If Miles Were Measured in Donuts

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because most of it consists of things like, “Oh my holy hell, it’s hot y’all!” and “Someone talk me out of this madness!” But overall it’s going well.  I have about seventeen weeks until the marathon.  Yes, seventeen.  I had to make a wee change in my plans.  I am not going to Florence for the marathon.  Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, I am still running a marathon.  It’s just not in Italy.  It’s in Massachusetts. Cape Cod, to be exact.  Racing in Florence with a weak dollar and the cost of everything rising due to oil prices seemed like a big burden right now.  So, instead, I decided to race in Cape Cod, which is just like Italy with fewer popes.

Why Cape Cod?  Well, everyone knows that Italy is shaped like a boot, but did you know that Cape Cod is shaped like an arm?  Check it out on a map.  I am all into running in places shaped like extremities, so Cape Cod and Italy were the natural next choices after my first race in Manhattan.  Hey, if any of you are truly disappointed by this change in plans, I will reluctantly accept donations of cash, air miles, free drink coupons, duty free discount certificates or, hell, any old thing, toward the Send Dingo to Florence fund. 

The Cape Cod Marathon is sponsored by Dunkin Donuts because, you know, donuts and exercise go hand in hand.  I’m counting on them to have donut holes at every water station.  Or even instead of water stations. I can bring my own freakin’ water, but I want to make Dunkin Donuts put their “America Runs on Dunkin” money where my mouth is.

While my race training has gotten tougher and the hills don’t seem to be getting any easier, I have reached a running milestone.  The other day, I finally passed the old lady with a walker I see on the park track all the time when I run.  And I did it with style and only a small amount of gloating because I’m just humble like that.  When I first started running, Old Lady With Walker would kick my ass.  She would come out of nowhere and I’d think, “I may be slow but at least I can beat Old Lady With Walker.” Only, I couldn’t.  I could never catch up to her.

At first, I thought I had the upper hand.  OLWW is always dressed from head to foot in a white calf-length puffy coat — the kind you wear when the New York winter is at it’s worst and the mayor is telling everyone to stay home from work so the snow plows can do their job — and leather gloves.  She looks like the Michelin man, except I don’t recall ever seeing sweat stains under his armpits.  Anyway, I figured if I couldn’t catch up to her on my own power, she’d eventually fall out from heat stroke and I’d be able to hurdle over her prone body and claim victory.  Unless I was really tired from running.  Then I would have to step on her.  Gently. 

But I think OLWW has a tricked-out walker.  It’s sort of the Sports edition of walkers.  It has thick SUV wheels on the back legs and tennis balls on the front ones.  Tennis balls!  How could I compete with that?  She pushes this walker up and down the hills of Central Park like she just won a $5000 shopping spree at Tar-zhay and has only five minutes to reach the check-out line.  I thought, “Day-um!  I should be able to beat OLWW!” But I just couldn’t.  The distance between us would continue to increase until finally she came around behind me. 

And then.... this week, the impossible happened.  I passed OLWW.  I didn’t just pass her.  I passed her going uphill!  I was ecstatic.  Rocky Balboa couldn’t have been more pleased when he reached the top of those famous steps than I was at that moment.  I heard his theme music in my ears, danced a jig and did a couple of fist pumps in the air before becoming so out of breath my vision began to blur.  But I wanted to savor my victory.  So I turned around to see if she was choking on my dust.  Folks, I am just mastering the art of forward movement.  Running backwards is the Ph.D of coordination and apparently I don’t have that gift.  I tripped.  And fell. 

The world looks completely different when you are only six inches off the ground.  I did not relish having the Nike Swoosh tattooed onto my forehead by the approaching runners who did not stop.  Yeah, no one stopped.  They just kept on running although I think I heard one woman say something to her running buddy about stepping on me gently.  Through my haze of embarrassment, I swore I could hear OLWW’s wicked cackle as she anticipated leaving walker tracks across my outstretched body, so I quickly jumped up and continued my run. 

