Sweetney

I am the proud co-owner of a bouncing baby LLC

Some craziness in the mail yesterday:

I own a company. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up.

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.

Comparisons = odious

This morning I got an email from someone at The Baltimore Sun, a person working on a new parenting blog for the paper, giving me a heads-up about this.

I'm always humbled and grateful when someone takes the time to recognize my writing, and certainly I realize that this person intended her post, and the comparisons drawn therein, to be received as favorable and flattering to me. But honestly, my gut reaction to this when I first saw it could be summed up in four words: PLEASE KILL ME NOW.

Because though I understand that Dooce is something of a phenomenon, and that it is easy to see her influence weighing heavily on parenting blogs everywhere -- particularly when looking through the eyes of someone not intimately familiar with the vast scope of the parenting (gag!)blogosphere(gag!) -- let's be clear: I am not an iteration of Dooce. She's swell, and more power to her, but no. And no thank you.

Friends, I have had my dusty old blonde bob well over ten years, and my sailor's mouth far longer. I have been taking photos all my life -- showing them in museums and galleries back in the early 1990s, in fact. I started blogging about motherhood before Heather was pregnant with her daughter. And with all due respect, my dog can't balance a goddamn thing on his head.

I know it's tempting to draw these kinds of comparisons. That it is, well, easy. But that easiness at times seems to slide nearer and nearer to just plain laziness, and -- when positioned relative to everything I do here on Sweetney -- can feel a little reductive. Mildly insulting, even.

Hi, I'm Tracey. My blog is Sweetney. I'm not the most original or special person in the world, certainly. But I'm ME.

We Covet

Allow me to introduce you to mah bouncing bay-bay:

Because CLEARLY I didn't have enough going on, or enough things to do on the internet, Catherine of Her Bad Mother and I decided to throw ourselves headlong into another project, called We Covet (frankly, I have a thing for the word "covet", and am ever so glad to be able to deploy it here on the intarnets).

So what is this new site, you ask? Here's the four sentence(ish) break-down:

We Covet is a blog written for women by women about consumer goods, services, design, and style -- the good, the bad, and the ugly that we all encounter on a daily basis. Here we review products and product design, heralding the greatness of things we love and thumbing our noses at things we don't -- from makeup to toys, clothing to cameras, furniture to cleaning products, you name it. We want to share our finds and findings with you, have a few laughs, and make life prettier, easier, and more fun for our readers. Better living through consumerism! HUZZAH!

I wanted to create a space where I could share with other women my unvarnished, dead-honest opinions about things I buy, use, and yes, covet. A space that while being intimate and reflecting my taste(s), is a touch less personal than Sweetney, so I don't come off sounding like a cheesy infomercial (or, alternately, a devotee of Adbusters). Anyway, I'm really, really excited about being able to talk style and design and let my consumerist roots show a little, and I hope you'll enjoy peeking in on our design finds and product findings, and maybe in the process find a thing or two that you'll covet, too.

I'd love to hear any feedback, suggestions, ideas, or tips you might have about the site. And both Catherine and I want to feature reader picks for products and services they love, so please don't hesitate to email us at any time: wecovet@gmail.com

So please, go check it out, and let me know what you think!

Come check out the weird shizzle I find on the internets

Newsflash! The fine ladies over at Sk*rt have seen fit to make me an editor, meaning you'll be seeing a whole lot of the quirky, odd, funny, and geeky stuff I dig up on the web landing over on their pages. HUZZAH!

If you haven't heard of Sk*rt before, it's basically a women-centric Digg (ie: more gossip and fashion, less misogynistic BS and idiotic comment flame wars) -- hey, if Guy Kawasaki sees fit to sing its praises, it's worth a look-see, right?

Go check it out and be converted.

PS: You can follow the posts I submit by grabbing the RSS feed on this page (or by simply bookmarking that page, as it will collect all my posts in one convenient place). YAY!

Wow, I suck.

