Sweetney

What's the Valentine's Day version of The Grinch? Oh, that would be ME.

God knows I love my husband. I do. It's not even a question really, because if I didn't love him he'd most certainly be dead by now.

As someone with a fairly strong misanthropic streak, I'm kind of prone to being irritated at people to some degree or other the vast majority of the time. It's nothing personal, really! I'm sure you, your friends, your family, your dog, are all very nice and smart and deserving of a cookie. Perhaps even SEVERAL cookies. But to be perfectly honest, y'all -- globally speaking -- just kind of annoy the crap out of me, what with your ridiculous, ill-informed opinions and ideas, your questionable tastes in any number of things, your inability to properly use turn signals while driving... your, umm, relentless breathing. It can all be a bit much sometimes.

So it should come as no surprise that my perspective on romance and it's looming national consumer holiday might be seen as a tad, well, deflating.

(source)

To be blunt, from my perspective, Marriage (since it's generally regarded as the culmination of romantic endeavor) is simply about finding someone whose idiosyncracies and issues don't make you want to kill them or gouge your own eyes out with a relish fork. Because as many of you know, Marriage is a long-ass haul, and roses and heart-shaped chocolate boxes aren't going to get you very far, I'm afraid. From what I've seen, over the passing of years mushy sentiment and romance invariably fades in marriage, and what remains is a love based instead in friendship, commitment, and good old fashioned motherfuckin' PATIENCE. As a friend of mine recently said, “I can say that I love my husband with all of my heart and be telling the truth. But what might be TRUER is if I said I can tolerate him and his bullshit more than anyone else I've met so far. But that doesn't sound as sweet.”

BINGO.

Maybe I'm being too Scrooge-like here, but I just can't get behind the forceable romance of Valentine's Day. It's way too contrived, too sickly-sweet and divorced from reality. Yes, yes, I love you... now can you take the fucking garbage out for crissakes?

Besides, I like my True Love Always declarations presented in forms less perishable and conventional than flowers and candy. Like products from the Apple Store, for example. Hey, Jamie! Hint! Hint!

Love means never having to endure outdated technology, am I right?

Now you can all pile on and tell me what a killjoy I am. I'm strong. I can take it. DO YOUR WORST, HOPELESS ROMANTICS.

A bedtime story before dying

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

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

Me: WHAT? Oh no!

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

Me: What brought that on?

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

Me: Oh yeah. Aww, poor sweetie!

. . .60 seconds later:

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

Him: Oh she asked about that too.

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

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

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

My crazy husband. Let me show him to you.

I'll tell you all this right now: my husband is fucking insane.

He has... how shall I put this? A very on-again off-again relationship with reality. It isn't so much that he's lost his grip on The Real, but rather that he willfully chooses to ignore it, editing out select portions of The Truth Of How Things Are that don't exactly jibe with his wants and desires.

What do you call that? Selective Stupidity? What?

True, there's an incredibly charming side to this aspect of his personality, and it's definitely something that attracted me to Jamie when we first began dating. Because, quite often, this detachment from reality thing manifests as a kind of exuberant, ecstatic, seize-the-day attitude -- something that is difficult to argue with without feeling like a Scrooge and/or being overcome with self-hatred. I mean, he's right: OF COURSE we should jet off to Vegas for the weekend... and buy that really expensive Tiffany ring... and spend $300 on one meal. You only live once, right? RIGHT?

Sure, I participated along the way. Sure, I've reaped the rewards of living with someone who's knee-jerk reaction is to always say YES!, damn any and all consequences. I'm not denying that Insanity Has Its Benefits, and that I've enjoyed those.

But my willingness to stretch reality for shits-n-giggles has it's limits, folks. And they were recently reached -- nay, pressed beyond -- when Jamie began campaigning for us to buy an old $900,000 stone church.

I'll let that sink in for a moment. Do you need some smelling salts? Because I sure do.

Alright, so let me get this part out of the way: is the church awesome? Yes, yes it is. It's a mammoth stone-and-stained-glass relic of Old Baltimore, complete with a freakin' antique pipe organ. It's huge and beautiful and kick-ass.

It is also NINE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS. That's the number nine, with five fucking zeroes. In case that wasn't clear.

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

For the past two weeks Jamie has been working ridiculous hours, often not getting home until I'm nearly in bed. It's crunch time for a web project they've been working on at his company, a project which I have vowed to not disclose details about to the internet under pain of death and/or dismemberment. But suffice it to say it's big and involved and high-profile, and that it has become a gigantic, soul-sucking black hole at the center of our family life. When I do catch the odd, fleeting glimpse of Jamie at home I now say “Oh, do you still live here?” -- and it's not much of a joke, really.