You would think making a complete ass of myself would dial back my snarkometer to acceptable leveIs, but you would be wrong.  The only thing that can make you feel better after an incident like that is to make fun of someone else.  It’s really not hard to do.  At my pace, there is plenty of snark material running right past me every few seconds.  The normal people pass me too quickly to fully engage my Bitch Vision, so all I’m left with is the freak parade.  Now, I know what you are thinking, and shame on you.  I am not a freak.  I just run like one.

I was not disappointed.  Two of my favorite runners appeared up ahead and instantly lifted my mood.  First there was the guy who runs like he’s on his way to a Broadway audition or the Extreme Cheer Challenge competition.  Arms bent at the elbow, fingers fully splayed, he has the perfect jazz hands. My internal iPod doesn’t know whether to start humming tunes from A Chorus Line or reciting dialogue from Bring it On: In It To Win It .  (Shush!  Don’t judge me! I’d like to see your DVD collection!) I always want to slap a Spirit Stick into his hands just to see what happens. 

Speaking of flashy numbers, did you know they make gold lamé running shorts?  Well, they do!  And my second favorite runner, Lame Lamé, has a pair for every day of the week.  Either that or she wears the same ones over and over again, but that’s just too nasty to think about.  Luckily, they make gold lamé running shorts in various sizes so you can choose ones that are two sizes too small, allowing everyone to see the shape of your girl bits.  I am glad I wear sunglasses because the reflection off her ass can scorch your corneas.  When she passed me the other day, the heat from her vulva-laser caused me to stumble, but I somehow maintained my balance.  Not only would falling twice in the same run have been mortifying, but it would be a sad day indeed if the last sight I ever had of this world was a pornographic baked potato and OLWW tennis balls approaching my forehead.

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I’m Just A Girl

I’ve been meaning to write this post for about a week.  Tara R. over at If Mom Says OK gave me a little push.  I’m honored that she asked me to participate in BlogBlast for Education. It’s a great idea spearheaded by April at It’s All About Balance.  So check out the other bloggers writing about their experience in education whether they are parents, teachers, students, or all three.  Hey, wait!  Where are you going?  Read my post first!

Those of you who have been reading this blog for some time (Thank you! I love you! Kisses! Mwah! Mwah! Are those flowers for me?) know that I use horror literature in my classes to address issues of gender, class, race, and poor fashion choices.  The discussions can get pretty heated.  Early in the semester one of my students claimed that a character in the novel didn’t have the smarts to avoid disaster because she was “just” a housewife.  That student thought that eating bon-bons all day while watching Jerry Springer is more interesting than fighting monstrous sea creatures, unless the sea creature is drooling chocolate while filming porn for her boyfriend’s brother’s website.  They just can’t be motivated to save their own lives if it means missing Oprah.  That’s what menz is for!  Perhaps Mr. Clean and that Brawny guy can help out if they are not too busy saving the world from — oh, yeah, that’s right! — common household germs and dirty kitchens.

The student who shared this gem about housewives wasn’t trying to be snarky or demeaning.  It was her sincere and genuine opinion.  Yes, I said her.  This sentiment arose from a young woman who, as far as I could tell, wanted a college degree so that she could marry well before she started poppin’ out the rugrats.  Yes, she wants to be a housewife!  She was merely sharing her own vision of her bob-bon-flavored future life of leisure and daytime television.  And she ain’t killin’ no friggin’ monsters.

Only one student challenged this woman’s characterization of housewives.  The rest just kind of shrugged their shoulders.  WTF?!  Not in Mistress Dingo’s class! 

There’s education and then there’s ed-u-cation.  Time for a lesson.  I made them talk about their ideas about men and women and it turned out to be one of the best classes of the semester.  We talked about beauty, sexuality, stereotypes, torture porn, the wage gap, cloning (one student’s bright idea was to clone women so that one woman wouldn’t have to do all the housework), and bad fashion choices.  We would have gone on and on but we ran out of time.  I had to shove them out of the door at the end of class.  I mean, I love my students but I am married to Happy Hour. 

The rest of the semester, things looked bright.  We dissected gender roles in the texts that we read and my students seemed to get it.  They brought in magazine ads and talked about commercials they had found offensive and harmful to men or women, gay or straight.  In fact, I was going to have a movie made of this story starring Dingo as the bright, hopeful teacher who motivates her inner city students to look beyond their bleak ‘hood and to challenge themselves to be the best they can be.  That storyline hasn’t been done yet, has it?

