That’s Not In The Script

I love my friend’s little boy.  The Kid is three years old and knows he has me wrapped around his finger.  The thing is, entertaining a three-year-old is exhausting!  So, what do you do with a three-year-old full of energy on a fine Saturday afternoon? No, not the baby Benadryl.  Moms seem to frown upon that.  You enter him in a baby race, of course. 

So there I was in Central Park on Saturday morning lining The Kid up with all the other three-year-olds at the starting line.  I kept telling him that this race was for fun and he should enjoy it, there are no losers and all that other blah, blah, bullshit.  Look, it’s fine if you want your child to be an impotent, underachieving, unpopular loser.  My little friend, however, is in it to win it and so, although I was giving him useless platitudes just in case he turned out to be an utterly embarrassing failure, I also had him practice his Game Face along with important dignity-preserving statements like, “I let the Special Olympics kid win” and “It’s easy to run fast when you’re not burdened by all this handsomeness.” We may or may not have made other children cry.  Pussies.

Standing at the starting line, I surreptitiously checked out the competition.  I scoffed at the mom who had her kid in Baby Crocs.  O rly?  Even if you win this race (which you won’t) your kid loses.  Baby Crocs!  Humpft!!!  And then I looked down at her feet.  My. god.  She had long, leathery, bony feet that stretched over the edges of her flip-flops like an old gator sunning on a rock.  Really, her feet were overstuffed, cracked, vintage handbags.  Her toes were aged ginger.  If Dingo Girl had been there, I would not have been able to stop her from gnawing on those nasty feet.  I quickly turned my head in the other direction but then I locked eyes with HIM.  Oh, lord. 

Back in my younger days I was doing quite a bit of work as an extra on films and television shows shot in my town.  You may have heard of Chuck Norris and a little show called Walker, Texas Ranger.  I was on the set as an extra almost every week.  I excelled in the art of the fake, silent phone call made in the background of some lavish set.  I am the veritable Robert DeNiro of this little known niche.  For every take I’d create a different scenario.  First, I’d be the Tearful Girlfriend.  Face contorted in grief and despair, I’d conduct an entire conversation that started with an angry “You’ll never find another doormat as stupid as me!” and ended with me softly whispering, “So long, my love.  Go now with God,” before wistfully hanging up the phone.  And if you think it’s easy to convincingly portray intense emotion without uttering a single sound, you are sadly mistaken.  My favorite was Glamour Girl, where I’d mouth words like “Lunch?  Yes, I’d love to!  Oh, but let me check my calendar,” while tossing my long flowing hair and flashing a toothy smile. But my fine acting skills went unnoticed.  Until one day…

One day I got the call from my piece of shit agent that the casting directors wanted me to audition for a bit part in the show.  They were looking for someone sexy and bold but sophisticated.  They must have seen me in the background of last week’s episode when I was perfecting Phone Sex Operator!  Once the excitement died down, panic set in.  I was a naïve and not-so-worldly twenty-something.  What did I know about sexy but sophisticated?  Not a whole hell of a lot.  Just out of college, I was a starving artist living in khakis and denim skirts (hey, it was the early nineties in Texas where denim never goes out of style!).  I tell you what, the outfit I came up with makes me blush even to this day. 

As I teetered into the casting studio on pleather Payless five-inch stilettos, I noticed the other women waiting to audition had taken a different fashion approach.  One that did not involve looking like Jessica Rabbit trying to pay the rent in the red-light district.  “I got this,” I thought.  “These women aren’t even showing skin!” You know, if I’d spent more time paying attention to the show and less attention to the candy and sodas at the craft services tables, I’d have realized that Walker, Texas Ranger was a family-friendly show delivering heartwarming lessons week after week with a flying roundhouse followed by a tip of the hat.  It was not Streetwalker, Sex Arranger.

