PunkKittyDiddy

Swim4Life event

Hey y'all - my friend, the beautiful and talented Larry Keller, is swimming in an effort to raise money for SurfAid International, an organization that strives to reduce disease in isolated regions of the world.  Follow this link if you are able to make a contribution - anything at all.....no donation too small!  His goal is to raise $500, and he's paddling toward the 25% mark as I type....the event takes place on April 5, so surely we can help him reach his goal.

Supporting Larry's swim for humanity is a win-win situation, see......after the few measly mouse clicks involved in making a donation, the rest of us can sit right where we were and continue to soak up Celebrity Rehab episodes, yet bask in the knowledge that we've done a good deed.  Charity begins at home, right?  Remain comfortably on your couch while poor Larry does all the swimming!

You go, Larry!  Steer clear of the dorsal fins - just a helpful tip from a long-time sharkphobe.

And thanks for considering this request.  Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.....

Mothra vs. J. Crew

I know the politically correct, National Geographic sanctioned perspective on insects is that they are a vital part of the ecosystem and that, while not furry or cute or deceptively cuddly-looking in the manner of, say, a monkey (never mind that an adult chimp possess both the physical strength and proclivity to rip an adult human's arm out of the socket and beat him or her to death with it), insects nonetheless perform crucial roles in maintaining balance within our environment, blah blah blah blah blah..........

I get that.  But personally I still find some bugs to be nothing more than tiny little assholes.

I'm still holding a grudge against the massive flea army that infiltrated our apartment about a year and a half ago.  That skirmish bore a strong resemblance to the final battle scene in Lord of the Rings:  The Return of the King, at least if the Orc army had been microscopic.   Yeah, picture Viggo Mortensen and Gandolf and the Hobbits swatting themselves silly....not as epic an image, maybe, but nonetheless, that was us, in our apartment, not so long ago.  And it took nothing short of wizardry to rid ourselves of the tiny terrors.

Now it's moths.

Sure, I'd noticed a few of my cotton tank tops were sprouting extra armholes.  But I chalked it up to my thrifty ways (paying $5 for a tank at Old Navy doesn't buy you a wardrobe with much staying power), plus normal wear and tear.  Only about the same time I'd noticed that my clothes were suddenly disintegrating, I.G. complained of the same phenomenon. After comparing notes, we soon suspected foul play.  I.G. went digging in his drawer and emerged with a suspect, one caught in the act, at that - a wee little moth attached to one of his sweaters, with a napkin still tied smugly around its neck, fork and knife suspended in mid-air.......

(Please enjoy the re-creation of the scene that I have rendered in particularly lifelike and artistic fashion, above right....)

Now our place reeks of moth balls.  It's a conundrum, allrighty......walk around in hole-ridden shame, fashion victims caught in a Flashdance-centric-like time warp, or preserve the wardrobes whilst annihilating our nasal passages and dignity (because fewer scents conjure a more immediate association with old folks homes than Eau de Moth Balls). 

What's next?  I didn't pay very close attention in bible study........does Revelations make any mention of moths or fleas as precursors to that whole locust plague scenario?  Maybe we should invest less in moth balls and more in one of those televangelical pledge drives instead....in the interim, the get-rich-quick lobe of my brain is wondering if we can at least sell tickets or movie rights to the mini-apocalypse going on right in our own apartment.

Phewwwwww!  And adieu till next time, at which point I'll probably be relaying how we're now rallying against badgers or fruit bats......

Outtakes From Child's Play 5: The Reckoning - Live From Our Living Room

I am starting to think that toddlerhood inevitably has a touch of Chuckie about it.  I mean, it's not like Z. has developed an abnormal interest in cutlery or crime (either would result in a stint on the "naughty chair," per Supernanny's recommended regime), nor has Z. ever utilized voodoo to transfer her soul into an inanimate object in a sociopathic effort to avoid taking responsibility for her actions when she's in the wrong and attempting to elude a hardened street detective who's hot on her heels (at least not that I'm aware of...although, granted, it is amaaaazing what a toddler can accomplish in the span of a few seconds when your back is turned....). 

Truly, Z. is a sweet, mellow, good-natured toddler.  It's just that, once in a while, she gets a bit Chuckie-esque when certain conditions converge - like, under the light of a full moon, if it's a Tuesday, occasionally her actions and behavior would make more sense if they could be attributed to some vague Chuckie Lite shadow figure.   

I'm not too worried yet, because from what I've heard and read, this is not exactly an uncommon toddler phenomenon.    It's just weird to watch the transformation, but what was I expecting?  How much trouble could she have possibly gotten into when she was a newborn and 100% immobile?