This weekend he worked the whole of both Saturday and Sunday, leaving me -- already exhausted and run ragged -- in the role of Head Stooge to one very unsympathetic five-year-old. More than once over the course of that 48 hour period I found myself reaching what I call Maximum Density: the point at which my skillfully constructed facade of sanity, patience, and calm begins to crack under the brute, head-poundy force of unrelenting preschooler irrationality. I begin hissing words through my teeth. My body tenses. My hair becomes rigid (okay not really, but you get what I'm saying). Words sputter and crash Tourettes-like from my mouth: IF I HAVE TO SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME... I'M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN... NOT ANOTHER WORD... NO NO NO... ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME... ARE YOU DEAF? (Answers: Yes, you will; ORLY?; But I have to tell you something!; Yes yes yes; No; Huh?)

All of which begs the question: how do some of you people do this all day every day by yourself and maintain some modicum of mental health and stability? I'm dead serious here. Because at times like these I honestly start to feel as though I may have a chip missing or something -- that my version of humanity came with a woefully inadequate supply of some essential Mothering nutrient that would allow for the much-extended dance version mix serenity and patience I see in many of my Momrades (comrades+Mom=). I just don't have that, whatever that is. Am defective, I guess. (shrugs)

While I'm thinking about this though, I should perhaps mention that I believe I'm also missing whatever it is that makes some parents actually appear to enjoy getting down on the floor and acting out elaborate action-figure-fueled scenes of their child's devising. Sorry, but I just don't get it. I mean, I'm all for imaginative play and such, but is it really absolutely necessary for ME to get directly involved? When did being your child's playmate become a parental requirement, exactly? And is there a loophole somewhere I can wiggle through? After all, I DO have a whole stack of New Yorkers sitting in front of me that desperately need to be read, and almost the whole season of “Tell Me You Love Me” TiVoed and patiently awaiting my eyeballs. PRIORITIES, PEOPLE!

(You may now pat yourself on the back for being better at this whole parenting gig than me. GO YOU! YOU SO WIN! If I had a medal or something, I'd award it. Or beat you over the head with it until your screams slowly subsided. I can't decide.)

And now that I've managed to drain away all your sympathy toward me and my harrowing solo parenting predicament, let me distract you from my inadequacies by pointing you to this here Great Mofo Delurk Blogroll as well as my impending participation in this year's NaBloPoMo (Kool-Aid? DRUNK).

Did that work? No? Okay, well then howabout this adorable whistling puppy?

SUCKA!

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EDITED TO VERY RANDOMLY ADD:

I haven't laughed that hard in a while. Those hand claps sure do bring the rock. (Thanks, Bill!)

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.

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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).

Car Wars: The Wang Strikes Back

Hey, do you guys smell that? (sniff-sniff) It's a little something like... the odor of burnt hair mixed with motor oil sludge, right? Do you know what that is? It's the smell of pipin' hot marital discord, that's what!

Let me begin this by saying that I've never been a car person -- someone who invests buckets of money into cars and/or aligns their identity and sense of self with an automobile. Since getting my driver's license at age 16, I've had exactly four cars: a Chrysler K-Car that was a hand-me-down from my mother, which I drove for two years until something in its transmission locked up one snowy Michigan morning and it ran over my foot, shades of Christine-style; a lo-fi Ford Escort that was a replacement for the evil demon attack car, given to me by my parents on my 18th birthday; and two Toyota Camrys that were both gifts from my very generous car-molting Aunt Elaine. The last of those two Camrys I still have today: a champagne-colored 1998 model that, admittedly, has seen better days. Over the years it's developed all sorts of minor quirks and defects -- a broken automatic door-lock button on the passenger side door, a blown sound system speaker, a dashboard clock that has retreated back into the recesses of the surrounding console, never to be seen again -- but honestly? I couldn't give a shit less. My criteria for whether or not an automobile is viable is as follows: 1) Does it move, and do so reliably and with an overall lack of discomfort on the part of the driver? And 2) There isn't a #2.

And you should know that Jamie has historically been of a similar mind. Fact is, I had to practically pry him physically from the hideous beater he owned when we met -- a shit-brown early 80s Dodge Spirit that was so heinous in every conceivable aspect that even I had to concede that it was time to throw that baby back (preferably into an erupting volcano or the yawning maw of the Great Pit Of Carkoon (that toothy sand pit thing from Return Of The Jedi)). We replaced that junker with a gently-used Toyota Echo, a fuel-efficient Little Engine That Could that's been serving him well for the past 4 or so years. Practical. Reliable. Appropriate for his hard-wearing daily commute to DC. Perfect.

