Meet Teddy Larkspin

Our original weekend plans for our time in Ireland included hiking, climbing, castle watching and sheep observation (I suspect that in their natural habitat, sheep stand around chatting about the appalling state of the fencing on the cliff-side bluffs around the Irish countryside, plotting a campaign to increase safety standards in the work environment, but taking the obligatory time out to complain about the weather).

When we arrived in Cork, we made it a priority to acquire last year’s “Tour the Aran Islands” mountain bikes at a very reasonable rate from our friendly local bike shop. We love the freedom of biking around town, avoiding all the worst traffic and parking issues that come with living in a city riddled with one way streets, traffic circles, and zoned parking. Traffic laws don’t pertain to those who own bicycles… (Lizz Robnett, perpetuating the problem). Even going to the grocery store is an adventure on a bike! One can only get home by conjuring up childhood Tetris skills in an attempt to fit all their grocery store purchases into two small bike baskets. YOU trying fitting a box of cereal, a bag of

granola, a jug milk, a head of lettuce, a bag of apples, a bag of pears, a sack of potatoes, celery, cucumber, fish, bread, a container of pesto, two mozzarella balls, a container of yogurt, an 18 pack of eggs, 2 chocolate chip cookies, strawberry-rhubarb jelly, the smallest jar of peanut butter I’ve ever seen, a heart attack sized salami, and a stuffed chicken into a 9”x14” basket that has been precariously zip tied to the back of YOUR bike! …I rocked at Tetris…

Aside: Peanut butter is SOOO American – I know this because I hear about its American-ness ALL THE TIME! Please, tell me about how bad peanut butter is for me while you spread a thick layer of Nutella on your brown bread, go ahead, but a few things first: 1) I admit that Jiff has its problems, but all natural peanut butter is actually quite nutritious. 2) Though it is believed that peanut butter was developed by botanist/inventor/peanut product aficionado George Washington Carver of Missouri (circa 1890), in actuality peanut butter was developed by the Aztecs, who I’m pretty sure, in the 15th Century, had a very different idea of “westernizing” the world. Still worried about Americans taking over the world, one jar of peanut butter at a time? Well, in a slightly disappointing turn of events filled with irony and my own disillusionment - it was a Canadian chemist by the name of Marcellus Gilmore Edson who originally gained the patent on today’s version of peanut butter. So, HA! The cat it out of the bag Canadians! Don’t worry; we won’t blame you if you feel the need to slap American flags to all of your bags in order to shield you from all those comments stereotyping Canadians as Peanut Butter lovers.
I find myself liking peanut butter even more now that I’m having to defend its honor on a weekly basis.


All that fun aside, we recently decided that in order to realize our dreams of a weekend adventure that doesn’t necessarily involve 2kg of potatoes and a litany of dairy products, we would either need to commit to something with four wheels or be stuck wishing that the local bus system came with cup holders, a place to put your wet gear, and about 10,000 more “off the beaten path” bus depots.

As we all know, car years are more similar to cat years than our own, in that we’re not exactly sure how they work, but we’re pretty sure that they have a considerably shorter lifespan, no matter what you feed them, and that there is some exponential component that hits you entirely out of left field; one day you’re fuzzy little friend is vibrant and zooming around with endless amounts of energy and the next, you spend $3000 replacing the EVERYTHING.

As our time here in Ireland is yet to be determined, we decided to forego the unwanted attachment issues and sentimentality that comes with the honeymoon years of owning a new vehicle by skipping straight ahead to “do you hear that funny rattling sound?” 

Meet Teddy Larkspin. Teddy makes up in character and retro style photo ops what he lacks in youth and general function.

What was that Teddy? Everything hurts? AND you hate hills? Push on Teddy… push on.

Seeing our mechanic’s eyebrows arch when we told him Teddy’s age was about as amusing as the fact that the purchase of this vehicle essentially resulted in an immediate relationship with our neighbor’s mechanic.

