PunkKittyDiddy

The Pre-K Music Video Critic: Whereby Billy Idol Fails to Do Anything Right

Z. is now five years old, and she's developed a keen interest in music videos.  Given our desire to impart in her a love for the arts, and a healthy respect for pretty much any form of creative expression, this should come as no surprise.  What is slightly surprising is that, despite our attempts to mold her into a free-thinking bohemian of some sort, she's developing unmistakably pragmatic leanings. 

I offer up Z.'s initially staid observations on a small and not-so-random sampling of music videos:

Upon beholding Billy Idol's complete lack of social decorum at a formal affair in 'White Wedding':

"He ruined that wedding." 

[Editor's Note:  Yes.  Yes, he did.  And this is just ONE of the many pitfalls that one can expect when one marries a musician, little missy.]

Upon beholding Billy Idol acting as a gyrating human semi-conductor to repel well-coiffed zombies in 'Dancing with Myself':

"That's not really how you kill zombies."

[Editor's Note:  No.  Not it's not.  SO proud that she knows this.]

As I teetered on the brink of despair, fearing that we were saddled with an unrepentant and slightly dour realist for the next thirteen years, she soon rallied.

Upon beholding Billy Idol merely riding a motorcyle in 'Hot in the City':

"He's riding a motorcyle.  That's all he's doing.  I don't like this video."

Poor Billy. He can't win.

"I Don't Know How She Does It"

I'm not seeing this damn movie. After beholding the nincompoopery of the trailer, it got stuck in my craw and has been jackhammering around in there like the Tasmanian Devil on crack.  Why?  

The title pisses me off.

While I realize the title is likely meant to be coy and purely rhetorical, it falls sooooo short of the mark, it's ridiculous.   A box of rocks could figure out how she does it.  The trailer drops more clunky, minivan-and-farm-silo-sized clues than an F-5 tornado.

Clue #1:  Some of Sarah Jessica Parker's trademark banter is lobbed at (wait for it......) a nanny.  Let's mull over that one a bit.  Nanny?  Nanny.  Not ringing any bells so far.  Nanny.  Naaaaaanny.  Ohhhhhhhhh.  Nanny.  Right.  They must mean "nanny" in the "person who takes care of your kids for you" sense of the word.  (Not to be confused with the "female goat" connotation.)  

Indeed, Sarah Jessica Parker's character can comfortably afford one of those nanny types.

Were this the extent of it, there would already be sufficient evidence to allow for a title change to, Hey, I Think I MIGHT Know How She Does It.

Clue #2:  In this flick, Sarah Jessica Parker is married to Greg Kinnear.  Now, Greg isn't playing a sensitive, doting and earnest wife murderer as he did in The Gift (2000).  Noooooo siree.  It appears that he's merely playing a sensitive, doting and earnest husband.  One who'll do the bulk of the parenting and still gaze adoringly at her even though she's too tired to put out.

With this sort of ludicrousness in hand, I could make a strong case for retitling the movie, Are You SURE You Can't Figure Out How She Does It?!?!

Clue #3:  Sarah Jessica Parker's big-time, career-making client is played by Pierce Brosnan - a suave yet wholly understanding mogul who says things to her like, "It's OK to miss your kids."  He appears to be seconds away from offering her a foot massage.

Really?  That's it?  That's the big-time, career-making client with whom she must curry favor?  Not Will Farrell's Mugatu from Zoolander?  Not Kevin Spacey or Colin Ferrell from Horrible Bosses? Not Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada?  Not even Dabney Coleman from 9 to 5?

At this point in the trailer, I made a mental note to refer to the movie henceforth as, If You REALLY Can't Figure Out How She Does It, You're A Drooling Half-Wit.

To the film's hapless heroine, I can only taunt:  Call me when you grow some lady-balls and have a real obstacle to complain about.

 

Oy, My Aching Mandible.....

En route to the pediatrician for an annual check-up, Z. asks me, "Does everyone have to go to the doctor?"

 

Me:    "Yes."

Z.:      "Even grown ups?"  

Me:    "Of course.  Even grown-ups."  

Z.:      "Even ants?"  

Me:    "What an excellent question.  If they do go the doctor, they probably keep it within the species, you know?  Not unlike our society, they can't all be manual laborers.  It stands to reason that some of them must go to medical school....."

