PunkKittyDiddy

A Toddler's Eyeview of Vegas

I wonder if Elvis impersonators are just as amusing at knee-level as they are from a higher-up perspective? 

Tomorrow we're hitting Vegas for five days to find out.  I admit I'm feeling a bit nostalgic about the way I used to Viva Las Vegas.......hours of video poker on end, fueled by free crappy drinks and amusing conversations with German tourists.  Despite its tacky image, I've always had a soft spot for Vegas......I don't particularly have a need to see daylight on a regular basis (so being tucked inside the bowels of a massive, poorly lit casino isn't the torture for me that it is for some), and what's not to love about the phrase "all you can eat"?!?!?!  Plus the thwarted showgirl in me thinks that glitter eyeshadow is all-occasion appropriate, thank you very much.

This time around, I'll be visiting Vegas with an 11 month old, a 9 year old and a 43 year old in tow.  If you do the math, it indicates that my family has the average maturity of a 17 year old.  (Hopefully this doesn't mean that one or all of them is going to spend most of the trip slamming doors and shouting, "You're so lame, you've ruined my life!")

Actually, I'm feeling pretty optimistic about this adventure - given that we are not high-falutin' folk as a general rule, Vegas could fit the bill nicely in terms of all-ages appeal.  There are loud things, shiny things, amusing things, fast things (I'm talking about the rollercoasters, not the women of ill repute), and lots of all-you-can-eat things.  We've mapped out a tentative agenda which also includes pirate shows, light shows, fountain shows, a Russian cat-and-dog circus, a giant water slide surrounded by 60 acres of swimming pool area, and wall-to-wall Elvises.  Surely the most formidable of toddler temper tantrums can be at least temporarily quelled by an Elvis impersonator offering up an "All Shook Up/Blue Moon Of Kentucky/That's All Right Mama" medley........and that many sequins in motion has got to be mesmerizing, right?  Z. has been a really easy-going, roll-with-the-punches kinda baby so far, so this could be quite fun.

On the other hand, throw four of us together in one room for five days and then add a bunch of unknown variables (Are otherwise cheerful toddlers still cheerful in 100 degree weather when confronted by a squadron of strange singing men in white sequined jumpsuits?  What does a 9 year old in the throes of Nintendo withdrawal actually look like, and is it true that it's never pretty?)..........this inevitably starts sounding like one of those mind-boggling S.A.T. math questions I was never very good at working out.

Stay tuned.............

Adventures in Netflixing: "Little Children"

Little Children stars Kate Winslet as a free-thinking feminist mother named Sarah whose frustrations with the narrow confines of suburbia lead her to embark upon a torrid affair with a hot stay-at-home dad.  We soon see why Sarah finds suburbia a bit lacking.  The other moms do things like get boring haircuts, schedule sex with their hubbies at 9 pm on Tuesdays, tie J. Crew sweaters around their shoulders, and wag their fingers at a free-thinking feminist mother like Sarah for not doing a better job of conforming.  There's also a subplot involving a flasher who moves into the neighborhood and alarms  the local parents.  This is a film, not a movie.  There are character arcs, and poignant moments of understanding between seemingly disparate characters, and a narrator, and all that good stuff.

In this film, we learn that even in the most idyllic and sanitized corners of the suburbs, one can still grapple with the twin horrors of urban existence - perverts and book clubs. 

The perverts are pretty solidly represented in this picture.  Of course there's the too-obvious suspect: the creepy flasher who moves back home with his sweet elderly mother after serving time for exposing himself.  Then there's Sarah's repressed corporate hubby, a closeted porn addict who likes to wear undies on his head while forming a more intimate relationship with his computer than his own wife.  For that matter, Sarah is condemned by the conservative mommy brigade as something of a sexual deviant herself for stepping outside the bounds of her own marriage in order to feel alive.   

