PunkKittyDiddy

Potty-Mouthed Parrots In Proximity

True story.

We are lucky enough to have very cool neighbors.  One of them is an ex-Marine and current construction worker.  He and his wife are transplanted New Yorkers.  They own a couple of parrots (although judging by his reaction to them, I'd venture they are more hers than his).  Now, those parrots talk.  It may or may not surprise you to learn that the vocabulary spewed by a couple of parrots who live with an ex-Marine, former New Yorker and current construction worker is very colorful.

Lots of mornings begin with the parrots squawking, and our neighbor shouting, "F**K OFF!" at them.  Those two parrots give as good as they get, let me tell you.  They volley a massive round of "F**K OFF!!"s right back at him (in stereo, no less).  Sometimes our neighbor can't help but engage with them.  (Maybe it's a Marine thing?)  More "F**K OFF!"s from him.  More "F**CK OFF!!"s from them.  This can go on for a good ten minutes.  (It only feels longer sometimes........)

You would think this would be a really annoying way to start the day, but it's weirdly hilarious, and mostly it just makes me giggle.  Also, it helps to put my day, and my own pet ownership issues, in perspective.  It's not like I'm being awakened by the sound of gunfire tearing through the walls of my mud hut in the Congo or anything.  Plus, our dog and our cat may have their own idiosyncratic and sometimes maddening personality quirks......but at least my pets can't tell me to go screw myself. 

Counting your blessings is a really good way to start the day.  That's all I'm saying.

What I've Learned From The World Cup So Far

1. Never prance around in a big budget, globally telecast TV commercial in which you're depicted as an invincible immortal before you've won the top prize.  (I'm talking to you, Rooney.)
2. Bragging about what you're capable of diverts energy away from proving what you're capable of.
3. There is no such thing as a sure thing.
4. No matter how confident you are that God is on your side, try to get it in writing* before you proclaim it to the world.  (* Burning bush, parted sea, or comparable token gesture may be substituted for written contract....at your peril.)
5. Watching penalty shoot-outs after having consumed four or more cups of coffee within a two hour time frame is ill advised.
6. Mutiny is only effective if you have a pirate ship, a plank, and shark-infested waters at your immediate disposal.  It's also probably more convincing if your name is "Blackbeard" or "One Eyed Jack," not "Patrice."
7. I should buy stocks in the largest global manufacturer of body paint before 2014.
8. I should buy stocks in the largest global manufacturer of silly wigs before 2014.
9. I need to invent a more obnoxious noisemaker than the vuvuzela, manufacture it, and market it globally before 2014.  We'll trademark it and call it the "Pernicious Piehole Pipe of Perturbation," because it will be amusing to force sports commentators to say that repeatedly.  Who's with me?!?!?!?!?

Vindication!

Many have laughed at my shark phobia.  Many have said to me, "It's ludicrous that you live in Southern California, and refuse to wade into that blue, sparkling, refreshing ocean water any further than thigh deep, which even then you can never fully enjoy because you are secretly replaying those Shark Week video footage snippets in your head..... the ones in which the baritone voice-over guy says, "Joe Smith was enjoying an idyllic day at the beach with his family, and was wading no more than thigh-deep when.............." as the foreboding music swells.................."

OK, no one has actually said that to me verbatim, but it covers the gist of their meaning.

And then a bunch of great whites show up this past Labor Day Weekend in Cape Cod, and they have to close the beaches.

Who's laughing now?  If I had a shrink, he or she probably would be.  But that doesn't mean I don't feel vindicated by such stories.

My Clever Crimpy Calling Plan

So I've been amusing myself by assigning new and amusing ringtones to different callers.  Booshy ringtones, to be specific.  As a general rule, "Future Sailors" is the default ring for friends in my Contacts list.  The "Bouncy Castle Song" is assigned to a few frequent callers - because it's such a happy little tune.  (The "Arctic Tundra Rap" is still up for grabs, if anyone wants it?  P., you sir, perhaps?  Even though we never speak on the phone?  Or have you a different request, sir?)

But I have to say that the stroke of soundtrack-matchmaking genius on my part comes from assigning "Eels" to unknown callers.  The lyrics, "Eels up inside ya, finding an entrance where they can...boring through your mind, through your tummy, through your anus.........eels!" make the intrusion of telemarketers almost entertaining...........

92 Degrees. Feels Like: What That Guy Nietzsche Said, About The Abyss Gazing Back Into You.....

I realize that trolling for writing jobs on assorted internet help wanted sites is a somewhat passive approach to career management.  On the one hand, I've landed some truly cool gigs this way, but the tiny part of my brain that has been placed in charge of "Career Development" (it's the itty bitty, microscopic segment nearly entirely obscured by the much bigger piece of gray matter designated with the task of, "Coming Up With Five Hundred Ways To Say Rhapsodic Things About Chocolate") knows that to really and truly set the world on fire, you have to be assertive and GO AFTER the big opportunities, rather than wait for them to come to you.