19

REALLY? I couldn't even break 20? I'm disappointed in myself a bit, quite frankly.

(Yeah, you're going to want to check this one out. You never know when that kind of self-knowledge might come in handy, yanno?)

[via]

Truthiness in self-portraiting

The moment I wake up
Before I put on my makeup
I say a little prayer for meeeeee...

(Is in need of many prayers. And a facial.)

Welcome to what I look like when I wake up in the morning. No make-up, no comb through my hair yet... hell, I haven't even brushed my teeth. This is what 37 year old motherhood looks like. Try to keep your breakfast down.

I post this for two reasons. One, I think we're all very good at glossing over and covering up, and let's face it, that's kind of lame and cowardly. We all promote our best head-shots, our most flattering angles, and stuff under the rug the reality of what we REALLY look like without tweaking and all manner of artificial support. I'm no different, of course: I edit and select all of the images I post here, and am loathe to publish photos that make me look less-than-attractive(-ish). But I'm not a head-shot, and my life most certainly isn't lived in soft lighting, and truth be told I rarely (okay, almost never) wear makeup. This is pretty much who I am. Internet, meet my everyday reality, in all its haggard ingloriousness.

And two, I'd like to meet YOU in your stripped-down, unvarnished loveliness, as well. So I've created a handy-dandy flickr group called Self-Portrait Truthiness, and I invite each of you to post one or more photos there of yourself as "the real you." Interpret that as you will, bearing in mind that honesty and keeping-it-real is the goal. The truth will set us free... or at least be entertaining for a few days. snort.

So let's do this thing! I double dog dare you. Yeah, I said it. Whatcha gonna do, punk?

Oh hai, I upgraded mah website

SO! After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, including a brief period yesterday during which I seriously considered hunting down one specific "Customer Service" (SO airquoted) representative from my old web host and cutting his heart out with a pen knife, VOILA! Welcome to Sweetney 2.0, rev 3 (or whatever), now hosted on TypePad. I know, it doesn't look much different. Which was kind of the point, actually.

But then, durr, why did I move to TypePad after four years of self-hosting, you ask? Isn't that sort of a downgrade, you query? Am I just some kind of pussy, retreating to the confines of a managed host, you snort?

Yes. Yes I am.

Honestly, that's not far from reality. Truth be told, over the past four years the back-end (heh, she just said "back-end") and behind-the-scenes tech shit I've had to deal with relative to running Sweetney has been MASSIVELY PAINFUL. For while it's true that I'm geeky enough to enjoy code and design tweaking, increasingly I found that the amount of energy and time I was putting into that stuff was starting to eat into *actual writing* time. And increasingly this felt like a waste, and more frustrating than enjoyable. So why not simplify and streamline and cut out the techy BS so I can focus on my main goal: bringing delicious content (and contentment! because I'm concerned for YOUR happiness!) to you, the people? BINGO.

Massive shout-outs to my hero and savior Anil Dash for hand-holding me through some of yesterday's migration, and Jonathan Schrieber from FM for holding my hand during the parts when Anil wasn't. My palms are, indeed, sweaty with love for you both. Does that frighten you?

(by the by, y'all should make sure you have the right RSS feed for Sweetney, what with all these changes and stuff. The right feed is: http://feeds.sweetney.com/sweetney -- update accordingly!)

. . . . .

But before I go dunk my head in a celebratory vat of vodka, I need to attend to answering the following question for a little round-robin-type action Catherine and I cooked up:

"How (The Smiths, Nirvana, Debbie Gibson, *insert band name/artist here*) Changed My Life." Pick whatever band, performing artist, one-hit wonder - even just a single song, if you want - and write a post about how it moved / rocked / utterly transformed your adolescent / teenage / young-adult self.

I had a big long answer that involved lots of, you know, words and stuff. Words that described things. That were descriptive and imaginative and expressive and stuff. And then I decided to move my site and all four years of its content yesterday, so the words? They do not flow.