Though we were originally going for something which might accommodate two adults comfortably resting in the back seat with hot chocolate, sleeping bags, and a travel sized game of Yahtzee, we’ve settled on something with a bit lower gas mileage and room in the “boot” for a 2 person tent, a Jetboil, and an unidentifiable object that continues to rattle about.



On to bigger adventures, my friends… On to Hiking in Ireland! To be continued…

It's Snowing

It’s snowing.  

In my experience “talking about the weather” has always been used as a euphemism for “meaningless filler conversation.” So when I say that the Irish love to talk about the weather, make no mistake, they actually enjoy talking about the weather… as a serious topic of conversation. However, when asked to describe the weather in Ireland, I have yet to come across a single local that doesn’t describe it as “dreadfully awful.” Really? Dreadfully awful? Not just one or the other, but, in fact, both? When confronted with the fact that it is sunny and windless outside the response typically includes the word “unseasonable”, a look towards the sky, and a “Thanks be to God.”

10 pts and a packet of biscuits to whoever
can accurately reference this picture.

Aside: I always thought that, if there is a god(dess), s/he/it would be somewhere in the ether (think ancient alchemy, not oxygen), the energy of everythingness, as opposed to in the sky. In this case, instead of looking at the sky when referring to God, wouldn’t you just look around at everything, all wide eyed? Granted, that might come across as more scary and weird… OR God might be so magnanimous that our universe could represent one molecular structure that contributes to the formation of one crumb of one biscuit that sits in a cupboard awaiting to be eaten… which is why it’s so dark in space! We could quite literally be the cream in God’s coffee.

Being able to discuss the weather is so important that during our first semester of Irish Language 101, our first lesson was on how to introduce ourselves and the second was on talking about the weather (yes, we are taking Irish. We will, at some point, be able to chat about the weather in Irish… to each other). We spent the better part of the semester describing every climate condition that we could potentially run into here in Ireland. I have no idea how to ask where the bathroom is or how much something cost, but I can certainly tell you all about how terrible the wind/fog/lashing rain was last night; should the sun come out tomorrow though, it’s still bound to be “an-fhuar ar fad!” (REALLY F’ing COLD!).

We came to this country with the words of Irish countryman Oscar Wilde in our conviction: “there is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.” When we showed up to a club event on a rainy, windy, day wearing jackets, the event coordinator took one look at us, shook his head with a smirk and just said “…you’re so American…” before checking off our names and walking away.

Perhaps people consider the weather to be so horrible because they refuse to change their wardrobe to include something more insulating than a jumper (a sweat shirt) and a pair of jeans. Of course the weather is shitty if you’re dressing for a mild autumn day in California! What? The Irish weather conditions didn’t meet your expectations AGAIN?! Strange!

Since we arrived here in August, people around Ireland have been proclaiming that this would be, by far, the harshest winter seen in Ireland for decades! Over the course of the first month I heard this no less than 37 times. Even with August being one of the longer months (both in days and daylight) this seemed gradually more and more suspect; 2-3 mentions = interesting, 4-5 = believable, 20+ = fanaticism. By the end of August there was genuine shock amongst the locals that the sun hadn’t yet disappeared for the year and there was a general consensus that the Indian Summer, typically reserved for September, must have arrived early. So much for September... When the sun stuck around through the bulk of September and crept into October (this is when all of the rain clouds most commonly park themselves over the entire country, like a nation-wide word bubble that says “our weather blows”), we were assured that the weather was whimsically unseasonable, more than warm by Irish standards, and that there would be an influx of melanoma patients country wide. AND clearly this was the calm before the storm!

I’ve come to learn that these declarations of “worst winter ever” are made with the same conviction each year - by everyone (clearly they were wrong about last year, but this year will be different).

One of two things is happening here:

1) The weather does, in fact, get increasingly worse each year, leading us to believe that southern Ireland will soon take over as the new Moscow - in which case I am wholly prepared to wear an entire sheep… the entire one… “did your hat just BAAAHHH, at me?” Yes sir. Yes it did.

