Sweetney

Scientific Reason: FAIL!

I don't like bees.

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

Bees scare me.

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

Yellowjackets aren't bees?

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

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

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

Mom?

Hmm?

Can I tell you something?

Sure. What?

Dogs don't wear makeup.

. . . . .

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

Emotional commerce

What is it with men and money?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom Pimps R Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tea, anyone?

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

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

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

A little something to tide you over

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

Checking in at Rock Candy Baltimore

Marie Antoinette Head Pops? Check.

Yet another reason to love my friend Joel? Check.

Diet sabotage lurking around every corner? Check.

Did I mention the store has wifi?

Man, I'm kind of doomed, huh?

Thank you Easter Bunny! (bawk! bawk!)

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

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

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

Spring (spirit) Break(ing)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No hell below us, above us only sky

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

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

Oh the possibilities.

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

In other words, I'm old as crap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . . 

Other fine ladies participating in this week's flashback:

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

Meet my daughter's (imaginary) boyfriend

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

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

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

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

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

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

School Of Real

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you're happy and you know it wag your tail

When we brought Truman home three years ago, M was still very much a toddling toddler, and it was unclear to us at the time how close of a relationship would ultimately develop between dog and child. While we hoped for the best, and tried to encourage interaction between them, Truman's relentless, manic puppy energy, coupled with his tendency to assume the form of a fluffy, fawn-colored projectile whose one goal in life was to systematically mow down small children in his path like bowling pins (all the more satisfying to target because of the impact shrieking!), was just a wee bit off-putting to the still unsteady and very mowdownable M. And so, for what seemed like a long time, Tru's frenetic-spastic puppyishness and serious lack of boundaries made M keep her distance.

But over the past two years, Truman has calmed and mellowed, and M's grown bigger and stronger and more sure-footed. He can no longer topple her with a single, decisive leap, and now it's her that's doing the chasing, around and around our downstairs squealing -- from living room to entry foyer to kitchen to dining room -- trying to tackle him and give him a hug.

Tables? Freakin' TURNED, dude.

Corny as it sounds, some days I can't help but get a little misty when I see them together. A girl and her dog. Harassing and tormenting and teasing one another, just like God and nature intended. Love may be too small a word.

Stop the world, I want to go lie down for a bit

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.)

Preschooler reality is like a never-ending Mad Lib in which every blank space is filled with the word “BUTT”

(Last evening:)
Me: “Make sure you get a good night's sleep, because we have to go vote tomorrow morning.”

Her: “Vote for what?”

Me: “Tomorrow we vote for who we want to run for President.”

Her: “Oh. Can I vote?”

Me: “No. You aren't old enough to vote yet, sweetie.”

Her: “Mommy. That is SO not cool.”

Me: “Well, when our nation has a referendum on Cuddliest Cartoon Character, or on which Disney Princess is awesomest, I'm sure you'll be one of the first called to serve.”

Her: “Yeah. Called to serve MY BUTT!”

Why does everything have to culminate in something butt-related? Why, sweet baby Jesus, WHY?

But anyway, since we're talking politics, have you seen any of the “Yes We Can” parodies yet?

Well now you have. And aren't you glad?

In other news related to my spectacularly good citizenship, on Wednesday I have Jury Duty. I have never Jury Dutied before, in all my 37 years. I am a bit afraid of the duty, to be honest. (DOODY!! snort!) Any duty advice from those of you who've previously done the duty? Duty tips? Nuggets of (snicker) duty advice, as it were?

Oh god, I'm just as bad as my daughter, aren't I? (And I'm guessing the fact that I find something like this uproariously funny is just self-incrimination.)

PS: Humble thanks to Catherine for listing me as one of her favorite blogs in Wondertime Magazine. I'm all blushy and stuff.

Playing flaming possum

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.

A slow winter's morning

She's home from school today. Freezing rain, the roads shining with sinister black ice.

Stretched out on the floor with a crayon and paper halo encircling her, she carefully draws a carrot, then a strawberry, then a silly green monster with gigantic elephant ears.

I look down at her, a ripple of surprise rushing through me as I note the absurd length of her body, how she's becoming less and less my baby. Bittersweet.

A wave of rain drums the window. More juice please, Mommy! More Spongebob, Mommy! A pink slipper shaped like Hello Kitty's head dangling on one foot.