But I will say this: I know for certain that I would not be who I am today if it weren't for The Smiths.

And I know that sounds stupid and cornball, but when I was 13 years old I heard their self-titled LP for the first time, and it was revelatory. Over the ensuing years, as I stumbled forward through my teens and my obsession with the band grew, their music expressed perfectly my feelings of strangeness and alienation, my sense of being an outsider and not fitting in. In many ways, The Smiths made me feel, for the first time in my life, that it was okay to be lonely.

And they opened up a new world of music to me: The Smiths begat The Cure, all the 4AD artists, Creation Records, and so on. The soundtrack to my youth began with them. And my sense of being so alone ended. Beautifully, Iike so:

What band, song, album, or artist changed YOUR life?

. . . . .

Please to peruse more life-changing musical reminiscing at these fine Sweetney-approved sites:

Her Bad Mother: www.badladies.blogspot.com
Oh The Joys: www.othejoys.blogspot.com
Whoorl: www.whoorl.com
Mamalogues: www.mamalogues.com
Mrs. Flinger: www.mrs.flinger.us
IzzyMom: www.izzymom.com
Mom-101: Mom-101.blogspot.com
Girls Gone Child: www.girlsgonechild.blogspot.com

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.

Letters, I get letters

EDIT: The CBC Radio podcast is up! You can download it here.

. . . . . . . . . .

Though slightly better than hate mail proclaiming “I hope you die in a fire, bitch!!1!!!” (<-- actual quote from an actual email received by me just this month!), some recent unsolicited contributions to my burgeoning inbox include the following:

From: Oprah Winfrey's Secret
Subject: Lose 10 Pounds in Six Weeks, I Guarantee It!

From: Nigel Roy
Subject: Less weight - more pleasure and joy!

From: Royal N. Bland
Subject: LoseWeightFAST!

From: Miguel Hicks
Subject: Getting thinner can be enjoyable!

From: LoseWeight
Subject: Drop 20 lbs - fit back into those jeans at no charge!

So clearly I've been internet-profiled and pegged as a fatty. A hefer. A dimpled cow. Chunkaliscious, as it were.

Huh. I can't imagine why. snort.

Somewhat (but not really) related: if you're Canadian, or have always aspired to be Canadian, or are just someone who likes to dress up like a Mountie and talk “aboot” Moose (Mooses?), please be aware that I will be infecting the International Airwaves tomorrow (Thursday 9/24) with the voice attached to my massively fat ass on this here CBC Radio One “Search Engine” show. However, if -- like me -- you are unfortunate enough to not be Canadian, you can pick up the podcast here tomorrow.

Somewhat actually related: it seems breaking celebrity melodrama has temporarily backburnered the “Inside Edition” piece filmed last week, because apparently most humans who are not me think those stories are more important. AS IF. So I'm told the story will air soon, probably on the next truly slow news day (or so I imagine). As always, you'll know when I know. Because I'm a sharer like that.

In the meantime, I'm pretty sure you'll want to check this out. PYT, Pretty Young Thing.

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.

All I want for Christmas is for FOX to stop using my copyrighted photos in their NFL broadcast without asking my permission

UPDATE!
. . . . . . . . . .

Is that so much to ask? Seriously?

SO. Here's what happened.

Earlier this afternoon I was in our kitchen doing dishes, minding my own business. Jamie was in the living room, watching some NFL football.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Suddenly, Jamie called to me from the other room, claiming I had to come see something. When I entered the room, he unpaused the broadcast he had been watching (thanks, TiVo!), and immediately I saw the image of an adorable pug, dressed in festive Santa gear, pop up at the bottom of the screen beside FOX's Happy Holiday's ticker. I vaguely remember Jamie saying something to me to the effect of, “Gee, that dog looks a lot like Truman, doesn't it?”, but I couldn't really process something as complex and nuanced as language at that moment, what with MY FREAKIN' HEAD EXPLODING ALL OVER THE PLACE. Because that adorable pug? That pug didn't just look a lot like Truman. THAT ADORABLE PUG *WAS* TRUMAN.