As usual, I was talking out my a**.  I thought we should consult an expert.  I don't actually have access to an entomologist, but since we were already en route to the doctor, perhaps he'd know if other species have also been known to produce overachieving type-A personalities who are determined to drive fancy imported automobiles and shop at Neiman Marcus. 

When Z.'s check-up was underway, I say to the doc: "My little friend over there was wondering if ants have to go to the doctor, too?"

He rolls his eyes, then looks at Z. and, without missing a beat, he says,  "They go to therapists.  What, you've never seen the movie 'ANTZ'?"

It's L.A..  We're all a little bit showbiz-obsessed.

She Calls 'Em Like She Sees 'Em

The other night at bedtime, Z. was adamantly refusing to do that whole "horizontal, silent and motionless" thing.  Refusing, and making her point in no uncertain terms.  Of course, four year olds can dispatch melodrama like nobody's business.  You'd normally have to travel to Naples and get stuck in a rush hour traffic jam there to witness the level of hand-wringing and gesticulating that she was unleashing in my general direction.  It was like my very own instant Tuscan vacation!  (OK, not really........)

So I ask her, "How many more times am I going to have to tell you to stay in bed?!"

Her response?  "Lots."

Pass the vino, please.

The Pre-K Cinema Critic: "Predator" (1987)

I feel one of my parental obligations is to provide my child with a solid foundation in culture and the arts.  Immersion in classic cinema is an important part of this curriculum.

Cue Predator (1987), which was showing on Spike the other night.  It was edited for television anyway, plus for a nearly-four-year-old, she is already sporting a serious sci fi/supernatural genre preference.  (Gee, I don't know where she gets that from...)

At any rate, she didn't think much of this movie.  More specifically, she didn't think much of the characters.  And it wasn't a "You call this a character arc?" or an "I don't find his stoicism in the face of mortal danger to be believable" development-related complaint.  She didn't even take issue with the typically terse, action-movie-appropriate Ahhhnuld-esque dialogue.  Rather, she felt the characters were too wimpy, and she completely lost interest during the scene where Ahhhhnuld and his gang of fellow commandos were crawling G.I. Joe style on their bellies through the jungle undergrowth toward the enemy camp.  She watched this segment with a fair amount of incredulity, and could barely contain her disgust.

"They're crawling," she pointed out.  "Like babies."

I never really considered it from that perspective before, but yeah - I guess they were.

(And yes, her anti-baby smear campaign continues....)

The Christopher Walken Finishing School for Girls

Admit it.  It's a great freakin' idea. 

Now if I weren't already reasonably sure that Christopher Walken hasn't opened some sort of etiquette-focused finishing school for girls, I would suspect that little Z. (who is now the ripe old age of three and a half) has been stealing money from my purse and spending it on tuition at such a place.   

Not to digress, but.........am I dating myself for even using the term, "finishing school"?  Although, in this era in which ladies of a certain elementary school age are more likely to pack heat than know which one is the salad fork, maybe Christopher Walken would be a more relevant tutor than, say, Emily Post.

Back on topic:  Z. is blossoming into a friendly, albeit fearless, little lady.  Alas, it's a sad commentary of our times (or maybe just of life in Los Angeles) that she'll often approach others (kids and adults alike) to say, "Hi!" and gets no response.  She routinely gets blanked. People stare back at her like she's mugging them for milk money.  I get that we don't live in Mayberry, but are manners that out of vogue?  Would it kill people to stop sipping their half-fat grande lattes (yes, even the kids on the playground are hipsters) long enough to say hello back?  

It's OK, though.  She's come up with a solution.  It's a tad tough love, but hey - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. 

Today we were browsing in Marshall's, and Z. walked up to a random lady.  "Hi!" Z. said.  The lady looked at her with a "Does not compute" expression, then redirected her attention back to lovingly caressing the impressive assortment of polyester blouses in front of her. 

Z. persisted with another "Hi!"  Still no response.

Z.'s eyes got wide.  Buggy, Christopher Walken-manning-the-phone-lines-of-the-Psychic-Friends-Network-in-that-SNL-sketch wide. Actually, it wasn't just in her eyes.  She was channeling him.

She says to this lady, in a slightly unstable tone, "I SAID HI!  YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO SAY HI BACK!"