So there I was in the room with HIM, the casting director.  I started reading my lines at one end the room as I tried to walk seductively toward his desk at the other end.  Seduction is difficult to pull off in towering pleather stilettos when you’re used to wearing Keds, but I soldiered on, skillfully masking my unsteady teetering with regular tottering, swinging and swaying like the Betty Boop float at the Macy’s Spanksgiving Day Parade.  My voice low and husky, I whispered line after line because that’s what sexy women do, right?  They whisper? 

As I got closer to his chair my vision started to blur.  What the —?  My fake eyelashes had decided to become unglued and crawl down my face like hairy Wacky Wall Walkers.  But I pressed on, my padded boobs like beacons leading the way to his desk.  As I placed one hip against his desk and leaned precariously toward him, a wayward layer of eyelashes, having made its way to my chin, tumbled off my face and landed with a delicate splash in his coffee cup like a furry black fairy.  Neither of us said a word.  I racked my brain trying to cover my embarrassment without losing character.  Although it felt like a lifetime, I’m sure it was only a few seconds before I heard myself whisper seductively, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t lash out at you like that.”

I wrapped up the scene moments later, proud of my ad-libbing and wondering if I would be able to contribute other lines of dialogue once I was cast for the part.  I went home and waited for the phone to ring.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  All of this went through my mind in the mere seconds it took for him to smile and say, “Gorgeous day for a race, isn’t it?” Oh my god, he didn’t recognize me?  I can’t explain why, but I found myself lowering my voice and whispering, “Yes, yes it is.” His eyes popped open wide but I was saved from further humiliation by the starting bell and everyone yelling, “Run! Run! Run!” And so, I did. 

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This Week’s Short List of People Who Piss Me Off

Why is everyone trying to piss me off this week?  As if I didn’t have enough to do getting ready for the start of summer classes, I had to sit down and write some letters:

Dear fuckety-fuck-fucking-fuckheads at the Philadelphia Valley Swim Club,

You know, this flap over throwing the black kids from the local summer camp out of your pool is your own damn fault.  Sure, you signed the agreement to have the kids from a local summer camp come to your pool.  And yes, you took their $1900.  But what you didn’t do, you sillies, is make sure all the kids were white!!  And now, there’s an uproar because your club President expressed concern that allowing the children to swim with you would change the “complexion” of the club and some of your members feared that their children were not safe around the black kids.  Thank you for demonstrating to the rose-colored glasses contingent that there’s no such thing as a post-racial America.  Or maybe you didn’t read the post-racial memo with all those black letters blighting that pristine white page and whatnot.  It’s more likely that you’re just dumbass motherfuckers who didn’t cut eyeholes in your sheets.  Either way, fuck you with a burning cross.

Sincerely,

Dingo

Dear Obama,

I know you must be surprised to be on the short list of people who’ve pissed me off, but here you are.  When you first took office I was ecstatic, giddy even, as I stood in Times Square with thousands of others watching the election results come in.  We kissed friends, we kissed neighbors, and I may have even slipped some tongue to a gorgeous Swedish tourist.  You, however, seem to have given those of us who voted for you the big kiss-off choosing to lock lips instead with Right Wing ass.  At first, I didn’t view it as pandering as others did.  “Oh, no,” I said. “He’s reaching across the aisle!  He’s building bridges! Give him a chance!” And yes, I used a lot of exclamation points. 

Well, Obama your building bridges has turned into a game of Chutes and Ladders.  You’ve backtracked on repealing Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, you’ve appointed radical Anti-Choice Activist Alexia Kelley to the Department of Health and Human Services, and your promises about closing Guantanamo Bay and actually upholding our Constitution and restoring our good name were as empty as Keira Knightly’s bra.  In spite of the Michelle baby-bump speculation, I’m starting to think you’ve lost your balls.  I voted for change and I voted for principles.  Get your act together, POTUS, or my next letter to you will be short, sweet, and to the point: F.U.

