Never Been to Spain

Hello, Innernetz!  I guest posted at Kelley’s blog, Magneto Bold Too, a few days ago.  I’m cross-posting it here just in case you didn’t get a chance to pop over there and read it.

I went to see Wolverine earlier this week.  Did I replay the Hugh Jackman in his birthday suit scene over and over again in my dreams that night?  Oh, quit whining.  That’s not a spoiler, folks.  That’s incentive.  Now plop your $12.50 down and go get a gander at some man candy. 

Anyway, no, I did not dream of Hugh “Come-to-me-Baby” Jackman.  I dreamt that my mother was trying to get me to go to church.  But not just any church.  It was some country church with hard wooden pews and a preacher who looked like he just stepped off the set of The Scarlett Letter.  There was a fruit stand just down the street selling cherry pie and I could see it from my pew.  I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.  I don’t even like cherry pie all that much.

Anyway, I woke up craving pie and pissed off that I did not dream of Hugh “You Know You Want Me” Jackman.  But the universe was not finished fucking with me yet.  I packed up my bag o’ books and headed to Starbucks to study.  As some of you know, my Starbuck’s study days are often rather interesting.  I am a magnet for the flotsam and jetsam of humanity who want to critique my hair or otherwise flaunt their crazy.  This particular day was no different.

The coffee shop was relatively empty.  I set my laptop up in my usual spot, a tiny table that’s just large enough for my computer and a book.  About an hour later, I was thoroughly engrossed in my work when I heard someone say in a pissed off voice, “I said hello!” I looked up to find a woman standing beside my table with a Tupperware bin filled with a murky biohazard and, in her other hand, a newspaper.  “Um, hello?” I said, sure that she had mistaken me for someone else — like someone who was about to share my table when there were at least ten empty ones in the store.  At my acknowledgment, she beamed.  Her face broke into a smile and her hair, which radiated out from her head like braided spokes on a wagon wheel, practically shivered with delight, each braid giving the others enthusiastic high-fives.  My stomach dropped.  And then she dropped into the seat across from me, pushing my laptop across the table and placing her Tupperware Dumpster of Death and newspaper in the now-empty spot. 

Now, for the uninitiated, if you MUST share a table at a coffee shop, all that is required is a civil acknowledgment of the other person’s existence.  You do not need to engage in small talk, exchange phone numbers, or arrange for a house swap while one of you is in France.  No, just nod.  Smile.  And done.  Apparently, Wilma Wagon Wheel didn’t get the memo.  She plopped down and immediately started blathering, only pausing to inhale enough air to re-inflate. 

“Do you think we’re going to get some sun today?  I like to go barefoot when it’s sunny.  It makes my corns feel good.”

*deep breath*

“What kinda laxtop is that?  My brother has a laxtop but his looks better than that one!

*deep breath and a shaking of the braids over the sorry state of my “laxtop”*

“Did you see Medea Goes to Jail, Race to Witch Mountain, Mall Cop? ”

*deep breath*

The easiest thing would have been for me to move to another table, but once again I was cursed by my southern upbringing.  I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I stayed put.  And, as she opened the Tupperware Dumpster and began gobbing its contents like a mouse trapped in a cheese wheel, I figured she’d either finish and leave soon or the hazmats she was eating would kill her.  I tried to focus on my work only giving her a nod and an “uh-huh” every now and then.  I figured she’d get the hint.  She didn’t.  Instead, she stopped mid-slurp and slammed the container down on the table slopping a few tentacles over the edge and soaking her newspaper with ooze.  “What are you looking at?!” she yelled.  Oh, crap.  What the hell is going on?  I looked up from my laptop to see that she was directing her ire toward a man at a table several feet away.  “What are you looking at?!” she yelled again.  In an indignant stage whisper, she turns to me and gestures, “That man is staring at us.”

And then I sealed my fate.  I answered her.  “He’s not looking at us,” I said.  He’s working.” With an emphasis on the “working.” That simple answer appeased her and now, having gotten my attention, her braids did a happy dance.  “I’m going to Hallelujah!” she said.  “Have you ever been to Hallelujah?” she asked.  Shitfire, I thought.  She’s going to whip out her Gideon Bible, or Watchtower, or copy of Dianetics.  My dream of my mom trying to get me to go to church became less of a dream and more like a premonition. 