2) Global warming is fucking up local weather predictions, which have remained exactly the same for well over 200 years; the island may, in fact, be becoming increasingly warmer, leaving everyone totally dumb founded at their fantastic weather and therefore justified in complaining that they were woefully unprepared for how bloody nice it has been. 200 years from now, if the populations continues to increase at its current rate of -2 million/100 years, there will be approximately 12 men left in Ireland, all named Seán, and all of whom will be sitting on a bar stool in jeans and hoodies complaining about how dreadfully hot and humid it is, BUT how potentially fucked their winter will be. FYI - while we know that Global Warming has contributed to more erratic weather patterns worldwide, erraticism is defined by the unpredictability with which things happen, rendering all guestimations of spontaneously shitty weather null.

3) While these proud Irish love talking about the weather, they also seem to have a rather pessimistic view of their motherland, which, in combination, leads to an exhausting continuum of Armageddon winter/“Day After Tomorrow” style winter vortex discussions.

4) When have I ever stopped at 2?

It was in retaliation to the general climate pessimism here that we refused to accept the necessity of radiant heat for several months until, reluctantly, sometime in late November we finally admitted to ourselves that it was time to run the heater.  Learning to use the heater/thermostat in our little home was surprisingly complicated for two graduate level students, reminding me that practical knowledge accompanies experience. Life lesson, check.

I MacGyvered a drafty window!

Turning on the heat was legitimately a good idea. Admittedly, the return of feeling to my fingertips was vital to my concentration, a cold nose is very distracting, and knitting a gigantic beanie for the yoga ball in order to make sitting on it bearable now seems like a ridiculous idea. I expect that I will be far more productive now that some of my energy can be allocated  to brain function rather than being reserved for heating my extremities.

Right now it is snowing; this is FINE because I brought my dad’s down fill safari adventure jacket - appropriate for the rugged mountainous outback of California or the 1978 secret coffee shop rendezvous in sub-zero temperatures – circa 1978 (it comes complete with enlarged wind proof collar, multi-function utility pockets, sweat stains, and an enthusiastic mustache!)

The City of Cork is currently at a level “Red” weather alert due to the 1 inch of snow and the 4 inches of slush accumulating around the city’s low lying areas. According to the weather warning, it is inadvisable to go to said low lying areas, do any form of roof work, or put chairs outside on your deck (real).

Although my classroom is located on the third floor, the building itself is arguably located in a low lying area… heretofore time to make a blog entry.

We’ve been remiss in our blogging goals, but it turns out that graduate school is actually quite demanding and being an immigrant is full of time-consuming red tape.  Who knew? That said, we are currently full of New Year’s resolution and pre-semester optimism, so stay tuned.  Or comment, or sign up so that if we ever do write another blog entry, you’ll be the first to know. 

Welcome to the Blog, Blog

Hello All - 

I've been promising to get a blog up and running for quite some time now, but as most of you know, going for a long run straight off the couch seems a horribly committing idea, as you're liable to tear something. 

I'll bet you're thinking the blog is just now starting up now?! But there's been so much over the last few months! They can't possibly start up in the middle of Ireland. The middle is so... wet. 

As luck would have it, we've been noting particularly notable events since leaving our beloved Hawaii and all of its lovely inhabitants.

Some of these tidbits arrive in the form of bullet points and single sentence quips, others in the form of long drawn out exhibitions on the influence of the butter market on the economic success of the new Irish Free State in the early 20^th century (sorry about that).

Neither Kelly nor I have qualms with slowly filtering all of those examples of our erudition into the blog during weeks of pure study and life hatred, in order to spare you from the pessimistic view of a conflicted grad student at the beginning stages of a lengthy unwelcome term paper.

 Note: While you may think that my use of the word “erudition” was as a result of my shameless involvement with a Thesaurus that I’ve lovingly named Ducky (if you get that reference, you understand me entirely), in fact, it stems from a far more shameless involvement with the book Divergent.

All that said:

Due, in part, to Kelly’s belief that time is an artificial construct, I can guarantee nothing in the way of a linear blog timeline and plan to post topics at random, coincidentally mirroring my thought process on a daily basis.