Comparable horrors are to be found lurking in the Book Club, where an epic battle is brewing between the Breeders and the Book Learners during a discussion of "Madame Bovary."  Sarah's arch-nemesis, the most boringly coiffed and buttoned-up of the conservative mommy brigade, is perched on a floral settee, eagerly waiting to roll her eyes over the mention of Sarah's fancy master's degree in literature.  Of course, Sarah's fancy master's degree in literature is a huge part of why this is a film and not a movie.  It provides an opportunity to discuss Important Literature and to draw a parallel between Kate Winslet's morally conflicted character and that of Madame B.

Just to confirm her card-carrying status as a feminist, Sarah points out how, despite the fact that she's trapped in this huge, sprawling house in the suburbs in which the decor does not even please her (Awwwwwwwww!), she's managed to retain one small room for herself with "remnants of my former self."  I'm sure Virginia Woolf, if still alive, would high-five her homegirl for struggling against the tyranny of matching throw pillows. 

In the end, Sarah learns that you can have a master's degree in literature and a kid without necessarily compromising yourself.  Eureka! 

Despite the battle lines in this film being a little too clearly drawn for my taste, it's still a fairly good and well-acted movie.  I give it a B.

Nudes Vs. Prudes

Sometimes it's hard to know whose side you're on. 

Local news last night featured a story about a strip-club owner who was finally chased out of a nearby small town by local bureaucrats.  They actually managed to nitpick him out of the city limits.  How?  Well, not only was the club owner inflicting a whole lotta nudeness upon the locals, but this cad furthermore neglected to install a handicap access ramp to the dancers' stage.  Seriously - who do you cheer on in this scenario?  The Bureaucrats who are merely pretending to champion the rights of quadriplegic strippers everywhere, or the Sleazy Club Owner who is fighting the good fight against the absurdity of bureaucracy, albeit in a distasteful way with gold chains around his neck and a storefront shingle that reads, "Nude! Lewd!  All-You-Can-Eat Food!!" ? 

(For illustrative purposes, the Bureaucrats in this scenario will be played by William H. Macy, Paul Giamatti and Jim Broadbent, all clad in $99 suits from The Men's Warehouse.  For the Sleazy Club Owner, I'm picturing, say, Haley Joel Osment in a career-making leap from cute child actor to gritty Oscar contender.....)

Oh, yeah, and in the real-life version of this story, the Sleazy Club Owner was taught a valuable lesson!  Namely, "Buy low, sell high."  See, he purchased the club and the accompanying land for a paltry $500K and some change.  (Maybe it was so cheap because its moral foundation was crumbling?)  Ten years later, it wasn't the angry villagers bearing torches and pitchforks and city ordinances that persuaded him to leave so much as the fact that the City was willing to buy the land off of him for over $5 Million Dollars.  Shoving a four and a half million dollar profit down his throat? That'll teach him.

I don't want to live in the immediate vicinity of a Sleazy Club Owner and his Nude n' Lewd Revue, myself, but I'm not a fan of Bureaucrats either.  Our own friendly neighborhood bureaucrats recently denied me a parking permit.  We live right next to a very busy commercial zone, so parking spaces on our street are hard to come by.  However, we're allowed to apply for permits to park on the strictly residential street one block away from us, which is much less congested.  I.G. has such a permit, and requested a second permit for me when renewing his own this year.  He received a resounding "NO" in response.  Every household in our neighborhood is supposedly entitled to three permits but, while I.G. and I share offspring, we don't share a last name, which means we are not considered a "household," as it turns out.  Unfortunately, I can't console myself by lovingly counting my $4.5M profit as I shake my head over the idiocy of city hall.  I just have to drive around that much longer waiting for a parking space to free up.

Nudes vs. Prudes.  Still torn about who to cheer on?  Yeah, me too.  In a perfect world, they could all be run out of town......freeing up some valuable extra parking spaces in the process. 

Fogeddaboudit!

Mom's visit has been a lot like watching The Sopranos series finale a few months ago.....I'd braced myself for lots of foul language, some not-so-thinly-veiled threats, an epic Shakespearean type of power struggle, and gallons of blood splatter (at least figurative, if not literal).  Instead what I wound up with was lots of sitting around waiting to order food, with loads of tension in the air but not much actually happening.  Anti-climatic, yes, but anti-climatic is a relief when you're the one sitting in that diner booth with one eye peeled for signs of your impending doom.

