haven't seen in a few years, the one you just knew would show up unannounced on your doorstep one of these days, chain-smoking unfiltered marlboro reds, rumpled and smelling of sea salt and vinegar, mumbling about just needing a couple bucks, just a couple, man. and the fuck-up bearing bad tidings is all about the laying low: today i am somehow inexplicably sick all over again; having thought i'd gotten past the worst of it, i now find myself digging into new dregs of physical exhaustion and replaying the chronological catalog of symptoms as they emerged last week. i have re-infested myself. clearly i hate my guts.
nothing to do but go to sleep, wishing for better luck tomorrow.
oh, i've missed you, you interweb you. does that necessarily translate into: i've missed the only semi-confirmed yet mostly vague and insubstantial sense that there are scores of invisible people out there who seem to have some sort of unexplained yet abiding interest in the goings on in my minute life? yes, yes. in any case, ya'll haven't missed much, dearies, what with all the sniffling sneezing coughing aching stuffyhead feverishness going on around these parts. truly, i spent very nearly every waking moment this weekend sprawled before the teevee, sucking down vast quantities of America's Haunted Houses, Haunted Hotels, A Haunting, and similar low-rent basic cable productions involving 3rd-rate reenactments and laughable special effects. i gained nothing from absorbing all those programs, except perhaps a fleeting sense of self-satisfaction, knowing that indeed our home is thankfully free of growling demons and spectral materializations of previous owners and their not-quite-dead-yet hostilities. so, you know, yay us.
we're going trick-or-treating mighty early this evening, since M_ has festered up a loverly ear infection (what is that, the TWELFTH this year?), and seems unable to remain conscious much past 5pm... so expect some photos documenting the grand unveiling of the inexplicable hello kitty witch later on (but really, who needs a comprehensible costume when hello kitty is involved?).
i'm slooooowly climbing back into the blogging saddle here, people.
and yes, i'm wearing the assless chaps.
i should've known my plans would be foiled.... by The Pestilence. M_'s been plague-ridden since wednesday, and despite a valiant internal battle that included attempts at jedi mind tricking myself into wellness, i too succumbed. the past two days have been a blur of crumpled tissues, mucus and vast, fuming vats of vicks vaporub. all productivity has ground to a gear-shredding halt, and i've been reduced to a blanket-swaddled lump protruding from the cushions in our couch.
i've been 100% offline for around 48 hrs -- the first time that's happened in any past -- recent or not-so recent -- that i have mental recall of. i'd planned to put some of my downtime this week toward responding to a sizable backlog of emails, but since that now appears unlikely to happen, let me now broadcast here a general, blanket apology to everyone waiting on any kind of response/correspondence from me: for lo, i am in a pitiable state, and deserving of your kindly pardon. when i am recovered i promise to embark upon a campaign of correspondence that will set everything right and mold me back into a shape that resembles something like a real, interactive human -- one who responds to questions, speaks in turn when spoken to, and is generally not such a tremendous ass with the email and whatnot. sorry, guys.
in the interim, enjoy the following dispatch from our lovely pittsburgh pal kelly, who is joining the ranks of us homeowning-types in less than a week... and is, understandably, a little freaked out about it.
that would be forgiveness, peoples. sheesh.
imagine if you will: someone you consider a friend inexplicably and without warning turns on you and hurts you real bad, messes with your mind, attempts to discredit you amongst mutual friends and acquaintances, and generally causes all kinds of unwarranted anxiety and drama with you individually, as well as within a larger circle of friends. you (and the larger circle) cut off all contact with this someone, and they kind of magically disappear, despite living mere blocks from you. then a year goes by, and you run into this person quite by chance, and they (in an unexpectedly noble turn) have the guts to approach you and apologize for the debacle in what seems like a genuine, thoughtful way. what do you do with that?
i guess this boils down to what exactly forgiveness means, and whether it is inherently an external reconciliation between two people or something one internally processes as the forgiver separate from the forgivee (if you will). and to what end? do we forgive to free ourselves from the past? to reconcile and rekindle? to take the high road? to make peace or keep the peace? to make the other person feel better, and thereby ourselves as well?
my nature is such that my immediate inclination -- in an almost knee-jerk sort of way -- is to heap on the forgiveness, piling at the feet of anyone asking for it a mushy tower of exoneration comparable in size and consistency to the mashed potato devil's tower richard dreyfuss built in close enounters (mmm.... forbidden tower). but then i'm famously a sucker -- or, as my mother has chided since grade school, “too trusting” -- and i'm trying really hard to be more considered in situations such as this. plus another tendency of mine is to think things to death, so OF COURSE i have to commence with a philosophical exaM_tion of the conception and execution of forgiveness. god how i suck.
so yeah, that's where i'm at today.
1. if i had a band right now, i'd be covering go diego go's song “rescue pack”. dude, the rescue pack song so SLAYS the backpack song (to those of you who don't have children: move along, move along... nothing to see here...).
2. M_ and i both got haircuts this week. despite being a “mommy special” cut under flailing toddler duress, hers is way cuter:
(note: the wind blew her bangs up as i was taking the picture; they're actually straight in real life) my goal is to make her indistinguishable from any member of sleater kinney. i think we're 90% there.
3. caught Rev Run's new show on Mtv last night, Run's House, and it is RIGHTEOUS. sample moment of awesomeness: when Run's youngest son doesn't want to go to bed one night and starts in with the typical little kid whining and pleading, Run calmly (yet commandingly) responds: “man, i don't wanna diss you or anything, but its bedtime.” BOOM! aww right Run!!!
