Sweetney

I'm too old for ALL of this shit

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q: What was the first movie you ever saw?

A: Jason and the MFing Argonauts, beeyotches!:

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

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

. . . . .
Please to visit our other fine Flashback Friday participants:

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

Mom Pimps R Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tea, anyone?

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

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

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

Un-Sexy Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Squeezy McEyesockets and Squinty McGlarekins

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

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

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

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

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

You can stop laughing at me now. Dammit.

Keepin' it fo' realz

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

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

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

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

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

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

True Internet Dork Mom Confessions Vol III

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

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

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

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

Previously: Numero Uno, Numero Dos

In Memorium

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

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

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

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

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

Kristen's way of saying she loves me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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?

It probably won't surprise you to hear that the first thing I said when I saw this was: "Oh, I'm so totally blogging that."

Our friend Jon, being all DC famous and stuff in this Sunday's Washington Post.

We've known Jon for years -- Jamie worked with him in DC, at two different places of web design employment, in fact -- and through the passing of time he's become someone we go on vacations with, celebrate holidays with, and drink many mimosas at brunches regularly with. That's sort of the top-shelf definition of Good Friend, right? So obviously upon seeing this I immediately emailed to get his take on his new-found, trendsetting fame. His unedited response:

So, here's the deal.

It was the Saturday of my birthday weekend and I decided to dress up. Course, fortunately or unfortunately, my sense of style is still stunted by the 2 years I went to an Episcopalian private school in Florida where I had to wear a tie every day. So, for some reason, when I wear a tie or really any sort of formal clothing, I like to fuck shit up. So, I saw my tuxedo shirt and thought, hello, let's put a tie over that. And let's wear jeans.

I have this thing for very long walks on my birthday. So E and I were walking all over town having a a good old time. Around lunch time, we were in Georgetown and just about to cross Wisconsin when Suzanne D'Amato and her photog stopped me.

Suzanne pulls me a side. She starts talking to me about my clothes. Um. Hmm. Cool. I mean. I like when people talk to me. But, I'm thinking, "I think you have the wrong person. Perhaps you should talk to my boyfriend." And, a funny thing happened: as Suzanne asks me about my outfit, I realize almost all of the clothes are either borrowed, handed down or old ass vintage. Erik's tie, my dad's old blazer, and a tuxedo shirt I bought off a neighbor who had purchased the stock of a costume shop that closed down in Richmond last year.

The more I talked, the more I realized I was, perhaps, not the type of person Suzanne usually talks to. The only brand I could drop was the H&M hat that I practically live in. And when Suzanne called me to fact check my info she said, "Would you say you have an over-the-top style?" Um, no. No Suzanne, I don't. Which is why I told her "I like the contrast between something old and something new." But really, I meant the style you are praising me for was forged out of rebellion to a dress code, and has become the uniform I feel most comfortable in. But, who would print that?

In conclusion, our friends are the supermegaawesome... their awesomeness makes me slightly weepy, in fact, almost as if it were composed exclusively of freshly-chopped onions. Seriously, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we're the luckiest people alive, having the friends we have. Oh and PS: I'm so totally going to be all Liza Minnelli and rely on hip, cute gay men to keep me young. Seriously, they're like a shiny, delicious elixir of youth. Plus? Great for helping pick out accessories. BONUS!

Jon also has a blog here. He is pure tasty goodness, and you should also love him, as we do.

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?

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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!

Kiss me, I'm Irish(ish)*

Well my weekend was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

The only highlight to speak of was getting drunk at my friend Angela's candy store's Grand Opening on Saturday, proving once again that I will turn any occasion -- however inappropriate -- into a means by which to transform myself into a crapulous, wildly gesturing maniac (who would like to GIVE YOU A HUG! HUGZ 4 EWERYBODY!). I think, but I'm not 100% certain, that at some point during the proceedings -- perhaps after I'd taken it upon myself to walk over to a restaurant several doors down for the sole purpose of buying a full bottle of wine off of them (and lo, it was a bottle of Maryland red (represent!) that set me back DOUBLE DIGITS! Someone stop me before I put mid-grade gas in my car at its next fill-up! I'M OUT OF CONTROL!1!!) -- I may have told a complete stranger, apropos of nothing (that I can remember), that they could "like, totally crash at my house, borrow my car, whatever," and offered to pick up someone's shift bartending at a local lesbian club later that evening. Yeah, I have no idea.