I've gone enough rounds with Mom over the years that I realize this is probably not a definitive turning point in our relationship, but I'm grateful for the temporary reprieve.  More to the point, I think becoming a mother myself has changed me this past year in ways I'm just beginning to comprehend.  I'm a tougher broad because of it.  I should probably chalk it up to a combination of sleep deprivation (I'm too tired to suffer fools gladly) and the inevitable shifting of priorities (I have more important things to do than suffer fools gladly).  Pre-motherhood, at least in some ways, I'd been a bit of a Paulie - an elaborately-coiffed loudmouth with no real plan or power. 

But since they say that raising kids is not for the squeamish, it's probably a good thing that I'm taking a page or two from Tony Soprano's book these days.  I'll do whatever I gotta do in order to take care of my kid.  I remember when Z. was born and had some trouble - I only got to see her for a moment in the delivery room before they whisked her away, and I didn't get to even see her again for 18 hours.  We spent the first three or four days not knowing if she was alright.  I still worry over every little thing where Z. is concerned.  After all this, will anyone with a mere disapproving look or harsh word deflate me?  Fogeddaboudit!

But don't worry - if you see me swaggering around town with a huge duffel bag in tow, it's more likely to contain diapering supplies than Ralphie's head......

Cats Vs. Babies

Good times ahead....my mother is arriving for a three-day visit tomorrow!  It's overdue.  I mean, I was just starting to feel pretty good about myself and my life and my parenting skills, so clearly I need to be taken down a peg or two.

OK, Mom and I don't get along well sometimes.  She's kind of an negative-thinking person, for starters.  And she doesn't really see the humor in situations.  You could lock her in a room with Eddie Izzard, all of Monty Python (living and dead), Paris Hilton trying to read Tolstoy, and a banana peel on the floor for Paris to slip on afterward, and Mom still wouldn't find anything funny about any of this.  She would probably just reprimand them for acting like buffoons and not cleaning up after themselves.  Paris will likely get an additional lecture about her provocative clothing, with some mention of cows not being particularly marketable when the milk is either free or incarcerated. 

So I'm a little anxious about tomorrow.

When I was pregnant, Mom told me I would be the world's most ineffective disciplinarian with my child.  Mind you, Z. is my first kid, so Mom doesn't really have any hard evidence to point to regarding my parenting skills, or lack thereof.  The basis for her theory?  The fact that I'm a really lenient cat owner.  Yes.  Her theory is fueled in large part by the belief that I haven't noticed there's a difference between cats and humans.  I wondered if there was some truth to this.

SO, I've been paying really close attention since Z.'s birth, and Mom will pleased to know that I've spotted some alarming differences between my cats and my baby.  These include:

1. My cats will never learn to talk, no matter how diligently I coach them with a camcorder in hand and dreams of snagging that $100K prize on America's Funniest Home Videos.  This isn't entirely bad news.  It means no matter how much I spoil and overindulge my furry friends, they will never be able to call me up one day and say something along the lines of, "Mom?  I'm in jail.  Britney said I should drive because I was the least drunk.....and the bag of e-tabs the cops found in my pocket?  So not mine.  I was just holding it for Lindsay for a minute while she talked to Paris, and then....."
2. My cats don't need to develop people skills. They will never have to ask anyone for a ride, a loan, a job, understanding, love, or help unloading groceries.  I'm their b****.  I do all that for them.  Besides, I tried teaching them about stuff like manners, accountability, and negotiation skills.  They just smacked me around a bit and reminded me of my place.  (Obviously I will do things to help Z. out in life sometimes, but hey, I know I need to teach her how to get by on her own, too.) 
3. My cats don't leave my apartment.  Ever.  And while I am an overprotective parent, I know one day I'll be forced to let Z. out the front door to lead a life somewhere else.  (When she's 40 or so.)