4. current fixations: oh my god, how are we going to afford to heat our house this winter?; the mix (ALMOST done burning, finally); lipton diet lemon iced tea; the sudden influx of my little pony crap into our home (its M_'s new thang); a sudden feeling of claustrophobia at the onset of fall -- leading to a desire to rearrange every item of furniture in our house so as to have MORE SPACE (or at least the illusion of); polar bear night (now read at every naptime and bedtime); catching up on arrested development (how is it that this is on TV? and how is it that i'm just now getting a clue?); big fluffy floppy-eared bunnies hopping through our backyard; sweater weather!
5. ahem, mix?? where my bitches at?
6. i'm gonna meet styro this weekend! she's coming to play at our house! squee!!!
in addition to getting all jacked up on some new happy meds last week (effexor, if it matters; i'm playing with the dosage to achieve maximum NOT CRAZY coupled with maximum NOT ZOMBIE at present, but my sense thus far is that it is a boon for both me and my relative stability), since i was having to do the dreaded doctor thing anyway i figured while i was there i might as well re-up on my allergy medication, aka that which enables the survival of the unfittest (me), who would in any other age have perished at the hand of multiple simultaneous sinus and ear infections or something (when i was 18 i went to my first allergist (by hasbro), who -- after several hours of unpleasant sub-dermal injections, blood tests, and other variations on the poking-and-proding theme -- proclaimed me The Most Allergic Person He'd Ever Encountered... an undesirable title right up there with World's Largest Goiter and Most Pock-Marked in the realm of notable xxtreme bodily fuckedness). and since the supposedly 12-hour prescription antihistamine/decongestant i've been taking for the past year has proved ineffective past about, oh, 6 hours, my doctor gave me a supposedly 24-hour version.... which, you guessed it, lasts about 12 hours. bastards.
now admittedly, my allergen sensitivity is guinness world record-level remarkable in its breadth and depth, but COME ON. is our grasp of human physiology really so limited and/or inept that we can't figure out how to time-release this shit properly so i don't have to take five freaking pills a day, every day, for the rest of my itchy and scratchy life? its almost enough to make me lose faith in our medical establishment... oh wait, nevermind, i actually already lost my faith in our medical establishment, back when doctors first started INJECTING BOTULISM DIRECTLY INTO PEOPLE'S FACES so as to achieve that paralytic expressionlessness that's oh-so-hot these days.
bah. stupid modern medicine.
i'm having one of those weeks where despite having just seen the pixies this weekend (who were magnificent and not at all sad; not the Aging Pixies but rather their old selves of the 80s who left me in awe as i drove to high school each morning), and despite just having endured M_'s 3rd birthday (which, incidentally, lasted ONE WHOLE WEEK, because she kept insisting that every day last week was her birthday, and i wasn't going to be the one to contradict her and thereby ignite the whining and shrieking that accompanies any forced adjustment to M_'s reality) and the compulsory party with her fellow toddlers (slightly more fun than a spinal tap), and despite having gone to a bar this weekend where i discovered that -- at least here in baltimore -- spaghetti strap tank tops coupled with large, garish belts just shy of those given to heavyweight champions in terms of size, is now apparently The Fashion (and my deconstruction of that could potentially run to dissertation lengths), and despite similar related and unrelated etcetera, i feel i have nothing to say.
which sort of screams chemical imbalance to me, waiting as i am on a long-needed adjustment to my very special medication, aka that which secures to me a single tenuous thread of sanity. and as much as i hate going to the doctor (and it is an epic hate), i hate feeling like this more, so i'm dragging my ass there tomorrow morning to endure the poking and the prodding and the very same questions i've answered again and again for well over 10 years: family history of depression? CHECK. been depressed long? FOREVER. primary symptoms? CRUSHING DESPAIR AND UNCONTROLLABLE WEEPING. have you taken medication for your depression before? PAXIL, ZOLOFT, WELLBUTRIN, XANAX, LEXAPRO. GOT ANYTHING BETTER? and so forth and so on, until i'm given that magical piece of paper that entitles me to those magical pills that somehow make being alive magically manageable. at least for a while.
so that joke about linking to other people's stuff may become not so jokingish shortly, until i get my feet back under me, or i may tomorrow experience a mood enhancing placebo effect (yay! i love those!) upon ingesting The New Thing, whatever that thing may be. details at 11.
why can't my life be easily reedited and recut like this, dammit?
anyone who knows me (and that would include long-time readers of this here blargh) knows that i am not one to be confessional. for the most part i keep my deep, dark nasty bits to myself, though perhaps at times dropping hints or vague intimations or dancing around the various wounds that compose who i am, as if attempting to trace the outline of those concealed portions of self. but recently i read two separate and entirely distinct posts that i've been thinking about a lot: melissa's and patrick's -- both so amazingly brave in their vulnerability that i've since felt kind of haunted by my own reserve and the tenacity with which i cling to *staying in a safe place* here. so, for once, i'm letting go of all my filters and going to attempt something a bit less comfortable but a bit more challenging.
when i was pregnant with M_, i gained something around 60 pounds. for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of pregnancy (and yes, i'm being VERY VERY SARCASTIC when i say that), that's nearly twice what you're “supposed to” gain. during the pregnancy this was less-than-dramatic for me though, convinced as i was that i would rapidly shed this baby weight after giving birth, though i did feel very round and odd and unattractive and not-right-in-my-skin, with increasing intensity, for those 9 months. still, i figured as soon as M_ popped out i would somehow miraculously and effortlessly begin to shrink like a deflating balloon and again be the Me i was happy and comfortable with.