I was proud.  Hell, I was smug.  My students were thinking for themselves and I had played a role in their transformations. I was changing the world one awkward freshman at a time.  As the semester ended and the students handed in their final papers, I really looked forward to reading them! 

I was not prepared for this:

Men should not treat women as property and sexual objects because women are also useful in certain areas men are not, for example; cleaning, sewing, cooking, and nursing a baby.

That student had obviously never tasted my cooking.  Or seen my apartment.  Or my boobs.

Then, there was this sage declaration:

As a Confucius saying goes ‘having a woman rule would be as unnatural as having a hen crow like a rooster at daybreak.’

Damn it!  I was ready to hit someone over the head with my Swiffer! I try, y’all.  Lord, I try.  I believe that education is more than just book learnin’ but it appears that in some areas we fail miserably.  Even vampires can’t change thousands of years of stereotypes and generalizations overnight, and they definitely can’t do it during daytime.  Still, I am astonished that in 2008, smart, hip, progressive, and often hysterically clumsy young adults possess such archaic biases.  Sometimes I become so frustrated that I just want to cook those kids or sew them together.  Like paper cutout dolls.  That would serve them right!  But then I would miss Oprah.

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What’s Black and White and Green All Over?

The end of the semester is always a mad dash of papers, exams, grading and that end of semester rite of passage, the sob story.  Before I start breaking harsh on my students, let me say that for all my snarky and profanity-laced rantings about their ethics (or lack thereof), poor grammar, and naïve world views, I am a soft-serve with sprinkles in real life.  I’ve been known to be firm (but fair!) during office hours and then to break into tears as soon as the student is out the door. 

I hate giving students who have worked hard all semester poor grades that don’t reflect what they have actually contributed to the class because of one misstep, or an attack of the lazies — especially after I have just spent two weeks sitting on their ungraded finals on the couch eating M&Ms and catching up on Grey’s Anatomy — or some other trauma that has caused their fragile watercolor portraits of the world to run black and blue.  I can relate.  Hey, if there is one person reading this who didn’t use a sick day when you found out that Jericho had been cancelled or who hasn’t feigned deathly illness when the outfit you were planning to wear didn’t fit around your stealthily expanding waistline, you get a Twinkie.  Actually, you get a crate of Twinkies, and then when your work-wear doesn’t fit the following week, you’ll know just the trauma I am talking about.

So, if my students can provide excuses and have shown me all semester that they are engaged in the class, I will work with them on their grades — extra credit, extending a paper deadline, and bribery demeaning manual labor indentured servitude paper revisions are some methods I’ve used to help them along the path to enlightenment.  Of course, I make them beg first.  Always make them beg first.  Because what is the point of having power if it doesn’t make you tingle every now and then?

But sobbing always comes on the heels of my lording.  While I speak to them, I don my “serious professor face” and admonish them.  “I will have to think about bestowing my mercy upon you,” I tell them.  “Say three Hail Dingos and pray, PRAY!, for My Blessed Grace!  Now begone!” But, once they leave the office, I reach for the Kleenex and wonder whether professors who don’t give Second Chances also push old people into oncoming traffic and juggle kittens and laugh during Zales commercials.  What usually follows these meetings is a restless night worrying about my student.  Is she going to be okay?  Will she come up with the money to avoid losing the farm?  Will she find a kidney donor?  Did the governor grant the pardon in time? 

The next day, I am a hero.  I am Super Professor.  I give the extra credit assignment or extend the paper deadline and we both smile like we take Enzyte.  My class isn’t just about learning how to read and understand literature.  I’d like to think that it’s also about learning that laziness and procrastination are A-Okay that lying pays dividends from your mistakes.  My colleagues say that this benevolence will come back to bite me on the butt.  That’s not such a bad thing.  Anything that takes some of the junk from my trunk is fine with me.  Except mosquitoes. 

