Sweetney

And now, a message from Truman

Tracey's life boring. Truman life more interesting than Tracey. So today TRUMAN BLOG!

A little something to tide you over

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

O hai, I upgraded your Easter

I can has mah dignity back nao?

Much love to each of you, my friends inside the computer, on this lovely spring day.

Now go eat some bunny-shaped chocolate fer crissakes!

And so endeth the saga

I know that many of you followed the story of Truman versus Fox, and so I feel I owe it to y'all to provide some kind of finale to that melodrama. So here it is [insert fanfare], in cold, hard digits.

The people at Fox apologized voluminously for their mistake, and offered payment for their use of the purloined photo. I came up with the figure above based on some research on photo licensing; I only wanted what was the fair, going rate, since  -- despite feeling genuine outrage and indignation at the outset -- I never intended to try to "cash in" on what was obviously some poor green intern's error. Could I have sued and hit paydirt? Yes, probably. But in all honesty, I don't need Fox's money, and the idea of getting into a legal battle with a multi-national corporation ranks high on my list of Things I'd Never Like To Do In My Life, EVAR. This seemed a neat and tidy compromise, fair to everyone concerned. Plus $500 buys a whole lotta snausages, people.

What was most important to me throughout this whole debacle was setting some kind of high-visibility precedent with regard to the use of copyrighted material of private individuals on the net. To use this circumstance that fell into my lap to make a point, to underscore the viability of blogger's claims of ownership to their self-generated content on the web and the relevance of copyright laws relative to that content. That's it. O hai, I own my shit, please to not be taking it from me without asking. Okthxbai!

And now? I'm glad it's over. The best thing that came out of all of this is that Truman now has a posse, and it delights me to no end to see the genuine affection people seem to feel for him. He is, truly (if cornily), a joy in our life, and I'm so happy to share him with others. But beyond that, this whole debacle has mostly been a pain in my ass, and a chapter I'm happy to close. Finis.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ungraceful segue: Have you seen how the Self-Portrait Truthiness pool has grown? Tis filled to the brim with awesome sauce! I've enlisted a few of my extra speshal betches to participate today, and if they don't convince you to suck it up and post your own photo to the pool, well, I GIVE UP. (Though while I'm giving up I'll be verbally taunting and nah-nanny-nah-nah-ing you, BELIEVE IT.)

Please visit my brave posse of beautiful betches (my originating post here):

Her Bad Mother: http://www.badladies.blogspot.com
Breed Em And Weep: http://www.breedemandweep.com
Oh The Joys: http://othejoys.blogspot.com
IzzyMom: http://izzymom.com
Mrs. Flinger: http://mrs.flinger.us/
Mamalogues: http://mamalogues.com/

An update for the fans/fanatics

You'll all be happy to hear that Truman's life was made immeasurably better this weekend when we presented him with a new Mister Snorty Hedgehog II, sequel to the former Mister Snorty Hedgehog (RIP) (pours a little out for OG Homie).

The first MSH was long Truman's favorite chew toy, so beloved that he actually LOVED IT TO DEATH, finally tearing a hole in its abdomen and extricating the noise maker buried deep within its belly, source of a satisfying snort sound when properly squeezed. That was a dark day in Trumandom. That will live in infamy. Or something.

omg, i has new hedgehog! (chompy chompy chompy)


o noes! she took mah hedgehog! halp!

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

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

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

Tables? Freakin' TURNED, dude.

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

I am Tracey's compromised immune system

I've spent the last 24 hours looking directly into the fabled Heart of Darkness, fighting internal parasites and buckets of mucus. Fortunately, I can report with almost 100% certainty that the fabled Heart of Darkness in no way resembles a bald, bloated, and shirtless middle-aged Marlon Brando. So that's good news, I guess.

I don't know that the cold I caught is a virus so much as it is A MERCILESS KILLING MACHINE, a viral version of those giant man-eating intergalactic bugs seen in movies like “Alien”. Indeed, if this virus could, I do believe it would eat my face off and burst from my chest, like I'm some sort of fleshy piñata.

Bottomline, I am clearly not well.

But to make up for my inability to construct complete sentences that actually make some kind of sense, I bring you the following portrait of perverse creepitude, because I want everyone's day to be as surreal and discombobulating as mine:

I call it “Pug Wearing Pug”, or “How To Get Ahead In Creeping People The Fuck Out” (homage)

You kind of hate me a little bit now, don't you?

Before I return to my place on the couch, where I'll lay blowing my nose and crying (I'm not a good sick person) until lunchtime, I ask ye: what's your favoritest thing(s) to do when you're too sick to do much of anything at all? I'm looking for ideas, obviously. Magical pestilence cures and suggestions on how to recycle/repurpose about 15 metric tons of snot-coated tissue also welcome.