Beyond that spot of blistering, high-voltage thrills, I watched a lot of television. Which, you know, I normally do quite a bit of anyway. BUT NOT IN HAIKU.

Joel McHale on TV
Chat stew and dog's tail clipped
My underwear wet

---

My So-Called Life
Remembering '94
Grunge fashion sucked

---

That Juliet hag
Ratted out sweet preggo Sun
I'd punch in the face

I could go on and on. But I'll spare you that particular torment. Because I love.

Any plans to celebrate Saint Patty's today? Or did you -- like me -- get your fill of public drunkenness and/or green-tinted beer this weekend?

. . . . .
*I am, in fact, quite Irish (hence the unspeakable, unpronounceable horror that is my gaelic-flavored maiden name, Gaughran). This fact probably serves as a neat explanatory footnote to the aforementioned public drunkenness. I also love potatoes and leprechauns, if that helps with authentication any.

True Internet Dork Mom Confessions, Pt. DEUX

(Part Un, because you're a completist.)

sweetney: dude, m's getting into Hannah Montana. i'm going to die.
kdiddy: hahahaha
sweetney: so wrong
sweetney: isn't that a pre-teen thing?
kdiddy: i don't know. i think that's what it's geared to but i know a lot of kids around that age are into it
kdiddy: a lot of kids in k's class are into her
sweetney: m loves music. it makes sense. and yet i still want to die.
kdiddy: i was getting ready to take k up a little bit ago, and i stretched
kdiddy: and my shirt went up a bit and he saw my stretch marks
kdiddy: of which i have about 8 billion
kdiddy: and he said, “ew, when did you get all those scratches?”
kdiddy: i was like, “they're stretch marks and YOU DID THAT”
sweetney: that's some good parenting right there
sweetney: kudos
kdiddy: thanks!
kdiddy: i pointed out my favorites
kdiddy: like, “look at this one. it's huge!”
sweetney: dude, even if i got in shape, i could never, EVER wear a bikini
sweetney: my life is, essentially, over
kdiddy: yeah. my shit got so fucked up
sweetney: i can't really decide who is more at fault: jamie or m?
kdiddy: i blame the kids
kdiddy: they didn't have to be all restless and shit
sweetney: i guess i can just spend the rest of my life tormenting and guilting them both. you know, to be on the safe side
sweetney: yes, why do the children have to MOVE and DEVELOP in-utero? JEEZUS.

Oh come now, you know you so want to be our friend.

Or umm, you know, not. cough.

To Here Knows When

My best friend during my teens and twenties was John (I once wrote a love letter to John, which you can read here). He's a music writer, and the Arts and Entertainment Editor at the San Francisco Bay Guardian.

Anyway, this afternoon I got an email from him with a link to a post he'd written. The subject line of the email was “For 'ol times sake.”

That last picture? I was eighteen years old when I took that picture. It was freaking 1988.

I'm going to go throw up now. And cry. And tell those kids to get off my lawn.

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.

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.

Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1899

Friday night was Jamie's company's annual Holiday Party, which I was contractually obligated to attend (or something). It was held at one of the Threespot co-owners palatial estates homes, but the scene was decked out with high-end food and bar service manned by seasoned professionals, and no expense was spared.

And because I so totally rule, over the course of the three-ish hours I was in attendance I managed to make just about every single person there uncomfortable by, among other things, calling the tuxedoed wait staff brought in to work the swanktastic gig “servants” (not to their faces or anything, but more like: “Hey what is this, a Merchant/Ivory Film? I feel like we're back in 19th Century India, oppressing people and shit! Awesome!”) -- loudly, and with a lot of superfluous, broad hand gesturing and cartoonish facial contortions.

Needless to say, Jamie's coworkers loved the crap out of me.

Luckily I'd established a circle of tolerant friends at Jamie's work years earlier, ones who are willing to humor me and put up with my absurd shtick, including the great and powerful Bill Colgrove, one of the Threespot owners and the absurdly talented designer responsible for the look and feel of Sweetney.com (who is also apparently something of a vampire magnet, if this photo is any indication) (his neck does look supple and inviting, you must admit):

Tell me I look like Kevin Spacey and I'll punch ya, sucka. HARD.