I.G. is the one who first drew the Chuckie comparison.  Since Z. has graduated from walking to running, her little footsteps are falling a bit heavier on our hardwood floors these days.....and as she barrells down the hallway, well...yes, admittedly.....the sound is not unlike that of Chuckie running amuck at a potential crime scene.  Morever, when Z. stops running, the silence is not soothing, or long overdue, or welcome.  It's just eerie.  Why?  I can tell you she's not standing there quietly doing nothing.  She's dissecting the printer.  (With a salami.)  Or she's plotting a burial at sea for some small, valuable electronic item or communications device (cell phone, blackberry, remote control, camera), via our toilet.  (Yes, we have one of those toddler-proofing locks on the toilet.  The only thing that accomplishes is driving her into a mini-tantrum, during which she'll take the small, valuable thing she was hoping to send to a watery grave, and use it to bash the toilet lid in an attempt to alleviate her frustration......which, it turns out, is only marginally less destructive to the overall condition of the small, valuable thing than immersion in toilet water.)  Yesterday, she took a crayon and was trying to trace Cat #1's outline on the floor.....at first I thought it was rather ingenious of her - very Keith Haring circa 1982 - but then it reminded me a bit too much of a crime scene chalk outline, so I redirected her artistic outburst away from the feline and toward a large sheet of scratch paper instead.

Sure, when Z. starts laughing maniacally, the whiff of Eau de Chuckie in the air grows a bit stronger.  Think the comparisons stop there?  Nope.  Have you ever tried to have a sane, rational conversation with a homicidal maniac?  I haven't, but I'm guessing the odds of success are slightly higher than they are when you attempt to have a sane, rational conversation with a toddler in the throes of a tantrum.

Thing is, I'm more in love with Z. now than ever.  Madly, deeply, profoundly, irretrievably in love with this little nut, so.....eh.  I guess I wasn't really going anywhere meaningful with this whole analogy.  Mostly I just think it's cute when she gets that impish glint in her eye.

It would be cool, though, if I could get a full orchestra to camp out in our living room - if I had to turn my back for a second, the ominous swell of music would be a huge help in tipping me off to any mischief in the making............         

This Round's On Me! (That's Tap Water You're Drinking, Right?)

Made our annual sojourn to the tax peeps.  Taxes done.  I'm getting a $12.00 refund.  No, the decimal point has not wandered off in the wrong direction, confused and disoriented.....that's T-W-E-L-V-E dollars.  Double digits.  $12.00!!  Don't be hatin' on me or anything. 

Oh, hell................why shouldn't I rub it in? 

What an awesome view from such a dizzying height!  What is this place, if not the pinnacle of success?!  TWELVE DOLLARS!  YES!  TREMBLE IN THE SHADOW OF MY INCALCULABLE PROSPERITY!

Or not.

Run, Forrest, Run!!!

This guy did it.  He found a way over the wall!  Or under it.  Or through it.  Whatever.  He's on the other side now.

I feel like Morgan Freeman in Shawshank Redemption.  Even though it hasn't happened to me yet, I gotta cheer for anyone who gets all Tim Robbins-y and burrows through all kinds of literal and/or figurative gunk in order to emerge on the other side, TRIUMPHANT, albeit a bit stinky. 

YOU GO, JONATHAN COULTON!  From cube-dwelling code monkey to rock star????  (In case you didn't follow the link above, he quit his day job in a fit of midlife crisis-ness, and is now making a mighty fine living as a musician.)  Mad respekt!  (Am I making a total ass of myself, continually trying to use street lingo in a convincing manner?  I'm just so enamored of that silly little nugget from the popular vernacular:  "mad respekt."  It's so reckless - free-spirited, free-thinking, unfettered by the oft dictatorial rules of spelling in which letters are forcibly strung together in a very particular order and strong-armed into performing hard labor as a chain gang, doing all the dirty work that perpetuates the squeaky clean image of proper English usage......but I digress........)

Anyway, how cool is this guy?  I just wanted to pass along this uplifting tale of inspiration, so we could all start our weekends off on an optimistic note.......

Because it's never too late.

Like One Of Those Greased Pig Contests, But With Much Higher Potential For Bloodshed

The better part of our day consisted of Z. running around the apartment with one of my t-shirts in hand, hell-bent on putting it on Cat #1.  As Z.'s knowledge of feline psychology is sketchy at best, I tried to draw for Z. a parallel between her endeavor and that of the mythological Sisyphus.  Sadly, Z.'s appreciation of Greek mythology is equally sketchy, and my explanation went right over her head.  The t-shirt, on the other hand, was at no point anywhere near the cat's head, because Z. stood firm in her belief that the correct approach is to dress a cat butt first.  What could I do?  If the Sisyphus angle failed to clarify anything, how do I begin to explain the pitfalls of anthropomorphism?