So that's what I'm gonna do, damn it! 

To start with:  I want the job writing the "feels like" blurbs for the temperature readings at Weather.com.  You know.  Like today's entry:  87 degrees.  Feels like:  87 degrees.

Far be it from me to cast aspersions at a fellow writer (OK, maybe a few teensy aspersions.....), but I could write circles around the schmuck whose work I just cited above! "87 degrees.  Feels like:  87 degrees?"  Seriously, dude?

To the editors at Weather.com, I would like to present a small glimpse into my unfettered creative prowess:

• 100 degrees.  Feels like:  raw magma, wrapped inside hellfire, wrapped inside some tinfoil and left on the smoldering asphalt in Yuma, Arizona.
• 110 degrees:  Feels like: the apocalypse! Wrapped inside some tinfoil and left on the smoldering asphalt in Yuma, Arizona.
• 30 degrees.  Feels like: Siberian winter, wrapped inside dry ice, wrapped inside real ice, placed on a floating glacier remnant and pushed out to sea, with only a blended margarita and a below-40-degree wind chill to keep it company.
• 67 degrees.  Feels like:  Reading Chaucer, while on Ambien.  
• 47 degrees, with heavy showers.  Feels like: what Charles Dickens said, about how "Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead."
• 79 degrees.  Feels like: what Oscar Wilde said about how "Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative....."

(Maybe I should stricken those last few samples from my portfolio.  Best to get past my 90 day probation period before I reeeaallly start blowing their minds with heavy literary interpretations of storm fronts and low pressure systems......)

Boo-YAH!  How ya like me NOW, Weather.com?  Huh? 

(So, seriously....call me, OK?  I work cheap-ish.....)

Non-Operational Car = Non-Operational Brain? A Theory.

I.G.'s truck is in the shop.  Again.  And by "again," I mean in the "fourth time in three months" sense of the word.  We're being bilked by shifty-eyed con men, and they're not even smooth-talking shifty-eyed con men.  They leave his truck parked out on the curb in front of their shop for a week at a time, undisturbed.  In plain view.  On a major thoroughfare.  This time around, the vehicle has been almost wholly encased by a massive cobweb, and a small band of drifters seem to have taken up residence in the truck bed, yet, when I.G. calls them up to ferret out how the "repairs" are going, the "mechanics" insist they're working on it. 

How?  Telekinetically? 

I've lost track of the number of times it has been recommended to us that we just buy a new car already.  While I appreciate the well-meaning attempts to guide me through the linear thought process (old car = non-operational; new car = operational; operational car = shimmering, sparkling, rainbow-straddling unicorns enjoying happy fun time...YAY!  Ergo, replace old car with new car!  Problem solved!), it's not like I was unable to take that leap on my own.  It's just that it's easier to take such a leap with the accompanying income to acquire and insure said new car.

Alas, our ownership of a non-operational auto coincides with our ownership of one moderately-operational house.  Yup.  The fixer house needed more fixin'.  That is a whole other, separate anecdote - a story so far-reaching and convoluted, it requires its own zip code.  Sure, I could bore you with details of an old, also non-operational A/C system, and us living in a locale in which the sun squeezes out tangible streams of magma in lieu of rays during the summer months, but....... that's another senseless blurb for another senseless day.  Even though I'm not going anywhere, and have all the time in the world to tell you about it (from the confines of my now well-air-conditioned domicile).

Since at the moment I'm a home-based freelancer, and one placed in charge of a toddler with no firm social or academic obligations, it makes more sense for I.G. to have the one remaining operational vehicle.  For now - until I land more freelance clients, or an actual, real job - we're trying to suck it up and adjust to life as a one-auto household. 

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd the cabin fever has been ratcheted up a few notches around here. 

The thing is, I have a pretty high tolerance for social isolation.  Up until recently, I've not been the least bit concerned just because my coiffure is a tad Unibomber-y, and it hadn't felt that unusual that the only other human companionship I enjoy during the day is provided by a person who believes that canned ravioli is the height of both human culinary achievement and avant garde fashion.  And yet......sometimes when Z. starts rapidly swinging her head back and forth in order to see how many times she can smack herself in the face with her own braids, instead of pointing out to her that that's NOT sane behavior, I just laugh, because it's the funniest thing I've seen all day.  (OK, it's the only thing I've seen all day.)  And maybe it's a bit feral-Jodie-Foster-ish that wee Z. and I communicate almost solely via Boosh crimps.  Maybe outsiders would even find it a bit creepy that, when I ask Z. what she wants for lunch, and she says, "Future sailors, cyborg sea-dog, tell me what you dream of..............," I know that she really means, "Hot dogs," but......

Wait....where was I going with that?  Did I have a point?  Could I even make a point if I wanted to?

You see?  The part of my brain that used to facilitate linear thought process is suddenly looking a lot like I.G.'s truck, sitting on the side of the road, untouched, and with grim future prospects. 