One thing that I cannot forgive, however, is plagiarism.  Zero tolerance.  I have too much respect for the students who work hard to improve their writing skills to accept plagiarism as a case of the lazies.  It is not laziness.  It is theft, and I will hunt you down like the Fugitive to make sure you are punished so severely for it that you wake up every night not only in a puddle of your own urine, but also the urine of the person whom you plagiarized. The Spanish Inquisition will seem like a Katie Couric interview when I’m through with you.

I am surprised that in this Google age — it is now the year 12 GE (Google Era) — students still try to get away with plagiarism.  In most cases, I talk with the student about what she did and discuss why she is receiving a failing grade in the class.  Although I have the option of referring each case to the Dean, it usually goes no further than me, the student, and the gradebook.  Usually. 

This semester, I had a case so egregious from a student so ballsy that I’m sure in a few years (if not already) she’s going to be in jail for check kiting, identify theft, or laughing at Zales commercials.  So, if you get bizarre comments on your blogs or inappropriate emails from me, rest assured it’s NOT REALLY ME.  Particularly if it’s not gut-bustingly hilarious.  That’s the dead giveaway.

Anyhoodle, one of my students, Patty Plagiarist, spent the entire semester in a catatonic stupor.  She never brought her books to class, never did the reading, and never turned in a single paper.  Although she completed in-class writing assignments, it was obvious that she hadn’t even bothered to use Cliff Notes.  I’m sorry but, no, Macbeth is not Ronald McDonald’s girlfriend’s name.  And The Shining?  Yes, that book was written by Stephen King, but it is not about his problems with baldness.  Couldn’t you at least have watched the movie?

You can imagine my surprise when Patty Plagiarist turned in the final paper of the semester and not only did it exceed the mandatory page length but it was freakin’ amazing!!!  A student who could barely muster a coherent sentence all semester was now writing about pandemics and trans-morphing and crap I had never even heard of.  A call to Mr. Google was in order.  Mr. Google made quick work of the paper and revealed that not one, not two, but seven — SEVEN! — web sites were plagiarized.  I emailed Patty and asked to meet with her about her paper.  Seven!

When she finally strolled in late to our meeting I cut to the chase and showed her the print outs I had of the web sites she’d stolen from.  I also presented her with a copy of her paper with plagiarized sections highlighted in green.  The paper looked like it had been written by Lawn Doctor.  Patty had the nerve to look surprised. 

Patty:  That’s not my paper.

Me:  What?  Yes, it is.  It’s the one that was attached to the email you sent to me.

Patty:  Well, that’s my paper but it’s not the one I meant to send.

Me:  Not the —?

Patty:  Yes, I plagiarized that paper but I called my brother and he said you wouldn’t fall for it so I wrote another one.

Yes, folks, her brother supposedly told her that the paper was so good that I wouldn’t believe it was hers.  Patty then said that she wrote ANOTHER paper that she meant to send to me.  There was a sob story about how she had stayed up all night to write it, blah, blah, blah, it was eight pages long, blah, blah, blah.  This would be a good time to mention that this other paper was supposedly a comparison between a book we read in class and a book she read on her own initiative.  Does Patty sound like a person with that sort of initiative?  No.  I called her bluff.  I told her that I didn’t believe her story and that I wanted to see this “other” paper within the next two hours.  She was definitely going to fail the course but I was still deciding whether to refer it to the Disciplinary Committee.

Here is where you need to picture the passage of time like in the old movies with the hands of the clock spiraling out of control until it grinds to a halt Seven. Long. Hours. Later.  Seven!  I received an email from Patty with this other paper attached.  Would you be shocked to learn that it was a two-page piece of crap?  Moreover, it was a two-page, crap, superficial comparison of two works we read waaaay at the beginning of the semester. 

I emailed Patty Plagiarist again telling her that I was going to forward her case to the Dean and recommend her expulsion.  Her response?  She apologized.  Not for plagiarizing but for accidentally sending me the wrong paper.  Again.  She somehow thought I wanted for her to send me the second paper of the semester — which had been due over a month earlier.  A paper that she had never handed in.  This girl should never apply to be a contestant on The Moment of Truth.  She also informed me that expulsion was too harsh and that she wanted another chance to send me the correct paper.  Um, no. 