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.

And now he's pitching a movie of the week entitled “Truman: Innocence Stolen”

So I'm guessing all of you are pretty sick of the dog thing at this point. Well TOO BAD. (insert evil, fiendish cackling)

On Tuesday “Inside Edition” descended on our home like a plague of locusts laden with a metric ton of fancy-pants electronic equipment. When friends have asked me to describe what that morning was like, the only word that seems appropriate is “surreal,” though “panic-attack-inducing” and “fucking terrifying” might also work in a pinch. If there's one thing that this experience violently underscored for me it's that I am in no way cut out for the ranks of Celebrity -- at least if the version of Celebrity in question involves trying to speak coherently while staring directly into the dead, glassy eye of a videocamera. There's a reason I'm a writer and not an, errm, talker. Talking BAAAAD.

Anyway, it was sort of fascinating to see how what will probably end up being a minute or so of television gets cobbled together. The vast majority of the time the crew was here was comprised of a mind-numbing 'hurry up and wait' variety of suspended animation. I spent many long minutes sitting very, very still, staring off into dead air space located in the direction of where the segment's producer would sit across from me during our interview, so that the crew could set up shots and adjust lighting. The remainder of the time involved wrangling Truman -- who was so spastic with excitement you'd have thought the Disabled and Defenseless Small Mammal Circus had shown up unexpectedly on his doorstep -- and engaging him in a variety of activities for the benefit of the camera (Playing! Petting! Fetch! Tug-o-war! Stupid Santa Costuming! Whee!). I don't know if I've ever seen Truman happier, honestly. It's almost as if he'd been hamming in front of the camera his entire life. Oh, wait...

Oh hai, I re-coaxialed your cables.

The actual interview went fairly well, I suppose. I only had one full-on out-of-body experience during it, at which point I completely lost my train of thought, abruptly stopped speaking mid-sentence, and began twitching, foaming at the mouth, and rolling my eyes back into my head, Exorcist-style. HOW MUCH YOU WANNA BET THEY USE THAT FOOTAGE, HUH?

All told, it was a distinctly edumacational experience, if a slightly harrowing one. I'm told the piece will air in the next couple of days -- perhaps as early as tonight -- so be sure to keep an eye on this space, and I'll update as details come in. Because apparently many of you do indeed care. Like, A WHOLE FREAKIN' LOT and stuff. (shrugs)

PS: And while we're on the subject, my dear Mrs. Kennedy pointed this out to me the other day. It just doesn't end, does it?

High Anxiety

This morning a crew from “Inside Edition” came and took over my household. As you might imagine, it was fucking insane.

(Photo taken by the kindly camera dude, who knew
just what was important to focus on in this shot)

More soon. After a whole lot of drinking.

“Trumangate” has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

A little tip for those of you who plan on having content you post on the web appropriated by a large corporation: It expedites processes enormously to get The Washington Post -- aka The Watergatinator -- somehow involved.

Since Dog Photo Kerfuffle 2007 began I've been approached by several news outlets, but apparently The Washington Post has some special superpowers that strike terror into the hearts of other media corps. They contacted me earlier this week and I finally spoke with a Post reporter yesterday (I was on vacation, dudes. PRIORITIES!), who also reached out and touched people over at FOX to get their side of the story.

The upshot? I'm now in talks with FOX over this whole debacle, trying to work something out that doesn't involve lawyers and/or undue bloodshed. So far, my demands are as follows:

• $200,000 in unmarked twenty-dollar bills
• A guest spot on The O'Reilly Factor, during which the host is required to refer to me only as “The All-Being, Master Of Time, Space, and Dimension”
• A swank private jet stocked to the gills with Cristal and Jello Pudding Pops (don't ask)
• A kilo of pure, unadulterated cocaine
• A slot in the upcoming American Idol competition
• A lock of Rupert Murdoch's silken, shimmering hair, tied with a pink bow

I'm still waiting to hear back. Fingers crossed!

Oh I kid! Actually, here's what I sent to them:

Hi [name of FOX person],

[Name of Reporter] from the Washington Post suggested I get in touch with you w/r/t an image of mine that was used during a FOX NFL broadcast a couple weeks ago -- I'm guessing she fully briefed you at this point?

I'd of course be happy to answer any questions you might have about the issue, but to be clear: I'm not litigious, and this is not about wanting to “sue FOX for all their worth” or something. Basically I'd just like some kind of acknowledgment that a mistake was made and that my photo was used without permission, and then whatever the appropriate monetary compensation is for use of similar images during an NFL broadcast on FOX. That's it, honestly.