I'm pleased to report that this is how you get a response to an attempt at casual conversation in the greater Los Angeles area.

Z. then proceeds to browbeat this total stranger into having an actual conversation with her.  Just to make a point, I think.  She normally doesn't give a rat's ass what most adults have to say beyond "Hi."

Sheer genius.  Usually I try to keep Z. from harassing innocent bystanders, but I'm sorry - that broad had it coming.  If she'd just said hi back, things wouldn't have had to escalate into full conversation mode. 

I shudder to think how Z. will react when someone uses the wrong salad fork.  Plus, now I can vividly imagine taking her to the symphony, resplendent in a fancy dress and perhaps even gloves, only to have her suddenly shriek, "MORE COWBELL!"

Stay tuned.....

Trash Talk From The Mouths of Babes

I'm back from a writing hiatus and ready to resume the flibbertigibbetry.  Apologies for the long absence - or for the return, depending on how you view things.

I love that the Wee Z. (she of Hardly A Toddler Any Longer classification) is still at a relatively innocent age.  Take, for instance, her feeble attempts at trash talking.  At this point, the most heinous insult she can think to lob at someone is to call them a "werewolf."   (My Netflix viewing habits are probably at least partly to blame for this....in which case, it's a good thing I'm not a fan of Guy Ritchie or the Jackass franchise......)  Beyond "werewolf," the second most vitriolic insult she can conjure is to christen someone a "baby."  (Because, you see, she is a big girl now herself.  To be called a "baby" is the lowest of the lows.)  

So the other day, as we're weaving in and out of some particularly heinous L.A. traffic, a fellow motorist decided to cut us off.  Z. spent a good ten seconds sputtering in indignation before shouting, "Werewolf!  He's a werewolf!"  Then her eyes got all squinty a la Clint Eastwood.  (If she'd had a cigarette dangling from her lips, the resemblance would have been uncanny.)   An eerie and almost dead calm came over her wee face, and in a voice dripping with scathing contempt, she corrected herself.  "He's a baby werewolf," she sneered.

I withheld my instinctive reaction, which was to say, "That's it?  That's the best you've got?"  (One of my goals is to hone Z.'s verbal sparring skills to a sharp, needle-fine point, after all.)  

But I decided to let it slide.  Because one day....... a day all too soon in coming, I realize......I will yearn for such verbal impotence.  Particularly when it's aimed in my general direction...... 

Attack of the Man-Eating Pony

That very first pony ride is one of those universally beloved rites of childhood.

Unless you're dealing with carnivorous ponies, it turns out.

Yesterday we took Z. to a petting zoo that offers pony rides.  Z. went on a pony ride.  Z. understandably reached the conclusion that pony rides are awesome.  She wanted to go AGAIN.  Immediately.  We postponed putting her right back on another pony because we wanted her to hang out with the pigs, sheep, goats, chickens, cow and so forth, and take in the full petting zoo experience. 

Besides, the pony rides cost extra. 

Ah, but Z. was still drawn to the cute ponies, and kept gravitating in their general direction.  She was petting the nose of one pony in particular when it suddenly grabbed her thumb and chomped down pretty hard.  It didn't seem to want to let go, either.

After it was extracted from the mouth of the carnivorous equine, Z.'s thumb was now cut and bleeding.  It was a surprising amount of blood for a pony-inflicted wound. 

In approaching the staff about this, we were just looking for a sink and some soap where we could wash the cut.  We know accidents happen, and animals bite sometimes.  We didn't approach the proprietor in an angry manner, an accusing manner or a highly litigious manner in which we threatened to take them for everything, including their last bale of hay and their very last flea on their very last chicken.  We weren't out for blood (unlike a certain pony).  We just asked if there was someplace where we could wash the bite. 

But the proprietor (after handing us a solitary wet wipe) says to us, in an incredulous manner, "What was her hand doing near the pony's mouth?"

She was so incredulous, I temporarily forgot about the sign out front that had lured us there in the first place.  The big ol' honkin' sign emblazoned with the words, "PETTING ZOO."  (Key word: petting.  Petting.  P-E-T-T-I-N-G).  We explained that the pony had taken a nip, and we know these things happen.  Now, I've seen the overzealous parents who want to behead anyone even indirectly responsible for a slight affront to their child.  We weren't being those parents.  We were being damn cool about the whole thing, I gotta say.  Whereas the proprietor was still relatively indignant.  We felt like we'd done something wrong.