WRONG.
what happened instead is that i held on to a good portion of that extra 60 pounds until very, very recently, meaning i lived for nearly 3 full years in what was, to me, my pregnancy body -- a body i frequently felt i was at war with in all sorts of ways (among other delights, i had sciatica, which during the last 3 months of pregnancy made simply walking an excruciating ordeal). now, having returned to near-normal (i still have 5-10 pounds to lose in order to be *precisely* where i was pre-pregnancy), i'm starting to see what an impact this weight has had on my sense of self for the past several years... nay, upon my actual enjoyment of life on a daily basis. it is terrible to think this and worse to say it, but that extra weight utterly and completely changed my experience of the world every day for the past 3 years, because every day for the past three years i have thought constantly about it. okay, not every waking moment or anything, but it was like a low, soft drum beat always relentlessly pulsing in the background: the knowledge of just how unattractive and uncomfortable i felt all the time, and thus how unhappy i was with myself all the time. thrum, thrum, thrum.
but this is not the story i wanted to tell. at least, not exactly.
when i was about 8 years old my family moved from New Jersey to Colorado (i was entering 3rd grade -- i think that's year 8, right?). prior to the move my memories of childhood are somewhat idyllic: a neighborhood filled with kids who'd grown up together, who shared and played together with little discord, and i remember always feeling at ease and a part of things. but after the move, something changed. my brother and i were both a little geeky and always had been -- we wore thick glasses and clothes that weren't exactly fashionable for the time -- and the kids in our new neighborhood and at school sort of immediately pegged us as oddballs. abruptly, and without explanation, i became the odd girl out, the last one picked for the team, the one who sat alone at lunch... the one who cried to my mother upon returning home from school most afternoons, please, i don't want to go back. i didn't feel that i had changed so much as the kids i was now around had changed, growing up to an age where cliques and popularity contests emerge. not knowing how to play the game or how to respond to their unprovoked cruelty, i withdrew and indeed became odder and odder, if only from being isolated from my peers. i began doing things like hanging out (alone) by a creek near our house, where -- hidden in the outcroppings of reeds that lined the banks -- i'd strip nude and sit in the shallow water, making up stories about fairies and other magical and conveniently invisible beings who were my friends. i created an elaborate fantasy life to sustain me, to bolster my sense of self and keep me safe from what then felt like systematic, crushing daily rejection and abuse.
but in time i would learn to almost revel in my oddness -- perhaps because i had no other choice. by the time i reached high school i'd not only embraced my role as outcast but reinforced it by gaining a ton of weight, thus securing my status as impossibly unlikable. to this i added my budding interest in punk rock, complete with the appropriate bizarre hair and clothing to mark my difference... or heighten it. by this age i did find a small cluster of friends -- other oddballs like myself -- and there was indeed some solace in that. but even in that group -- the freaks --i was the smart, funny fat friend of the pretty girl, the solid, reliable, trustworthy, yet distinctively un-pretty girl who lived vicariously through the wild, youthful abandon of her attractive friends. while they were out running around with boys and breaking curfew, i was at home pouring over 19th century literature and poetry, or alphabetically screening the great B&W films of the first half of the 20th century. later, i took an interest in painting and then photography, and began channeling my energies into those, going so far as to buy enough equipment to set up a complete darkroom in my parent's basement. and yeah, sure, these were worthy pursuits, but they were far from normal. and i missed out on a lot of my youth. and i was almost always lonely.
at 18 i had a nervous breakdown (another story entirely, for another time entirely), which led to some sort of undefinable epiphany that i don't think i can articulate through language... except to say that within 8 months i went from awkward, overweight teenager to skinny, fuck em' all attitude-laden semi-adult. and here's what i learned in the process of going through that transformation: the importance of appearance cannot be underestimated. there i was, essentially the same lonely, odd, outcast girl inside that i had been less than a year before, yet the world's response to me was wholly opposite. boys -- who would never even glance at me before unless it was to hurl some demeaning expletives my way -- literally threw themselves at me, along with looks of desire that i hardly knew how to process let alone respond to. i was suddenly and miraculously appreciated for being not odd or weird, but interesting, and i was no longer a boring brainiac but instead deemed engaging and brilliant. yet rather than revel and delight in my new-found appeal and 'attractiveness', i was fucking angry as hell about it. i mean, did these people think i was some sort of idiot? inside i knew that this revised packaging held the very same person that a year before would've been shunned by my new admirers, and i was tormented by that knowledge. i felt like a fraud, and that i couldn't trust anyone's responses to me anymore. though i of course wanted to be liked -- who doesn't? -- peoples liking of me suddenly felt fake, false, hollow.
it took me quite literally years to work through that (and i am still, despite myself, often reserved and distrustful) -- the struggle in me always boiling down to a desire for acceptance having nothing whatsoever to do with my appearance... that continually, almost perversely, seemed to always hinge precisely on my appearance. its that corny line about wanting to be loved and appreciated for yourself, for who you 'really are,' beyond physicality and appearance. but the truth is that there is no getting beyond physicality and appearance, as unbearable as it is to accept that. my change in appearance affected a change in how people viewed my quirks and interests, and that very superficial change was, relative to other people, more important than any internal work i could've done. the truth is, essentially, a cliche: the popular girls are always the pretty girls, the idols of music and film are beautiful and handsome, and those in society who are admired and emulated are, with rare exception, the beautiful people. i fought this for years, i railed against it, but there is no subverting the programming we are all equipped with -- likely from birth. i see this programming play out even in several separate social clusters i now interact with: invariably there is some sort of hierarchy (though almost always unspoken, it is nonetheless clearly recognized by those within the group), and atop the peak of the pyramid sits someone, well, pretty. and don't get me wrong -- this someone may be lots of other things, too: smart, interesting, funny.... but always, always pretty.
god, i've taken such a long, circuitous route in writing all of this down that i hardly know how to pull all the threads together. but let me clearly state that the primary thread is definitely not intended to be: pretty people end up on top, but rather: i am deeply conflicted about the subjects of identity and self and image and self-representation, but what i know is that i am the sum of these things i've written here, and that as hard as i try to get beyond them they never leave me. as the title above suggests, it seems we move forward in time only to find ourselves again and again back at places we thought -- or hoped -- we'd left behind. and while i have no inner child to contend with, i do have an inner least-popular-girl-in-school, an inner voted most unusual (as my high school year book can attest), an inner sad, overweight teenage version of myself that makes the gaining (and losing) of pregnancy weight an epic psychological/emotional battle it should not have been.