The larger issue for me is about making sure people -- private individuals as well as corporations -- understand that images put on the web or on the photo sharing site flickr aren't necessarily “fair game” and that laws regarding copyright and ownership still apply on the web.

Thanks for your attention regarding this matter.

Best,
Tracey Gaughran-Perez
sweetney.com

I'm thinking perhaps I should've closed with “Cordially” as opposed to the more intimate “Best”, but otherwise I'm pretty confident that email says all that I needed to say. Ultimately, I hope the precedent set here will help clarify what seems to be an undue amount of confusion out there (or at least among Sweetney commenters) about the significance, meaning, and viability of “copyright” and “all rights reserved” on the web regarding content. And then I hope to be able to perform the “I Told You So Nah-Nanny-Nah-Nah” dance and thumb my nose at all the belligerent nay-sayers. Because yes, I'm twelve years old.

Not surprisingly, the blame for all of this is being placed on “a low-level production assistant who was tasked with finding holiday images at the last minute. Apparently, no one asked where he got the images” (so said the Post reporter who put me in touch with FOX higher-ups). Will someone please inform the production assistants of the world that flickr isn't a stock photo site? Can we all get clear on that, make it part of PA-101: Day One training or something? Just a thought.

I'll keep you all posted on things as they develop.

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.

This post has been rated NC-17 by the MPAA, for gratuitous visible dog penis

I don't know if this is normal or not, but swear to maude, this is how the little dude uses his doggie bed:

(Sorry about the dog penis. I think you can handle it though.)

Does that look comfortable to you? I guess his Sleep Number must be Negative 20: I Like To Sleep On Jagged Rocks And Metal Spikes. Weirdo.

My dog needs to be a bigger dork. I don't think he's achieved Maximum Dork quite yet. He needs to work on that.

Look: I've started a flickr group! It's called Mah Fridge: Let Me Show It To You, and is somewhat self explanatory, I guess. I'm fascinated by what people eat these days (can I take a moment and give a shout out to Marion Nestle's “What to Eat”? SO mega-awesome), plus peeking into someone's fridge is sort of like rifling through their underwear drawer or something. Which, you know, interests me. What the hell is in there, anyway?

You should so totally join, right?

The Trumans of Christmases Past and Present

Your weekly Truman fix is merry and bright (bright as in gleaming, NOT as in intelligent), and desires only world peace... well that and to show its walrus to you:

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

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

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

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

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

Muffintophead

This week's dose of Truman proves that the scope of the problem known as “Muffintop” is not limited to the circulation-constricting pantaloons of hoochie-mamas:

Does this coat makes my head look fat?

Fare thee well, Dragon Lady

Today is a special day, dear internet. A horrible, yet wonderful day. To be perfectly frank it's a day I've been dreading for a long, long time, yet knew was coming, was inevitable, was necessary. A personal day of reckoning, if you will. For today is the day I'm quitting smoking.

[Insert here the sounding of majestic horns heralding my imminent triumph. Or strains of George Michael's “Freedom”, whichever you prefer.]

[Then inserts sounds of me retching, because at the moment I'm fairly overcome with fear and nausea, to be perfectly honest.]

I've been smoking on and off since I was thirteen years old -- with some degree of seriousness since I was around eighteen. That's a minimum of twenty years, or essentially the whole of my adult life. Meaning I'm not sure I know how to be an adult without smoking. Perhaps through quitting I'll regress back to my early teens, begin making mix tapes in earnest and brooding in my bedroom, and then reenter adulthood afresh without a rancid butt dangling from my fingertips? Absent the whole dreaded having-to-attend-high-school bit, that wouldn't be so bad, would it? Can you hear the terror rising in my voice yet, or am I masking that adequately with humor? Umm, ha-ha? HA?

Happy Halloween! Because time doesn't really matter, does it?

This post should be subtitled: Daylight Savings Time Can Suck My Left One (or something similarly drenched in subtle wit). Because yesterday my Blackberry cellular phone thingy -- AKA omniscient oracle of all the days of my life -- was nice enough to alert me to the end of Daylight Savings by automatically setting itself back one hour. Technology so rules, right? WRONG.

But of course I believed and trusted it. Whatever the Blackberry says goes, man. I mean really, who questions the Blackberry? Not, umm, me.

See also: I'm a fucking idiot.

It's almost like I'd never even watched Kubrick's 2001. Has HAL taught us nothing?