We had another ticket for a pony ride, and frankly I wanted Z. to use it.  Because of all the childhood phobias she could possibly suffer from, I wasn't about to have her traumatized by ponies.  Clowns, sure.  Broccoli or creepy ice-cream-van-driving men, understandable.  But ponies?  Uh-uh.  No way.  Besides, there's that whole cliche about getting back on the horse that throws (or attempts to eat) you.  We were gonna nip this phobia in the bud.

With a little trepidation, she got back on another pony.  And she had a pretty good time.  Then the ride ended, and she got off the pony, and started crying some more about the other pony that tried to eat her.  I wanted to get her cut properly cleaned and put some ointment on it, anyway.  It seemed like a good time to leave.

On the drive home, I grew pretty indignant about how the proprietor was indignant about the incident.  And I had one of those "Hey, wait a minute...." dawning realizations.  Actually, several:

1. When we paid for admission to the place, they were eager to sell us those styrofoam cups filled with food for the animals.  And I guess we had this crazy notion that we ought to aim the food in the general direction of the animals' mouths.  Sure, we're city folk.  We don't deal with livestock on a daily basis.  Maybe farm animals operate differently than the domestic cat-and-dog kind we're familiar with.  Even so. Also, just a thought - if you don't want kids putting their hands near animals' mouths, maybe it's not such a good idea to sell food for the animals, and encourage the kids to, uh, feed them.
2. Z. wasn't poking, or prodding, or chasing, or shrieking at the pony.  We've raised her to be a good friend to animals.
3. For a place that caters to kids, it's a little strange that they didn't have a first aid kit on hand - or at least some band-aids and antibacterial ointment.  Or, you know.....a sink and some soap.
4. Would it have killed the proprietor to show a wee bit of sympathy?  Even if she felt we were in the wrong by letting Z. pet the pony at the (ahem) PETTING ZOO, it would have been nice for the lady to be....well....nicer.  "Say, is that bleeding wound OK now?  Poor thing," would have gone a long way toward mending fences.

The worst part is that Z. now seems slightly obsessed with the concept of man-eating ponies. She wanted to talk about them for the rest of the day yesterday - despite our attempts to make light of it.  When I put her to bed last night, she claimed she wasn't tired, and I tried to teach her about counting sheep. 

She wanted to know if the sheep were going to eat her. 

So - I now have on my hands a child who is fine with werewolves and vampires, but who is scared of ponies.

Go figure.

Adventures in Netflixing: "Underworld: Rise of the Lycans"

So tonight I wound up watching a portion of Underworld: Rise of the Lycans with my almost three-year-old daughter. 

Not on purpose, exactly.  It was just one of those moments of weakness that pops up along the path toward parental enlightenment (or maybe it's the path toward dog-tired submission.....I get those two states of being confused sometimes).  At any rate, it was one of those times when I have already said (for the fiftieth, or the seventieth, or the hundredth time):  "How many more times am I going to have to tell you to get back in bed?!!"

This eventually becomes a rhetorical question.  The Toddler has already done the math.  She likes her odds.  She knows I can't bring myself to say, "How many more times am I going to have to tell you to get back in bed?" for the fifty-first (or seventy-first, or one hundred and first) time.

So she walks into the living room right in the middle of a vampire versus lycan smackdown.  Her eyes get HUGE.  Not in a terrified way.  More like in a "You have been holding out on me......this is WAY better than Elmo!" way. 

And she asks, "What is this?"

I could have, and probably should have, told her, "I'm not going to tell you again......"

Instead I say, "It's werewolves versus vampires.  Level with me.  Which do you think is cooler?"

She pauses, watches a few more moments of footage, and appears to actually consider her response.  After a minute, she says, "Werewolves."

I ask her:  "Why?"  (Because kids say the damnest things.  It's true.)

And she says:  "Because the wolves go:  GARRRRRRRRGH!"

There are loads of debates going on in assorted horror fan chat rooms and message boards right now this very second, in which this exact same topic is being dissected by completely grown adults.........

......and I can assure you that, ultimately, her answer is no less legit than anything a person ten times her age can offer up.