this is how i know that i will always -- in whatever situation i am in, even if it is wholly inappropriate -- feel as though i am the outcast. and how i know that i will always hold those who wield popularity and privilege as a weapon to doM_te or hurt others in contempt. and its why i will always root for the underdog, whatever the odds. the past is too present in me.
i napped today from 1:30-4pm -- during what what would these days be considered a ridiculously long M_ naptime -- but to no avail; i awoke feeling as though i'd gone several rounds with some kind of large industrial machinery of the sort used on farms for separating wheat from chaff... except imbued with special tracey ass-kicking technology. or something. CAN YOU TELL HOW SICK I AM?!?!
yet even in my loathsome state of putrescence i will not be deterred in my viewing of LOST this evening. yes friends, though tonight i may have fever dreams of the sweatiest variety about invisible monsters and kidnapping piratey dudes and hidden hatches concealing dank labyrinthine tunnels... some things are simply not TiVo-able.
and now i must go watch some sort of retarded home improvement show on HGTV. because that's what one does when one's attention span has been eaten by the brain piranas of illness.
i feel like crap.
and i think i'm getting sick.
and not necessarily relatedly, or in that order.
sigh.
i've been thinking a lot lately about this blog, about what it means to me and why i do it, about how much time i spend working on it and posting to it, and about the community of people who read it. to paraphrase my friend marybeth: i love this blog and want to have its babies. it makes me feel connected to the world, but more specifically, it makes me feel connected to a lot of really fucking cool people who i'd otherwise never have known existed. i'm kind of done justifying it, or my feelings about it. it honestly makes me happy -- happier than most anything else in my life other than jamie and M_ -- and it is therefore inherently valuable to my life. period.
that said, it is a major time-suck, which is both a good and bad thing. it keeps me busy, it gives me a “project” to direct some of my creative energies toward, and it allows me to have what i feel like is a real voice in a world, which -- because i'm a stay-at-home mom and therefore somewhat isolated -- i don't think i'd otherwise have. that's the upside of the time-suck. on the downside, it keeps me from doing a lot of other things i probably should be doing, like laundry and cleaning.
okay, so maybe there is no real downside. heh.
no, but seriously, i spend A LOT of precious time and energy on this, which lately has got me to thinking of how i can make it even just a smidgen more self-sustaining. as with rock-n-romp -- my other little project -- i've never thought once about trying to convert this into some sort of money-making endeavor. i'm no dooce* and don't ever expect to be, but considering the labor involved it would be nice if i could somehow generate some small amount of money from this -- just enough to cover hosting each year would be glorious. i feel a little queasy even talking about this, but since everything i'm doing right now (blog, RnR) is non-profit, i'm costing our family money with my little projects while contributing ZIP financially. which, as my other stay-at-home friends can tell you, does tend to wear a little on one and generate some twinges of guilt.
so it is with apprehension and reluctance and some honest-to-god anxiety that i've done two things: 1. put a couple links in the right-hand sidebar for donations, and 2. i signed up with amazon associates (who through some complicated formula i don't quite understand pays site owners for clicks to and purchases of products via links on their site). i expect the latter of the two to generate... well, not much, honestly. but a few cents here, a few there... as for the donations, i have very little to say about it. i'm not going to beg you all to send me money, but if you enjoy what i do here -- if i amuse and entertain you regularly, and if you feel the spirit move you -- throw a buck or two or whatever into my e-tip jar as you would a street performer's guitar case (or don't; i'll still love you anyway). please note: I PLAN TO NEVER MENTION EITHER OF THESE THINGS AGAIN; i just thought i owed it to all of you to send out a heads-up. ...and now please excuse me while i go throw up.
but before i projectile-hurl from anxiety-overload about taking this step that i obviously feel somewhat conflicted about, let me add: nothing has changed. i swear to fucking christ i'm not going to start posting 50 gazillion links to amazon products a day like some skeezy dork. i may be a dork, but i sure as hell ain't skeezy. i will link to things as i would've before: because i love something and want to share it with ya'll, as with my last entry about Mr. Lunch. i would've made that very same entry before, linking to the books on amazon just as i did today, whether i was getting .5-cents-per-click (or whatever it is) or not. those books are freaking awesome and you should have them -- buy them from powell's or wherever for all i care. werd.
a final note: i hesitated and hesitated to put up the donation links because, let's face it, there are more worthy causes right now. if you've got some extra cash to donate at this time and haven't yet contributed toward hurricane relief for those in the gulf, i strongly encourage you to do so before giving me *anything.*
okay, that's it. xanax, anyone?
*meaning, of course, that i don't now and never expect in the future to have an audience even approaching hers, thus even if i wanted to make money here that's sort of an impossibility. just wanted to clarify that point and note that i think dooce *should* be making money off her site -- she's fucking dooce, people. i love dooce, everyone loves dooce, and if you don't there's probably something wrong with you and you might wanna have that looked at. finis.
1. i miss my wireless dsl. sniff.
2. family is now officially driving me BATSHIT.
3. we're leaving late this afternoon in order to drive back to bmore mostly at night, when (we hope) M_ will be unconscious instead of thrashing about in her carseat and whining, shrieking and wailing.
4. ophelia turned out to be the equivalent of your average really windy rainstorm. would it be sick to say i was somewhat disappointed?
5. jamie hooked me up with a facial and pedicure at the local spa this morning, thus serving to remind me of why i married him.