Anyway, we set all the clocks back in our house yesterday and happily began living a lie. Only this morning did I realize my error. Actually, it was Jamie who realized my error for me, and kindly informed me of the issue earlier today BY YELLING DIRECTLY INTO MY (still sleeping) FACE AT 7 IN THE MORNING (which I guess was really 8 in the morning?) THAT HE WAS GOING TO MISS HIS TRAIN TO NYC FOR AN IMPORTANT BUSINESS MEETING (!!!!!), BECAUSE NO TIME CHANGE ACTUALLY TOOK PLACE. LIKE, OMFG YOU NEWB.

Implied in all the yelling was that this was MY FAULT, of course.

But umm, dude, the Blackberry told me! How can I be blamed for this, I ask you? That's right: I CANT.

At any rate now I'm all discombobulated, and pretty quickly realizing that the only thing worse than adjusting to the yearly time change is having to adjust back to the pre-adjustment time a mere 24 hours after first adjusting to the time change. That never actually happened.

And yes, that was the sound of my head exploding you just heard. EVERYTHING IS WRONG.

The only thing that could possibly make this better would be some photos of the dorkiest dog in the universe dressed up in stupid Halloween costumes. sigh. But wherever would I find....

OH MY GOD, JESUS SAVES!

(cackle)

(I have no freakin' clue what this one is either)

Devil dog! Devil Dog! AIEEEEEE!!!

...

...

Stupid Blackberry.

Tuesday Monday Truman (plus some additional tasty random bits)

I know, I know -- I said that the festival of Truman humiliation would be on Tuesdays. But it turns out that Mondays are actually a much better day for me to post these on, having had the entire weekend to torment my dog (and photographically document said torment for your viewing pleasure). Plus who doesn't need a little pick-me-up on Monday, right?

My eyes are burning with the hatred of a thousand suns...

Sigh. Are we done yet?

(crown flying off as he shakes himself free of
the sparkly-feathery manacle)

[Tiara/crown suggested by reader Maria! Thanks!]

Monday is all better now, isn't it?

. . . . . . . . . .

A few other things I feel should note, in convenient list form:

1. Here's what I spent my whole freakin' weekend doing. SO NOT KIDDING. I'm really excited about the return of Rock-n-Romp, but perhaps even more excited by the prospect of having hardcore, professional-type help involved. It will make everything so much easier and less spirit-draining for me -- hell, maybe I'll even get to actually enjoy the shows myself in this new world order. MIRACLE OF MIRACLES.

2. FYI-ish: If you haven't visited ye olde MamaPop lately, dude, you're missing out. And did I mention that we've recently added Bossy, Mrs. Kennedy, JenB and Marrit to our stable of fabulous writers? (faints from too much joy)

3. After careful consideration of all your input, the title for my new column has been selected. Ready?

Sweet(ney) Talk

Suggested by Danny (thanks, dude!), this was a modification of a title I'd already been tossing around, and The People seem to like it. And who am I to question the will of The People? I am, after all, your dancing monkey, lest any of us forget.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who submitted suggestions. There were so many good ones, it felt a little Sophie's Choice-ish at the end there. But, you know, in a good way. Durr.

4. Finally, can someone please explain to me the usefulness and/or appeal of Facebook? I'm just not sure I get it entirely. Is it a networking tool? A means by which one reconnects -- whether one wants to or not -- with people from one's past? Just another drain on our nation's GDP and rapidly shrinking attention spans? What gives, Facebook?

Whatever it may be, I did find enough enthusiasm for it to go ahead and join a Facebook group called “Physics doesn't exist, its all gnomes.” I had to. The physics gnomes made me.

. . . . . . . . . .
PS: Internet, meet my new obsession. Sooooo deeeelicious it makes me slur and elongate my vowels.

Truman Tuesday

It would seem that the dorkiest dog in the universe -- which it just so happens I am the keeper of -- has a posse! So, per your requests, I'll be featuring tasty nuggets of photographic goodness courtesy of Truman der wunderdog each Tuesday, to satisfy all your pictures-of-half-wit-canines needs. After all, who am I to deny Truman his adoring (if somewhat misguided) (and possibly insane) public?

I call this one Land Sea Lion (like “Land Shark” but, you know, not all head-eating and stuff):

Is my freakish curly tail not deeeelicious? Tell me you
love me and my chubby inbred mutantness. C'mon!

The archetypal “I didn't do it” sheepish look.
Which he oft has reason to use. Like, HOURLY.

Have some thoughts about situations you'd like to see Truman pictured in? Couture you'd like to see his fuzzy girth crammed into? Items you'd like to see him humorously juxtaposed with? Send your ideas to me at sweetney at sweetney.com or leave em' in the comments here -- if I use your suggestion(s), you'll get credit, kudos, and a little of the ol' linky-love (if you are in possession of a blog/website/etcetera... and really, who isn't these days?)! doitdoitdoit!