My litigator instincts kicked in and, since I happened to have exhibit tabs left over from my days of practicing law — doesn’t everyone? — I wrote a lengthy brief (lawyer oxymorons still get me hot) and attached thirteen unlucky exhibits as evidence of her plagiarism and deceit.  Believe me, you have the condensed version of this madness.  Oh yeah, Judge Judy would be proud. 

This case is still making its way through the red tape and the black hole of the disciplinary process, but this student will not attend another class at my Institution of Higher Learning.  I have no doubt that, given the opportunity, Patty Plagiarist would do this again, maybe taking a hostage this time.

I try to make sure that my students learn more than just an appreciation of literature and writing in my class.  Unfortunately, I don’t think Patty Plagiarist learned anything in my class and certainly nothing about unethical conduct.  But she certainly learned this:  Don’t fuck with Dingo!  Dingo has enough stolen exhibit tabs to deal with your kind for years to come!

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I Am?!  I Am the Dog?!

Dingo Girl and I got back from Mom’s late this afternoon.  I meant to blog more while I was there but Mom was a slave driver kept me busy.  After this week, between yard work and paper work, I don’t think there isn’t a hedge trimmer I can’t master or a printer I can’t configure.  Dingo Girl did a lot of work too!  There were squirrels to chase, sticks to fetch, naps to take, and bellies to be rubbed.  Now I understand that age-old dog lament: “Rough!”

It wasn’t all work, though.  We made several trips to mecca Target.  There is no Target in New York City, but I heart Target.  I understand why all the zombies head to malls in the George Romero movies.  I know that, when I come back as a zombie, I’m going to Target!  Some people find peace and contentment in church and religious worship.  Target is my church.  The big red Bulls Eye is, to me, more beautiful than stained glass.  When the sliding doors part with their reverent “shuuuush” and bid me enter the over air-conditioned sanctuary, I am at peace.  I am at one with commerce. 

Really, what does religion have that Target doesn’t?  Need peace of mind?  Head to the pharmacy for some Valium and Ativan.  Need cleansing?  Soap is in aisle six.  Food for the soul?  Can’t see your way in this world?  There’s a Starbucks and optical center.  If you are one of the fortunate few who lives near a Target Greatland, send me your address.  I’m coming for a visit.

Returning home proved to be the only downside of our pilgrimages to the holy city.  Odd Boy always awaited us as we pulled into the driveway.  Determined that my dedication to Animal Planet would do me some good, I advised Mom to just sit still.  “He can’t see you unless you move and his memories are only two minutes long.  He’ll go away.  Just. Don’t. Breathe.” It never worked.  Mom would get blue in the face and I would start blacking out just as Odd Boy tapped on the car window, “Is there a dog in there?”

The last time I saw Odd Boy, he was particularly brilliant.  As Dingo Girl circled the bags to see what we had brought her (Woofhoo!  Target has doggie toys!), Odd Boy came up with this astute observation:

Odd Boy:  Did you ever notice how owners look like their dogs?

Me:  Are you saying that I look like a dog?

Odd Boy:  I’m just saying that dogs and their owners look alike.

Me:  Exactly what about me looks like a dog?

Odd Boy:  People go into the pet store, they see a dog that looks like them and they say, ‘That’s the dog I want.  It looks like me.’

Now I happen to think that Dingo Girl is the cutest thing evah but I don’t think that is what he was getting at. 

Once we got inside, I pulled up some pictures from last summer on my laptop.  It was Dingo Girl’s first trip to the beach.

Here’s me:

Here’s Dingo Girl:

I don’t see a resemblance at all.  Do you?  No, Odd Boy is just odd.

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Old Dog Teaches New Tricks

Dingo Girl and I are at Mom’s this week.  There are a lot of things on the agenda like showing her how to use her ATM card (we accomplished the internet and Gmail on my last trip), updating her cell phone plan, and most importantly, getting her to have some fun.  I’m trying to jump start her new persona as the slutty divorcée, but she’s resisting.  In between her volunteer work with her church youth group and caring for homebound and elderly church members, she doesn’t have much time to shop for fire-engine red teddy’s and six-inch stilettos.  I’m working on it though.  Of course, this is coming from someone whose idea of lounge wear shuns silk and ribbons for cotton tanks and boxers.  Oh yes, Mr. Dingo got hizself a practical girl! 