I also got to spend some time with friend of Sweetney.com Adam Good and his lady Kat. Some of you may remember Adam regaling us with a humorous tale involving Rip Torn?

I have a story about Abe Vigoda too, if you wanna hear that one.

And then my camera's battery unexpectedly died, and absent that amusement I commenced with swigging pitcherfuls of pomegranate Martinis while secretly pretending I was Elizabeth Taylor's Martha from Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf. As is my way.

I think Jamie still has a job. Errm, fingers crossed?

Sung to the tune of “That's What Friends Are For”

Last Thursday, as you may have heard, the Sweetney household was overrun by hostile foreign invaders a plague of locusts a sinister killer fog authored by Stephen King the Amalah family. I would've mentioned this sooner, but I spent most of Friday retching into a variety of household receptacles, while moaning piteously to no one in particular that my head might indeed explode at any moment, so BRACE YOURSELVES.

Such are the joys that friendship brings. Oh, yes.

Well, joys and three bottles of red wine. And some related head-poundy nausea. But no matter. FRIENDSHIP, PEOPLE! Let's remember what's important here.

My view of our shriektastic point-and-click Battle Royale, during which Amy took actual hostages. That's low, dawg.

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.

Not at all bitter. Nope.

Having a kid is totally cramping my style, that much is clear.

You may recall some recent mention here of my husband's well-deserved victory in our CityPaper's annual “Best of Baltimore” issue, a win that bestowed on us the distinct honor and privilege of gaining entry to their exclusive BoB party last week. And since I am sort of moldering in middle-age with a child strapped to one leg (they should make holsters) and therefore rarely (okay NEVER) cavorting about town with the cool kids, I was beside myself with excitement about attending. A party! With adult-type peoples! The cream of Baltimore's hip, insider crop, in fact! Oh, and did I yet mention OPEN BAR?

Huzzah! A drunken octopus on yon invite!

Yep, roger that. I'm all over that shit like a monkey on a cupcake.

Knowing that this party was coming up, I had to -- like most parental units -- jump through several flaming hoops ahead of time just to be able to go. First, I had to secure childcare at a friend's house. Second, I had to synchronize my watch by atomic clock to make absolutely certain I'd be on-point to retrieve our child at a reasonable time, or at least before she turned into a whining, flailing pumpkin and our friend was driven to unceremoniously toss her ass out on their back porch, like sack of potatoes FILLED WITH PURE EVIL (worse yet: PURE STARCHY EVIL!). Third, I had to dig through my wardrobe and find clothing that 1) was befitting a hipster gala in the year 2007 (umm, good luck with that! (snort!)), 2) was (relatively) clean, 3) didn't smell of some odd combination of Cheerios and Gogurt. YES, THE BAR HAS BEEN LOWERED. AGAIN.

Having settled those issues (well, to one degree or other), the evening of the much-anticipated party came. I was, in the words of Alan Greenspan, irrationally exuberant. I dressed with care, changing my clothing selections multiple times for good measure. I put on fucking MAKEUP, man. I applied goddamn hairspray, fer crissakes. And then I waited for Jamie to get home so we could go.

And waited. And waited. Aaaaaaand WAITED.

We'd planned to arrive at the party right when it started at 6:30pm, so I could cram in as much adult party time (see: BINGE DRINKING) as possible, figuring if I left the shindig by 8:30pm I could retrieve M and wisk her home and to bed before her personal witching hour of whining & flailing doom began. That would give me two full hours. Two full hours of blissful I'm not just a parent, I'm a hoooman beeeing! time. Oh joy.

Jamie called from the road around 6:15pm. He'd hit some bad traffic on the way home. He'd be late. He'd be very late.

I wilted.

All told, by the time we finally got to the party it was almost 7:30pm, meaning I had just enough time to slam down a single drink (weeps) and snap these pictures before I had to turn right around and get back into the stupid car. POINTLESS. FAIL!

Revelers beneath the ominous all-seeing Domino Sugars sign

Baltimore cityscape as Missile Command screenshot

The Baltimore Museum Of Industry: presently spotlighting our city's two main products -- Gang Murder & Crack!

Justin, Jamie, Lauren & delicious beers. You're winners, babies!

And sadly, that was it. I raced back to our friend's house and arrived just in time it seemed, as the tension-filled countdown to Preschooler Detonation had clearly already commenced. After putting my daughter to bed at home, I watched some TV. I had some snacks. And I tried very hard to weep quietly, so as not to wake up THE ADORABLE PIGTAILED MONSTER WHO HAS STOLEN MY LIFE FROM ME.