Bzzzzzz

In the midst of this past weekend's parade of The Shining-like torments, I decided that M and I needed to go shopping. Because there are really only two possible things to do when life is getting you low: 1) eat items primarily composed of chocolate, preferably in a quantity equivalent to the size of your own head; 2) buy stuff. And since I'm on a diet (which I've hesitated to mention here, because it seems like some sort of self-defeating curse activates the second I do, though I have lost over ten pounds shhhh! okthxbai!), the whole head-size-chocolate option was kind of out. Sadly.

So we headed off to Target, and bought a bunch of stuff we probably didn't need (as is the way of Targetdom. Is it even possible to visit that place without spending at least $100?). But in the process discovered a third -- and heretofore incompletely realized -- spirit-uplifting option: dressing your dog up in a humiliating costume and taking pictures of him to post on the internet:

Why you do this? Why?

I am filled with self-loathing and the odd desire to go hump some flowers


Mmmm... honey...

Oh thank you sweet baby Jesus for life's small pleasures.

One tiny dog. Massive amounts of stupidity.

Friends, we may very well be in possession of the dumbest canine on the planet. (Is there some kind of booby prize for that? Like a giant silver chalice filled with poo, inscribed with our dog's name and the telephone number of the nearest emergency vet? (Attractive AND functional!) Or something?)

To be completely fair, I think Truman has a great deal of one kind of intelligence, just little to none of all the others. He has what modern psychology refers to as Emotional Intelligence, meaning he's quite adept at things like gauging the moods of his owner-humans, and when might be the best time turn on his patented Head Clown In The Idiot Parade act to make us all laugh, or the appropriate moment to lunge in for a sweet nibble on M's nose to make her squeal with glee. He's quite clearly figured out what we find amusing and irritating in his behavioral bag of tricks, and is skilled at manipulating those in various ways to his advantage. Generally speaking, he's funny and goofy and actively entertaining, which I suppose could be accurately described as Merits Of The Not Completely Stupid. But put his talent for being Mister Personality Plus aside? Dumb as a fucking rock.

Remember Truman's recent scuffle with our chain link fence? A scuffle which ended in him tearing out a decent-sized swath of his own hair in the process? Well one might think that such an experience would dissuade the average canine from engaging in that particular behavior again, what with the pain and hair loss and general unpleasantness involved. But then let's remember that Truman isn't an average canine, oh no. He's a moron.

Yesterday after Jamie returned home from work, he ran his hand over Truman's back and felt something wet. “Oh god, I hope it's not blood!” he gasped, jerking his hand away reflexively. And guess what it was! GUESS!

(sigh)

Another patch of hair gone, but this time with some blood. Or bloody ooze. Or perhaps our dog is making his own gravy? Anyway, it was some moist bodily nastiness that I was frankly in no mood to investigate and explore in fine detail. I washed, dried, and Bactined the crap out of the general area, all the while verbally admonishing the stupid dog for his stupidly stupid stupidity as he gazed up at me intently, looking deep into my eyes with an expression that said “Gee, I wonder if her eyeballs taste like snausages?”

Since then I've done a full perimeter sweep of our entire backyard, scouting out both sides of our fence for any obvious gaps or defects, with no luck. To be honest, I expected to find at least one partially dug Hogan's Heroes-type tunnel somewhere along the line -- a visible indicator of Truman's desperate, clawing attempts to flee what he apparently views as a death camp-like existence which he must escape at all costs. Like its freakin' Doggie Dachau over here or something. OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, MY DOG IS ROBERTO BENIGNI. (That makes almost too much sense, actually.)

So in the absence of an obvious solution (fix fence, fill in hole(s), all better!), there seems to be a number of possible next steps we might take, some being more tenable than others:

1. Never let Truman outside again, resign ourselves to living in fecal filth and putrescence
2. Wire our fence with low-voltage electricity, wait expectantly for the tell-tale scent of burnt hair -- SHAZAM!
3. Tie him to some sort of lead that prevents him from reaching the Fence Death Zone
4. Take him for several daily walks (YEAH, RIGHT)
5. Let him in the backyard but watch him like a hawk the entire time he's out there (YAWN)
6. Do nothing different and hope against hope that he catches a clue, grows a brain, or otherwise works this shit out on his own

Bet you can't guess which of those options I'm leaning toward. Here, I'll give you a hint: it's not numbers one through five.