6. sorry i haven't responded to anyone's comments and such -- i'm negotiating dial-up AND 5 other people who want to use it. once we get back home this weekend i plan to go on an internet binge of sorts, so expect a lot of day-late-dollar-short comments (and comments on comments) from me soonly.
7. sam sessa, you have a call a-comin' this weekend, mister.
8. slobbery-wet smoochies to ya'll. sluuuurp.
its starting to get a little windy out there.
heh.
[gulp.]
i hesitated (temporarily) to mention this, but this week jamie and M_ and i are vacationing with my extended family (which is comprised of 5 other human beings, the gaughran family being laughably miniscule and very nearly extinct) in the outer banks of north carolina, a once gloriously festering lair of piratey goodness (sadly, the festering has, over time, lead to complete decomposition; pathetic threadbare vestiges include pirate-themed buffet restaurants and tourist-targeted items like blackbeard's saltwater taffy -- as though blackbeard would have entertained the thought of eating anything other than scores of men's souls... perhaps supplemented with ye olde seafaring staples like vile, watery gruel and pitch-black ale, arrgh!). my hesitation in revealing this came from the fact that, oh, about fully half of the entire city of baltimore knows precisely where i live, but i've since decided that our professionally monitored security system and the armed militia we have patrolling the grounds of our home 24/7 while we're away should deter any opportunistic ransacking and pillaging. oh, and have i yet mentioned anything about the trained army of rabid attack dogs we installed? yeah, that's right.
in any case, here we are, just barely beginning to enjoy the, umm, vacating, when of course a big old buzzkill has to rudely insert itself into our incipient frolicking... a buzzkill physically manifesting in the form of A FUCKING HURRICANE, people. okay, so its only a measly category 1 hurricane, but a hurricane nonetheless. and while the hilariously-named storm, ophelia [snort], is sure to put a damper on our planned sunbathing, sandcastle-building, and, well, generally all possible activities taking place in the out-of-doors, most disconcerting is that we will likely be trapped in our rented beach house with my family for around 24-48 hours while the storm passes. and, for the sake of clarity: yes, of course i love my family. but does that familial love translate into my wanting to be confined with all of them for a full two days, unable to even venture out to the local market to retrieve fortifying, will-to-live sustaining ice creams and chocolates because the one road that runs the length of the outer banks floods like clockwork any time a major storm of any sort hits? do i even need to answer that? is this thing on?!?
worse yet, there's a decent chance we'll lose electricity and phone service, which would mean losing both the soothing opiate of television as well as our crappy (yet -- at least for myself -- sanity-bolstering) dial-up internet access. and you see here clearly where my priorities lie: screw hot water, unspoiled food, and lighting -- rock star: INXS is on tonight and i have to blog about it, gawdammit!
vacation my ass. [grumble]
at some point this week i hit 600 entries (total), and 75,000 hits (so far) in 2005.
...which of course seems about as empty and meaningless as everything else right now, but frankly i like the big, rounded-off numbers and the creation of the artificial milestones relative to those, however flimsy and self-serving.
because, well, at a time when i think we all feel a little set adrift, its honestly sorta comforting to realize there are people who come here now and again that appreciate what i'm doing. whatever the hell that is. [snort] its an honor and its humbling and it makes me feel less alone in the world.
so yeah. thanks for noticin' me [insert braying].
your most humble and obedient servant,
le sweetney
ps: i look forward to providing more laughter and idle-time amusement in the future, with significantly less death and destruction. unless of course the death and destruction is filmic and involves Uma Thurman wielding a gigantic samurai sword... because THAT'S the kind of death and destruction i can get behind.
so i heard back today from mayor o'malley -- yes, he checks his email and responds. brief but nice note apologizing for the lateness of his response about rock-n-romp and a different email i'd sent about possibly doing a benefit for katrina victims -- “It's been a busy weekend and we're still working on plans to assist hurricane victims.” no doubt. i bought about $50 worth of food and $70 worth of toiletries and child-oriented items this week to donate (the toiletries and child items specifically for survivors who'll be holed-up at the DC-armory as of this week). still, i want to do more... simply because i can do more, and there's a certain sort of creeping guilt that goes with that capacity. some of the people coming up to DC now have nothing. NOTHING. everything they own was, in a single day, obliterated. unfathomable.
and, though this may not speak well of my quote-unquote philanthropy, i wished i could write personal notes on the items i donated so that whoever got them would know that a real, specific someone out there -- someone with little to no personal relationship to their area of the country, even -- felt a small piece of their heart crumble and break off, just hearing of their suffering.
i started writing a really long, emotional post earlier today about what's been happening in new orleans (and if you've been reading this blog for any amount of time you know that i frequently struggle with reconciling my desire for community and connection with people with an overriding sense that we live in a deeply dysfunctional (for lack of a better word) and often exasperatingly unjust society, and i'll just let you imagine the course my train of thought took rather than saddle you with my angst), and in the middle of my furious typing found myself crying... and crying and crying. oh yes, and crying. finally i decided that this subject is something i'm just incapable of writing about right now in any sort of thoughtful, coherent manner. i'm honestly just too angry, too appalled, too saddened and frightened by what's implied in the behavior of my fellow human beings.
so i set down my computer and went upstairs to find jamie (who works from home on thursdays), and after sniveling into his shoulder for a few minutes, moaning about humanity (or the lack thereof) and how ridiculously irresponsible we were to bring a child into this furiously boiling cauldron of pain and bullshit we call a civilization, he said: people have always been like this. its always been like this, life. but we survive and find happiness somehow, and so will M_. we have to live in this world, but we don't have to put our focus on all the evil shit in it.
and though not entirely convinced, what he said reminded me that for every awful thing one person does to another there is someone else out there helping, caring, donating -- trying hard to be good to others. and right now i need to hold that in my mind, to be studiously myopic, just to not become so discouraged with the world that i'm unable to function in it. so i blew my nose (several times) and tried to recompose myself so that when i went in to wake M_ up from her nap a few minutes later she wouldn't know i'd been crying. and then jamie turned to me and added: anyway, you don't need to worry about M_. we'll make sure she's armed at all times. and wears body armor. and a crash helmet.
and i laughed, finally, for the first time in two days.
fie, fie on the infernal list!