Sincerely,

Dingo

Dear Annoying Parents in the Dog Run,

Do not yell at my dog.  She doesn’t bite but I do.  Dingo Girl had no interest in your big-headed offspring.  She was playing at least eight feet way with her best doggy buddy when you decided that you weren’t taking up enough space with your stroller, diaper bag, wagon, and soccer ball and moved in our direction. Your baby was completely safe at all times since there was absolutely no way Dingo Girl would ever fit that ginormous Tweety-Pie head in her mouth.  Believe me, your baby is safe, although you might want to consider forgetting about the college fund and think about setting aside a HUGE dowry. Maybe one about the size of your kid’s head.  And oh, it’s a DOG RUN not a freakin’ playground!  I’d tell you to get your head out of your asses but since it’s obvious where your little Jimmy Neutron got her noggin, I think you’re quite stuck.  So, fuck you.

Sincerely,

Dingo Didn’t Eat Your Baby

Well, that’s it for now.  I’m sure as this week goes on this list will get longer and longer.  That’s just the sort of mood I’m in.

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How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Two weeks ago The Cougar and I were supposed to take a trapeze class at the Trapeze School of New York.  I was excited.  I had my trapeze outfit all planned out.  Mom was going to go with boring black tights and a t-shirt but I wanted more pizzazz.  PIZZAZZ! After searching high and low I found what I was looking for.  Pink tights, pink top.  I stopped at sequins. Believe me, Innernetz, it was an exercise in self-restraint.  The sequins may have been a bit much and I didn’t want to intimidate all the other novices with my innate trapeze fashion sense.  I also thought that showing up in pink sequined tights would make me look like a plump, pink caterpillar larva as I twisted in the wind on my tiny little trapeze branch.  But alas, this caterpillar never had a chance to become a butterfly.  The morning that The Cougar was to catch the train I received a call from my aunt.  The Cougar had fallen and couldn’t get up.  Actually, once she regained consciousness she did get up, but she’d missed her train.  How did she fall, you ask?  Let’s just say that FUCKED runs in the family.  So instead of The Cougar coming here, I went there to pamper her and make her feel guilty for ruining my big summer event.  Although I didn’t get to fly through the air in Cirque du Soleil splendor, the past two weeks have definitely been one of those circus clown cars.  Just when I think I can’t shove another thing onto my To Do list, I shove another thing on my To Do list.  Not only are things getting jammed packed in here, it’s also starting to smell like feet.  Nasty ol’ clown feet.

When I visit The Cougar I turn into Dingo Do-It-Yourselfer.  At home, when something breaks, I take to my bed in a fit of vapors until Caesar, our landlord, can come make things right.  At The Cougar’s, however, I am Dingo!  Hear me bark!  Seriously folks, while I was there I fixed a toilet, washing machine, garage door opener, printer, and barbecue grill.  I was at Lowe’s and Home Depot so often that I parked in the handicapped parking and no one said a word.  They just waved their canes and walkers at me in a show of support.

Unlike the home improvement stores here, where us city folk sort through paint chips with names like Frappe and Wasabi, debate the merits of low flush toilets, and compare the Krups and Braun espresso machines to the ones we can buy at Starbucks, the stores near The Cougar have power tools!  Nail guns!  Chain saws!  Orbital sanders!  Other thingys I don’t know the names of!  It’s all very manly and testosterone hangs in the air like pepper spray at a WTO protest. 

I found the staff and customers at these everyman country clubs to be very condescending helpful.  And confused, possibly even offended, when I politely told them to fuck off rejected their help.  I had Mr. Google to assist me.  Mr. Google is very informative and doesn’t insinuate that his help can be obtained in exchange for sexual favors.  He also doesn’t flash his hairy ass crack.  Ass crack man, if you are going to let your ass locks fly free you should at least trim your split ends.

