PunkKittyDiddy

Big breasted AND big hearted? Apply within!

Once again, while Craig's List can't always be relied upon to provide a steady enough stream of legit paying writing gigs, it more than compensates in entertainment value by providing a plethora of side-splitting glimpses into the human psyche, in all its dim-witted and deranged glory.

How could I not click on an ad that reads, "Bikini Calendar Models Needed To Help Kids!"???  And in doing so, I was justly rewarded with yet another opportunity to mock the bottom-dwelling (and bottom-photographing) dregs of humanity. 

So, the good samaritan who posted this ad wants to stamp out homelessness amongst kids by creating and selling a bikini calendar! You can't fault that, right?  (Rhetorical question, yes.)  This noble nudemonger explains thusly:  "Your modeling services must be donated as there will be no pay involved. I will help the female models that participate. I own and operate a web based bikini model business and I am trying to give back."  See?  He's no pervert - he's a giver, damn it!  And he wants you to send in your best "artistic nude photos ASAP" if you're interested.

What's next?  "Amateur porn stars wanted!  Get nailed and help Habitat for Humanity build an orphanage in the process!"

Sigh. 

Let Them Eat Cake! (Just Not The Good Kind, Which Is Reserved For Our First Class Passengers........)

Another return trip anecdote/vent for you.

As we were lumbering the five miles or so toward our departure gate at Heathrow - I.G. weighed down by all our carry-ons, with C. keeping pace, oblivious to the assorted stresses of international travel, and me lugging Z. along with my now-burning biceps, sans stroller - a Virgin Atlantic billboard insulted me in passing.  It featured a ten-foot-tall, full color photograph of the first-class lounge on our plane, and it flung a decidedly stinging taunt my way, by insisting, "Look at what you're missing!"  I didn't want to look.  But they were pretty in-your-face about it.  The gloss off the photograph practically blinded me.

Yeah, um.....thanks for that, Virgin Atlantic.

First of all - is this ad really necessary?  Its target market can't possibly be actual first-class travelers, because I'm quite sure that those who have the $10,000 to fly in the fancy part of the plane from London to L.A. are already doing so. 

I then thought maybe this advertisement was a sort of peasant-flogging inside joke for the elite to enjoy.....you know, stroking their egos by reminding them how much better they have it compared to those of us whose in-flight dinners will consist of hot dog remnants crammed into a steak-shaped mold and labeled simply, albeit vaguely, as "Our Alternative to Chicken This Evening."  Except somehow I don't think the first-class travelers have to schlep that five miles to the plane the way we did in the first place.......don't they have some sort of secret passageway unpolluted by the stench of the bird-flu-infected masses, a passageway coated with rose petals, which their feet don't even have to touch because they are probably hefted up into the air on one of those Cleopatra-style bejeweled land barges padded with silken pillows which is carried on the shoulders of Calvin Klein underwear models as they squire you to the door of the plane?  (Or is that just how I imagine it?)  At the very least, they are transported to the plane on one of those little airport golf carts, in which case that callous billboard ad would appear as just another blur along with the Payless shoes and Supercuts coifs of we working class types who are apparently too provincial to realize that for a mere $9,400 more, we could travel comfortably. 

Holy shit - and here I had no idea it got any better than economy class!  Is that what those privacy curtains have been hiding all this time?  Why, I've been flying a good many years now, just stupidly grateful that I wasn't being stuffed into a crate in the cargo section next to the livestock and kerchief-wearing Greek grandmothers. Thank god we have advertising campaigns to educate us in such matters.

It reminds me of that oh-so-charming poster that was popular in the 80's, which featured a country-club-due-paying fellow lounging on the hood of his Bentley, above the slogan, "Poverty Sucks!"  I could never picture one of those posters hanging in the breakfast nook of some real estate mogul's Hamptons summer home, either.  I'm pretty sure that mogul already knew that having money is better than not having money.

Poverty sucks?  Yeah, well, so does ramped-up hedonistic narcissism.  I have half a mind to write Virgin a letter and tell them where they can shove that billboard ad (hint:  it's someplace other than their minuscule overhead storage compartments).  In the meantime, here's a big, fat, unwashed, economy-booked, "Pffffftttt!" in Virgin's general direction for their ill-placed gloat.