1. i have my period. everything must be read through a filter infused with that knowledge. why? BECAUSE I FUCKING SAID SO.
2. i'm going to try not to cry when i say this: preschool started this week. that's right honey, we made it! i love you too!
3. i've been pondering lately what i might do in the whole post-being-at-home-with-M_ world (still 3 years away, but i'm not one to worry tomorrow about something i can worry about TODAY), and i'm seriously considering heading back to school and picking up my MSW in mental health so i can theraperize peoples. and yes, i just made that word up. i've long been interested in psychology and, well, telling people what i think is wrong with them, so it seems like a good fit. i just can't CAN'T imagine myself going back and slogging through as an adjunct english professor, getting paid less than if i worked full-time at mcdonalds (that's not a joke, sadly), and feeling at all good about that. and i'm certainly not interested in writing/editing full-time (unless, you know, someone wants to pay me to write my blog full-time. sadly, full-time bloggers are not highly sought-after). so yeah. i'll keep you posted as i continue obsessing thinking about things.
4. playing in my head today (along with the voices, oh, THE VOICES): if i don't die or worse, i'm gonna need a nap.
5. RnR on saturday was SA-WEET.* here's some pix our friend andrea took during the festivities.
6. to everyone i owe emails to, or who thinks maybe i'm ignoring them, or who wonders what the hell has happened to me since i seemingly dropped off the face of the planet recently: i'm sorry. and no, its not you. its me. really. now can i again interest any of you in some infected corn? (that just never stops being funny to me. sorry.)
7. if my blog was a bar, i'd buy you all a round. but it isn't a bar, and anyway its not even two o'clock in the afternoon for crissakes. what do you think i am, some kind of lush?!?!
*and no, mr. mayor didn't show. but he will. oh yes, my friends. HE WILL.
last evening claire and sean came over bearing several cans of SPARKS -- a drink that can be best described as Red Bull + alcohol. it is, in essence, Bartles & James XXTREME... or, if you prefer, liquid crack. satan says: drink my new radical energy drink OF DOOM, dude! c'mon, i double dog dare you! what are you, some kind of pussy?!?
seriously, that was some incredibly messed up shit. and yet i woke up this morning wondering where i could get more... as soon as humanly possible.
huh.
my daughter is begging me to let her drink my coffee. nothing but evil can come of this.
the doldrums continue. one tries to roll with the punches, not get clobbered.
last night i went over to claire's and got a detailed report on her apparent haunting, which i find fascinating. her townhome was built in the 1970s, so unless there was some sort of horrible avocado-colored home appliance incident early in its lifetime that resulted in the death of one or several inhabitants (the heft of one of those 70s-era fridges could easily take out two people...and a medium-sized pet of some kind), i can't account for her bizarre experiences. perhaps an indian burial ground, ala poltergeist, is somehow involved? You son of a bitch -- you left the bodies and you only moved the head stones. and because i can sincerely vouch for claire's sanity and integrity, i will never, ever be spending the night over at her accursed rental lair of demonic spirits. that one goes out with love from me to you, claire. yessiree.
i've been reading Gig: Americans Talk About Their Jobs, and have learned, among other things, that you can make a CRAPLOAD of money as a transvestite prostitute. so, you know, i'm considering my future job options. also -- not surprisingly -- the job of stay-at-home mom is perhaps the most unappealingly described of all the gigs (with the possible exception of the first-hand account by the guy who owned a crime-scene clean-up business... but then the atrocious sums of money people are willing to pay to have other people's innards removed from their homes and places of business seemed to temper any angst the dude felt about his profession). and let me say i identified with the woman in the SAHM piece more than i'd like to admit. does ANYONE feel competent in this job? is anyone out there doing this not just continually exhausted, filled with self-doubt and anxiety, and hanging by a thread of sanity? who are these “supermoms” who LOVE LOVE LOVE (insert girlish squealing) being at home with the kids? who think its so invigorating and fun-filled? do any of you personally KNOW these women? and what medication are they on, so i can get me some of that?
no, seriously. drugs are our friends, peoples.
so, in keeping with my historical series this week, i bring you a photo i like to call my super swingin' 60s parents (left) and Aunt (in red) with some dude who looks like he may hurt small animals and obsessively clean firearms in his spare time.
somebody get that dude some antipsychotic meds, stat. oh, and a new jacket. please.
maybe its related to reaching the dregs of summer, or the failing economy, or my garden going to shit because its been too gawdawful hot to mess with it (and now that its not quite so hot i've decided that there's little i can do to undo the damage, so fuck it), or the fact that health insurance refuses to recognize any mental-type illness AS AN ILLNESS and therefore won't cover treatment, or money woes -- and i don't know about the rest of you, but i'm SICK TO DEATH of worrying about money -- but i'm hitting some kind of vast and impenetrable wall of ennui. and, impossible as it may sound, as a result i just plain feel like i have nothing to say, or nothing of interest or note to say at any rate. over here in sweetneyland we're just doing the day-in day-out business of living, basically. i have no desire, no internal impulse, to do much beyond that, frankly. were i in a difference place mentally i might be able to cull some sort of amusing anecdote from the ceaseless background noise of just trudging through, but right now it all just seems very reflexive, very rote, very lather, rinse, repeat.
i'm sorry. i know -- i'm boring you already.
so while i know better than to announce a “blog break” of any sort -- since i'm constitutionally unable to keep my fingers from this keyboard for more than, like, half an hour at a time -- just a heads-up that the state of sweetney.com's union is a bit, well, frayed. a little glum around the edges. but, as always, we will do our best to rise above. in the meantime, be gentle with us, darlings.