On the other hand, I've also picked up on one striking similarity between my cats and my baby: both have been known to eat cat food.

I can't wait to share all I've learned with Mom!  I bet she'll be impressed.  If she can just get past the fact that I look the other way when the cats take money from my wallet to score catnip.......

My Trendy Hipster Alterna-baby

Today when we were driving to the park, Z. started singing along to an Oasis song.  Not using the lyrics, exactly, but she was doing a nice little "Ahhhhhhhhh" back-up job to the vocals.  It was so sweet, not to mention encouraging.

I know I'm not the only parent who pre-natally vowed to raise the world's coolest alterna-baby.  But is it as simple as putting your wee one in a Sex Pistols onesie and calling it a day?  Is it a requirement to follow the celebrity trend of naming your baby something achingly hip, like "Papaya Jemimah" or "REO Speedwagon"?   (And is this why celebrities like to be friends with other celebrities?  So their kids can all play together, since if they played with normal kids, they'd get beat up by ones named Billy?)  How hip is adequately hip?  At what point are you just being an idiot in even trying to retain an iota of coolness when you have partially-digested Cheerios coating every surface of your home, car and person?

Some of the steps in raising an alternababy are easier than others.  Yeah, we resisted the whole "girl = pink" thing when picking out clothes and crib bedding.  But I'd also vowed that Z. would follow a strict musical diet of Bowie (circa Ziggy Stardust of course) and the Stones and such - yet I caved in and sang "The Wheels On The Bus" song as early as day 12. 

I doubt there is ever a chance of raising a 100% tradition-free alterna-baby, because there are sinister, criminal masterminds lurking in the shadows of the Teletubbies and their ilk.  They're called Marketing Executives, and they know WAY more about babies than you do.  They herd babies into rooms and take fastidious notes as to what pleases them.  "Goofy voice?  Check!  Obnoxious mascot costume?  Check!  Googly eyes?  Check!  Quotes obscure Ukrainian poets....?  Hmmmmm - marginal interest there....note to self:  lose that whole Ukrainian poet schtick....."

Sometimes, Joey Ramone and I are simply NO match for their purple dinosaurs and catchy songs.  And as mentioned in a prior entry, Elmo really is my homeboy these days.  Why?  He makes Z. happy.  The "Wheels On The Bus" song?  It makes her smile.  So be it.

I figure if she will still chime in with the "doo doo doo doo doo doo" part of "Walk On The Wild Side" on occasion, we're doing OK. 

      

Adventures in Netflixing: "The Hitcher" (2007 remake)

You'd have to go a long way (at least down the street, to Christopher Walken's house) to find an actor better equipped than Rutger Hauer to crank the Creepy-Meter up a few notches.  Sean Bean is a brave man for even trying to fill Rutger's blood-splattered shoes. 

I didn't hate the new Hitcher, and I wanted to, because we all can agree that Remakes Are Usually Unwarranted.  Nonetheless, it's pretty fresh for a remake - they borrowed enough of the original to justify calling it "The Hitcher" again, as opposed to "Another Scary Movie About A Creepy Hitchhiker Guy."  On the other hand, they did teach the old dog a clever new trick or two.  And Sean Bean sensibly goes in another direction with the role, versus trying to compete with Rutger Hauer's unwavering Teutonic-albino stare, which is practically patented.  That said, I was bored by this new version.  In the original, you could kinda, sorta cheer on C. Thomas Howell, 'cause he was a wide-eyed dufus.....annoying, sure, but not annoying enough to deserve death.  In the remake, he's been replaced by two characters - a rockin', good lookin' college guy and his hot girlfriend.  Did I care if either of these dingle-dwarfs were still alive by story's end so that they could get to the mall for some more Abercrombie and Fitch?  Uh - not so much.

The movie isn't bad enough to be truly snarky about (if you're willing to overlook the fact that one lone psycho single-handedly takes out four or five separate sheriff's posses, including a helicopter) - but it's not good enough to rave about, either.  To paraphrase Cher from The Witches Of Eastwick:  it wasn't even interesting enough to make me sick.  I'll give it a C+.   