Oh, but I kid the life-stealing monster! Umm, I mean THE LIGHT OF MY GOT-DAMN LIFE.

So now, in an attempt to exhaust this topic fully and thereby purge the kernel of resentment that's taken up residence in my heart, here's a few other things that having a kid has unfortunately put the kibosh on for me:

• Crocodile wrestling
• Picking up hitchikers
• “The Lifestyle”
• Ingesting psychedelic drugs
• Snake charming
• Running out to the store to get things on a moment's notice
• Come to think of it, leaving the house at all on a moment's notice
• Sorority rushing
• Acting out old Gladiator movies using authentic weaponry
• A variety of activities involving nakedness
• Playing LPs backwards
• Drag Racing
• Openly watching “Rock Of Love” or “Charm School” on VH1

I could go on and on, of course. But enough of my festering bitterness -- what's on your resentment-inducing MIA since parenthood list? And late at night when everyone else is asleep, do you lie awake thinking about these things, and do the tears come?

There there, dear.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Aside: I've decided to relocate my Daily Photo (I prefer the generality of Daily Image, honestly) Entry over on a dedicated page, so as not to clog the delicate pipes of mah index page. Please to enjoy (like, every day! DUH!)! I'm also working on a Song Of The Week page, and I'll let y'all know when that's fully operational and ready to rock. Song Of The Week page ahoy!

And a Note to the three of you who care: No, we haven't yet replaced Nemo (or gotten a tortoise, per Mrs. Kennedy's influence), and Jamie and I are still deadlocked over the convertible issue (though I believe the resounding chorus of “BAD IDEA!” from y'all might've swayed him ever-so-slightly away from folly... fingers crossed).

I'm more like a BetaMom, if we're being perfectly honest

Last year at BlogHer, the fine ladies over at AlphaMom asked to interview me. And I was all “BRING IT, ANCIENT GREEK ALPHABET BITCHES!” (because I'm classy like that), and then unwisely proceeded to drink my weight in Yahootinis (something of a feat of strength), and plop myself down in a hotel room chair before the shimmering visage of Leah of LeahPeah to get mah semi-inebriated chitty-chat on.

Poultry dorks

The organizers and readers of last weekend's poetry blowout. When I took this picture, I told them all to do their best boy band album cover photo imitation. I think the results (pensive, brooding -- yet friendly and accessible!) speak for themselves.

Jamie (back); Justin (far left); Arlo (middle left); Gina (middle right); Dustin (far right).

Fur & Hair Monthly

Well all of our animals are still breathing. That counts for something, right?

And because I OF COURSE obey teh intarwebs in all things, I've decided to take the wait-and-see approach with Truman's boo-boo-cum-baldspot. He seems completely fine, and the ouchie in question appears to now be a much less angry pink than it was a day or so back (more of a soft, gentle pastel and less an eyelash-seering fuchsia). If he suddenly begins, you know, vomiting blood or something, well then obviously I'll concede that teh intarwebs don't know what the hell they're talking about and ferry him off to the soothing, antiseptic embrace of Vetland. Fingers crossed.

In other All My Pets Are Defective Turds news, we did finally get the test results back for Wallace, and guess what?! He's a neurotic basketcase! KITTY NEWSFLASH!

I am not an animal! I'm a hu -- Oh wait, nevermind.

Afternoon of delight

Here's a little PSA for you: next time you find yourself in the position of having to drive in or around our nation's capital, do yourself a favor and STAY AWAY FROM THE I-495 BELTWAY. There is nothing but evil there -- EVIL, I SAY!!!

Thank you for letting me get that out of my system. Now back to our regularly scheduled fuckin' mommyblarrghing.

On Tuesday the girl and I visited the Amalah household in all its shiny, new-wooden-floored and freshly-painted glory. Amy met us at the door wearing a blindingly white full-length gown and a winking diamond tiara, with Noah squirming under one arm and a bottle of red wine lodged firmly under the other. “WELCOME TO MAH HOME!” she bellowed, gesturing grandly toward the entry foyer.

At least that's how I remember it.