late last night i received a voicemail message from an old DC-area friend -- a multi-talented creative sort who, among other things, was the frontman of a well-known 90s indie/punk band (behold the semi-anonymous live action shot:).
anyway, the message indicated that his partner was searching for “a kick-ass gynecologist” in DC, so (and here's where it gets good) he immediately thought to call me -- “the coolest woman i know” -- as i would of course be in the know about where the rockin' GYN-ACKSHON was to be had. or something.
i don't know whether i should feel flattered or mortified. so i'm going to go with both.
this morning M_ and i went over to our friendly neighborhood children's bookstore for their weekly storytime (which, despite being called storytime contains no actual story-reading, and instead consists of about half-an-hour of acoustic guitar sing-along-songs (think: if you're happy and you know it, the wheels on the bus, and other toddler smash hits) earnestly proffered by a local ani difranco simulacra who fakes it so real she is beyond fake (actually she's quite nice and talented and the kids LOVE HER, and i'm a heartless, sucktastic bitch for intimating otherwise). so after the toddlerpalooza portion of the program everyone typically retires to the cafe area on the bookstore's lower-level, the kids gobbling up fruit-laden muffins and various cake-like items, while the parents (myself included) suck down triple-espresso-shot-lattes in the hope that it'll juice em' up enough to carry them through yet another day in dreaded toddlerdom. the atmosphere is congenial, with a slight edge of mania that seems compulsory in situations where large numbers of toddlers gather. at any rate, i surveyed the scene and recognized it as a good opportunity to pimp rock-n-romp, so i commenced with the schmoosing and passing out of fliers i'd had printed up over the weekend. as i made the rounds, i approached one toddlered mother who, for all appearances, fit the mold of potential rock-n-romp devotee (punky streaked hair, dickies pants, chuck taylors and a few visible tattoos... not that i'm stereotyping or anything. cough.), and handed her a flier.
she: oh, so you're the woman who does this? i've heard about it, but the only way to get the information about the shows is on the internet, so we haven't been able to go.
me: oh yeah, umm, you don't have an internet connection then?
she: no, we don't.
me [semi-stupefied, but attempting to not appear stupefied]: well, do you have an email address... somewhere you could access email? i could just send you the information...
she: no, i don't. i've never even sent an email, ever.
me [going into some sort of shock]: wow. uhh... well why don't i just give you my phone number then -- you have a phone, right? (in my mind i'm thinking: are you in some kind of CULT?!?)
she: yeah, sure, that'd be great!
so i jotted my phone number down on one of the fliers and gave it to her -- whatever, no big deal. but i'm kind of haunted by how troubled i was by her wholly unwired existence. i mean, i don't know ANYONE who doesn't at the very least have an email address that they check semi-regularly (from work, or from a library or something), and those are the people i know that i consider borderline luddites. a huge part of me wanted to corner this woman and -- with zero sarcasm -- frankly ask her: how is it that you live? i mean, is this a political statement of some sort? are you living out some kind of reality-tv-contrived existence ala PBS's The 1900 House, and have thus been forced to sever all ties to high-tech gadgetry for the sake of period authenticity? what? no, really -- am i missing something here?
need i even note that without regular internet and email access i'd be a desperately lonely, psychotic basketcase?
no, i didn't think so.
the title of REM's new hit single! heh.
yeah, i'm quite hungover, thanks. and in my tradition of making mistakes so you don't have to: blogging under the influence? not such a hot idea.
i'll be back later, once i've been fully rehydrated by IV and had several B vitamin shots. talk amongst yourselves.
MB: No title. I'm mega bogarting Sweetney's sweet laptop. She's drinking a rolling rock and has NO IDEA that I could hit publish RIGHT NOW! Hello, internet! I am wielding immense, He-Man qualities of power.
But I refrain. If only to pause for a nice, bubbly sip of Rolling Rock's prime domestic brew, I refrain.
sweetney: i was just thinking about the amityville horror house. for some reason. like, do houses have souls? man, that's deep. right on.
now back to the he-man-like powers of MB.
MB: “Do houses have souls?” Woman. This is DRUNK stereo blogging. “Houses have souls.” Come on.
I've lost my train of thought -- oh, yes. The Amityville House Horror. I'm wondering if I should be taking some kind of cult film hint from this. Is truman waiting at the door, thirsty for blood? Should I be looking over my shoulder? Where's the love?
As I write this, Truman lets loose a bloodcurdling yell. Do you know how to tell when Supa is drunk? Ask her to write, and wait for the melodrama. Guaranteed. Take it to the bank.
So. After the bloodcurdling yell. Or before. Can't remember. Was in the midst of bogarting the laptop, which comes complete with the Sweetney registered trademark outlet to the universe. What was I going to do with that?
sweetney: my dog is fucking INSANE. UNSANE. wasn't that a punk band in like the 80s or something? ah for the days of reckless intoxication out by the railroad tracks. pre-grunge, all the loners alone... with their hair.
okay, that thought just stopped me in my tracks. my dog is yodeling. i must go kill. now.
(back to your regularly scheduled supaprogram.)
MB: The dog really isn't that bad. It sounds like the neighbor's dog. Not like the dog belonging to the neighbor, but like it's not her dog. By which I mean, innocuous.
She's brought him outside. He's actually quite a good dog. And he hasn't lunged for my throat yet, which I consider a good sign.
So. Railroad tracks, pre-grunge punks with their hair. I was probably in junior high at that time, but I can speak to the railroad tracks. Good times, good times. Not that we did anything more than chuck apples at the CSX cars; I was 12 [and in reality, I didn't even do that. Twelve was the age of horses.] But railroad tracks are a peculiarly Midwestern source of fun, which I don't think the B-more kids really appreciate.