In addition to home improvement projects, I dispensed relationship advice to The Cougar.  It’s time she got over The Jackass and found herself a boy toy.  The Cougar is having none of it, however.  Forty years of marriage to The Jackass was quite enough, thankyouverymuch.  Then again, I don’t think I’d ever find anyone deserving of her.  How do you find someone for a woman who spends the majority of her time caring for ill and injured church members, is on the hospitality committee of her church, sings in the choir, leads the teen youth group, works in the nursery every other Sunday, volunteers at Vacation Bible School, and is the go-to person for all the fucked up kids in the neighborhood?  And she does all of this without a Kindness Card.  I call bullshit on that.  If I’m going to mentor juvenile delinquents, I want some damn Oreos.  Hey!  Come to think of it, she’d be the perfect date for Jesus!  He could come pick her up in a pimped out chariot and whisk her to dinner.  I have a feeling that Jesus would be a cheap date.  They’d probably end up at some loaves and fishes buffet.  Word of advice mom, avoid the Communion Special and stay away from the apple pie!  Actually, I would think that the Holy Mack Daddy is too busy with all the stuff in Iran and Darfur to actually date.  Then again, it’s such a royal clusterfuck over there who knows what the hell he’s doing these days.  Maybe he’s hiking in the Appalachians or visiting Argentina. 

So, there you have it.  Between cursing at appliances and blasphemy, I have been a busy little Dingo.  Oh sure, I may end up in hell, but I’ll install one heck of a sprinkler system.

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Take This Oreo And Shove It

An Oreo-wielding, Up–With-People-ish, Pollyanna with a used car salesman smile and faux bohemian dress from Urban Outfitters ruined my week.  There I was minding my own business mocking the pseudohippies worshiping at the Imagine Mosaic in Strawberry Fields when Pollyanna approached waving a half-empty tray of Double-Stufs. 

No, it was not half-full.  It was half-empty.  Call me a pessimist if you like, but if you have a tray half-full of Double-Stufs, you have a math problem.  The answer is B: a full tray of Stufs.

Speaking of SAT questions, Strawberry Fields does not have any strawberries and it’s definitely not a field.  What it does have is a mixture of Baby Boomers paying respects to John Lennon and his message of love and harmony together with a mob of stoned, weeping baby boomer offspring in Abercrombie tie-dyes.  Not only was the Abercrombie Generation not even born when Lennon lived and died, but their idea of activism consists of peacefully demonstrating that marijuana is not an antidepressant.  I was tempted — oooh, so tempted — to stir the pot (no pun intended) by calling out, “Snap out of it!  I mean, it’s not like he was Adam Lambert or anything!” Two things stopped me.

One, I was in no mood to fend off patchouli wearing pseudohippies wielding sitars and body odor like NYPD night sticks.  Two, there were Oreos.  Remember how, waaaay up at the top of this post, I mentioned Oreos?  You forgot, didn’t you?  Don’t worry, so did I.  Anyway, I know that you’re not supposed to take anything anyone hands you on the street.  But it was the park, it was sunny, there was music, and rainbows and unicorns, and second hand pot smoke.  And Pollyanna and her group of merry women were singing “All You Need Is Love” and waving to everyone and smiling. It was like a good ol’ fashioned love in without the body fluids. I got caught up in the moment and took the entire tray an Oreo.  And like that, I was doomed.  I had just twisted the top off the Oreo and was scraping my teeth across the creamy Double Stuf goodness when Pollyanna says, “You’ve been tagged!”

Tagged?  What the hell?  Look, bitch, Dingo doesn’t do memes so I’m not buying whatever you’re selling but can I have another Oreo?  Instead of an Oreo, she hands me a card with the following message:

Someone reached out to you with an anonymous act of kindness.  Now it’s your chance to do the same.  Do something nice for someone, leave this card behind, and keep the spirit going!

I would’ve handed the card back if I’d have known the existential crisis it would cause, but I was already up to the part of the Oreo-eating exercise where you suck really hard on your teeth, so I was kinda stuck.  Fuckers.  Who hands out Oreo cookies and then asks people to pay it forward?  Fuckers, that’s who.  Kind twatwaffles who want to screw with my life.  And so I’ve spent the past week running around trying to do kind things for people to get this monkey off my back.  It’s not as easy as you’d think. 