And so relative peace has reigned in the Automotive Realm of The Sweetney Kingdom... well, until last week.

We've been casually going back and forth for some time about the idea of getting him a hybrid, a choice that seems to make a lot of sense in light of his extended dance mix version commuting and our shared concerns for (and guilt about) the environment. But then something odd happened. Like one of those old Folger's coffee commercials -- “Tracey's husband has been secretly replaced with a tired cliche of American manhood in mid-life crisis... Will she notice?” -- I've been dealt the ol' switcheroo.

Which is to say: he now wants a fucking convertible. And he's using words like “Saab” and “Mercedes” and (OMFG!!!) “Lexus.” Those are bad words. Those are words that hurt. GET BEHIND ME, LEXUS!

Do you think it would help if I chatted casually with him a little bit about the general enormity and girth of his penis? Yes? No?

Needless to say, we're at an impasse. It is now Me, Ms. Cheap-n-Practical, versus Him and His Aging Wang (WANG WANT CONVERTIBLE! WANG SMASH PRIUS! GRRAAAAAHHH!). We may not make it out alive or (ahem) intact.

So as with all important things I turn to you: The Delphic Oracle-like, impartial, and all-knowing internet. Please to select one of the following options, and potentially help to save our marriage:

How should the Sweetney family resolve their current automotive-related dispute?
1. Let Jamie get the stoopid convertible. With the long commute and all he deserves it, and allowing him to purchase it bestows on you a points value equivalent to three years worth of blow jobs, so everyone wins!
2. Your husband has plum lost his mind. A convertible would not only be impractical and wasteful, but ultimately it would fail to make his penis appear any larger than it actually is. It's a lose-lose, man. Go green!
3. Other -- I'm going to explain my thoughts in the comments and tell you what to do, because none of the other options apply and I know better than you nah nanny nah-nah.

I'm counting on you and your collective wisdom to help guide us, dear internet. (And was the “nah nanny nah-nah”-ing really necessary? SO immature.) Though I must add that none of your responses should include calls for a “version 2.0” of the options, use words like “interactivity” and “optimization” in referencing the choices, or suggest ways that we could “monetize” this situation. DO YOU HEAR ME, INTERNET? ARE WE CLEAR? Alrighty then.

Death, unlike hell, is not for children

So first we had Wallace the self-de-hairing cat, who by way of self-abusive licking performed the feline equivalent of the endless handwashing stereotypically seen as a hallmark behavior of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in humans. (On the up-side, Wallace can also be used to remove those troublesome fabric nubbins from sweaters -- get your own OCD cat today!) Then Truman the retarded wonderdog went toe-to-toe with some chain link fence and lost. LOST TO FENCING. Oh, the halfwitted humanity.

In summary, it's safe to say we've established that the Sweetney family pets are defective, masochistic rejects. But oh mah lawd, nothing in our recent experience has come close to the epic pathos, drama, and stupidity of this weekend's Aquatic Deathwatch 2007 (sounds much more festive than it actually was, BELIEVE ME).

It began a few days back when I noticed that M's beta fish Nemo was acting, well, sort of listless. “Floaty and deanimated” were the words that came to mind. Instead of his typical acrobatic swirling about in his tank, I discovered him drifting near the surface of the water, leaning lightly against the front wall as if to say: DUDE, I'M FUCKING DYING OVER HERE!1!!!. Usually frenetic and eager at his daily feeding, now the poor little guy's tiny front fins barely twitched when I opened the top of the tank and dropped a few ground-up flakes of food in.

So we all know where this is going: straight down the toilet with a single, decisive flush.

Except it didn't. It hasn't. He's the fucking Energizer Bunny of fish. The Thing That Wouldn't Die of fish. The unstoppable evil zombie fish that can't be killed because ITS ALREADY (UN)DEAD.

Saturday morning I checked in on him and went so far as to call time of death (10:40am, if you must know). You may recall that the last time our family dealt with fish death Jamie and I chose to secretly replace the Original Dead Nemo with a Living Nemo Imposter, basically because we're pussified cowards who'd rather avert our gaze and deceive our child than suck it up and have the dreaded Big Death Talk. But now, with even The Nemo Imposter exiting, we seemed to have little choice. It was time to do some serious motherfucking parenting, yo.

