Bandwagon

Dear Reader,

I like you. You like me. Let's continue this friendship.

If you're not already familiar with SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) and PIPA (Protect IP Act), then please take a moment to educate yourself. The vague language of these two bills could allow the government to regulate and even shut down your favorite websites including The Vile Moods, and we wouldn't want that.

PROTECT IP / SOPA Breaks The Internet from Fight for the Future on Vimeo.

If these bills pass, you and I may resort to becoming pen pals. Oh, but I forgot, the United States Postal Service is going bankrupt. Telepathy, then?

I wouldn't want these guys regulating a cheese omelet, nevermind my internet. Please contact your elected officials and tell them you oppose SOPA and PIPA and we can keep hanging out on a semi-regular basis.

Love,

Sarah

My Good Friend, Kevin Bacon

I signed onto LinkedIn.com this morning to attempt networking or stalking, whichever you prefer, and in my browsing I came upon the "People You May Know" list. Most of the time the People I May Know are generally People I'd Like To Forget; ex-boyfriends and undesirable bosses have a way of worming into these lists. However, LinkedIn reminded me today about my good friend Kevin Bacon. I had forgotten we were so close... three degrees, to be exact.

How could I forget the man who taught me how to lead a team of wolves across Alaska, hijack a river raft, fight off underground creatures, conduct a lunar module landing, sodomize minors, commit a murder, prosecute a murderer, seduce Jennifer Aniston, serve in the military, solve a murder, solve another murder, scientifically develop invisibility, commit another murder, contact an unsettled ghost, rebel against my father through dancing, and play guitar with my brother in a part-folk, part-soul, part-rock, part-country band?

Shame on me. Kev is awesome.

Dear Age 30,

I wanted to drop you a quick note to let you know how much I'm digging the sudden on-set sciatica, the weird shoulder pain, and the overnight deterioration in my far-sightedness. I can tell this is going to be a fun decade! Have you considered reintroducing the crippling lower back pain Early-20's so graciously put on the map? Think about it.

Thanks for keeping it interesting!

Yours Very Sincerely,

Sarah Sweeney

Resolutions

In my efforts to drink less coffee this New Year, I'm sipping from a much smaller coffee cup.

Today, I've only had 9 tiny cups of coffee.

Baby Talk: Fall of Rome?

“Whenever you're around your kids, talk wrong.” Steve Martin

It occurs to me that most mothers of recent generations are deliberately breeding morons. I should mention this is of course conjecture since mommies are the most uptight species available for creating uncomfortable situations and social anxieties. Despite the 14 children born into my circle of friends in recent months--yes, help me, months--I don’t interact much with anyone who can’t yet vote. There’s only one kid I see once in a while who I can level with. We discuss organic vs. store-bought milk and the challenges of rug burn when learning to crawl. We bond. And then she goes in for her nap because she’s 8 months old. She’s cool because I’m almost positive her mother never talks as though she didn't complete the fourth grade.

Even if the mommies hold back their bizarre child-speak amid their childless friends, I’m certain behind closed doors the unnecessary drivel spews out; that cutsie jargon that would never fly in a boardroom or conversational exchange with say, a gas station attendant. In the same vein, I’ve also got it figured that mothers speak to their toddlers as they would foreigners, exercising the theory that the louder they project the more the pint-sized folk will comprehend. This is most apparent in enclosed spaces such as public transportation, movie theaters, or restaurants; really any space where it’s inappropriate to shout-coddle.

I’m currently seated on a south-bound Amtrak train from Providence to New York listening to a woman in her 30’s speak to her toddler in a way that reads straight out of Flowers for Algernon. It’s nagging at me to explain to her if she keeps up this behavior her sweet little boy may grow into a man still referring to his 2% as “Moo Juice” and anything dirty as “Ucky Wucky”. In short, I want to punch her. As she speaks to him as loud as she would her illegal gardener, I wonder if she can fathom the grammatical damage she’s done. So many of them are the same; nauseating aural ambiance hijackers.

It’s my understanding from everyone I know with kids that parenthood is extremely difficult. But is it so difficult that you lose your ability to form grammatically-sound proper sentences with words that actually exist?

Is This Seat Taken?

"I’ve cracked the code in avoiding a seatmate! Buy a hot dog just before hitting a major stop. People will board, think it’s gross, and continue on.”

“Brilliant!”replied my mother.

Unless you’re vacationing in Europe or some far away land where people are actually interesting, no one wants a stranger’s rump plopped next to them on a bus/train/airplane.

I know you’re with me on this, Reader. If you settle into your space on semi-full airplane with an empty seat by your side, undoubtedly you’ll spend the entire time before the gate closes wishing and hoping that seat remains vacant. Passengers will file in behind you, glance at their ticket and search for their 2’X 2' real estate while you pray to the Patron Saint of Leg Room that they’ll pass you by. You want your coat to live on that seat and your book to reside there, too. You want to abolish that apology smile and awkward pointing towards the bathroom when you need to go. You're not in kindergarten, you don't have to ask permission if that aisle is empty! If the prick in front of you elects to recline far enough to French braid his hair or perform dentistry, that empty seat is your back-up, your in-flight savior.

Buses and trains with their general seating involve sheer fate. With every station stop, I avoid eye-contact with oncoming passengers so as not to appear friendly and eager. And eye contact truly is the kiss of death. People are panicked to find a place to settle and begin their journey that if the vessel is already crowded, any hint of availability will seal the reluctant deal. Not unlike mall kiosks employees: If you can avert your gaze without tripping over a rogue toddler, then the likelihood of a cease and desist while sold a premium home security system is next to nil.

I don't condemn friendliness, yet the insurgence of weirdos and general inconsiderations like obnoxious prolonged cell phone use is a dime a dozen; quiet roomy space comes at a premium. Yet, while appearing bulky and fidgety (puffy coat, computer equipment) is a fair strategy of deterrent, placing your crap on that empty seat is an inconsiderate dirty trick. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I hate those people. As if to say their jacket belongs to someone else and they’ll be right back. I know your scam, you cheap seat-terrorist.

Years ago, I would take the Peter Pan Bus Lines to visit my hometown in Rhode Island. Mainstream commercial bus travel* endures too many variables: accidents, traffic jams, once getting lost and once Connecticut state police boarding to arrest three convicts on the run. Sure, it’s entertaining but that noise was time consuming and if you’re trapped against a greasy window listening to someone’s life story while mentally calculating how much time you have to live before your bladder explodes, well, tedium.

So, as I sit on the New York bound Amtrak train hunched over a hot dog trying to appear sloppy and ungraceful while balancing this computer on my tray, I pray to the Leg Room Saint my aisle seat remains clear until New York Penn Station.  

*As opposed to "budget" bus lines which are strangely vacant. More on that later

----------------------------ADDENDUM------------------------------------
My good friend Craig H. suggested the scent of a tuna sandwich is far more offensive and therefore more effective than the aforementioned hot dog. I concur as I would sooner donate my left femur before eating a mayo-drowned lunch. Food for thought, pun annoyingly intended.

My seaonal cold has kicked in. I blame my seasonal excessive drinking.



Afrin makes me feel cool like a recreational drug user without the repercussions of being an actual drug user.