I guess it's too late to return him, huh? Bring him back to the breeder: “Oh hai, this one is defective. Can I exchange him? Perhaps for something in a soft chocolate brown, AND WITH A GOTDAMN BRAIN?”

. . . . . . . . . .

PS: Please to enjoy my epic on hardwood floor care (no, for serious). Because I love.

Fur & Hair Monthly

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

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

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

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

Select one answer only, please

So -- speaking completely hypothetically -- let's say your small(ish) dog came in from the yard one otherwise uneventful afternoon with a large chunk of hair missing. And let's also say that though unsightly and perhaps a little raw-looking, this silver-dollar sized patch on the back of said hypothetical dog's neck showed no signs of blood, or (pardon me) pus, or any serious abrasion even. Just a clean pink patch, the hair perhaps torn off during some sort of ill-conceived Escape From Alcatrazesque jailbreak that ended after tangoing with a little chain link fence. One might hypothesize.

I has bone

Cowering in terror during yesterday's thunderstorm

You can almost smell the fear, can't you? (RUT-ROH!)

King Of The Blue Plastic Baby Pool

(pantpantpant) mypool mypool mypool mypool (pantpantpant)

The Clown Prince Of Canines

Y'all, its remarkably difficult to remain all morose and emo and shit when you have this living in the same house as you (though god knows I'M TRYING):

Guess who didn't miss us at all while we were gone?

He spent the week boarded at a local frou-frou doggy daycare, as though we love him or something.

And So Now He Begins Plotting How Best To Kill Us In Our Sleep

And to be perfectly fair, who could blame him?

The quizzical head tilt that says: WHY? WHY DO
YOU DO THIS TO ME, CRUEL OWNER-HUMAN?

Happy Holidays From Truman

The doggie war on Christmas? Oh, ITS ON.

Halloween 2006: The Mildly Spooky Holiday That Was

Are you scared yet?.... How about now? Huh? Huh?

Its That Time Of Year Again!

Let the hideous torment commence!

[Pugasaurus Terriblious]

Speaking Of Oppression.

I'm sure Truman would have a
thing or two to say about the matter.

snow day.

the snow mocks me. like this stupid dog coat.

think of, like, Planet of the Apes... but with lots more drool and a noticeable absence of opposable thumbs.

slack mofo that i am, a holiday vacation isn't considered merry or complete by yours truly without obsessive television consumption. the present fixation du jour? The [Motherfucking] Dog Whisperer! (okay, so the series title is a little retarded. and yes, i did add the whole 'motherfucking' bit to emphasize the hardcoreness (or dogcoreness, if you will) of the dude in question.... but o ye of little faith, T[M]DW will make you believe.... and then rub your very sensitive nose in it.)

besides his [i was going to say 'animal magnetism' here, but then decided that stooping that low grossed even me out] spicy, south-of-the-border hottness [okay, so that phrasing may be even slightly more repulsive. i'm sorry.], dog whisperer dude Cesar Milan turns evil, snarling, frothing demon dogs into mellow, obedient throw pillows in minutes. i'm serious as a freaking coronary -- literal minutes. in one episode, they show T[M]DW turn a dog almost instantly supplicant simply by setting his steely, canine-bewitching gaze upon the pooch (who, receiving T[M]DW's Evil Eye, then rolled on its back in full-on I Give The Fuck Up BECAUSE YOU SO ROCK submission) -- such is the preternatural puppy-mastery of T[M]DW.

i've been applying T[M]DW's techniques with Cujo Truman the past few days, and the change has been quite seriously astonishing. like, we're able to have him in the same room with us without having to, you know, scream bloodcurdlingly at him every 3.5 seconds because he's trying to inhale one of the cats or something. all of a sudden he's noticeably calmer, he listens to us like the underling he's supposed to be, and he's stopped deploying the chompy pirana-mouth thing he's had going on relative to many of our appendages since we got him over a year ago. friends, its a Festivus miracle!

so if you have one of them dog thingies, i strongly recommend you devote several hours to obsessive Dog Whisperer viewing this week. because if the human race is to remain the ruling species, we must surely continue to assert our dominion over the canines among us and remain forever vigilant, so that they don't turn rogue and start secretly plotting the dog revolution.

only the best for our little sociopathic princess.

for an upcoming vacation, we've decided to board truman the (psychotic) wonderpug at this place.

because, i mean, c'mon -- how freaking hilarious is this?

when i spoke to the nutjob owner on the phone to make a reservation, she also indicated that truman -- being a small dog of the yippy-ish variety -- might in fact have the privilege of staying in one of the luxury guest houses with a couple other similarly small, yippy-ish dogs for company. to which i responded: that's not going to cost us more, right? to which she replied: [irritated sigh] NO.