Yikes.  I should get out of the house more.  Oh........ that's right.  I can't.  So, if my rants here continue to deteriorate and are soon lacking not only cohesion, but also discernible, identifiable, real words....

Phferrerminix!  Aspuhl nadot wesleyhead.  Juop quor?

(Crap.  Too late.)

Sy Fy - Why?

Maybe the folks at the Sci Fi Channel are on to something. 

I'm going to change the spelling of my name to H-O-T F-U-D-G-E S-U-N-D-A-E and see if it makes me more universally appealing!  But don't worry - it will still be pronounced "Julia Diddy," so as not to alienate the people who think "rebranding" is totally lame.......

When The Going Gets Tough........

........the tough brand themselves, and "hybridize" their skills, and do other smart-sounding things that Forbes recommends in times of economic crisis.

Yesterday I got all but downsized out of another freelance gig.  The work isn't gone altogether - just dried up by about 90%.  So the better part of yesterday afternoon was spent doing a blitzkrieg tour of the many stages of grief.  There was denial....anger.....chocolate....tequila.....and some other stuff.  The tequila kind of obliterated the last couple of stages...... 

Mine isn't a dignified, Ingrid Bergman sort of grief, either.  Hell no.  I emit high-pitched sounds that fracture canine eardrums.  I leak a dizzying array of fluids from every cranial orifice.  What is a decorous trembling lower lip on some people becomes grotesque performance art on my mug.

But then I thought, screw it.  I mean, sure.....less income = bad.  But more free time?  Good!  Great!  I reminded myself that, when life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade a really intricate lemon souffle and then craft an art deco perfume decanter out of the rind, because you have the time to spare now.

Finally, I can make time for other important tasks I've been neglecting!  Like getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon.  And finishing up my Really Weird Novel.  Yeah, I decided I don't have a Great American Novel in me.  But that Really Weird One has been sitting around half-finished for forever already.  And I'm kind of excited to get back to that.

Forbes tells me I should be teaching myself Chinese, or how to decode the human genome, in my newly flexible free time, but mostly, the OCD part of my brain just wants to sit around all day doing this to watermelons:

And you know what?  I'm gonna!  When I'm not otherwise occupied with finishing up my Really Weird Novel.  Because it's my pity party, and I can celebrate however I like.

Frak Forbes!

The Secret Life of Pioneer Women

 I wonder if previous generations - like, say, the pioneers - ever complained about their lack of emotional fulfillment, or gripes with their significant others.  I know historically we've portrayed the pioneers as a hardy, industrious people.  And historically, they've kind of portrayed themselves that way, too.  Like this guy, who was mostly concerned about keeping starvation at bay.   But I bet they did their fair share of whining about stupid, petty crap.  I'm sick of catching myself in mid-whine and thinking to myself, "Ahhhh, but if I were a pioneer, I would be too busy tending to a field and six kids to worry about whether my mate should rephrase his comment about my hips............" 

Or maybe it's just me.  Maybe I would have made one whiny pioneer.  Maybe, while Willa Cather was busy crafting "O Pioneers," I would have still been inclined to write the pioneer-woman's equivalent of "He's Just Not That Into You" (subtitle:  "All He Cares About Is That Lousy Mule and Avoiding Death by Starvation").

Self-awareness is sobering.  Better perhaps that I lie to myself, and imagine I would have risen to the occasion, and sucked it up, and just tended to the chickens without complaint.......

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back In The Water.....

 ...and if you did, you're a damn fool.  It's never safe.  I could have told you that. 

I've only included the photo to the left because it underscores my conviction that I'm not sure it's all that safe on land, either.  I go to the movies.  I know that there are rogue scientists out there who like to keep a hand in genetic mutation, and it's only a matter of time before some hardened murderers on death row are subjected to involuntary and illegal experiments in which their DNA is crossed with that of a great white predator.........but I digress.

Many laugh at my fear of swimming in the ocean.  Jaws was just a movie, they tell me.  Words like, "paranoid" and "unable to distinguish between fact and fiction" get bandied about in my presence.

 And then there's an upsurge in shark attacks somewhere in the world, and people act all surprised.

Who's laughing now?  Maybe the "veteran shark hunter" guy who is quoted in the above article as saying, "Humans are next in line on the food chain.  It's definitely going to get worse."  I mean, who wouldn't be deterred by warnings that a man-eating predator lurks in the very water you hope to snorkel and backstroke in?!?!?!? 

Sorry, but "becoming chum" is not top on my list of things to do on a vacation. 

Yes, yes....I've read the full article.  It does go on to point out that more people die from bee stings and lightning strikes than shark attacks.  Well, I don't hang out near bee hives or on a hill clutching a lightning rod in the middle of a thunderstorm, either. 

And, as the article concludes, "...there is something about being eaten that resonates with swimmers."

Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah.  No kidding.