Today's Exciting Agenda

8:30am: Drop M off at preschool
9am-10am: Make teh intarwebz donuts
10am-11:30am: Get hair cut, colored, and styled into something not repulsive and helmet-like
12:00pm: Pick M up from preschool
12:15pm: Drive to mah biznitch's
1:00pm onward: WINE!!!!!!

It'll be a gloriously full day, but I have my work cut out for me, without a doubt (Driving! Hair! More driving! I'm exhausted just thinking about it!). Detailed reporting on Noah's general squishability (1=moderately squishable; 10=OMFG AM DED FROM TEH SQUISHYNESS), the outcome of what is certain to be an epic Battle Royale of whining between toddler and preschooler, and just how much wine (and whine!) Amy and I are able to consume in a single afternoon (while of course remaining 100% vigilant and dedicated to the care and safety of our children (snort)) to follow shortly.

In the meantime -- wholly unrelated to driving or hair -- enjoy this wonderful clip I just stumbled across (some NSFW language):

Best buddy's 5th

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the bakery...

August 19, 2007

Japanese Weekend

Because I've been just ridiculously busy for the past week or so, I haven't yet gotten a chance to tell y'all about last weekend's exciting festivities, when our household was overtaken by foreign hipster invaders. (Quick! Hide the children! And that Best Of Hall & Oates CD!)

Our friend Raji -- who is a DJ and music promoter, among other enviable things -- came down to Baltimore from NYC with his pal Yuuki in tow, who was visiting from Tokyo. Yuuki was in NYC because his Mom is a filmmaker shooting an independent film in the city and needed his assistance, though he also happens to do promotion for the nightclub Womb in Tokyo. Raji and Yuuki had VIP passes (OF COURSE THEY DID!) to Virgin Festival that weekend -- which is sort of Woodstockesque in form and flavor, but without any socially constructive pretenses -- and since the festival was being held just a hop, skip, and jump from us over at Pimlico, they crashed our pad for the weekend.

In other words, I was totally and completely out of my depth.

Shout Outish

My dear friend Kelly -- she of MamaPop, the awesome of this video, and Tracey's list of favoritest peoples in the whole wide world -- just went and got herself one of these here bloggy things. Please to go give her some lovin' and help her break in the new digs, yes? (And BE NICE. I will beat senseless anyone who is unkind to The Kelly, yo.)

thankyoucomeagain.

Lost Week(end)

Courtesy of my best girl Kelly, a video from our just-ended beach house week that is probably more descriptive of/telling about what our vacation was like than anything I could offer in words. Featuring Tom as Casper The Belligerent Drunken Floral Ghost, as well as the posing of that eternal question: “Why are you so drunk?” (and I should note here that this video was captured just following Kelly and I listening to Sir Casper chatter for about a full half hour nonstop about how drunk he was. You guys? I am SO drunk. Have I mentioned how drunk I am? Really? I have? Just now? OHMYGODIAMSOOOOODRUNK... lather, rinse, repeat. Twas comical.):

Gawd, I miss those guys already. sniff.

Oh and PS: I feel compelled, as a contrarian of sorts, to heartily proclaim:

I AM *NOT* READING THE NEW HARRY POTTER BOOK! WOOOHOOOOO! In your face, people who... are...umm... everyone but me. cough.

I'm a small and very lonely person, actually.

Puking: A Primer

So, as is the case with most vacations, at least one member of the vacation party must at some point tangle with the fury of Le Vomitmonster. Its, like, a going-on-vacation rule or something, right? Anyway, as my luck would have it, last night it turned out that *I* was that unfortunate, pathetic sap.

And it occurred to me, during my dance of near-death with every porcelainized receptacle in our beach house household, that in my own meager experience there are at least three very distinct and wholly separable types of puking:

1. The Illness Puke: You have the flu and you already wish you were dead, but fasten your seatbelt bucko, cuz its gonna get a whole lot worse when the spaghetti and meatballs you had for dinner a few hours back make a semi-digested, frothing reappearance. The Illness Puke has additionally been voted Most Likely To Make You Weep And Call Out For Your Mommy (even if said Mommy resides on the other side of the country).

The non-BlogHer BlogHer post

Those of you who read blogs by women are, as you may or may not be aware, about to be inundated with posts about and related to the upcoming BlogHer conference, taking place in Chicago in about two weeks. Many bloggers I know -- some of whom I consider dear friends -- are going, and of late the subject of the conference has come up in conversation and communication more times than I can count, invariably in the form of something like “Oh, and I'll be seeing you at BlogHer!” Which, all things considered, is a fair assumption, granted.