After making Jamie pause and rewind and unpause and re-rewind the incriminating footage several times, I was convinced beyond a shadow of doubt. FOX had gotten hold of one of my photos of Truman -- specifically one in a series I'd recently posted here with him wearing a Santa suit -- very slightly doctored the image by removing the flash-flare lighting his eyes (good aesthetic choice there, FOX!), slapped a superfluous Santa Hat on his head, and then dropped the purloined pic into the on-screen graphic rotation for their Saints/Eagles telecast.

I know. Can you even believe that bald-faced shit?

It took another appearance of Hijacked Truman on FOX's broadcast to convince Jamie. Always the eternal doubter and naysayer, it wasn't until FOX threw up on the screen a second, much larger version of the same photo, and I stood beside the television with my laptop in hand pointing studiously to my original photo and then to the nicked one on the television, that he became a believer. See for yourself:

EXHIBIT A: The original photo many of you already know and love:

Durr? You gonna eat that pizza crust or what?

EXHIBIT B: Shot of the screen during Truman's appearance:

OMFG! I've been sucked into an alternate dimension against my will! LE HALP!

EXHIBIT C: Detail of original and FOX's broadcast of the image:

I can has all rights reserved copyrights nao?

Yeah, so as you can imagine, I'm a teensy-weensy bit... oh, how shall I say? On the enraged, indignant, and generally pissed-off side.

I'm trying to imagine what went through the person's head that did this. Did they think that FOX, being a big ol' monolithic Capitalism-with-a-captial-C company could sort of, err, do whatever the hell they wanted? That the words ALL RIGHTS RESERVED and COPYRIGHT somehow didn't apply to them, despite being visible on my flickr stream and on every page of this site, respectively? Did FOX Broadcasting, without my knowledge or consent, sign a contact with Truman behind my back giving them rights to all extant images of his adorable, fawn-colored smushiness? I mean, I know Truman's a bit hungry for fame, but I never expected this kind of shameless Eve Harrington shit out of him. Traitor.

What really, REALLY sticks in my craw is that following all this I was forced not only to sit through several more hours of football just to make certain they didn't show the image again (yes, please shower me with your pity), but I also had to endure the endless tape-loop of FOX's NFL copyright warnings, which seemed to repeat every five minutes or so. Hilariously enough, FOX Broadcasting and the NFL are apparently very, very concerned about legal rights to their telecasts and rebroadcasts of their telecasts. They're concerned about -- ho ho, it's rich -- PEOPLE STEALING THEIR SHIT. But as far as them stealing other people's shit goes? Errm, not so much. See also: Please to go fuck yourself if you aren't us.

Oh and let's not forget that this is the corporation who sued YouTube over leaked TV Shows. Because people, traffic of content between the web and broadcast TV matters. Like, a lot and stuff.

Oh god, I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Listen, the bottomline is that this kind of thing has to stop. It's ridiculous. Hello, I OWN MY FREAKIN' CONTENT. How many times, and in how many different ways, do I need to say this? I have indicated on every single page of this site that my content is copyrighted. I have all rights reserved on my photos. So reason suggests that if you want to use a photo or some other content I've created on a national TV broadcast, YOU SHOULD ASK FIRST AND YOU NEED TO PAY ME FOR IT. And not in NFL-logo water bottles, commemorative hat pins, and autographed copies of The OReilly Factor For Kids. No no no. Greenbacks pleez, beeyatches. Dolla dolla bills, y'all.

In case it wasn't clear, FOX Broadcasting picked the wrong stupid Mommyblogger to mess with.

Oh and FOX legal -- if you're reading this -- you might want to get in touch. Jus sayin'.

PS: God bless us, every one! snort.

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.