The Talk went something like this:

Jamie: Honey, we have something to tell you.
M: *blink*
Jamie: Nemo was sick, and he died.
M: WAAAAAAAAAAH! I MISS NEMO!!!!!!!
Me: Its okay sweetie, it happens.
M: (quietly snorfling)
Me: You know... the circle of life and shit.
Jamie: (shoots daggers at my skull)
Me: I MEAN, fish don't live a long time.
M: Can we get another fish?
Jamie: Yes.
M: (inappropriately chipper) OKAY! CAN WE GET IT TODAY?!!?
Me: What, no period of mourning? How about a little respectful time and distance before we move on to callously replacing the dead, huh?
Jamie: (shoots flaming battleaxes at my skull)
Me: Alrighty then. Anyone up for ice cream?

So I think that went well. Except that at the end of this conversation, when I went to scoop Nemo's remains from his tank so that we could do the traditional burial at sea, the sucker MOVED. Moved, as in NOT DEAD YET.

Oh jesus fucking christ.

That was Saturday, and the death vigil continues still. A few times a day now I go in and poke the seemingly dead fish, only to have him spring to life and swim furiously around the tank for a few moments, thereafter drifting back into a limp, corpse-like pose on the surface of the water, as if to give us the finger while gurgling: HA! SUCKERS!

Stupid faker fish.

And I know its wrong, but since he's quite obviously on his way out and sloughing off this mortal coil and all that, I have to admit I kind of wish he'd get on with it already. This endless death rattle mambo is excruciating. WON'T HE THINK OF THE CHILD(REN)? Go to the light Nemo, go to the light...

And now I'm strangely hungry for a tuna melt.

Tags: children, daily, family, humor, kids, life, motherhood, mylife, parenting, pets, death

And, of course, Drama would immediately call shotgun

As anyone who knows me very well at all is keenly aware, I'm not a very sentimental person. I'm not much for sap, or overt emotional displays, or mushy proclamations of love and devotion. My tendency toward guardness -- in terms of both displaying and expressing my emotions, and opening myself up fully to others -- is something I'm actually actively working on with my therapist at the moment (along with trying to quiet the voices in my head urging me to kill David Hasselhoff... but that's another post entirely). At the end of my first session with her after starting up therapy again last month, my headshrinkess suddenly said to me -- in a manner that seemed apropos of nothing -- “You're very contained.” And at the time I puzzled over that statement a bit. I mean, don't I spend most of my time every single day writing and sharing my thoughts with the whole freakin' world?

But as it sunk in, I realized what she meant, and it honestly shook me a little. Because, of course, writing is a very controlled and contained act, an almost perfect platform of expression for someone who has, ahem, intimacy and trust issues. My sharing here is completely controlled and contained. By me. I decide what to reveal and what to hide, I decide how things are presented and how much I invest, and therefore how much I can, well, get hurt. But beyond the boundaries of the internet, that approach doesn't really work very well. As I'm realizing (like, duh).

And fill my heart with love for only you...

This past Sunday, June 3rd, my parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary. FORTY YEARS, and neither has ever, to my knowledge, attempted to murder the other. How does that work exactly? Anyway, in honor of this momentous occasion, I sent them a free Hallmark e-card. Because that's how I roll: cheap and lame (and now I'm using said momentous occasion as fodder for my blog. Hi Mom and Dad! I bet you couldn't be prouder!). Meanwhile, they ran off together to Branson, which is apparently all the rage with the married Boomer set. In response to my oh-so-thoughtful e-card, I received a lovely missive from my Mom yesterday, which read in part:

In Praise Of My Own Decrepitude

On tap for this weekend: Saturday: Birthday. Sunday: Mother's Day. Its 100% about ME ME ME for the next two days.

Bout freakin' time, man.

And while I hate to be the one to break it to you -- shattering your image of me as a taut, vivacious Mom You'd Like To HangOutAndPerhapsShareACocktailOrTwoWith -- tomorrow I turn 37. THREE-SEVEN. That's, what, 322 in dog years?

WILL SOMEONE JUST PLEASE SHOOT ME AND PUT ME OUT OF MY MUSTY-SMELLING GERIATRIC MISERY? Please? I'll let you have a ride on my supah tricked-out mobility scooter!

[Note to self: pitch series “Pimp My Scooter” to Hallmark Channel and Lifetime Network. Oh hell, and The History Channel as well. Why not? I mean, they're a televised Aging Boomers-R-Us, right?]

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.

Smart Folk: Not Like Us

Yes, this week it is indeed The Sweetney Theater Company Presents... round these parts. You'll live.

[Setting: Our Living Room, Tuesday Evening.]

Him, pointing to a photo of an acquaintance on his computer: See this guy? He's a genius.

Me: Oh?

Him: Yeah. Just brilliant. But he smells.