so, you know, cool.

actually, it costs less to take him to this magical dog fairyland than it does to board at our vet's, where they just shove the dogs into square metal wire crate stacked upon square metal wire crate... forming a virtual barking, slobbering rubix cube of dogness. and if you're getting the sense from all of this that i'm some kind of tightwad, well, yes -- yes, i am. and furthermore: shut up.

i can't believe its not psychotic!

truman the wonderpug has returned from his exile to master ken's reformatory school for very, very bad boys, and he is a changed dog. i mean, a completely different dog. its almost embarrassing, to be honest; we'd tried for months and months to train him -- read all the training books we could get our hands on, hassled all the dog owners we know for advice, even posted desperate pleas for help to pug-oriented message boards in our darkest moments -- all to no avail. truman just wasn't buying what we were selling. then this ken dude whisks him away for a week and returns to us a dog who listens. and knows and obeys commands. and -- perhaps most importantly -- doesn't try to tackle people and/or attempt to detach extremities from their rightful places on human bodies.

its like ken is some sort of magical being... or like he simply switched truman out and gave us back a different, more mentally stable pug, one with an uncanny resemblance to the crazy one we had. in any case, who am i to question the great and powerful ken?

((((((((((KEN))))))))))

i may have to write a few short poems dedicated to ken, expressing the awe felt by mere mortals such as myself in his presence, and somehow finding a lyrical way to incorporate the word “drool.” such is the beauty of ken, people.

so yeah, dog problem solved. best money we've spent in a long time (excluding those aqua teen hunger force DVDs jamie picked up a few weeks back, and this book that i bought last night at atomic).

a dispatch from deep within the training fortress of solitude.

this evening the dog trainer who has truman in his controlling grasp sent me the following pictures of him, “in case you forgot what he looks like.”

no, as a matter of fact, i haven't forgotten what he looks like. essentially, i am paying hundreds of dollars to train him because of his memorable physical appearance -- for were truman not so ridiculously cute we'd have stuffed him into the dumpster back out behind the dunkin donuts/baskin robbins franchise down on harford road by now.

(and before i get a deluge of hate email about that last line: yes, its A JOKE. NOW GO TAKE A VALIUM.)

the picture above astounds me: is that MY dog? sitting still, as though he were trained to “stay” on command?

NO. WAY.

what if truman has simply fallen in love with this ken dog trainer person? what if he returns all angry and filled with doggie vengeance because i took him away from HIS KEN?! what then???

you are right to fear me; i will never listen to you. my heart belongs to ken and ken alone.
now go away. you bore me.

ps: the more i look at that last picture, the more i think we should have named him brando, not truman. what were we thinking?!?

doggie boot camp.

this morning i dropped truman off at a local dog trainer's home for some intensive, week-long in-house whipping-into-shape. it recently became clear to both jamie and i that, despite our best intentions and hopes to be all DIY and shit with the dog's training, neither one of us has the time to really get truman under control and trained... and i had this nightmare where i woke up two years from now and we had THE MOST PSYCHOTIC AND POORLY-ADJUSTED DOG EVER. in this dream, we kept him in a small, dank corner of the basement tied to an old rusty radiator, surrounded by the rended carcasses of disemboweled chew toys -- a kind of subterranean version of The Madwoman in the Attic. increasingly, this nightmare seemed like a real possible future. plus there's the piranha-like nipping and the knocking-down of toddlers like bowling pins to be considered (he's a small dog, but with a good running start his body transforms itself into a fuzzy, fawn-colored cannonball).

basically, our dog kicked our ass, so we're calling in the professionals.

we'll be paying several hundred dollars for this pleasure of course, but it will be worth it if he comes back even mildly under control. best-case scenario: his spirit will have been entirely broken, and he'll return transformed into something akin to a medium-sized tan suede handbag; easily transported, pliable, and soft to the touch. a girl can dream.

let this serve as a lesson to you: dogs -- but especially puppies -- are WORK. had i known exactly how much work, i doubt we would be in this position now, as i would've gone ahead and given in to jamie's desire for another kidlet BECAUSE A PUPPY IS EQUIVALENT TO THE WORK INVOLVED IN HAVING A CHILD. anyway, good thing we didn't opt for the procreation path; if i've learned anything through this experience it is that we are in no way ready to have yet another living thing to take care of -- presuming we don't want that living thing to devolve into psychosis and sociopathic behavior.

yeah, umm, thanks but no thanks. i'll pass.