Cat #1 thankfully did not unsheathe a single claw. Sweet cat, yes - smart cat, noooooooo.  She would never move more than a few feet away from Z. in her decidedly lame effort to escape.  In fact, Cat #1's inability to commit 100% to unwillingness was confusing to Z., whose cries of frustration and rage soon filled the apartment.

Both Z. and Cat #1 are napping now.

Incidentally, Cat #2 - perched far, far above the aforementioned melee - found this whole charade hilarious.   

Adventures in Netflixing: "Across the Universe"

A+++.

I loved this in a visceral, knee-jerk way that I can barely begin to articulate.  Plus I'm still writhing on the floor in ecstatic appreciation over B.'s burst of babysitting benevolence last night.  I'm spent.

I mean, Eddie Izzard as an acid-trip-induced circus ringleader, even if only for one fleeting, melodious moment?  Weaving a bunch of beautifully reworked Beatles songs into a narrative and chucking some mind-bending aesthetics into the mix is hardly the worst way to spend a couple of hours, regardless.

Picture Mary Poppins, But With Serious Bollywood Flair and an Enviable Knowledge of Contemporary Poets......

.....and a million other talents.  Because this is the guise under which salvation travels these days.  That's how it rolls in our small universe, at any rate.

So last night, I.G. and I rejoined the ranks of the human race, or at least that segment of the population that leaves its apartment at night in pursuit of leisure time activity.  YES!  WE WENT ON A DATE!  OUR FIRST DATE SINCE Z.'S BIRTH! A DATE 17 MONTHS IN THE MAKING!

(You would think that a date 17 months in the making would carry with it some impossibly high expectations, but nah.  Our sights were set nice and low....we were just grateful to have no airborne food wind up on the walls or fellow dining patrons, and for the opportunity to speak in complete, uninterrupted sentences.)

For the casual observer who may have stumbled across this site by accident, a date 17 months in the making is one of the greater perils of starting a family in a city in which neither set of grandparents or any other family members reside, and in which one's closest friends are either child-free or - in one other isolated incident - (gasp!) living in the Valley.  But even if one finds oneself in such a setting devoid of indigenous babysitters, all hope is not lost!  At least if you are very, very lucky, a spectacular B.-shaped goddess may descend from above, floating in a giant, shiny, glowing bubble-like aura of radiant magnanimity and compassion, and land on one's living room floor to bestow relief! 

I.G. and I are in the process of (a) erecting a statue in beloved B.'s likeness, and (b) throwing a gala party in her honor, and maybe even (c) renaming the street we dwell on after her - such is the magnitude of our gratitude.  Due to budget constraints, all this hoohah will probably rely heavily upon (a) Play-Doh, and (b) Kool-aid in Dixie cups, and (c) sticking a post-it with crayon scrawl over an existing signpost, but know that our hearts are in the right place. 

All the better that the evening went without a hitch.  I.G. and I were not the only ones doing a happy dance when B. walked through the door.  Z. was sooooo thrilled to see B., she took to running around in circles whilst squealing her approval.  Even more remarkable, upon our return, Z. was not overly excited to see us back home again.  Uh, it's a wee bit humbling to recognize that Z.'s universe is expanding past the point where I am the end-all and be-all of human existence, but I know this is a good and healthy thing for her emotional development, so I'll just have to suck it up, however reluctantly.  Plus, who wouldn't want to hang with the divine B.?  I always have.

In the end, B. didn't run screaming into the night either (perhaps only because she was too exhausted and could barely manage to limp away in a semi-comatose state)......but even so.

B., my soul sistah, words cannot express.........I crumple in speechless gratitude at your feet.

Unconventional Reading Material

A friend of mine asked if there was any way I could upload a certain short film I wrote and directed so she could watch it - either here amidst the verbal spewfest, or elsewhere.  The short answer to that is, yes, there probably is a way I could upload it.  Unfortunately, I don't know how to.  I've made about a dozen attempts thus far to pull this off, to no avail.  We could chalk this failure up to my technical ineptitude.  However, I'd like to sidestep that particular theory and point a finger of blame at my computer, which harkens from the Cretaceous Period.  It makes hissing sounds and emits lots of smoke if I so much as save a particularly large document (i.e., anything longer than a greeting card) to the hard drive.  Needless to say, it really, really, really doesn't like it when I try to upload a 13 minute film.