Me: Like, he doesn't bathe?

Him: No, he bathes. He's just... (searching for adequately descriptive word) (fails to find that word)... all over the place*.

Me: Well, you know geniuses are frequently not terribly concerned with hygiene. Its not really on the top of their list of priorities.

Him: What IS at the top of the Genius List Of Priorities?

Somehow all of this is Bruce Willis's fault

Question: When exactly did I become such a pussy?

I ask this in light of an event that took place this weekend. On Saturday night Jamie wanted to watch a movie, and we quickly skimmed through the available TiVoed options: King Kong, which is something like three-and-a-half hours long, and who has time for three-and-a-half hours worth of a ginormous lovelorn aircraft-swatting ape? Pass. A History of Violence, which I nixed as too intense for Saturday night film viewing, and Walk The Line, which Jamie for some reason wasn't in the mood for. This left the Bruce Willis/Mos Def vehicle 16 Blocks. Perhaps you're by chance one of the, oh, five freakin' people on planet earth who've seen this film? If not, a quick plot summary courtesy of IMDB:

Bruce Willis plays Jack Mosley, a burnt-out detective assigned the unenviable task of transporting a fast-talking convict (Mos Def) from jail to a courthouse 16 blocks away. However, along the way he learns that the man is supposed to testify against Mosley's colleagues, and the entire NYPD wants him dead. Mosley must choose between loyalty to his colleagues and protecting the witness, and never has such a short distance seemed so long...

Which sounds, I don't know, passable? Perhaps not something you'll want to one day share with your children as an example of fine filmmaking, but certainly worthy of a lazy date-night-at-home looksee? And I've always had a soft spot for Mos Def quite frankly, if only because his name is Mos Def, and I firmly believe the world would be a better place if we all likewise shortened our given monikers to three-letter-abbreviations. I mean, think of how much more you'd get done in a day, not having to mouth all those extra, superfluous syllables. Who needs em'? ANYWAY, both Jamie and I agreed 16 Blocks was the night's winner, and settled in on the couch together to partake of its televisualized wonders.

I lasted about twenty-five whole minutes.

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!

“Gentlemen, your jacket matches your pants.”

Reason number 5,382 why I love my husband and find him hilarious: He helped engineer a Top Secret Suit Day at his very dressed-down workplace yesterday, wherein a select number of covert operatives would show up to work dressed, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, to the monkey-suit nines.

Lucky Charm

We interrupt this torrents-of-poop infused day (thankfully not my own poop... not that this fact makes the entire ordeal any less repulsive) to bring you this special report: my husband loves me, and proves it with sparkly, shiny things:

My life: better than a box of witches

This is the third day of no school for M_, due to the snow/ice storm Baltimore was recently pummeled by. This also happens to be the second day of M_ marinating in some sort of pestilence, loping about the house runny-eyed, crabby and feverish, while I struggle vainly to keep her entertained with an endless assortment of audio/visual aids (The Wizard of Oz! Lilo & Stitch! Looney Tunes!).

Why is doing absolutely nothing so completely exhausting, I wonder?

The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

We're iced-in to the point of total paralysis over here at Chez G-P, so the Little Sweetney and the Other Sweetney are stuck at home with me and all up in my personal airspace today, cloggin' my mental drainz (Somehow that makes sense. Or not. Roll with it.). As a result, I'm struggling to get anything done, and may soon succumb to the powerful temptation to nap. Or instead drink a full bottle of wine (glug, glug) and catch up on TiVoed episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County and The Bad Girls Club. Such is my rarified, discerning entertainment palate.

A Can't-Do Kind Of Gal

One of my poor, beleaguered husband Jamie's longest-standing complaints about me (and ohmygod, believe me there are many, since after all he's married TO ME) is that I am incapable of accepting criticism. That I can't hear a constructive critique regarding anything related to me or the things I do without almost immediately retreating into some kind of prickly, defensive posture. And when he points this out to me, I generally reply with something along the lines of “HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT TO ME, YOU HATEFUL SWINE! WE'RE GETTING A DIVORCE!” Because, you know, I have this problem.

The Preschoolers Do Not Understand The Art

(I think the only way I'm going to be able to fight my way out of this writer's block is to write. Oddly enough. To just ignore the fact that all the words I choose grate on my nerves and feel wrong and inadequate and dumb. I can't just allow myself to remain stuck in the doldrums, to aid and abet what's clearly spiraling downward toward a more generalized, all-encompassing depression of some sort (and I know many of you are feeling this way, too, and it helps to know that... god, I hate this part of winter). So. Here goes...)