First of all, there are no guidelines. Just how kind do I have to be?  Hold the door open for a group of nuns kind, or rescue a child from adoption by Madonna kind?  I spent all last week in a miasma of kindness.  And it sucked.  Nothing I did seemed worth tagging someone else and saying, “Ha, ha, I did something kind for you, now you’re royally fucked!  Good luck trying to pay off this karmic debt, loser!” I mean, doesn’t tagging someone with the Kindness Card undo the kindness you’ve done?

I thought I was free and clear when I saw a couple rooting around for a quarter to put in the parking meter.  I surprised them by popping a quarter into the meter.  They said, “Thank you!” It was too easy.  I couldn’t give them my card.  Not for a lousy quarter.  I had to do something MORE.  I’ve been scouring the city trying to do something kind enough to warrant giving this burden to someone else.  I thought I was off the hook later that day.  As I turned the corner in the grocery store, I noticed this little old lady trying to reach a can of green beans on the top shelf.  Hopping around on pale little bird legs sticking out of yellow leggings she looked like one of those wind-up chicks you get at Easter.  I kept waiting for her to wind down and fall over.  I got the can for her, threw some birdseed in the aisle behind me, and went on my way.  But I didn’t give her the card.  “Hey, old lady!  You’ve been tagged!  Good luck finding someone shorter than you so you can repay this kindness!  Maybe you should carry a ladder with you everywhere from now on to keep this from happening to you again, huh?” It just seemed wrong. 

I keep thinking that I should just toss the card, but I can’t.  So, I’m a wandering Persephone, doomed by an Oreo to be kind to people.  Except Pollyanna.  If I ever see that bitch again I’m going to punch her in the face. 

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And Dingo Came Tumbling After

If the name Central Park Dance Skaters brings to mind the snoozefest of Brian Boitano and that girl who always looks as if she slathered her hair with bear grease and had Bobo the Monkey apply her make-up Oksana Baiul on roller skates, stop right there.  Imagine the showmanship of MC Hammer dancing on a treadmill (include the Hammer pants), throw in a couple of George Clinton look-alikes and some well-meaning white people trying to channel Vanilla Ice.  Now, imagine all of them skate dancing on old-school roller skates to music you wish your parents played at the family BBQ.  Are you feelin’ it yet?  Are your feet tapping and hips shakin’ to Turn This Mutha Out? Perhaps you’re groovin’ to Stevie Wonder’s Superstition? Well, stop it.  Your co-workers are wondering if you’re having some sort of seizure.  Anyway, The Central Park Dance Skaters are free entertainment every Saturday and the crowd lining the edge of the impromptu rink and sitting on the nearby hill have as much fun watching as the skaters have skating. 

I would love to join the skaters but, alas, I have no inner Pam Grier (the only Foxy Brown, in my book) to let loose in the skating rink.  I’m more Marcia Brady, and Innernetz, believe me, no one wants to see her milkshake.  I also have a disorder that prevents me from taking part in activities requiring coordination and agility.  The scientific name for it is falldown uncoordinated cantwalkand khewgum embarrassment disorder.  Most people simply refer to it as FUCKED.  I’ve been susceptible to FUCKED all my life. It tends to strike without warning and with as much humiliation as possible. 

You’d like an example?  My, you are a bloodthirsty crowd, aren’t you?  But because I love you, here goes . . .  . It was the week before my law school mid-terms and I needed a study break and some exercise. I laced up my rollerblades and decided that I would skate to Town Center to run some errands. I had never skated to Town Center before.  The tree-lined street I lived on ran through a residential area but it was heavily traveled by eighteen-wheelers and dump trucks careening down the street like they’d just heard Carmen Electra was giving free blow jobs at the local truck stop.  And if the streets were bad, the sidewalks were worse.  Small, cramped, and controlled by the mommies with their SUV strollers riding up the back of your ankles and their organic unbleached hemp diaper bags swinging ominously from their shoulders like Poe’s pendulum.