If there is anything that you’d like us to look into while we’re here in Ireland, please let us know and we’ll attempt to research your topic. If you’d like to know things we’ve failed to mention about daily life here in Ireland, like common industrial ventures or what the local cuisine has to offer, feel free to cast that query on over as well… though I gotta tell you, the answer is probably dairy or potato related and is yielding a highly suspect amount of flatulence from us both.

Hope you enjoy this stumble down the bunny hole. As always, thanks for being part of our journey.

Sláinte!

Lizz and Kelly

Intro to GAA (pronounced “gaw”, like Lady Gaga, but minus one syllable and a wardrobe made entirely of meat products)

* Disclaimer: The following is based on our admittedly limited understanding of Gaelic sports.  Inaccuracies may exist.  Any reader who finds a discrepancy, please feel free to let us know in a gentle, non-condemning way.  We understand the seriousness of one's attachment to sport.

The GAA -

The Gaelic Athletic Association, or GAA, consists primarily of two major sporting leagues: Hurling and Gaelic Football - though, to be thorough, the GAA also includes handball and rounders, and promotes elements of culture such as Irish dance, music, and language (how do you compete in language?!).  Both are fast-paced field games involving moving a ball around a 100 meter field very quickly, with the aim of scoring either through uprights or in the netted-goals below them.  

The GAA has a rather interesting cultural-political history, which we learned about through the enthusiastic ramblings of Uncle Finbar, a man who has consistently avoided all GAA sports for the last 37 years due to some of their political decisions back in the 70s. Finbar's long lived GAA grudge, stems primarily from their ban on players (all of whom are unpaid) participating in non-GAA sports in their free time.  The GAA would, historically speaking, suspend a player if that player was observed or found to be participating in “English” games such as soccer or rugby in their free time or during the off season (which we think is a two week period sometime in September).  Though this policy is no longer in place, these unfair actions on the part of the GAA continues to rub Uncle Finbar the wrong way (perhaps the counter-cultural direction) -displaying a grudge that only a proper Irish sports fan, or a WWE wrestler named The Detonator, could be proud of.

Here is a more detailed account of the history of GAA, for anyone interested.

Also for your viewing pleasure, is the Official GAA youtube station.

Brief overview of the two main GAA sports (aka 2/3 of the Irish national past time):

Hurling.  Hurling and Camogie are the same sport, played with the same rules and the same equipment, but separated by the equipment in your pants.  Camogie, pronounced “ka-mo-gee”, is simply played by females.  From what we gather, as Ireland continues in being a patriarchal culture (with much the rest of the world), the sport itself in almost always referred to as Hurling - only further specified when women are on the field.  For the sake of simplicity, we will follow this unfortunate rule, though Camogie is more fun to say and seems a bit more Irish... but whatever.  Hurling is played on a soccer-sized field with net goals set up on either end (like in soccer or hockey), under uprights (like in American football or rugby). The baseball-sized “slitter” is moved up the field by either whacking it (technical term) - usually with a hurly (the over sized wooden mixing spoon in picture) and occasionally with a bare hand - or by dribbling it on the hurly (think egg-on-spoon race at a 6 year old's birthday party). The person on the receiving end of a pass is catching the slitter with their bare hands (sounds dirty), then is given a 4 step window before either passing, dribbling, or scoring (...you know...scoring... with a slitter... still dirty). Goals are scored when a player uses the hurly to whack the slitter through the uprights (for one point) or into the protected net goal (for three points). Players are generally capable of scoring through the uprights from the very edge of mid-field while sprinting full out with a sizable man running at him brandishing a club like object (highly skilled scoring with a slitter). For Example.