If I Did It, Here's How It Happened: Confessions of a Fruit Smuggler

As much as it pains me to take a page from O.J.'s book.........or at least paraphrase the title......because I don't want to wind up in fruit smuggler's prison or anything:

We're back home now, and if I'm walking with a bit of a swagger, it's because I may or may not be a bona fide international smuggler, having possibly evaded authorities with aplomb on both sides of the Atlantic, thank you very much.............due more to absentmindedness, rather than anything vaguely resembling cunning, but hey - I'll take my criminal credibility however I can get it.  Alas, if I did it (I cannot stress this enough - we're talking in hypotheticals here), I would not have cut my smuggling teeth on anything interesting, like stolen jewels or hardcore drugs.  It would have been a mere apple - one solitary apple.   You know, if I did it.

See, I may or may not have stowed the aforementioned apple in my purse for Z. to gnaw on during one of our many day trips to peruse Druid landmarks and haunted villages....and I may or may not have stashed my purse in my carry-on bag for our flight back from the U.K.  Upon landing at LAX, as we were waiting for our luggage, a diligent beagle under the employ of the U.S. Agricultural Department - apparently angling for a promotion, the little bitch - may or may not have made a beeline for my carry-on.  So the beagle's handler may or may not have asked us if we had any produce on us, and I may or may not have denied the charge - which I may or may not have earnestly believed at the time.  We more or less entirely unpacked my carry-on bag in order to satisfy the beagle handler's curiosity, and no sign of any offending fruit items - though the beagle remained unconvinced.  The handler asked if we'd kept any fruit in the carry-on at any point in the recent past.  I shrugged and may or may not have said, "Possibly, as Z. rather enjoys decimating apples and the occasional banana.....".  This seemed to satisfy the fruit cop, and she and her canine sidekick moved on, in pursuit of the next bad-ass fruit smuggler who would dare to cross their path armed with pernicious produce of any ilk.

So, when we got home and I unpacked, there may or may not have been a wee little forgotten apple stuffed in the corner of my handbag after all.  At which point I might have said, "Oooops!" and breathed a sigh of relief that they didn't apprehend my fruit-smuggling butt, throw the book at me and send me to the big house.

For that matter, the authorities back in London had also sensed something sinister about Z. and I, seeing as how we raised our fair share of red flags and suspicions on the other side of the pond, too.  At Heathrow, as I walked through the metal detector with Z. in my arms, we set the contraption off, which led to me getting patted down by a lady security agent, who - failing to find anything dangerous on my person - insisted on patting Z. down, too.  Because, you know, there's apparently been a huge influx of weapon-toting toddlers trying to board flights these days.  It's a good thing they detained us, as it gave those guys with dark glasses and an ominous air about them a chance to slide past security while Z. and I cooperatively diverted attention elsewhere. 

Most likely the metal detector was picking up on the presence of that apple peeling apparatus I may or may not have cleverly lodged in my ear, to facilitate the consumption of the alleged apple I may or may not have been smuggling.  MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  (No, OK - that part is definitely made up.)  More likely, it could have been my specially-purchased-for-this-trip, previously mentioned bad-ass hardware-encrusted biker boots that tripped me up, so to speak, and lent me such a menacing aura that the authorities had no choice but to stop me in my bad-ass tracks (in which case - boy, these boots are convincingly bad-ass!).

So there it is....my (thinly veiled quasi-fictitious account of my) brush with lawlessness, a (totally made-up, in case any fruit-related authorities are reading this) tale of my whiff of the stench of the criminal underworld. 

And in spinning this yarn, I'm not necessarily claiming that I'm as intimidating as more seasoned (alleged) fruit smugglers, who might have the skills and cunning to smuggle far more exotic fruitstuff, like maybe kiwis or plantains or cactus fruit, or who might or might not have the daring to deal in bulk - smuggling, say, a whole bunch of bananas or even a very large fruit salad onto our homeland soil.  But I do feel I'm just a little bit more of a flinty-eyed and intimidating character now, having had this little adventure.....

Stay tuned for more scintillating stories from our travels abroad.

What's Scarier - A Headless Horseman, or the American Tourist Who Wants Her Picture Taken With Him?

So I.G.'s dad remarked in passing that nearby Prestbury was amongst the most haunted villages in all of England.  I'm a sucker for that kind of thing, so of course I insisted upon a visit.......though no one was keen on my plan of checking it out in the dead of night armed with nothing but a flashlight and some stereotypical mindless American bravado.

Alas, we learned the hard way that driving around in a rented Kia mini-van in broad daylight with a camera strapped around one's neck, saying things like, "Where's the haunted stuff?  Does that stone cottage look haunted to you?  What about that cobblestone alley?  Take my picture in the graveyard, would ya, honey?" are not optimal conditions for luring ghosts out into the open, sadly.

Oh well.  We still have a two hour drive to the airport, three hour airport wait, and ten hour return flight ahead of us tomorrow.  That's bone chilling enough.