In spite of the road and sidewalk hazards, I set out on my journey.  Hell, I’d just spent six hours studying Property Law, I think I subconsciously wanted a truck or a heavy duty double-wide stroller to put me out of my misery.  I had to use the sidewalk because the street was packed.  One of the local schools had a football game scheduled for later that afternoon and all the entrances to the football field were backed up at least two miles in every direction.  I waved to the tailgaters and rowdy fans as if I were a one-woman promotional tour for Starlight Express.  Successfully dodging the mommy brigades and their diaper bags of doom, I made it to Town Center with all limbs intact.  After a lunch of Rocky Road ice cream, I picked up a few books , toilet paper, and a 2-liter Diet Coke, stuck them into my backpack and headed home. 

“Funny, I don’t remember having to blade up such a steep incline!” I thought to myself as I stood on wobbly ankles at the top of what looked like an Olympic Ski Jump. I could see my apartment at the bottom of the hill as if peering through the wrong end of a telescope.  “And when did those retaining walls get here?” Many of the yards had the four-foot tall stone walls for which New England is famous.  Other homes simply let their lawns gently slope to the sidewalk.  Both options thwarted my plan to use the grass as an emergency brake. 

I began my descent.  All went well until I hit a root sticking through a crack in the sidewalk.  I probably would’ve been able to regain my balance if it weren’t for the books and Diet Coke shifting around in the backpack.  My arms flailed in all directions but my feet kept moving forward.  Houses, trees, and cars passed by at supersonic speed.  All I could think of was, “Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall,” as if barreling down the sidewalk like a marionette on meth was a better alternative. 

During my rapid descent and my attempts to stay upright, the tips of my roller blades danced off the sidewalk in frantic pointe work, tap tap tap, but as I picked up momentum they became mini-jackhammers, taptaptaptaptap.  I was running on my toes trying to catch up to my dignity when I hit another root.  And. Went. Flying.  My feet left the sidewalk and curved into a grassy embankment.  “Whew!” I thought, “I’ll finally stop.” But, no.  I was going too fast.  I launched up the embankment as if propelled from a sling shot.  Up, up, up, I went!  Time stopped.  I was suspended in mid-air among the clouds.  Weightless.  I could touch the sun.  Oh, Icarus! 

I landed on my books and Diet Coke.  The backpack exploded and I was doused with caramelly, carbonated, high fructose corn syrup.  One of my roller blades came off.  It was going up as I was falling down.  I could see it reach its apex and pause for a moment, a serpent about to strike, before it started its rapid free fall toward my head.  I threw my hands up over my face and rolled.  Down the embankment.  Across the sidewalk.  To the curb.  Leaving Diet Coke and clumps of Charmin in my wake.

My loose skate followed me down the embankment but when it hit the sidewalk it rolled four more feet before coming to a stop.  I don’t know how long I sat at the curb staring dizzily at the cars as I gathered my breath and checked for broken bones (there were none).  I do know that with the hundreds of eyes staring at me from the road, none of those fuckers came to help.  No one asked how I was or if I was hurt.  I tried to give them the finger but my hands were so sore my fingers wouldn’t bend.  I’m sure those who bothered to look my way wondered why the girl with one skate was giving them the high-five.  I hope their team lost.  And got jock itch.  Fuckers.  Somehow, I retrieved my loose skate and, one skate off, one skate on, hobbled the remaining quarter mile of shame home where my landlord who was out raking the leaves saw me, dropped her rake, ran inside and returned with a towel, band aids, and two cocktail glasses full of Tennesse’s finest. We drank it with what was left of the Diet Coke.

I know my limits and no matter how fun it looks, The Central Park Skate Dancers will have to do without me.  But, since I already know I can fly, I signed up for a one day class at the New York Trapeze School.  So, who wants to hold my Jack and Coke?

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