Your Opinions Wanted

Since the internet invariably does my best thinking for me, I once again turn to y'all for suggestions and advice. Please to provide, oh great and powerful internet hive mind.

The upshot is that I'm going to begin writing a column in cooperation with the site True Mom Confessions, probably in the next week or so, and I'm in charge of coming up with some sort of title for said column. It'll be part advice column, part me reflecting on my own experience(s) as they relate to select confessions posted on the TMC site. Or something. Anyway, the point is to do something not unlike my recent post “Retrospectively”: to say to other mothers out there that I dig their rap, that I am hip to their jive, and that they aren't alone.

All of this is great, except Tracey's brain no worky when presented the whole coming-up-with-a-title part of the deal. So this is where your input comes in. All ideas wanted! I'll be your BFF? Oh pretty, pretty please?

Here's what I came up with on my own:
Sweetney Says
Sweetney Talk
Retrospectively

Now you see how much I suck. HALP?

Hit me, people. America is counting on you.

EDIT: In addition to providing new, fresh ideas in comments (please??), you can also vote for one the titles that I came up with in the poll below, if you prefer. Lamers.

Opinion Polls & Market Research

. . . . . . . . . .
PS: She's gonna punch me in the head for this, but I just nominated mah dear Amy for the Best Parenting Blog Weblog Award. Go vote (by clicking the little “+” button on her nomination (I think?))!

PPS: Amy, please remember: I bruise easily. Oh and stay away from the face, k?

Would it kill ya to comment?

THE DAY OF RECKONING HAS COME.
ONE WOMAN.
ONE BLOG.
YOUR MOTHERFUCKING COMMENTS.
YIPPEE-KI-YAY, MOFOS.

I know you're out there. I can hear you breathing.

So please drop a quick Hello, Hey, or Hi in comments, just so I can stop feeling eerily watched by a thousand silent eyes.... and whatever else you'd like to add, including an answer to the following query, if the spirit moves: If you had a theme song, what would it be? And if a blog entry posts in a forest, and there's no one there to read it, will the rabid squirrels still gather and tear it to shreds?

C'mon, give me some lovin', peoples.

. . . . . . . . . . .
Unrelatedly, I have a new gig over at True Mom Confessions, snarking bi-weekly about celebrity. Those of you who actually endured watched “Hey Paula” will doubtless appreciate my inaugural blurb (“Warriors.” snort.).

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.

Already missing Big Love? Have I got a show for you!

Mormons have always had a peculiar hold on the American imagination, but few know who the Mormons actually are or who they claim to be, and their story is one of the great neglected American narratives.

AMERICAN EXPERIENCE and FRONTLINE, two of PBS' most acclaimed series, join forces to present The Mormons, a new documentary series about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In two, two-hour episodes, filmmaker Helen Whitney (John Paul II: The Millennial Pope and Faith and Doubt at Ground Zero) explores both the history and the current reality of the Mormon faith. Whitney gained unusual access to Mormon archives and church leaders as well as dissident exiles, historians and scholars both within and outside the faith. “Through this film, I hope to take the viewer inside one of the most compelling and misunderstood religions of our time,” says Whitney.

Watch the entire program online here.

To have comments or not to have comments -- is that really a question?

Alright, alright, you wore me down. I've gotten some emails asking about comments -- what happened? Why you kill comments, bad lady? DO YOU NOT KNOW THAT I HAVE VITALLY IMPORTANT INPUT TO GIVE REGARDING THE TOPIC OF DEMONIC HAMSTERS? (etcetera.) I hear you. You have been heard.

I'm sure there was a good reason for closing comments, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm still reading. I always feel ... well, I feel BAD reading a site with no comments, because I can't let people know I was there. Fleh. This will make me feel better.