True story.

Stuff I'd Rather Not Find On A Babysitter's Resume

An Open Letter To The Complete Strangers Whose Profiles I'm Now Trolling Through (In Nauseous Trepidation) On Various Babysitter Referral Websites:

Hey, I'm finally getting over my significant over-attachment issues!  This is a huge money-making opportunity for you.  Well, maybe not HUGE.  We don't get out much.  Once every couple of months would be a pretty accurate description.  Mostly we're OK with that.  BUT we're actually missing the Boosh tonight - my comedy heroes - when they've gone to the trouble of crossing an ocean and everything just to be in the same city as me.  Words cannot describe the level of disappointment we've sunk to over this.  Although "fathomless, disconsolate melancholy," or "abject, soul-searing agony" might come somewhat close.

See, we're apparently only one of a handful of parents on the planet who don't have grandparents living within a six hour commute.  And the few friends we know who also have kids in the greater L.A. area have tethered their sitters to a stake in the backyard, because it turns out that great babysitters (and by "great," I mostly mean "sane, without any priors") are a rare commodity. 

SO.  I stumbled across your profile on one of those babysitting websites upon which you introduce yourself to otherwise desperate parents.  Some of those sites offer background checks, at least.  That seems as good a criteria as any to start with.  Have you been to prison?  No?  Let's talk.

Now, I'll own up to the fact that I've possibly watched one too many episodes of Law & Order and CSI.  Which has taught me that even the seemingly calm, good-natured, mature and loving babysitter types inevitably have ties to Estonian child-slavery crime rings.  You also have to watch out for the quiet ones.  And the tall ones.  And the short ones.  And......

OK.  I could probably try harder to get over my rampant paranoia.  But meet me halfway, would you? There are a couple of things you could do to help put my mind at ease.  Here's what I'd rather NOT encounter in the profile or resume of a would-be babysitter:

• Glamour Shots:  I appreciate getting a visual on the person who is offering to keep my daughter safe.  Generally, a lack of prison ink will go a long way toward reassuring me about a candidate's viability.  On the other hand:  I don't really need to see you pouting suggestively, or displaying your (admittedly impressive) boob job, either.  Yes, this is Los Angeles.  Yes, there's the chance that you might get picked to babysit for some wealthy producer's kids and be discovered.  Am I being an uptight jerk here?  Maybe I'm overlooking the advantages of hiring a well-endowed sitter such as yourself.  I suppose if there's a flood - and I mean a massive, Biblical-scale one - those tits can be used as a flotation device, and my daughter can cling to you for life until I can commandeer a Coast Guard boat and make my way back to you guys.  In which case, I'll eat my words, and learn a Very Important Lesson about discriminating against large-breasted blonde au pairs.  Until then.......thanks, but I'm going to concentrate my efforts on perusing the profiles in which the less sexually-aggressive-looking women - you know, the ones who are cuddling babies and stuff - are featured.     
• Variations of Phrases Like "Thanks To The Economy, I Can't Find A Job Doing What I REALLY Want To Do, So Here I Am, Trying To Make The Best of Things!":  What?!  This wasn't your all-time number-one first choice of what you wanted to be when you grew up?  Join the club.  Now - put that piece of information in the vault, and seal it.  Or at least aim for a resume that is a tad less like a Real World confessional session.  When you are in a job interview (or attempting to land one), unless you're in a Monty Python sketch, you're probably not going to win anyone over by admitting you'd rather be a lion tamer. Although I'd like to grant you points for candor.  I really would.  Perhaps you aren't any worse than a person who will insist she loves kids - right before she locks them in the closet so she can watch The Bachelor uninterrupted.  Nor any worse than the person who insists that he or she loooooooves kids - and has the priors to prove it.  Which brings me to my third gripe.
• Going To The Other Extreme, And Insisting That You Love Kids SO Much, And That You Get "Really, REALLY Attached In A Short Amount of Time," and That Kids Are ALL You Think About!  Ever!:  Babysitter? Or Baby-Snatcher?  It's a fine line.  No, I shouldn't have watched that 1992 Lifetime movie starring Veronica Hamel.  But I did.  

Wow.  We're not leaving the house for another decade, apparently.

Never mind.

Signed,
A Bummed-Out Boosh Buff