Onward. I have thus ganked the laptop, but am at a loss for what to do with this magnificent tool of ... of ... You know, stuff, and things. Another beer while Truman snuffles.
Hmm... I suppose I could liveblog the porch goings-on, but there's nothing much, really, to report.
sweetney: all day today i've had the pavement song “fight this generation” in my head. i think what i'm really hearing though is “fight this corporation,” a yet-to-be-recorded hit. mmm...delicious corn tortillas. i have trouble talking off the top of my head. something about grad school made me second-guess everything before articulating it -- probably not a bad thing.
my dog is a psychotic piranha. its a little off-putting.
i know there are people out there who think that when they are, cough, under the influence they are smarter, funnier, more outgoing, more likable (not to mention more lickable) than when they are sober. i am here to tell you (nay, demonstrate for you) that you are LYING TO YOURSELF. finis.
alright, this shit's done. now i give back to the MB for title-creation purposes. because i'm a coward.
last night jamie and i watched the latest episode of six feet under and the documentary the corporation back-to-back, which was pretty much like putting my brain on some kind of psychotic, gut-wrenching rollercoaster ride molded into a shape vaguely resembling the human condition. and while i anticipated the former would leave me emotionally black-and-blue (damn you, fishers!), i honestly didn't anticipate how desolate i would feel after viewing the latter (in my ignorance i even suggested to jamie that i may not view the whole film -- which runs a hefty 2.5 hours -- noting beforehand that “unless it is spectacular” i was packing it in for the night within an hour). but here i am, up at 6am and unable to sleep because that wire has been tripped in my brain again -- the one that serves to turn up the volume on the normally muted-for-practical/functional-reasons voice in my head that holds a running commentary about just how fucked up society is at present, how irrevocably screwed humankind is in a 'big picture' sort of way, and how impotent and minute i am (or at least feel) in the face of that. yeah, you know, THAT voice. the fun one.
and of course i've written at length about these things before here, so i'm not going to beat a dead (or at least gravely wounded) horse by reiterating all of that. but i will say that this film not only pretty well supported all my worst suspicions about (gah) the system, but at the end of it all left me at a place where i feel ready to state, unreservedly, that corporations indeed run the world, not governments, as we were led to believe in 8th grade Civics (heh). and though i don't yet fully believe that the governing bodies of the nations of the world are *wholly* artificial and mere puppets of corporations, i do think that corporations are actively working with governments from a position of doM_nce, exerting tremendous power over lawmakers and enforcers, and increasingly functioning in ways that confound any nation's ability to control them. and, as the filmmakers note:
The operational principles of the corporation give it a highly anti-social “personality”: It is self-interested, inherently amoral, callous and deceitful; it breaches social and legal standards to get its way; it does not suffer from guilt, yet it can mimic the human qualities of empathy, caring and altruism. Four case studies, drawn from a universe of corporate activity, clearly demonstrate harm to workers, human health, animals and the biosphere. Concluding this point-by-point analysis, a disturbing diagnosis is delivered: the institutional embodiment of laissez-faire capitalism fully meets the diagnostic criteria of a “psychopath.”
so yeah. GREAT.
at moments like these things tend to get a little blurry for me, and i'm unable to tell if what i'm experiencing is some sort of, ahem, moment of clarity in which The Truth, long-submerged, rises to the surface, or just some sort of prolonged anxiety attack (though the answer “both” would be option 'C', i suppose). because, well, at moments like these i start having thoughts that run courses similar to the following: 1. corporations run world; 2. world is therefore irrevocably messed up; 3. humans within irrevocably messed up world are, duh, therefore messed-up products of their messed-up environment; 4. thus 50% of the U.S. population is, according to DSM-V criteria, mentally ill; 5. thus corporations create drugs to quell the anxiety, depression and generalized psychological pain which are the natural, normal human responses to living in an environment that is so messed-up; 6. people take drugs and get back with “the program.” etcetera, etcetera. wait -- am i sounding like tom cruise?!? that isn't how i mean it -- i've been on medication for depression for most of my adult life, and know well the benefits, and appreciate the reality of chemical imbalances. but what i'm getting at is that perhaps these quite real imbalances are generated from living in a psychologically mind-fucking, chemical-laden, environmentally bankrupt, alienating and generally poisonous society. because, dude, the body/mind division is a false one -- its all the same fucking thing. and if people's bodies are increasingly feeling the effects of being bombarded with all sorts of stressors that are the product of this modern society, and clearly they are, then why not the mind in tandem?
i'm just talking here, trying to work out some of these threads running through my brain. what's sad is that inevitably, when i have days of thinking about things like this, i end up putting the blinders back on when all is said and done. because, at least for myself, it is too painful to hold all of this consciously in my mind, too paralyzing. there's a thin line between enlightenment and self-flagellation, my friends, and if i am forced to live in this particular present within this particular system i cannot function without turning the volume down on the despairing, pitiable state of planet earth and its inhabitants. i can't get up and shower and put on clothes and care for my daughter unless my complicity in all of this confusing awfulness is something i can manage to temporarily blot out as i try to make the world seem whole and friendly and just to her. at least for a time.
so, dear reader braintrust, how do we change things? what can we do? how can we fight The Corporation?
alright, i've had enough. summer can be over now.
as much as i pined for it in the heart of winter's darkness, summer is officially getting old. the heat this year has been such that it might as well be 10 degrees outside, because walking out into the air here is like walking into a freaking sauna. on days like today i feel my life-force waning the second i step outside, as the merciless heat instantly begins baking off any productive energy i may have had, leaving the weary shell of my body empty save for a shallow pool of tepid sweat sloshing around in my skull.
and oh god please i want preschool back. preschool, i miss you! i think about you every day and can