Blue Is The Color.....And The Language

Over the past two weeks or so, Z. has (very rarely) mimicked a word she's heard.  Once when I had occasion to say "Yay!" (I'm sure chocolate was involved in some capacity), she repeated it very matter-of-factly.  (Many subsequent experiments could not get her to repeat it again, though I suppose "Yay!" is much more of a spontaneous utterance.)  On another occasion, I was handing her a stuffed tiger, said "Tiger," to her, and she repeated that too.  She's not doing this regularly, yet, but I'm thinking it's only a matter of time.

This nicely coincides with the start of football season.  I'm not talking about American football, by the way - I'm talking about real football as known to the rest of the world. The kind played with..you know....feet.  (OK, I'll say the dirty Yank word for it....soccer.)  I.G. is a diehard Chelsea fan.  He's all about the Blues.  There are Chelsea pictures, posters, banners, flags, buttons, coffee mugs, pint glasses, pens, scarves, hats, and even a Chelsea Monopoly game ensuring that every square inch of our living space reflects his devotion.  (I'm strangely OK with this.  I should be - I buy this stuff for his birthday and Xmas every year.)

However, I.G. gets a bit wound up when watching the games....as does his language.  You can see where I'm going with this......he is trying to curb the colorful utterances, but sometimes this goes out the window when a player is not telepathically heeding I.G.'s coaching from thousands of miles away.  At the very least, Z. will grow up thinking the proper term for "referee" is "you bloody wanker."

I myself suffered from a rather severe case of potty-mouth in my pre-parent years, and honestly, the occasional lapse still slips from my tongue, too.  I think I'm 95% improved, but I'd better try harder to banish the lingering 5% before it comes back to haunt me.

In other news.....I.G.'s birthday is coming up.  Now, how to celebrate the occasion?  With a Chelsea letter opener?  A Chelsea toilet seat, driving goggles, or logo-emblazoned toilet paper?  Perhaps a cattle prod with which I could gently nudge him whenever his language veers into inappropriate territory.  If it had a Chelsea logo on it, he might be OK with that.

Stay tuned.

Got Milk? What About A Burka?

Z. is just a day away from turning 11 months old.  I've lost count of the milestones we've passed along the way.  Now, we are slowly approaching a territory that the signposts are referring to as "Extended Breastfeeding."  (That's when you pass the year mark and are still wielding the boobies as tools, not fashionable accessories.) 

My biggest breastfeeding challenge has easily been the attempts to do it in public with a modicum of discretion.  I'm not one of those let-it-all-hang-out (literally) hippie chicks.  Nor am I a drunken heiress or starlet who wants every square inch of my, uh, personal real estate photographed for tabloid posterity.  On the one hand, I know I'm feeding my baby, and this is an important and natural task, but frankly doing it in public still makes me feel like I'm at Mardi Gras attempting to score my 78th string of beads from a parade float.  (Despite this feeling, I do somehow refrain from yelling "WHOOOO HOOOOOO!  OVER HERE!  OVER HEREEEEE!  PARTYYYYYYYY!" when lifting my shirt.) 

It's slightly easier to appease Z. with solids these days, at least until we can find a more private location.   But on occasion, she still becomes determined to answer the question "Got milk?" right then and there. 

Early on in my breastfeeding career, I purchased one of those "hooter hiders" - the colorful apron-type thing that you string around your neck and use to cover up the milk bar while it's in service.  It worked just fine for quite a while...until recently, when Z. invented a game called, "CHECK OUT MY MOM'S TA TA'S!!"  In this game, she appears to be contentedly and discreetly feeding, until she suddenly decides to fling the hooter hider aside without warning and disengage - usually at a point in time when the maximum number of total strangers are set up to enjoy the free show. (I've considered toting around a boom box and cuing up Tag Team's"Whoomp!  There It Is!" to accompany the spectacle...maybe I could set out an open baby bottle for people to drop tips into.)   