The other night, Jamie announced that he had a surprise gift to present to M_. And, of course, she plumb lost her mind at hearing this, anticipating chocolatey goodness, or something cute and fuzzy and animal-shaped, or perhaps even (dare she hope?) tickets to Disneyworld. But my husband, being who he is, instead offered her the following:

Zorg [Heart] Xmas

ZORG SMASH RUDOLPH AND GAY ELF! GRRR!

Nothing says Festive quite like a shiny new glass robot ornament for the tree (courtesy of Jamie, because he's a fuckin' nut).

Happy Birthday Dear Other Sweetney

Jamie is not only the birthday boy today -- having succeeded in reaching the ripe old age of Jesus Christ at his death -- but he also happens to have uttered one of the Top Ten Quotes Of The Year according to this week's Baltimore Citypaper. I'm hardly surprised, to be perfectly honest, as every year my husband continues to amaze and astound me with his humor and wit and general awesome smartypantsness.

I'm one lucky broad, people. Happy birthday, Jamie!

Random Bits And Pieces Strung Together In An Attempt To Formulate Something Resembling An Original-Content-Rich Update

Hi, Internet. Its me. Writing. Content.

Hi. Hi Hi Hi!

Today's weather here in Baltimore lamely threatens: Chance of snow, 20%. Which is unremarkable but for being the first time I've seen the word snow in a forecast since last winter. And yes, it frightens me a little.

(Carol Anne say: Its baaaack.)

(Well, its a kind of snow)

This 'Mouths Of Babes' Moment Brought To You By The U.S. Department Of Labor, Capitalism, And The One Hour Commute

Him, examining our xmas tree: Wow, I don't even remember us having a lot of these ornaments. Hey, look M_, its a picture of you as a baby! And here's one with your name on it!

Her: Where's the mouse? The mouse writing on the desk?

Him: Right there (points to ornament). I've never seen that one either! Jeez, where was I last year?

Her, loudly, and in a tone suggestive of stating-the-obvious: At work!

And the retaliatory tickle-torturing continued late into the night.
....................
Unrelated PS: Today's the final day to vote in the 2006 Canadian Blog Awards, my friends. I had the distinct honor and privilege of nominating both Debaucherous & Dishevelled and Milkmoney Of Not, Here I Come for the Best Personal Blog category, and highly recommend both/either for your voting pleasure.

Sometimes It Truly Seems That We Were Made For Each Other

Him: Did you see that they're sequencing Neanderthal DNA?

Me: Yeah. And man, doesn't that just sound like the premise of some sort of SciFi-Horror movie?

Him: It sounds like the premise of a SciFi-Horror-AWESOME movie to me.

[beat]

Me: Yeah. Totally.

Rapidly Devolving (And Baking)

[Sooooo.... a reminder to you, dear interweb friends, to please oh please take a moment to fill out yon survey, which will help a sistah out immeasurably. Fo shizzle. And thanks.]

The latest, but most certainly not the greatest, is that I now have insomnia. Insomnia on top of exhaustion, in fact, as I think I've expended more energy fretting -- needlessly or not -- over that other website for the past few days than I would've running a triathlon. Its been a weird combination of discordant states-of-being to deal with all at once: internally feeling oddly manic and mentally switched into overdrive, yet physically wiped out, tired and achy. And then last night, WHAM! I shudder awake at 3:30 in the morning (having gone to bed shortly after midnight) and can't get back to sleep. GAAAAAAH.

WHY? [sniff]

So what do we do when life seems intent on screwing with us? We make us some motherfuckin' cookies, dawg!

Mmmm... oven-fresh bakey goodness.

Who's Crazy NOW?

Jamie came home from work Friday night positively bubbling with excitement. Over this, which he now desperately wants for xmas.

And why does he so desperately want this? So that he can, and I quote, “Build a robot to sit on my desk at work and hand me pens.”

The punchlines here are so numerous that I'm just going to go ahead and let each of you insert your own. Conversely, you could choose to simply marinate quietly in the absurdity. Your call, Cap'n.

Pray for me.

Tracey And The Terrible, Bad, No-Good Day.

This story has a happy ending. Sort of.

On Saturday, Jamie, M_, and I decided to brave the oppressive, stifling heat and motor down to our neighborhood cafe/bookstore for a light supper in the early evening. And let me begin my tale by saying to every childless person who reads this: pity the parents you see out with a toddler, baby, or preschooler who chooses to lose their freakin shit out at a restaurant. No, those parents did not know that this was going to happen, and no, they aren't purposefully trying to spoil your relaxing and drama-free dining experience. They are mortified, and just as annoyed as you are (if not more so), so rather than shoot firey deathrays from your eyes at them as they attempt to restrain their whining, screeching, flailing child, why not employ some simple human empathy and kindly avert your gaze from the horrifying spectacle unfolding before you? Is that really so much to ask? Huh?