She's still a little kid. At least for one more day.

Transformers Best Day Ever!

Subtitle: This Little Miss Sunshine goes to ELEVEN.

Yeah, I'm probably going to hell for this... but I couldn't resist sharing M's first musical composition. No longer content to simply cover “Umbrella” and other songs, she's breaking out with a little original guitar-based rock. And the lyrics? PRICELESS INCOHERENCE.

Optimus Prime says:
“No sacrifice is too great in the service of freedom.... Well, except for listening to that song. That might in fact be too great a sacrifice. Come to think of it, you know what? FUCK FREEDOM, I'm outta here.”

See, this is what happens when Jamie goes away for the weekend*

[waves] Hi! Welcome to my I'm Done With BS moment! Please make yourself comfortable. An aperitif, perhaps?

Okay. So. There's a bit that comedian Louis CK does about his four-year-old daughter wherein he calls her “a fucking asshole.”

“Seriously,” he says, “if you're with a group of people who are trying to go somewhere, and you all can't go because a member of your party just refuses to put their shoes on? That person is a fucking asshole, okay?”

Ahem.

So M has declared, by way of a preschooler's version of an Official Press Release (MORE incoherence! FEWER bullet points!), that she does not want to go to school anymore. She's just kind of, well, over it. Besides, Cheerleader-Artist-Ballerinas don't need no book learnin', right?

And of course I'm all: dubbaya tee eff, dude? You're FIVE. You play all day AND HAVE SNACKS. What are you finding objectionable, exactly?

Then today at Bath & Body Works (shush!) she heaved herself to the floor and began flailing around beside a gigantic, precarious-and-fragiley-expensiveish looking home fragrance pyramid display, simply because I wouldn't buy her sparkly pink lip gloss AND some kind of ludicrous Build Your Own Lolita cosmetics palette she wanted. (NOTE: A small sketch of this exact scenario accompanies the definition of “Mortified” in the dictionary.)

She can't be serious with this shit. SHE'S NOT EVEN IN GRADE SCHOOL YET. This can't be right... [whisper:] Can it?

FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

(Oh, and to anyone preparing a response along the lines of “Oh mah gawd, what will her daughter think when she reads this in 10 years?! GASP AND FOR SHAME! WHERE IS MY GAVEL THAT I MIGHT JUDGE AND ALSO MAKE LOUD BANGY NOISES SO THAT PEOPLE PAY ATTENTION TO ME?” To you I say: let me skool you somethin'.

What will M think? She'll think: “Oh my god Mom, you crack me the hell up.” Because she's MY DAUGHTER and she will KNOW I love her, and -- perhaps most importantly -- SHE WILL HAVE A FREAKING SENSE OF HUMOR**. Which is something you should consider acquiring, incidentally. It comes in handy. And tends to make a person less of an asshole. BONUS!)
. . . . . . . . . .
*It being the day before the Communists arrive at the summer house doesn't help matters, surely.
**Because if she doesn't? Well, then we'd have to start with the beatings.

Mishy-mashy-meltdowny (updated)

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.

What's the point of having kids if you can't publicly embarrass them?

I mean, isn't that one of life's greatest joys -- the humiliation of one's own children? They are, after all, simply human-shaped repositories of comedy gold. For example:

For better or worse, she's just picked up on Hanna Montana being, like, THE BEST FREAKIN' THING ON PLANET EARTH, so I'm guessing this might be the first in a series of fabulous musical numbers. Try to contain your enthusiasm.

Precocious

Her understanding of the internet: I want to play on the computer! Can you go to kidplay.com?

Her understanding of a career path: When I grow up I'm going to be a cheerleader/artist.

Her understanding of Britney Spears, via a magazine cover photo in the supermarket: Mommy, that girl looks sad.