 

Gaelic Football.  Gaelic Football, or Football as it's plainly called here, retains its name no matter which sex is playing, though “Ladies” is added as prefix to differentiate (because the boobs on the field weren't clarifying enough).  The rules for Gaelic Football are quite similar to Hurling with regards to scoring, but to move the soccer-size ball around the field, one must bounce the ball (like basketball dribbling) or kick the ball to ones self (like a hacky-sack) every 4 steps while sprinting up field, or pass it up field with either a kick or an underhand volleyball serve style hit.  If that doesn't sounds like a broken ankle and lot of accidental somersaults, I don't know what does.  Here is an inspirational video example.

Our Limited experience:

While in Dublin, we had the opportunity to attend a playoff game between Tipperary and Cork, our new hometown, at the famous Croke Park.  

Aside: Without going into too much detail, Croke Park has an incredible history, which you can find here and is, in part, famous due to the first of two Bloody Sundays (the one in 1920, not the one in 1972 that has been chiseled into our hearts by the musical stylings of U2) during which British forces rolled into the middle of the field during a hurling match and opened fire on Irish citizens, killing 14 people.

It being a GAA semi-final that we were attending, I'm sure that the extensive amount of questions with which we grilled our neighboring Cork fans through the entire match, were well appreciated. Especially when Cork lost miserably, encouraging Cork fans everywhere to rip off their jerseys in embarrassment and throw them by the wayside in disgust (thanks to Colin for our new jersey, we don't even mind that you spit on it before handing it over). To be fair, Tipp went on to play in the Finals, so obviously they were worthy opponents. 

By the end of the match we felt we had an understanding of the basics enough that we were ready to try our hand at these new sports (practically experts). So, during International Student Orientation Week, we decided to skip the discussion on immigration paperwork, and head down to the pitch where a few members of the Hurling team hosted an “Intro to GAA Sports”.  Here we learned how to pick up a slitter with a hurly, balance the slitter on the hurly while running without any such order or direction (dangerous), and juggle the slitter on all sides of the hurly (reminiscent of Kandamo, the Hawaii middle-school-phenomenon, but without the helpful attachment string). Then we were given free reign to practice whacking the slitter as hard as possible around the field with both right and left hands (what could possibly go wrong?).  Given the language barriers, varying levels of athleticism and peripheral awareness, along with the encouragement to attempt ambidexterity, one can imagine the delightful chaos that ensued.  We gracefully excused ourselves to a far corner of the field so we would have full whackability range, which incidentally, we didn't really need.  It's a bit harder than it looks to get real distance.  With only minimal bruising and one accidental run in with a giant spiderweb, we moved on to the Gaelic Football skills.

As said, Gaelic Football is played with a soccer-sized ball that both looks and feels much like a cheap outdoor volleyball—the kind that leave your forearms instantly bruised at the family 4th of July BBQ.  The introduction of the football resulted immediately in all of the Latin American and European mainland students taking up the entire middle of the field to play fútbol, leaving the remaining handful of us to practice our skills in kicking a ball back toward our selves, while running, and without actually taking a hit to the face.  Nothing quite like the frustration of being hit in the face and having no one to blame but yourself.  Trust me.   We also practiced the running hand bounce, which the rules state you can only do once, but which does serve to change up the already confusing pace of running three steps before kicking the ball back into your own hands without toppling over.   

Needless to say, both games require a high skill set that is unmatched, truly, in any sports familiar to either of us.  Both are great fun to try and really fun to watch.  

Last but never ending - the GAA Season:

There aren't really seasons because the GAA retain their post-colonial fear that if folks have an off season they will immediately be converted to British sports, such as soccer or rugby, and Ireland will crumble into a pile of Queen-loving crumpet eaters and fox-hunters.  This means that nearly every Sunday, one can catch a match at the local pub.  It also means that if, in the “Final Championship” match, the teams tie, they just reschedule the match to be played again in two weeks.  Can you imagine scheduling a rematch of the Superbowl because of a tie? Me neither, but cheers to Kilkenny for their replay win over Tipperary last week.  

Chapter DC: Hot off the plane and head first into "The Continent"

The next month and a half progressed like a rapid paced gyro that we prematurely set in motion sometime last December.