So you see where this is going.

Within moments of arriving at the cafe, M_ spilled three-quarters of a full 8 ounce glass of apple juice on her shoes. That, my friends, was a warning shot. But, feeling lucky or stupidly optimistic, we decided to clean her up and move on to the fresh hell of Round 2: Solid Foods. Presented with her meal, M_ did everything but actually consume any of it. She waved her peanut butter and jelly sandwich around her head threateningly, like a cocked pistol. She smeared wads of peanut butter and gobs of jelly onto the table. She gyrated in her chair as though in full seizure, refusing to be still for even the most fleeting of moments. And the whining, OH THE WHINING. Jamie and I took turns shoveling food in our mouths while one of us manned the Tilt-o-Whirl molded into the shape of our daughter, alternately growling behavioral corrections and pleading with her to PLEASE STOP THE INSANITY. After about 10 minutes of this, Jamie lifted M_ out of her chair, looked me in the eye, and said in his best I'M CALM, DAMMIT! voice: “We're leaving. I'll meet you out front.”

Good times.

So I gathered our things, muttered some vague apologies to the cafe owner, and scurried out the front door, to-go cup of iced coffee in hand.

Sometimes, when bad things happen, it seems that space-time perceptibly alters: the environment becomes visibly heightened and ultra-vivid somehow, with each moment excruciatingly prolonged, each movement in slow-motion. And then there are times when badness descends like an anvil: so swiftly that it is experienced only as a shapeless blur of an instant, as when you gracelessly tumble down a full flight of concrete stairs outside your neighborhood cafe, landing with a tremendous smack on top of the splattered remains of your to-go cup of iced coffee.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

For the brave of heart and strong of stomach, the damage (after the jump):

Beach House: Day 4, A Photo Essay.

Helloooo Delaware! Can you hear me Bethany Beach?! We're on Fi-yah!

Rad fridge art, courtesy of Justin.

Total Void Tells Me Stories / Sometimes They Make Me Sorry.

Last night I dreamt that, for Father's Day, I got Jamie a bear.

In my dream, I'd gone to a pet store for some reason or other (dream logic being no logic), and in the center of the enormous, big-box-like pet store there was a large green indoor/outdoor carpeted platform dotted with tiny cubs. About twenty or so people milled about the cub area -- mostly families, it seemed -- joyously cuddling and playing with the brown, roly-poly lumps of baby bearness. Surprised by all of this, I hung back on the periphery, eventually siding up to a young hipster-ish looking store employee. Do bears really make good pets? I asked him. Oh sure, he replied. They get pretty big, but they're a lot of fun.

So Me It Hurts.

This morning, as we were reading the NYT with our coffee (oh Sunday morning, how I [heart] thee), Jamie tossed the Book Review at me and said, pointing to some text on its cover, “THAT'S what you'll be reading at the beach.”

And he was so dead-on right, its spooky.

CANNOT. WAIT.

You Have To Read This.

If you are a mother, or if you care about mothers, or if you think you may some day be a mother (or a father!), you NEED to read this.

But that's just a taste. I'm currently reading Perfect Madness, and I've dogeared so many pages the book may well reconfigure itself into a pentagon-shape. I'm only through the second section of the book, and am having so many “EUREKA!” moments of self-recogniton and epiphanies and such that I only wish I could scan the entire book and post it here for you. Seriously. This is big, big stuff. I HIGHLY recommend getting the whole book. HIGHLY.

Now I know what I'll be talking about at BlogHer.

A Cornucopia Of Items From The Junk Drawer That Is My Brain.

Oh my god, my sinuses. The past 48 hours have been filled with bone-crushing, throbbing head pain, so much so that I literally went to bed last night at 9:30 -- lights out, eyes closed and everything -- which is frankly somewhat absurd. Yesterday I talked to jamie on the phone several times throughout the day, per usual, and the conversations went something like this:

Jamie: blah blah blah work stuff. blah blah blah? [imagine if you will the voice of the teacher from Peanuts' cartoons here]
Me: ...Huh? [sniff sniff] Oh yeah, great. Or whatever.
Jamie: blah blah blah stuff about poetry and crap, blah blah blah!
Me: My sinuses hurt! Why are you talking to me about things that don't matter WHEN MY SINUSES HURT?!?! WAAAAAAHHH!

