Drunk with worry

Some people get drunk with power. The neurotic get drunk with worry. That first little shot of doubt sets the spiral in motion and it builds on every subsequent swig of what if. It happens fast. The worry burns in the veins; you can feel it seeping and spreading. Before you realize what’s happened, you’ve gone from fine to woozy in mere minutes. The worry-drunk mind, stumbling and paranoid, will have entire mental hotel suites trashed and emotional televisions thrown out windows in the span of a half hour while waiting on something as stupid as a text message reply.

A eulogy for Television Without Pity

The buttery and soothing tones of Brooke Gladstone’s voice informed me tonight on the drive home from work that Television Without Pity is no more. The archives will stay up but NBC Universal, which owns the site (?????), has shuttered it and there will be no new recaps.

I haven’t been on TWoP in years but this still hurts my heart all the same. I suppose it is just another fact of life when you’ve been on the internet for forever. Even though things on the internet can live forever doesn’t mean they will. Sites I loved so hard (Google Reader, I’m still not over you) are going to come and go as the nerdy ephemera of the internet mimics more and more the ebb and tide of real-life brick and mortar gathering spaces through time.

My introduction to TWoP came in college from the editor of the student newspaper. She was a HUGE Buffy fan and read the recaps religiously. I checked out the site and found myself quickly hooked on Six Feet Under recaps and would read them instead of watching the actual new episodes, since we didn’t have HBO. They were so good back in the day. So funny and easy to digest.

Recaps of 7th Heaven were my longtime guilty pleasure, since I loved to hate to love that show. The best recappers had a way of giving you every important detail of the show so that you could build the episode scene by scene in your head, while delivering some of the sharpest criticism and hilarious writing I’ve ever read on these tubes.

TWoP recaps opened up a perverse and embarrassing new vocabulary world for me. That site was the first place I ever saw the word “snark” used purposefully. And that site was where I let those obnoxious abbreviations — totes, whatevs, adorbs — seep into my vernacular. (It didn’t take much prodding, if I’m being honest.) I still to this day say “Whatevs, Revs,” which makes NO SENSE in any context except to someone who might have also read it in a hilarious 7th Heaven recap.

I am sad to see the site go, as in its heyday it was brilliant. Television is currently putting out so much fucking great stuff that a robust, at-its-best TWoP could be INCREDIBLE, but that is not really how the universe works, is it? After all, you could argue that the heyday of TWoP led to the current crop of INCREDIBLE television, couldn’t you?

RIP TWoP. You were a cornerstone of my bookmarks for a long time and you were one of a handful of sites that made the internet important to me.

This thing I’m doing called Eyedot Creative


Have you checked out Eyedot Creative’s blog or Etsy shop lately? I’m designing up a storm. Ideating and celebrating. Taking custom orders left and right. Heading up projects for friends and loved ones. Having an awesome time.

This year my goal is to do some craft/street fairs in Nashville. I had a blast (and worked really, really hard) at the Cooper-Young Festival and East Buntyn Art Walk back in Memphis before I left, and I want to repeat those awesome experiences here.

Nashvillians, what festivals/fairs should I try to be a part of? I am applying for the Porter Flea Market’s June event as we speak. But there are so many, it can be hard to stay on top of it. So, I’m trying to get ahead of the game. What should I not miss? Where would I fit in best?

Sleep cry

It is early in the morning, the wee hours, and he is crying. It’s sudden, and so rare that it shocks us, this sound coming across the monitor. It’s a pitiful cry, a whimper and a wail. I sit up, my bones cracking, and stumble out of the bedroom and up the stairs to him. He is asleep but crying, and I imagine he’s been overtaken by sadness or worry in a bad dream. I reach into his crib and pat his back gently; sometimes my touch alone soothes him out of these rare spells. But he’s wailing now, eyes still closed, warm red cheek pressed against the sheets. I pick him up and without waking fully, he clings to me, arms tight around my neck and legs wrapped around my belly. It’s the most sincere hug I may have ever experienced. I sway back and forth, shushing him, rubbing his back, as his wails turn to sighs and then just soft breaths. He breathes me in, his nose in the crook of my neck just so that my hair grazes his own. We stand there, swaying, holding each other for five or so minutes, and I speak softly to him and tell him it’s okay, that mama is here and will always be here and he will be fine. He believes me, and when I lay him back down and stroke his face and tell him to go back to sleep, he does so without so much as a second thought.

It’s a tiny triumph, but the kind that sticks.