Stonehenge Rocks! (Or so claims the T-shirt in the gift shop.....)

Today included trips to Stonehenge and then the town of Salisbury.  I somehow managed to refrain from purchasing the requisite souvenir T-shirt that read, "Stonehenge Rocks!"  Yes, it may be difficult to comprehend how I could summon such staggering willpower, but I did it.  And Salisbury steak did not actually originate in Salisbury, it turns out - the locals have never heard of it.  They were able to point us in the direction of the Magna Carta, however, so the trip wasn't a total loss. 

Lots of lovely little quaint English villages to explore, what with this being England and all. Upon entering such a village,  I.G. never ceases to amuse himself by faking the most crass American accent he can manage and shouting at me from as many yards away as possible, "Honey, ask one of these limey villagers where the goddamn Starbucks is, would ya?!?!"  Real comedian, my fellow is.

Holy Mother of Petrol!

Crap, I'd forgotten how much more expensive gas is over here.  It took us over $120 to fill our small-by-American-standards rental mini-van yesterday.  GAH!  And I thought it was bad in California......

In other news.....English bacon kicks American bacon's ass.  I'd forgotten that, too, but that particular reminder was altogether more pleasant.

God Save The Queen, and Maybe Our Gastrointestinal Tracts Too....

Our transatlantic journey was surprisingly drama-free.  Wee Z. was a champion jet-setter.  All told, we spent over 3 hours at the airport waiting to depart, 10 hours on the plane, what felt like an hour at Heathrow as I.G. and his parents argued amongst themselves as to who was riding in which car, and which route to take, and then 2 hours driving to I.G.'s parents' house.  It was only during that last hour of driving that Z. started shrieking, and can't say I blame her, as I was ready to scream myself at that point.

If you've ever made a transatlantic journey in economy class and asked yourself if it could be any more uncomfortable, the answer is yes.  It turns out that traveling transatlantically in economy class with a 22 pound toddler sprawled across your lap really ups the ante in the I-Can-No-Longer-Feel-My-Ass department.  And yeah, I'm an ungrateful ass for even complaining, because at least dear Z. was sleeping for 90% of the journey, versus terrorizing innocent bystanders (or bysitters, as it were).

I'm also not harboring any illusions that the return trip will be as easy.  The flight to London was at least a night flight. No such thing exists from London.  The British couple seated next to us, who also had a baby with them and were headed back home, cheerfully and politely informed us that traveling on a10 hour day flight with a toddler is sheer hell.  Good times ahead!

Speaking of our seatmates.....boy, how parenthood changes everything!  I've never been glad to see a baby sit down next to me on a plane before in my life.  Our seatmates looked equally relieved to see Z..  It helps immensely to know that you're seated next to the only other people on board who aren't going to be ready to chuck you from the plane in mid-flight.

One unexpected upside of traveling transatlantically avec bebe - post-flight, we were staggering to customs when a number of impatient jerks shoved their way around and past us in order to get ahead of us in the customs queue.  So there was a nice slice of "IN YOUR FACE!" karmic justice dished out when a saintly customs officer waved us to the front of the line because we were traveling avec bebe!  (Does karmic justice actually come in the "IN YOUR FACE!!" variety, or is that merely my selfish, unzenlike spin on the matter?)

And the funny offshoot of traveling transatlantically avec bebe?  Z. awoke at 2 a.m. or so the past few nights with an overwhelming urge to perform amazing feats of dentistry upon my person.  No idea where that came from.  Her little hands were all up in my mouth, counting teeth, prodding teeth, pushing teeth, attempting to remove teeth.....go figure.

So, anyway...here we are.  Thus far we've been lounging around I.G.'s parents' house (god bless 'em), shaking off jetlag and visiting with assorted family members.  Our cool day trips commence tomorrow, at which time we'll hire a van that can actually carry us all.

In other news:  I.G. forever complains about his dear mum's lack of culinary talent, but I guess I'd forgotten the degree to which she cannot cook.  Six words for you:  macaroni and cheese in a can.  I.G. and I keep trying to make a discreet trip to the corner shop in order to procure a secret supplemental stash of junk food, but the sweet woman keeps offering to make the trip for us and asks what we need.  "Anything edible," would clearly be rude, so thus far we remain thwarted.  Seriously - I'm one of the world's foremost and artful perpetrators of the midnight kitchen raid, and here I am journaling instead of eating because there's no point in getting up to my old tricks here.

I do love I.G.'s mum, though - she means well.