Despite my slight embarrassment over public boobie sightings, I'm still not really in a rush to wean.  Z. is healthy and thriving.  We both like the cuddle time.  I like feeling that needed.  (If I were hanging out with someone who could dispense candy bars and filet mignon out of their ears or something, I'd probably want to keep them close at hand, too.)

It's mainly Western societies who push for the early weaning, whereas in other parts of the world, taking it to 1 1/2 or 2 years old is no big thing.  Yes, it gets weird if it goes on too long.  (The fellows of Little Britain have prepared this public service announcement for those who don't wean eventually...)    But I'd like to think I'll be able to cut the apron strings when the time is appropriate.

In the meantime, be sure not to miss my topless act - I'll be appearing at the Stardust in Vegas through June '08.  Thanks for popping in, and be sure to tip your server.   

Adventures in Netflixing: "Blood and Chocolate"

Well, it's unusually pretty for a werewolf movie - there are pretty actors (Olivier Martinez as the swaggering, ready-to-mate head werewolf?  Yes, please!  I kept waiting for Diane Lane to wander into the woods with her stack of books, ready to throw caution and fidelity to the wind....Richard Gere could later subdue his romantic rival with one of those electronic zapping dog collars instead of a snow globe.....we could call it Unleashed.....but I digress.......), pretty East European locations complete with pretty Gothic architecture, and pretty cinematography to wrap it all together into one big, pretty package. 

It's not scary - which probably wasn't the director's intention anyway.  It's not suspenseful, either.  Let's play "Spot The Potential Victim" (standard game in the scary movie genre, although usually a lot like shooting fish in a barrel)....in a nightclub crowd of dancing people dressed in various shades of gray and black, I spy a lone girl wearing a BRIGHT RED DRESS  (Little Red Riding Hood on E tabs!  How modern, and dead clever!), shaking her moneymaker most provocatively in the face of this upstart young werewolf.  (While he's not in hairy form at this particular moment, we can guess with a fair amount of certainty he's one of the werewolves because he's sneering a lot, and of course he's getting a lot of camera time.)  The red-clad hoochie mama then disses him in front of his friends, and boy, does he look bent out of shape!  Hmmmmm - now, who's gonna get munched out of this batch of nincompoops?  Einie, meenie, miny, moe.......

I realize Katja von Garnier is a fancy filmmaker, and the girl in the red dress was probably some walking allegory, but so what.  By the way - it's not even a werewolf movie, technically speaking.  The Afflicted don't transform into werewolves, they just transform into wolves.  (A cop-out, methinks....sure, it's difficult to pull off a good transformation scene, and equally hard to come up with a relatively scary-looking werewolf, but at least try.  Even if it does wind up looking like an actor in a second-rate walking dog suit.) 

And, as with most scary movies, the remaining gaps of both logic and plot in Blood and Chocolate continue to come fast and furious.  Case in point:

"We have kept our existence secret from mankind for hundreds of years!" the head werewolf points out in his most booming voice to a large gathering of his fellow werewolves.  How they've managed to keep themselves hidden from mankind, I'm not sure, 'cause to me it looks like their secret-keeping techniques could use some polishing.  I have a few pointers for the guy in the interest of continued success in this whole "secret identity" endeavor:

(a)  Don't gather together for a big party during which you all collectively transform into wolves and eat people. This sort of behavior might draw attention to your secret identity.  A large group of 70 or so shapeshifting, rowdy man-eaters is a lot more noticeable than one or two stragglers.

(b) If you must all gather in one place to collectively transform into wolves and eat people, don't brag in a LOUD BOOMING voice that you have managed to keep this secret for so long.  It's just tempting fate.

Oh, and, uh....

(c) Stop climbing up the sides of buildings in broad daylight.

My biggest complaint is that the title is somewhat misleading - being a big fan of candy myself, I think the chocolate should have been a lot more prominently featured.  However, all in all, it's not the most awful movie ever made.  If watching Olivier Martinez swagger around Eastern Europe doesn't sound like the worst way to spend an hour and a half, you've got nothing to lose.

I give it a B -.