However, for you, H.S., Here is the script, for your reading pleasure!  If anyone else is particularly bored today and would like to read along, feel free!  For the uninitiated, it's entitled, "Unconventional Habits."  'Twas a mockumentary about a nun with Tourette's Syndrome. 

Then again, perhaps it's a good thing I can't upload the film version.  The end result was OK, but not brilliant, in no small part due to the fact that I sucked moderately hard as a director, and only slightly less so as a co-producer.  Despite this PunkKittyDiddy-shaped handicap ensconced behind the camera while on set, Miss Bex still managed to be brilliant in her portrayal of the potty-mouthed nun (and was equally brilliant as a co-producer, for that matter).  The rest of the cast and crew also worked wonders given the lack of mad directing skillz I wielded.  I learned the hard way that I am but a simple girl, and I oughta stick to writing!  As a side note, Bex has vowed to teach herself Final Cut and re-edit our little opus, which heck, could also make it more watchable.

Still, I'm sure somewhere out there, Marty Scorsese is breathing a little easier with me permanently out of the running for that Best Director statue in this lifetime.......

OK, OK.  Not.

The Future of Correspondence Courses: Why Paralegal, When You Can Paranormal?

I decided that the topic of "dream jobs" deserves its own category here, because nearly every day I discover that someone has found yet another way to make a living doing the implausible, the absurd, and/or the hyper-specialized.  And man, am I envious. 

It kills me that no one - not my parents, not my teachers, no adult with an iota of influence - ever explained to me during those pivotal high school and college years that the world is chock full of fascinating and outlandish professions, and that you can often actually convince some fool to pay you to do fascinating and outlandish things for a living.  Perhaps you won't always be paid handsomely, but if you're having the time of your life, does that really matter? 

Here's another case in point:

PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR

I used to watch X-Files religiously, so it's not like this career was utterly unheard of to me, but I had more or less relegated it to the fictional realm.  And once more, fate scoffs in my skepticism-riddled face.  (I'm more Scully than Mulder in many respects.)  However......I recently stumbled across an episode of Paranormal State on A&E - another entry in the whole documentary/reality show genre.  The premise? 

Some kids at Penn State University formed a club called the Paranormal Research Society.  They go check out allegedly haunted houses.  When I was in college, you joined a club if you liked to speak French, or play chess.  I think now of all the time I wasted, standing awkwardly around some folding table in a rec room, hovering over a plate of stale croissants and brie, only to occasionally pipe up with, "Uh..........pardonez moi, ou est la toilette?", when I could have been mucking around with ouija boards and wearing black nail polish and channeling Elvis, or at least Herve Villachaize, instead.  Damn.  But I digress.......   

Now, technically, if the members of PRS are still students, then most likely it's more of an extracurricular activity at this point rather than a paid profession - BUT a quick jaunt through cyberspace uncovers a fair number of post-graduates who are handing out business cards with titles like, "Professional Ghost Hunter" emblazoned on 'em.

Some people have all the luck.

I'm not saying I necessarily believe in ghosts.  But I think entering this profession could easily be a win-win situation.  Who's most likely to hire you?  People who are convinced their house is haunted.  So right out of the starting gate, you have a hell of a lot of leeway.  I'm pretty sure I could keep a straight face while saying stuff like, "The spirit I'm sensing here is angry with your presence, because she was a woman of wealth and taste, and you are a truck driver named Billy-Ray who leaves toenail clippings and empty beer cans strewn about her once-immaculate dining room.  Yeah....she wants you out.  Hey, this is a nice little 3 bedroom, 2 bath spread here.....what'll you sell for?"

Well, maybe that's more along the lines of what a paranormal psychic would say (and not necessarily an ethical one).  Paranormal investigators get to say stuff like, "Whoa, the magnetic reading in this corner of the attic is off the charts!" while carrying gadgets that randomly beep and light up.  (Everything's high tech these days, after all.)  But my point being, who's gonna prove you wrong?  I'm pretty sure it won't be Billy-Ray.  And on the off-chance that a real ghost does decide to speak up and expose your little scam, well............at that point you'll have bigger fish to fry beyond bilking some gullible homeowner.

Potential stumbling block:  you most likely have to allow yourself to first get bilked by someone who claims they can 'certify' you to become a paranormal investigator.  Oh, yes, certification is available - at a price, of course.  Yet perhaps this is a small price to pay in exchange for the privilege of adding the hallowed word, "CERTIFIED!" to "Professional Ghost Hunter" on that aforementioned business card.

I'm SO adding this to my list of potential post-stay-at-home-momming professions to contemplate. 

And many more to come, guaranteed.  Watch this space........