I was beyond delighted to discover that one of my all-time favorite BBC America comedies - The Mighty Boosh - is alive and well over here.  I had no idea it ran past season one!!!  The show's creators apparently bristle at being described as surreal, which makes little sense.  I'm not saying these guys are doing some hardcore drugs, but....well....yeah, actually, I am saying that.  Last night's episode went a little something like this:

The shaman Naboo was departing with his friend, the talking ape, for a stag weekend with some pals from the shamanic oversight council, and the gang rented a stretch flying carpet for that very purpose.  The penis-head/octopus guy was drunk off his ass thanks to one of those hats with beer cans attached.  Naboo leaves his shop - the Nabootique - in the care of Vince and Howard, who ply their own wares from behind the counter.  Howard's wares are specifically jacket elbow patches in colors like Angry Beige and Very Aggressive Nutmeg.  Anyway....some time-traveling cockney hooligan, with a mint lifesaver candy where his left eye should be and who has a live music box dancer living in his stovepipe hat, shows up to extort protection money from Howard whilst singing an ominous song about eels.  Howard pimps himself out to a scary, overzealous American widow (whose business card reads, "Helloooooooooooo011 44 553 63")  in order to come up with the dough.  A lot of other stuff happens, too, but I can't do it justice here. 

This sounds at least slightly surreal, right?  Or is it just me?  Anyhoo, you can check out clips...maybe even a whole episode....via the link above!  Good stuff.

Beyond that....damn cold here.  Z.'s been a cherubic little traveler.  Only one meltdown has ensued thus far, and it was I.G.'s, after his mother inadvertently trod on his last nerve.  I'm cutting him some slack - most of us adult children with dysfunctional parental relationships will inevitably regress when back home.  It's all since blown over, though probably not a good sign that his last nerve gave out on Day Two when there's still ten days or so left to go.

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

"The Burden of Being the Better Half" - an unbiased account of a typical day in my relationship

So the other night, I.G. suffered a huge lapse of memory, during which he accused me of deliberately misplacing a certain "valuable" household item of his than I'm not particularly fond of.  In the preceding sentence, "valuable" refers to the amount of income expended in acquiring said item - not to be confused with the "of considerable use, service or importance" sense of the word.  Anyway, after getting himself all worked up into an indignant, accusatory lather, he then got to look like a total jackass for eventually finding the thing exactly where he'd last had it.

It's common knowledge that most people are doomed to fall in love with a partner who displays questionable, sometimes even appalling taste and/or serious lack of judgment in one or more of the following areas: clothing; home decor; food preferences; grooming habits; music; former romantic partners; and sounds made while eating.  Personally, I think I.G. lucked out in finding himself with a near-perfect partner with no disgusting habits of her own, so he doesn't have to suffer as I do.  (OK, when he stumbles into the room as I'm watching a movie like Hostel 2, he might beg to differ......)  Let's just say I was actually almost glad for a flea infestation we endured last year, as it gave us a legitimate excuse to toss out some cheesy, five-dollar area rugs of his that looked like they were pulled from Burt Reynolds' bachelor pad circa 1979 after the no-holds-barred wrap party for Smokey and the Bandit II.....rugs upon which even the elephant was seen barfing copiously. 

But honestly and truly, I do try to bite my tongue and turn a blind eye to I.G.'s often questionable aesthetic choices as much as possible. (Blind eye?  Blinded eye, more like it, as yours would be too if it had to continually fix upon a certain day-glo-orange T-shirt that boasts a vaguely obnoxious slogan, which he's fond of wearing on the weekends...)  And don't get me started on turning a deaf ear to his musical taste...... I'm pretty sure the movie This Is Spinal Tap was inspired hugely, if not exclusively, by bands like Motorhead.  (Who's Motorhead, you ask?  A has-been metal band in heavy rotation on I.G.'s iPod.  What's an iPod, you ask? A device which sadly plugs into our living room's surround-sound stereo.)  I mean, have you heard Motorhead's song, "Killed By Death"?  I have.  Many, many times.

But to each his own, even if it is day-glo orange, or Motorhead.  Live and let live.  That's what you're supposed to do in a relationship, right?  I.G. is a grown man (so claims his driver's license), and entitled to like stuff that I don't like, so I generally just grin and bear it.  Well....I bear it, anyway. 

At any rate, it was kind of annoying to be accused of losing a certain ridiculous possession of his when I've summoned every ounce of willpower to not introduce it to the business end of a dumpster.  OK - it was really annoying.  And all the sweeter when he found it exactly where he'd left it, and had to grovel and apologize.  Forgive?  Sure.  Forget?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA...........I can try, but I can't promise I won't bring it up ever again, particularly if an opportune and highly fitting context presents itself, like, "What a beautiful sunset, honey!  Don't you think so?  This reminds me of that time you accused me of losing your stupid thing-a-ma-bob.....oh, no, wait - this isn't anything like that.  Sorry, that just slipped out!  Never mind.  Gosh, look at the ocean - this is so scenic, don't you agree?"