Coincidentally our travel plans put us on a suspiciously similar path as that flamboyant rainbow explosion we can all agree is the gay pride parade series d’USA.  You’d have thought we’d planned out our continental game of hop-scotch with the intention of simply tailing beautiful men with big bouffants and bigger platform hooker boots.

When I landed in Washington, DC I was greeted with open arms, a quizzical look (I was holding a leash with a cat on the other end), and a timetable that included Ultimate Frisbee practice, team brunch, Petco, inner-tubing, and the added option of rainbow flag waving to disco music. There was enough gay in every major metropolitan town from DC to SF that it left me thinking, is that the same bald man sporting a fuzzy pink cock ring, arm boots, and Chihuahua with bedazzled eye-lashes that I saw in NYC? No, I think the tattoo on his lower back is a tad different.  

Abrupt Topic Change:

Attending my sister’s annual inner tubing trip was a bit of a bucket list item. I’ve heard about the amazingness of this trip for a couple of years now. No one can put together a wastey face, pastey ass, group event like a bunch of over worked weekend warriors whose job it is to organize people around something arbitrary.  So, while Hamm settled into her new hunting ground with her usual air of ownership and unavailability, I prepared for the wild torrents of the Potomac River. 

  If you’ve ever been white water rafting, river kayaking, or canoeing, then you know that it takes a certain level of athleticism, dexterity, and spatial awareness to safely and effectively reach your down-stream destination. Inner-tubing has, roughly speaking, no similarities with these sports. In fashion of any proper mid-eighties frat movie, tubing’s only semblance of a river sport would stem from that moment when the river water, politely suggesting you head down stream, gets tossed about when some drunk asshole makes an attempt at standing on their tube, while simultaneously shot-gunning a beer and singing the national anthem just before going head long into one of the ten coolers attached to the flotilla. But that’s just what I’ve come to expect from my sister’s husband. I love him.

And then we rolled around DC like a bike gang of 9 yr olds in the 1950s. We ruled the town.

Remember the time I flew to DC with my Cat?

Preparing to leave one small island for another far off island nation-destination brought about many unexpected points of distinction this time around. First of all, I’m much better under pressured moving situations; I collect my shit, I put that shit in a bag, I put that bag on a plane – together me and said bag arrive at a new destination. A few days later I discover the bizarre arrangement of shit that made it into the bag. When you have two weeks to move, you GO! When you have a year and a half to move, you GGGOOOOOOOOO-ish… like the time I dropped a hammer on my toe from the top shelf of my closet. So, yes, who keeps a hammer on the top shelf of their closet? But the point is that I had too much time to think about it instead of just reacting: I see there is a hammer falling, so I lift my foot out of the way, however because the hammer was on the top shelf there is enough time for me to lift my foot, lose my balance, and thrust my foot back down to the hammer’s ambition - resulting in a screaming/bloody mess.
Also, it’s possible that I’m getting older. It seems that getting older adds an element to moving that I’ve never associated with myself; I collect shit, I like that shit, I give sentimental value to that shit, I don’t want to separate from that shit – I now have to choose from said shit, exactly what makes it into the bag. Do I really need to take a chop saw? Or should I prioritize the cat, my furry little ball of love and joy – with claws? What if it is impractical to pack either of these beloved attachments? I should think there isn’t a bag large enough or tear proof enough for either of these items.
Just to clarify, I do realize that only a true lesbian can have a struggle deciding between these two items specifically, but clearly I meet all necessary criteria…
 

And then there’s the cat: 

I love my cat, adore her, so much that I am willing to have her fur groomed into a Mohawk three times a year (which for some reason everyone seems to mistake for “the mange” – she does NOT have The Mange!), make her wear a tie on Thanksgiving (I believe in gender
neutrality) and put her on a 14 hour flight to my sister’s house so that she can be in a new place, with new people, until I’m ready to collect her.
Remember the time I flew to DC with my Cat? Yeah, well, the experience has been burned into my mind for the remainder of my time - pre-dementia. Oh, the sweet, cool breeze of dementia that awaits me…

Packing her up:

I’ll be brief in the particulars, but getting one’s fuzzy friend through the threat of agriculture and quarantine and up to the front door of the Honolulu Airport takes a bit of planning and a lot submitting. There are health examinations and shots to get, papers to provide, sedatives to take (regretfully for the cat) and a rather small pet carry-on bag to shove an actively unwilling/very dexterous, clawed ball of lint.