True Internet Dork Mom Confessions

Ripped from the headlines actual idle timewasting IM conversations between myself and Kelly (aka kdiddy) earlier this evening:

kdiddy: i told K to put the silverware away from the dishwasher and then disappeared to my bedroom
kdiddy: as soon as he's tall enough to take over dishwasher duty IT'S SO ON
sweetney: yes, hide in the bedroom. i on the other hand am puke bowl holder and i cannot hide
kdiddy: auuugghgh
kdiddy: M is puking?
sweetney: LOTS. TORRENTS.
kdiddy: SUCK
kdiddy: what the hell?
sweetney: waaaah
kdiddy: too much awesome sauce?
sweetney: HA
sweetney: very NOT awesome sauce
kdiddy: i'm sorry dude
kdiddy: uh, not to pile on more suck but i think mayhaps your site is not well
sweetney: what is it doing?
kdiddy: nothing. like there's no text.
sweetney: arrgh

[*brief site fixin' break*]

sweetney: whew, thanks for telling me.
kdiddy: word
kdiddy: yes. is all better now
kdiddy: thanks for getting right on that. i had urgent sweetney.com needs
sweetney: har
kdiddy: not really. i just ran out of things in google reader and started loitering
sweetney: blog loitering. that's awesome
kdiddy: yeah. in the alley of sweetney.com i smoke cigarettes and make out with my boyfriends
sweetney: frankly i like to think of sweetney.com as a place to hang for internet burnout moms
kdiddy: yeah. and we smoke cigarettes and make out with our boyfriends
sweetney: YEAH! YEAH!
kdiddy: ack! it's after 9pm. i'll be back in a bit. K needs to take 16 different anti-psychotic meds so he'll stop with all of that talking and shit
kdiddy: and then go to bed
sweetney: what, no beating tonight?
sweetney: DON'T FORGET THE BEATING!
kdiddy: yeah. after i do some drugs too so it's a fair fight

Awesomeness: you're soaking in it.

PS: Dudes, The Washington Post! Seriously!

PPS: Over the past 24 hours Sweetney has been getting a much needed shoring-up, tuning-up, and all-around upgrading, thanks to Jonathan from FM. I mention this only because you might notice some mild site wonkiness temporarily. All part of making Sweetney better than before: Better, stronger, faster.

Reality bites

Despite appearances, life has continued on pretty much unchanged here in the Sweetney household since Dog Photo Kerfuffle 2007 began its reign of terror. Well, except that Truman now has an agent, and is working on his memoirs and shopping a couple screenplays around. Confidentially, I must admit that I'm growing tired of his ceaseless shrieking to “GET HOLLYWOOD ON THE PHONE!” and bi-hourly calls for Red Bull and curly tail massages. But beyond that, it's all pretty much business as usual. Oh, but did I mention Truman's going to be on the next season of The Surreal Life? I think he'll make a fine Vern Troyer replacement. snorfle.

In other Sweetney family news, M is currently grappling with the knowledge that Meat = Animals, something that seems to have just fully struck her, sadly. As many of you know, we're vegetarians. Well, sort of. We eat fish and Jamie eats other seafood (primarily crustaceans, or “Disgusting Sea Bugs”, as I like to call them, loudly, to whoever will listen). I believe there's some fancy-pants term for this ridiculous sham type of vegetarianism, though I can't recall the precise terminology. Fauxgetarianism? Mylifeisahollowliegetarianism? ANYWAY, the point is that when we made the decision to cut out meat it was primarily for sustainability slash land-use issues, not because we couldn't bear to kill Babe and eat his delicious smoke-tinged bacony goodness. When M was born we decided that because we're lazy sods who apparently can't be bothered to volunteer or otherwise contribute positively to the society we'd just plopped our beloved first-born into, we should deprive ourselves of meat as a kind of environmental penance. But because fish don't really fall under the umbrella (ella ella aye aye aye) of earth-unfriendly corn-guzzling mammals, to them I say: I MUNNA EAT CHOOOOOO!

The problem is that this sorta-vegetarian program -- despite making perfect sense to us -- kind of complicates M's comprehension of the whole To Eat Animals Or Not To Eat Animals question. Because as far as she's concerned, if it's got eyes (or eye-like stalks) and can be enhanced through the magic of Disney animation into something squishy and huggable -- suitable for transformation into a cuddly stuffed toy friend -- then eating it is wrong. From her perspective, we might as well haul the lifeless carcass of Bambi home strapped to the hood of our car if we're going to go ahead and eat The Little Mermaid's fishy friend, Flounder.

Stupid anthropomorphizing Disney.