Therein lies the beauty of relationship-spawned ammunition....it has a long shelf life, and can be used in offensive or defensive strategies.  For now I'm gonna tuck this little nugget of self-righteousness into my back pocket, pull it out and admire it from time to time, maybe give it a good polishing once in a while, until that glorious day I can whip it out to pay the toll when taking the moral high road....or to make bail in a situation where I myself have perhaps done something stupid that requires forgiveness.

Either way, it's like money in the bank.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin', and Fleeing the Occasional Orc....

Pregnancy did a number on my body in some unexpected ways, both good and bad.  I wound up skinnier than I was pre-partum, and hey, no complaints there!  On the other hand (or foot), my feet fared far worse.  They were bad enough during pregnancy, when they regularly swelled to the size of large, stuffed Thanksgiving turkeys (the kind that can feed a family of 14 or so), but it seems I am furthermore one of those lucky women whose feet shall remain larger.  (One of my docs warned me of this possibility at the time, and it spooked me nearly as much as the prospect of actual labor.  Give up my entire shoe collection?)  Larger feet would be no picnic given that my feet were already at the large end of the lady foot spectrum, where'd they'd been hovering at size 9 or so since puberty.  Sometimes shoemakers would toss me a breadcrumb and decide to cobble a pair of somewhat fashionable lady shoes in size 9.  I got by.  So I'd been waiting, and waiting, and waiting, for my feet to return to their pre-pregnancy size over the past year.   Alas - no such luck. 

My shoe adieu's have been taking place gradually. For a while I held fast to my most favorite pairs, in sheer denial until, after shoving my new giantess feet into my old shoes and hobbling around in 'em on a few ill-fated excursions, I realized that I was just being foolish (in addition to supremely uncomfortable).  Because if there's one thing uglier than big ol' gunboat Hobbit/Sasquatch lady feet, it's big ol' gunboat Hobbit/Sasquatch lady feet covered in blisters.

These days I'm lucky if I can wedge my feet into a 9 1/2, and more often than not, I'm found mingling with the drag queens around the size 10 section of the women's shoe racks.  Sometimes they don't even make size 10 shoes for fashion-conscious ladies.  They make 'em for Hobbits.  They make 'em for Sasquatch.  Orthopedic nun shoes come in size 10, but fashionable lady shoes?  Not so much.   

And long before my feet swelled to gargantuan proportions, I'd always been a dismal failure when attempting to walk in high heels, anyway - I just never acquired that particular skill.  I can careen, lurch, weave as if drunk, stumble and trip in high heels.  But walk?  Nope.  For this reason, I've always been partial to boots - I do fine in boots if the heels are clunky enough and sturdily constructed.  Cowboy boots.  Go-go boots.  Doc Martens.  Frankly I think big clunky boots are one's fate in life if one has Hobbit/Sasquatch lady feet and one still wants to look cool.   I might not ever be able to glide with grace in a delicate Jimmy Choo, or saunter sexily in a sizzling Manolo Blanik, but I refuse to encase these hams in dull, sensible, beige, boring orthopedic nun loafers or white soccer-mom sneakers either, damn it.

So, this past weekend, in the ongoing effort to slowly rebuild my once-groovy shoe wardrobe, I acquired a rad pair of biker boots.  We're talkin' bona fide, bad-ass biker boots.  I know these are the real deal because (a) they have hardware attached to them that you could probably use to rebuild a car, and (b) on the sole of the boot, it says, "Oil-resistant."  Stick that in your exhaust pipe and smoke it!  And I could totally wear these to a bar fight and not be embarrassed.  If I can't glide gracefully or saunter sexily, then I'm just gonna have to play to my strength - brute intimidation.  I must lumber forth proudly, ripping trees out of the ground while tearing up the earth with my giant Sasquatch feet! 

But don't worry - if you see me coming at you, you don't have to hide so much as clear a path.  I'm still friendly, usually - just a tad uncoordinated. 

Parenting Requires Nerves of Steel! Too Bad Mine Are Made Of Translucent Rice Paper....

I would have hoped that, with now over a year's worth of parenting experience and wisdom under my belt, I would not be the type of mother to still be shrieking, "Oh GOD OH GOD OH GOD, we have to go to the E.R. RIGHTNOWTHISSECOND!!!!!!!!!!!!" every time Z. suffers from a sniffle or a fever in the middle of the night.

Alas, I am still that mother......