Okay, a quick aside: At some point I think someone should write a book with a chapter describing the uncanny reality that people somehow resemble their animals (Debbie Halbert?). While I was at the vet with Hamm (my cat), pre lengthy journey, I looked on as a rather petit, frazzled, jittery woman picked up a prescription of Prozac… for her whippet. If you’re unsure as to why this is funny, please google “the whippet.”

To the airport:

As in any US airport, the switchbacks of the TSA security check point line at the Honolulu International Airport (HNL) are like the bottle neck accumulated by the “strip-mall parking lot car accident” that is TSA, complete with burnt Midwesterners and overly aggressive make-believe cops. Once you’ve shown your ID at the top of the line, however, things just get frantic.  There are bins to collect, a strip tease to perform, electronics to be stashed or displayed, liquids to be slammed or mourned over, and in my case a surprisingly aware cat in a bag to deal with (astonishing considering the amount of sedatives that I pumped into her before leaving the house) – and all of this in the amount of time it takes to get 12.5 feet to the gate to freedom… the full body scan.

A couple of interesting rules in place for traveling with a carry-on animal: 1) No “pre-check” line – so aside from hanging out in the switchbacks for an additional half hour, there’s an added motivator to remove your shoes and jacket as quickly as possible while your animal moves slowly away from you on a conveyor belt toward xray hell, like a spy film, circa 1969. FYI: it’s not advisable to let your pet pass through the carry-on baggage xray; not only is it against TSA guidelines, it looks a bit suspect when the content of your carry-on has a life of its own.  Theoretically, you should carry your animal through the body scan sans protective carrying case. 2) Once through the body scan (is that a pussy in your pants?) you’re required to be swiped for explosive materials, because there is no one more suspect that someone carrying a shitzu. The TSA agent is always very polite in grabbing your bags from the conveyor, but do they then understand the OBVIOUS difficulty in exposing your palms so they can swipe your hands with what looks like a used Naxima face wipey? Apparently not.

Kitty Carry-on does have its perks – for example, at HNL there are multiple agriculture checks to ensure that you are not populating the US Continent with fruit we can only purchase in Hawaii - like California grown apples. (Aside: I do understand that there is a real threat of pests, but this is why we’ve allowed Monsanto to ensure that our children will have gluten allergies. We don’t need the USDA to fuck us twice!). A positive side effect of having a bag on your shoulder that jumps about on its own is that the agriculture representative is instantaneously captivated by the self-oscillating bag and spends the entire scanning process asking questions like “what is that? What sex is it? And, what are you doing to clear up the mange?” while missing other obvious violations - like an apple, or a bag of grapes, or a homemade yogurt parfait with fresh blueberries, strawberries and banana… for example.

On that same note, everyone is nice to you when you’re attempting to get through the airport with a cat. This is either because they pity you, they assume that anyone willing to go through THIS for a cat afflicted with mange is worth a smile or two, or they think you have some sort of ailment by which this “emotional support” cat is necessary; not to say that Hamm was being especially supportive, but I did have a letter stating that she was my emotional service cat, all the same. 

During the HNL Airport experience I went through a myriad of emotions: sympathy, heart break, exasperation, supplication, tough love, the silent treatment, and resting for an unreasonable amount of time on trying to influence Hamm’s behavior through verbal abuse… out loud: “okay, that’s it, next time you’re carrying ME through the airport!”

At the gate, she did somersaults while I ate my homemade yogurt parfait.