When I explained that I’m prepping her for life as a cougar, Mom looked puzzled at first.  After I described exactly what a cougar is, she looked at me like I had whipped a vibrator out of my purse and told her, “Here!  Try it!” Okay, maybe she’s not quite ready to look beyond southern belle right now.  I guess we’ll have to wait for the Match.com lesson until next time.

Dingo Girl loves it when we visit Mom.  There’s a backyard and trees that she doesn’t have to share with any other dog!  She likes to sit on the front porch and I join her with a glass of iced tea and a book.  It’s usually peaceful.  Usually. 

Today, the odd boy playing basketball in his driveway (in 90 degree heat!) across the street took an interest in us.  Every single time Dingo Girl and I stepped onto the front porch, Odd Boy came over.  First, he’d stop shooting hoops and just stare.  Then, he’d wander over to the curb and wait a few seconds before sloooowly meandering across the street.  After taking time to smell the rose bushes lining Mom’s driveway, he would eventually make it to the porch.  He did this every. Single. Time.  And every single time he’d ask me, “Is that your dog?” The first time it was funny in that, “No, I’m just doing some animal testing for my radiation therapy class.  You can have what’s left of her when I’m done,” sorta way.  But after the third time it was creepy and I thought he just might have been hired by evil scientists to secure subjects for animal testing for a radiation therapy class.  And I wasn’t too sure that I wasn’t on the one on his list!

The usual social cues were not working, “Well, it was nice meeting you,” or “Have a good day,” or even, “Get out of here weirdo,” were not having any effect.  The last one was particularly ineffective, probably because I said it inside my head.  But I said it very loudly in my head.  Anyway, Dingo Girl and I left him standing on the porch. 

About thirty minutes later, Dingo Girl wanted to go out.  I grabbed her ball and we headed out the front door.  Odd Boy was still on the porch.  He was sitting on the bench I had vacated thirty minutes earlier because he wouldn’t leave.  He looked at me, “Is that –?” “Yes, we’re going to play fetch,” I said, cutting him off.  So, I threw the ball and Dingo Girl laid down in the grass.  I told her to go get it and she rolled around in the grass.  This is how we play fetch.  It’s a spectator sport for her.  I throw the ball and she waits for me to go fetch it.  It’s a whole lot of fun.

Odd Boy wandered over to where we were in the front lawn.  “Does she know how to play fetch?” Is this kid fucking with me?  Did he not just see the finely tuned team of Dingo and Dingo Girl at work?  “Does she know any other tricks?” Yes, Odd Boy, she does know other tricks.  She can take up all the room on the bed, she can eat her own food and still have room for mine, and best of all, she sheds like a mofo yet always has a full head of shiny blonde hair.  Don’t try that one at home, kids. 

Again, I said all that in my head.  What I said out loud was, “No.” But the question I was answering was, “I’m definitely cuter and more charming than that creepy little kid from The Grudge, right?”

Where were Odd Boy’s parents?  They just let their kids roam the neighborhood?  Don’t they know that’s just asking for Junior to be used for animal testing?  Well, now that I think about it, maybe they do....

Odd Boy then proceeded to tell me how to teach Dingo Girl to play dead.  Ready for it?  I need to bring in an older dog to show her how.  Yep, that’s it folks.  I need to bring in an older dog to teach Dingo Girl the fine art of playing dead.  And you know how?  I’ll tell you.  Apparently, the older dog goes up to the younger dog and demonstrates how it is done.  I’ll give you a minute to let that soak in.  Old Dog.  New Dog.  Live demonstration.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to look for the camera.  I just knew I was being Punk’d.  Alas, I was not, but I was saved by the southern belle when Mom pulled into the driveway.  Odd Boy looked thrilled at expanding his listening audience and turned to greet her with a sentence that started with, “Is this — ?”

I didn’t hear the rest because I took that moment to dash back inside.  Fetch this, ya’ll.  I’m outta here. Mom and Dingo Girl had to fend for themselves. 

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