I have the lowest threshold for pain ever recorded, incidentally. I've taken two Sudafed, two Benadryl, and four Excedrin this morning alone. Think that might be, uhh, overkill?

Yet Another Glimpse Inside My Husband's Mind.

He made this page on MySpace.

He's quite excited at this moment, because Bourbon just asked Jesus to be his “Friend.”

PS: Guys! Jesus is in my “Extended Network”!

PPS: I particularly like the fact that its friends include both NIN and Jim Morrison. Fitting, no?

Donning My Obligatory Sweatpants And Hairshirt.

This post from Shanntastic! is so dead-on in capturing a nagging, yet-not-fully-formed train of thought I've been going around in circles with lately that its almost as if she's a freaking mindreader.

No honey, you go out. I'll stay here with my laptop and teevee. I mean, I like teevee.

Marriage: The complex navigation of landmines in an unending field of potential dissatisfaction.

Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting.

Why am I on my computer? Jamie's friends are over, and they're playing poker, drinking beer, and watching boxing. All the milieu needs to achieve the pinnacle of its potential perfection is some strippers and cigars.

So I thought I'd take a time out from this testosterone-fueled moment of zen to thank you. Yes, You. Because although I can't go into details at the moment (I will, believe me, as soon as I'm able), some exciting things have been happening lately because of sweetney.com. One of those things is that I will very shortly be getting paid to write elsewhere.

I KNOW! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHIT?

And I can't even describe how that makes me feel, how simultaneously humbling and exhilarating the knowledge is that people read my words and, best of all, like what I write. Since sixth grade I've said that what I wanted to be when I grew up was a Writer, and here I am, becoming one. Its crazy, heady shit, man. But I really do thank all of you for reading, and I'll continue to do my best to not let you down and to remain worthy of your attention.

...And so concludes the sappy portion of tonight's program. Let us now turn our attention instead to the decidedly unsappy two grown men beating the crap out of each other, shall we?

Alright, people are starting to refer to one another as “pussy hands” over here (apparently in tribute to one of the two featured boxer's Achilles heel), so I best check in with corporeal reality.

You Want Some Radical Mommyblogging? I'll Give You Some Radical Mommyblogging!

Feminism, I'm mad at you [stomps foot].

I've been thinking about the failures of Feminism for quite a while now, but some things were brought into sharp relief whilst traveling this weekend. You know how it is: you're barreling down the Penn Turnpike in total darkness, torrents of rain lashing your car as you attempt to navigate around a seemingly endless string of 16-wheelers, and suddenly it hits you full in the cerebral cortex: the betrayal. That all this time -- from its inception to the present -- this cause hasn't been about tearing down ugly, false, abusive structures of power, or about helping those who need the most help (the poor, the disenfranchised, those held back by the pervasiveness of racism), but about simply plugging women into the extant male-generated/doM_ted hierarchies that by definition require an underclass, wage slavery, abuse and oppression.

And who decided this was a good way to go?

Bandwagonesque.

I've been thinking a lot (but not posting about) the interweb brouhaha surrounding MIM's post about “False Advertising” and the subsequent follow-up posts proffered by other bloggers. And though I'm not sure if I have anything new to add to the conversation, I think there's a few things I'd like to say.

First, I think the notion that a husband or wife “owes it” to the other spouse to remain the same weight they were on the day of their marriage is fairly retarded. Does anyone think that is viable? Seriously? Because if so, let's begin instituting prenuptial agreements that also state that men's hairlines must not recede beyond the point they existed at on the wedding date. And that neither spouse's hair can gray... AT ALL. And that all wrinkling must be immediately eradicated via whatever external means necessary (face peeling, burning, botoxing, lifting, what have you). The reality is that part of graceful, natural aging involves physical and metabolic changes that none of us really have much say in, and to deny that is to live in some sort of ridiculously contrived world of self-delusion.

Jamie = Spoilery.

Psst! Psssst! Hey, guess what! I know where we're going this weekend! Jamie let it slip out accidentally, in the midst of a heated discussion last night about whether we were going to try to get M_ to stay up later over the next two nights, presumably in preparation for a couple late nights out while we're away (I was staunchly anti this idea, incidentally, since it essentially means extending my work day for another couple hours and, umm, NO THANKS). He was pretty angry at himself for, well, betraying himself, but in truth the surprise isn't the point.

However, this doesn't mean I'm going to tell ya'll where we're going. I mean, someone has to be surprised, right?

I will say that I am EXTREMELY excited on many different levels about our destination, and that its someplace I've never been but always wanted to go.

That's all you're getting, dudes. Moohoohahahaha!!

Let the unbridled speculation commence!