Flight Numbero "are we there yet?":

While standing in line to board, I think people initially came over to see what was in the bag, but quickly excused themselves due to the potentially unstable woman trying to reason with the cat inside. Inevitably this was the only 30 seconds in which the copious amounts of drugs that I’d shoved down the cat’s throat seemed to overwhelm her capacities and she sat still like a dopey eyed angel in her miniature sized carry-on, a virtual picture of tranquility.  Then everyone just stared me down, like “it’s just a cat in a bag.” Fuck you. Have you ever tried to put a cat in a bag/leave said cat in that bag for roughly 12 hours and 7000 miles? You know what doesn’t agree with cats? Small confined spaces and 30,000 feet.

It is no small accomplishment to successfully take an animal, which is otherwise travel unfriendly on a lengthy CAR RIDE, onto a flight offering absolutely no survivable exits. There should be an award for people who are willing to board a flight con kitty – the longer the flight, the higher the award points. It’s like the mile high club, but instead of fucking at altitude, you’ll be fucked at altitude. It’ll be called the 30k ft. with A FUCKING CAT club; just substitute the standard bonus points associated with bathroom sex contortionism, with one’s ability to convince the flight attendant that the carry-on purchased specifically for this flight (due its guarantee that the animal will fit under the seat in front of you) isn’t actually WAY too big to fit under the seat, and that you have plenty of legroom… you’re just sitting cross legged for the sake of serenity.

Aside: While standing in the bathroom of the airplane with a typhoon of cat doing laps around the luxurious 2’x2’ safe harbor, for those who have lost all resolve to keep their cat in the bag, I noticed 2 signs asking you to please not dispose of your cigarettes in the lavatory trash bin. This seems doubly redundant as I believe there is no smoking allowed on board ANY commercial flights at this point. This was only made further confusing by the ashtray on the inside of the lavatory door. It’s like the chain-smoker from the airplane design and/or refurbishment department started questioning their own in-flight resolve.    

Changing planes at LAX was simple. I got off the plane, walked from the furthest possible gate at Terminal 2, out through security, down to Terminal 3, back in through switch-back TSA security, and back up to the… I don’t want to overstate this… second farthest gate at Terminal 3. As we passed by AeroMexico Hamm kicked back into high awareness, or what I like to call fur-ball fury. Apparently either a) the sudden submergence in the Spanish language reminded her of her time spent in a correctional facility somewhere in the Deep South where the only person who treated her with kindness was a Guatemalan coffee dealer/cat lover named Jesus OR b) her drugs wore off. Oh good, another chance to get swiped for explosives while clutching an irate, confused cat, with a hangover. Hair of the dog anyone? I drugged her again immediately upon arrival at the next gate.

Sedatives? What sedatives?

Hamm either hates disco lights or model quality flight attendants, because she had a rager in her carrying case during the second flight resulting in the absolute demolition of her kennel from the inside out (everyone has at least one bad trip). Hungry Hamm? Hopefully not after tearing your way into the outside pouch from the inside, ripping open your 3 pound bag of food, then having a “taste the rainbow” hour - rolling around in mouthfuls of salmon flavored PurinaOne. To be fair, I've had dreams of doing this same thing with Cheetos for years…

Aside 3: Virgin America – Remember when flights offered peanuts? Well, apparently now they offer free substandard WiFi as a shitty replacement. Thanks VA, for keeping me inescapably connected… Can I please have my hypoallergenic peanut replacement party mix back?

Also, VA recently made every on-board amenity available at the touch of a screen, undoubtedly with the intention of freeing up time for the attendants to walk around modeling their uniforms and teaching anyone over 60 how to navigate past the $17 cocktail and candy covered pecans to get to the free peanuts, while bent over the person in isle seat (that’s me) for twenty minutes. I’m almost positive that being both attractive and annoyed at the world (except you, you’re lovely) are job requirements of VA flight attendants.

By the time we landed, we both needed a break from the remnants of the kennel, enough so that being on leash seemed like a great idea. So, we found a corner to drop our stuff, then “walked” over to the baggage carousel to collect our belongings.

I'd like to take this quick opportunity to thank Gynnie Robnett (my sister) for rescuing me from the airport and for agreeing to take on Hamm with all of her unforeseen... quirks.