But having comments has always been something I've gone back and forth about -- typically every six months to a year or so, and unfortunately the issue has more often than not been pushed to the forefront of my mind because of some specific EVENT, some internet or blogging-related unpleasantness that my reptilian brain rejects and goes all fight-or-flight about. But in the end I've always kept the comments, because I never wanted to be pressed by external forces into doing something that wasn't wholly just about what *I* wanted. Unless there are backrubs and chocolate involved, in which case WHAT INTEGRITY?

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.

Make your own Rubik's Cube

Random timewasting fun ahoy!

dumpr Rubik's Cube Generator

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.

Something you should so totally read

From this week's New Yorker: Damn Spam

More than 70% of traffic on the internet is spam. Amazing.

A Conversation From Teh Futures

(Subtitle: Every Dog (or Cat) Has His Day. And Every Day Must Come To An End.)

“Hey, remember when the LolCat thing broke? What was that, 2006? 2007?”

“2006, I think.”

“Yeah. and remember how funny that shit was back then? And how everyone started making their own LolCats and stuff?”

“Totally. And talking like 'i can has ____'. Heh, good times. That was some funny stuff, man.”

“Until it wasn't. Anymore.”

“Roger that. P-L-A-Y-E-D.”

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.)

Make Yer Own MySpace Hilarity

Heads-up, mah peoples: Y'all best get on this. I'm not even joking. Do I look like I'm joking? No, I thought not.

$250 $500 in prizes! Public adulation and admiration! ALL YOUR MYSPACE ARE BELONG TO US, YO.

And you have today off, right? Like you have anything better to do? [incredulous snort]

So get to page creatin', and please spread the word (to your homies, your mutha, etcetera).

PS: Happy 4th, compatriots!

We are but guinea pigs in a prolonged experiment in delayed gratification, apparently

The podcast from my panel at SXSW in March is up and ready for your listening pleasure. Finally. After four long months. Why the delay? Because we were collectively so incredible, so freaking unbelievably fabulous, that SXSW dared not release our podcast too soon, for fear that it would so outshine all other panel podcasts that no one would bother to listen to them. Umm, HA?

So anyway, there it is, do what you will. I won't be listening to it, as the sound of my own voice makes me throw up in my mouth a little. But from what I remember of the experience, its all pretty good stuff. Enjoy!

EDIT: Okay, I listened to it. And despite the nausea, I was actually pretty pleased. Oh and also despite the fact that I still think my voice sounds like Bea Arthur on ludes. Thanks to my comrades Danny, Amy, Asha and Marrit for being so smart and funny and making that whole experience so much real fun.

This is what I get for using the term “ass chips”

Well that and “fuckwad”, “bastards” and “motherfucking cocksucker”, but who's counting?

Click image to find out your own site's rating, and let me know how much more wholesome you are than me, you goddamn asshat (hey, think my rating has hit NC-17 yet? snort.).

Planet Unicorn HEYYY!

If you haven't had the pleasure of seeing this yet, PREPARE TO BE DAZZLED.

Two follow-up episodes hither and thither. Fly to the webby goodness, my children, fly!

Now officially a good morning

I share because I love: a delicious compendium of Lolcats on flickr.

You can thank me later.

M'ungry

Perhaps too adorable to eat, but these are giving me the tummy-grumbles nonetheless.

Twit

Yes, I am sheep: go here to subscribe to my text messages. You know you wanna.

Shameless Self-Big Pimpin'

Quoth Madonna:

Unlike the others, I'd do anything
I'm not the same, I have no shame
I'm on fire!

Actually, I'm not so much on fire! as on cold medicine!, having woken this morning to the tale-tell ominous throat tickle and generalized sinus misery that always heralds the descent of the demonic forces of pestilence upon my being. Gawdammit.

But that's actually beside the point. Though I do enjoy whining, oh yes.

The point is: first came the MamaPop, and now we make with the MamaPopTalk, a forum site where awesome peoples like yourself can go to chat about pop culture (and everything else, quite honestly), from the comfort and safety of your own home or workplace.

I give because I love.