But I'm not going.

I'm not going to BlogHer. There, I said it.

I'll let y'all marinate in that for a moment. And alert the media. (snort.)

Hello, and welcome to my hangover

Urrrggggghhhhh. Blaaaaaaaargh. Mmmgggaaahhhh.

And you?

Show of hands: who's feeling a little on the crapulous side today? If you can actually even raise your hand above your head this morning, I applaud you. Because I certainly can't. Well not without, you know, the vomiting.

Okay, let me break it all down for you people:

The Sweetney Household Celebration of Intoxication Inebriation Independence Day, as told through a nearly impenetrable fog of morning-after bilious agony (where THE FUCK is my Excedrin?!?):

1. There was quite a bit of frenetic Wii shenanigans all day and evening long, which involved lots of hopping and jumping and jostling around. This while, of course, completely sauced.

2. People ate this, as if it were actually real food:

A Momentary Interlude

We interrupt this hiatus to bring you breaking news of important awesomeness...

Pardon me whilst I get all artsy-fartsy on your asses for a moment:

Some of y'all are aware that my husband Jamie co-runs a small press -- Narrow House -- of which his weekly rockheals.com is a part. Well, Narrow House has just released a new CD and book from our dear friend Ric Royer, and its getting rave reviews like this one from the Baltimore CityPaper:

“There Were One and It Was Two: Annotated Artifacts from the Doubles Museum, a new spoken-word performance CD and book that's his first project with Narrow House Recordings and the local poetry publisher's most ambitious project to date. It's a funny, informative, and freakishly entertaining exploration of the concept of the double--as otherness, as twins, as pairings, as doppelgängers, and so on--in literature, in psychology, in epistemology, in nature, in mythology, and in the serendipitous collisions of all of the above. As with most of Royer's live performances, each of There Were One's 10 individual tracks takes the form of the narrative lecture, with sound accompaniment provided by local unconscious thought mover/shaker John Berndt. Don't misconstrue that setup, however: Royer and Berndt aren't tapping into some Jack Kerouac and Steve Allen hep-cat bop wonking. There Were One is one of the city's most genuinely odd cultural artifacts in some time.”

Also, there's a CD/Book release party (see flyer above) this Friday (err, tomorrow), so if you're local or Baltimore-bound, please to stop by!

And if you're not in the area but you'd like to snag a copy of your very own (for a measly $12!), please to click here to buy! And thank ye!

/end arty-fartyness

[x-posted]

Think they have a rehab for that?

Back in the day, when I was this different person not known primarily as Mommy and barely knew how to change a diaper, I used to spend a good chunk of money on cosmetics and personal care products. Three key reasons for this:

1. Almost all of my income was in one way or other “disposable”.
2. I had this thing called Free Time. Maybe you've heard of it.
3. I was still in the process of actively wooing the opposite sex, and it seemed important to be adequately exfoliated and moisturized every moment of every day.

Of course none of these things apply now, so let's just say I've urrrm let a few things slide. To put it another way: I started using Herbal Essences hair care products. [shudder]

I know. I may be beyond help.

Friends, Music. Music, Friends.

Though my powers of influence out in that frothing meaty stew of humanity I like to call The World are, admittedly, meager, I feel compelled to spread -- as far and wide as my wee voice in blogdom will permit -- the good word of the following fine musical products by people I happen to love:

Gena Rowlands Band, Flesh & Spirits.
THE GENA ROWLANDS BAND... plays songs about b-movie starlets, x-movie starlets, ex-movie starlets, Academy Award Winning Actresses, people born in the wrong skin, blonde strangers, barstool wisdom, bad parties, the Eisenhower Interstate system, and Kong's words with Jesus in the aftermath of a rough first date. “It's tragic, hilarious, brilliant writing,” according to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

Back when we both lived inside the DC beltway, I used to call my friend Bob Massey (aka GRB) “the Mark Eitzel of Washington,” something I considered a great compliment. Now Bob's in LA and I'm in Baltimore, but even with all those miles between us he's still sending shockwaves of joy through my nervous system with his creative productions. Listen and download Mister Massey's latest, greatest opus yonder or order your copy from amazon.