So lately M's taken to actively shaming us whenever the issue arises, which is A FUCKING TREAT, let me tell you. She's particularly aghast at Jamie's broad consumption of the ocean's potentially adorable creatures, while I seem to be getting off easier since I stick with fish and don't eat a lot of it. On our way to eat sushi the other day, she leaned forward from her position in the backseat of our car just to whisper to me, in hushed, conspiratorial tones: “Mommy! Daddy eats animals!” I'm not exactly sure what she expected as a response. “REALLY? Well let's tie him down and beat the murderous bloodlust out of him! Where did I put my ball gag and wooden ritualized humiliation butt-paddle?” Durr?

I hate to think of what's going to happen when she comes to the realization that eggs are the embryonic version of fluffy little chicks, or that milk is wrung from cows in a manner so industrial and mechanically efficient that most bovines hardly ever see the light of day, let alone frolic in green pastures with chatty bluebirds and friendly squirrels. Sometimes it's an ugly business, this whole being human thing. But the hard truth is that life requires eating life in some form or other, and coming to terms with that is a hard necessity. Has Disney animated any fruits or vegetables lately? God, I hope not.

No comment.
(Has eaten cicadas, wood chips, and his own feces, and so is in no position to speak on this matter.)

Life is elsewhere

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!

Oh my friends I've / Returned to wish you a happy Christmas*

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.

Answering the burning question: What happens during a snow day at the Sweetney household?

Well, it's getting pretty The Shining-esque over here today, that's for sure:

Everyone say it with me now: Poor, poor Truman.

And the shrieking? I don't get it. And DO NOT WANT.

Under the circumstances, what would you reckon is a reasonable hour to begin drinking, hmm?

A bedtime story before dying

Me, after hearing M crying upstairs as Jamie was helping her to get ready for bed: What was all that crying and stuff about?

Him: She was saying she was going to miss me when I died.

Me: WHAT? Oh no!

Him: And she asked if I'd still be alive when she was 6.

Me: What brought that on?

Him: I don't know.... maybe something to do with that book about dinosaurs you two were reading. Extinction, all that jazz...

Me: Oh yeah. Aww, poor sweetie!

. . .60 seconds later:

Me: Saaaaay... why wasn't she worried about when *I* was going to die, huh?

Him: Oh she asked about that too.

Me: And you told her I was going to be alive a long, long time?

Him: No, I told her that you were already dead inside. I said: “Mommy's been dead since the day you were born.”

Me: Great. That level of honesty is going to cost us at least two more years worth of therapy down the road, you know.

I'm in yr Thanksgiving eatin' yr stuffins

For Thanksgiving this year we made a pilgrimage North by car to the land of my birth: New Jersey. “Joy-zee,” as it's pronounced by the natives, with little to no irony. My Aunt Elaine -- who is my Father's sister -- still lives in the great Garden State, holding it down and keeping it real for Gaughrans everywhere.

And so we must return to pay homage.

My Aunt is something of a human powerhouse, let there be no doubt. She's a shining example of 1960s & 70s Feminism, a woman who rose to greatness, power, and self-sufficiency in the professional sphere, amassed something resembling a fortune, and has now retired to travel the world and work at her pleasure “for fun.” Growing up, she was ever-present in my life, perfectly coifed and well-put-together, forever business-casual and smelling of expensive perfumes with names I couldn't pronounce. And though as an adult her sophistication and gentility have often left me feeling oafish and decidedly uncouth, I've learned much from my Aunt over the years, and benefitted greatly from her seemingly boundless generosity (the reason I've never bought a car in my life? SHE KEEPS GIVING HERS TO ME. okthxbai!).

But, having said all that, there's something else you should know. My Aunt is a crazy cat lady.

No, she isn't living in filth with 50 of them... Though I'm fairly convinced if she could find a way to deploy a tireless army of cleaning robots to keep her home in it's typically furniture-showroom-pristine condition despite such a ginormous feline hoard, she indeed would. That woman loves her some fuckin' cats, man. Here, perhaps this visual aid will give you some sense of what I'm talking about:

I'm in yr Living Room, cloggin' your walls.

My crazy husband. Let me show him to you.

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.

Getting to have conversations like this every day is definitely one of the best things about being a parent

M: Mommy, what eats birds?

Me: Umm... well, people do. Cats do, if they can catch them.

M: Cats eat mice.

Me: Yes. And our cats have even caught bats. Which are sort of like mice-birds!

M: I don't remember that!!! (!!!!)

Me: This was before you were born. Wallace caught bats two different times.