So come on by, tune in, turn on, and drop out! What are you going to do instead, WORK? HAHAHAHAAAAA! Right.

Blogging and women

From yesterday's front page of the Washington Post: Sexual Threats Stifle Some Female Bloggers.

Some of this sounds all-too-familiar:

Kathleen Cooper, the single mother, said she began to experience harassment about five years ago after she posted a retort on a friend's blog to a random blogger's threat against a friend. The harasser began posting defamatory accusations on Cooper's site, on his blog and then on a site that purports to track “bad businesses.” He said that he could not be responsible for what “his minions” might do to her, she said.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Oh my black round ass!

No, this will never, ever get old. And frankly, I couldn't be prouder. Yahoooooo! indeed.

Best Ebay Comments EVAR.

Sometimes even just a small thing like this can completely make my day.

Thank you, tryork5ifp. Thank you.

Goooooood Husband [pat pat pat]

Look! Its FTD's “Serene Serenity Internet Death Comfort Basket” (available for a limited time only with the “Find Peace” Musical Prayer Box for only $19.95 extra! Act now and save!).

It was only a matter of time before we found ways to express our deepest sympathies to others over their internet losses through commerce. Go capitalism, GO!

No, but seriously, my husband kind of rules. And now if you'll excuse me, I have some important exfoliating and moisturizing to do.

What we talk about when we talk about Neanderthals

Briefly pulling my head out of MamaPop's butt to share with y'all the single greatest moment in the history of Sweetney, visible here.

Internets? It doesn't get any better than that. I can now die a happy woman. The end.

All phoenix from the flames-like

OMFG MY HEAD HURTS, but MamaPop lives!

Still much work and configuring and content migration to be done, but praise jebus, she's up and running. Come on over and say hello at the new digs, won't you?

EDIT: Some of you have noted that 'mamapop.com' isn't working right now, and that's true. We're in the awkward domain transfer portion of our switch to TypePad, so that url may be unavailable for the next day (or so). In the meantime, direct your browsers to http://mamapop.typepad.com to feel the love! Nevermind, http://www.mamapop.com works fine now!

Worst. Day. Ever.

Hi! I'm putting this up basically just to tell everyone that my host killed MamaPop. It was going to crash their server, so they took it down. Without warning. Suddenly. And they won't put it back up. So I'm in hell, trying to secure big, beefy servering for MamaPop. And losing my mind -- did I mention losing my mind? This has been a complete nightmare. Do I sound like I'm in shock? Yes, yes, I am.

I'm sorry about all of this, everyone. I had no idea this was going to happen, or clearly I would've done something to stop it from happening. I am beyond angry. I'll keep everyone apprised of all developments, and hope to have the BIGGER! STRONGER! FASTER! MamaPop up within the next day.

UGH doesn't even begin to cover it, people.

My People: A Review

So its only taken me, what, A MONTH to get up a few of these SXSW shots? Uhh... I've been busy? With umm things? And stuff? Right?

Anyway, I just happened to stumble across these pictures from the conference this morning, and they kind of made me all warm and squishy feeling inside, because in all seriousness these are some of my favoritest people in the whole wide world, and just gazing upon their silly, happy, photo-mugging faces today somehow made everything just a little bit better in my neck of the woods.

Too bad they were such pains in the fucking ass to be around in-person. I mean, they like totally harshed my gnarly interactive geektastic and webilicious conference buzz. snort.

So, umm, here ya go. Pitchers and stuff. Enjoy.

At ten o'clock, you all die.