“i just wanna be loved -- is that so wrong?”

after well over a month of being supposedly 'potty-trained,' truman started falling off the wagon this past week...WITH A VENGEANCE. at first i thought these were simply 'accidents,' until saturday morning when we came downstairs to find him in his crate (which is the sacred dog zone, where they pretty much won't crap or pee unless they're about ready to explode), slathered from recessed mushroomy nose to freakish curlicue tail with poo and piss.

it was then i realized: he's making a statement.

and yes, i'm slow. shut up.

so this weekend's experiment was to apply liberally and work into a lather a heaping dose of the L-U-V, accompanied by the patented tough version of the L-U-V in the form of standard-issue displays of doggie doM_nce when warranted (flipping him on his back and holding him down until he stops struggling... essentially the non-violent version of beating him into submission).

and voila! different dog. no more accidents, and his overall behavior has improved measurably just over the course of two days. which means, essentially, that we've been horrible, neglectful dog parents up until this point, not giving him the attention and affection he needed... in fact, not even giving him a sort of baseline, subsistence-level of attention and affection -- merely enough to keep him from filling our home with excrement. were there a CPS for puppies, truman would've been carted off and placed into doggie foster care long ago.

in conclusion, to sum up, in brief: we SUCK at this dog thing. HARD.

feet of insanity.

my husband jamie has many qualities i find endearing -- a love of cutesy cartoon characters ala sanrio, a propensity to purchase items based solely on their cheesy humor value, and the ability to maintain high-level functioning for days on end with less than 4 hours sleep per night (which is perhaps more incredible than endearing, admittedly) -- but lately i've uncovered a unique proclivity heretofore unknown. it is a love that dare not speak its name... it is a penchant for ridiculous novelty socks.

i suppose this sock thing has something to do with the fact that his job often involves contact with clients for his company; while his workplace is run by ex-punk rockers and populated with brilliant misfits, he's often in the position where he has to be the professional "face of the company." so this footwear fixation is small subterfuge*; a minor defiance of business decorum that remains conveniently invisible.

isn't that adorable?!?

so i've gotten on board, and this week purchased a significant quantity of highly embarrassing footwear: socks emblazoned with images of mutant-looking cartoon frogs and the words "hip-hop" (HA! now THAT'S FUNNY!); socks decorated with care bears, hello kitty, and cookie monster from sesame street; unbearable podiatric confections that defy all logic and description... just for him (we won't broach the subject of my newly acquired supergirl slipper socks, k?). needless to say, i scored a few easy good partner points here.

and, perhaps somewhat predictably, poor ailing truman -- an innocent bystander -- bore the brunt of all this insane enthusiasm:

poor, poor truman.

*i think i actually meant to say "subversion" here...but it was before 8am -- what do you expect?

out on the tundra.

a few shots taken today during a lull in the blizzard...

altogether now: poor truman!

what fresh hell is this?

so umm truman (our 5 month old pug, for those of you new to my world) broke his leg today in a freakish accident involving the convergence of his boundless excitability and out-of-town guests. basically, he was jumping up on our friend mike -- as dogs will do in greeting -- and fell backwards, landing on his left hind leg. after much yelping, cringing, and hobbling around pathetically on 3 legs, it became apparent something serious was going on, so we scurried off to the vets.

i'm exhausted after spending most of the day at the vets, so narrative details will have to wait until tomorrow. i have to go pick him up in about an hour, and grill the doc on how i'm supposed to keep a puppy known for his "tornadic piranha"-like personality calm and contained for SIX FUCKING WEEKS (the amount of time he'll have to wear a cast and, perhaps, one of those ridiculous conehead collar thingys). oy. no, on second thought, make that MOTHERFUCKING OY.

and did i mention that the cost of this (being that it was an emergency, and on a sunday) may run into the THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS?

help.

truman's wish list: cutest.dog.toys.ever.

he claims he needs a full set of these:

but my favorite is among the cat toys:

more for your pets to covet here.

living up to his namesake in the "give em' hell" department.

i just realized i haven't posted any good puppy porn in quite some time, and so i bring you brief survey of trumandom:

possible captions would include: oh, did you find that pile of crap i left for you by the front door? and what do you mean cat food isn't my food? everything is my food!

this is the look motley crue (imagine that sideways ":" over the "u", please) spoke of....that kills. it may also be the look that says i can feel the pulse of your blood...you'd better sleep with one eye open, beeyatch! or your pants smell like peanut butter...mmmm peanut buttery...

this is how we like him best: barely conscious.

actually he's a good boy. demonic and unholy, yes, but basically a good boy.

the truman show.

a few pix of the new guy:

yeah, he's a little on the cute side. until he drops an atomic bomb on your ass, that is.