M: And then you had me. And I peeked out of your pouch: “Hi!”

Me: (?!?!) Wait, am I a marsupial now or something? When did I get a pouch?

M: MOMMY-SUPIAL! MOMMY-SUPIAL!

Hours of fun, puts children in comas

Yeah, you should really read the fine print on the packaging.

Bzzzzzz

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.

Why you're so money and you don't even know it

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!)

You say it's your birthday? It's my birthday too, yeah!

M is home today, as her entire school is closed for, and I quote, “Professional Development.” Nonsense, I say! Howsabout “developing professionally” by oh, I don't know -- actually working with children? As per your profession? I mean, what's on the agenda for today's skillset-building seminar over at the preschool, instruction on building more structurally sound block towers? The most expeditious way to hose down five-year-olds who've gotten just a little too enthusiastic with the acrylic paints? WHAT?

Perhaps a better (and infinitely more pressing) question would be: how many hours of The Wiggles do you think my daughter can watch today before her head explodes? Five? Six? Not that I'd allow that or anything. cough.

Anyway, this weekend was a whirlygig of a blur of Birthday Party Madness that must be shared. I got on that beastly carnival ride early Saturday morning and rode it hard, straight on til Sunday night.

The puking, as you might imagine, was INCREDIBLE.

Saturday the wee Noah was up to bat for birthday glory. He's the son of my friend Amy. She has a blog. Perhaps you've heard of it. snort.

Not-at-all-half-assed monkey party theme in full effect, hombre.

I love how my daughter weasels her way into shots. Like “Hey, this is *my* family too, right?”

Amy goes in for a desperately needed candle adjustment. THANK GOD YOU'RE ON IT, AMY.

I also got to spend some time during these festivities with the lovely Heather, who did an excellent job saving my comfy chair for me when I needed to temporarily abandon my during-party seating so as to obtain various food and beverage refills. Being a personal seat-saver is high on my list of Qualities Most Desired In A Friend, as I think of it as indicative of one's loyalty, fidelity, and willingness to piss off others while rabidly guarding a comrade's territory. = TRUE FRIENDSHIP.

Sunday was my own dear daughter's party, and OH THE SHAME, I HAVE NO PITCHERS. But wait -- before you write me off as a completely incompetent and unfit parent, let me explain.

It was at Chuck E. Cheese's.

And okay, so maybe that just confirms (nay, EMBIGGENS) my parental incompetence and unfitness in your mind, but in my own defense, that place is death to the photo op. If you've never been, imagine the animatronic horrors of The Country Bears Jamboree from Disneyland, with some Max Headroom, Studio 54, and child psych ward flava mixed in. I couldn't get my eyes to focus long enough to even think about snapping a photo. AND IT WAS SO GODDAMN LOUD, HOW IS A PERSON SUPPOSED TO THINK CLEARLY IN THAT PLACE ANYWAY? YES, I'M SHOUTING.

(sorry about the shouting.)

Anyway, the point (I guess?) is that SHE had fun. I mean, it wasn't MY birthday, fer crissakes. (Thank you god.) She wanted it, she asked for it, she got it. But oh lawd, that Upchucky Cheese place is mass-marketed wholesome family fun meets inner-city crack house, essentially. I swear to gawd, M and her friends spent a good two hours just twirling around in circles giggling maniacally, all hopped up on the reconstituted from 100% pure Pixie Stix sugar-dust “fruit punch” they were swilling. WHEE!!! CRACKATTACK!!1!!!

On the upside, she also made out like a bandit in the gifts department, meaning I shouldn't have to purchase a single got-damn toy for her again until christmas. So I call it win-win, man. A little crack never hurt nobody, right?

BUT to make up for my inability to provide you, teh intarwebs, with your recommended yearly allowance of birthday party photo goodness, here's a picture I took of M a mere 19 hours before her drug binge crackfest party, at our neighborhood's annual fair:

Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?

Done! Now you nearly feel like you were AT the party, right? It's as if you can almost actually hear the strained retooling of Huey Lewis & The News songs to make them palatable to five-year-olds when sung by a 6 foot tall robotic mouse. And this without the singed corneas and aftershock-like post-strobe seizures you'd be enduring had you been physically present. Oh and the total loss of self-respect, of course. You lucky, lucky bastards.

Love In The Time Of Calamity

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 sh