How to (not) disappear completely

Like many of you, I've been reading a lot about the Kathy Sierra debacle the past few days. And because I've been asked more than a few times how I managed to continue forward here on Sweetney after my own (melo)dramatic troll-related incident(s), I just wanted to pass on what could be loosely described as my private, previously unwritten methodology of sane blogging, 2007 A.T. (After Troll):

Balancing act

Some of you may have noticed that I haven't been around these parts as much as I used to -- that my posting has been lighter (and “lite”-r), and I guess there are several reasons for that. The first being that I've been throwing myself headlong into MamaPop -- building and tinkering and adjusting and organizing, trying to make it super mega awesome and something that stands on its own two feet, beyond even my own identity or that of any of the individual writers. We're getting there, even after only being up and running five short months, and I honestly couldn't be prouder of it or the work we're doing. And, to be completely frank, its incredibly refreshing to have a space dedicated to writing about things beyond me and my life, things external to the daily ins-and-outs of living and my sense of self. Anyway, its been and continues to be a lot of work, but its also ridiculously fun and immensely gratifying, particularly when I see people responding so enthusiastically to it. So there's that.

But there's also something deeper going on, which I've been hesitant to write about. Partially because it falls into the 'blogging about blogging' category, and OMFG how ludicrous and mind-numbing is that? But I've also been hesitant because its really something I haven't completely wrapped my head around, and how do you write lucidly about something you can't think clearly about? Urrm... have I lost you yet? SEE!

My own private British Invasion

So my (loved her) long-time friend Joy -- perhaps you know her? -- had the audacity to publicly challenge me to participate in this music meme thingy she's hawking. She was all “I bet you won't do it. Too good for memes, are we?” (said in that finely-tuned British lilt of hers, which somehow makes everything she says sound like a razor-sharp Oscar Wildean witticism), and I was all “Bring it, limey! I WILL BURY YOU, IMPERIALIST LAND-GRABBING SWINE!” And then she goes “Hey, we earned those Falkland Islands, dammit!”, and I was all “Huh? Oh yeah, and you needed those to advance your vital global strategic sheep-herding, yarn-spinning, and moist-rock-mining initiatives. Right.” And then she got all “In YOUR FACE, Pilgrim!” To which I retorted “Your Queen is a filthy mullosk!”

You get the idea.

Potentially the worst photo of me ever

Though honestly, there are likely many pictures out there gunning for that particular title at this point, the one accompanying this Austin Chronicle piece at the very least claims the Most Bloated/Bug-eyed Version of Myself prize. Yay! Goooo fat ass!

Oh yes, and the thrust of our whole panel is probably best articulated by that quote they pulled from me. Don't quit your day jobs, ya'll.

A Dispatch from SXSW

That there's a three armadillo bus stop, pardner.

I could not be more burned out on the presence of my fellow humans. I mean, I like all ya'll, but really, being with people constantly is a bit exhausting. I may need a few days to detox from all the, you know, togetherness.

Gone SXSW-in'

The garden, yesterday morning:

Heh. (Inspired by)

Poor budlets never had a chance. Nature, she is a heartless wench.

Anyway ya'll, I'm finally getting outta the snow and heading south(xsw), flying the friendly skies this morning with my spouse-for-the-weekend. Who's gunning to dye my hair red/pink. As if things weren't weird enough already on the Tracey hair front.

And to answer the question surely on all of your filthy, filthy minds: no, spouse-for-the-weekend ain't gettin' any.

Send good vibes for us to survive the plane ride (think 9am is too early for shots?), the panel, and -- perhaps most frightening of all -- the danny.

Please correct me if I'm wrong...

But having any sort of life outside the computer to speak of is probably pretty much over now, right?

[shakes fist at Danny]

Calling all ya'll Texans!

That's how ya'll talk, right? Pardners?

It seems there's an Austin blogger meet-up in the works for this coming weekend that'll feature yours truly, Amy, and Danny. From the sounds of it, there will be food, and you're welcome to bring booze. And by “welcome” I mean REQUIRED. Because seriously, please understand that you're dealing with three fairly socially anxious people here (umm, hello? There's a reason bloggers are bloggers and not, say, PR people), and we'll probably all need to get pretty liquored up to stop with the, you know, trembling and stuttering.

I kid. About the trembling and stuttering. But not about the required booze.