“No, I’ve never been to Hallelujah.  I’ve never even heard of it,” I said.  She was flabbergasted.  Her eyes rounded into a Tex Avery cartoon look of surprise and her braids just about leapt off her head in shock.  “YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF HALLELUJAH?!” she shouted.  “Nope, sorry,” I said, shaking my head, “Where is it?” Clearly disgusted by my lack of world geography, she waved her hand in the general direction of the Starbucks entry and said, “You know, over there!” I just shrugged and gave her a weak smile and said, “Sorry, still don’t know where it is,” as I prayed to God and L. Ron Hubbard that she would not ask me to look it up on my laxtop.  But I didn’t need to look it up because she described it to me in great detail.  How she’d gone to Liberty Travel to book her ticket (I didn’t even know people used travel agencies anymore) and that she just wanted to get her ticket but the travel agent wouldn’t stop talking about transfers, fees, and other mundane things.  But she finally got her ticket.  Just that morning. But she wasn’t sure where she’d put it.  No problem, she’d go back and get another one if she couldn’t find it.

“Are you sure you’ve never been to Hallelujah?” she asked.  The look of pity on her face was genuine.  First, I had a second-rate laptop and now, she discovers, I have never been to Hallelujah.  Hell, I’ve never even heard of Hallelujah!  So, she described it to me. 

Hallelujah has water, and sand, and palm trees and — wait a minute, this is sounding awfully familiar.  “Do you mean Honolulu?” I asked.  “Where?” she asked?  “Honolulu,” I repeated. “It sounds like that’s what you’re describing.” “Honolulu?  I’ve never heard of such a place!  Honolulu?” she said as she and her braids start laughing at my stupidity.  “Honolulu.  Hmph!” Now she thinks I am completely off my rocker.  “It’s just that I’ve never heard of Hallelujah and what you are describing sounds a lot like Honolulu.” I must have offended her with my suggestion because she placed the lid on her Tupperware Dumpster with a brusque snap! and gathered up her newspaper, soggy though it was with offal.  She and her braids turned their back on me and began to walk away from the table.  “What do you know,” she said, “you’ve never even heard of Hallelujah!”

She stomped away.  Three feet away.  And plopped herself down at the table of the man she’d yelled at just moments before.  I sighed with relief, went back to my reading, and pitied the poor man as, five minutes later, I heard her exclaim, “YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF HALLELUJAH?!”

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Best Idea Ever!

Three months ago, our Apartment Manager showed up at our door with a big blue tarp and a large skein of rope.  I figured one of two things, either the landlord had found a tenant who could pay a lot more in rent than I, so I was on my way to the bottom of the Hudson River, or the landlord had found a tenant who could pay a lot more in rent than I, so I was on my way to the bottom of the East River.  Fortunately, neither of those possibilities occurred, but only because, thank god, I live in an overpriced walk-up with no dishwasher, bad electricity, and obnoxious neighbors.

Anyway, Apartment Manager was finally getting around to fixing the wading pool that covers the rooftop deck of the unit below mine.  It’s not a real wading pool.  It’s more like a catch basin.  Lacking any apparatus to drain water away from the enclosed deck, the lightest rain, morning dew, or spitting contest off my terrace turns the deck into an amusement park wave pool for local pigeons and the occasional vacationing sewer rodent looking for some fun and sun far from the din of the subterranean rat race (what happens on the roof deck, stays on the roof deck).  And of course, what would standing water be without mosquitoes?  We have those in proboscis abundance.  (Get it?  Proboscis = prodigious?  Dingo even makes entomology funny!) Let’s just say that, if you’re a New York mosquito in the know, Casa Dingo is the happening place to stop by for a drink and a bite.

After months of complaints, Apartment Manager finally came to solve the problem.  His solution consisted solely of laying a tarp across the deck.  That’s it.  No renovation, no reconstruction, just a big, blue tarp.  At first, I thought he might be an idiot.  But, as the day wore on, all doubts faded.  If he wasn’t hooting or humming the Vonage Woo-Hoo song, he was whistling the Vonage Woo-Hoo song.  All.  Morning.  Long.  By mid-afternoon, I was humming the Woo-Hoo song as well, but instead of cheap long distance, I was envisioning rolling his ass up in a big blue tarp before using a Hattori Hanzo katana to make my own Kill Bill sushi. Woo-Hoo, Woo-Hoo-Hoo!

I was sitting at my desk Googling tutorials on swordsmanship and wondering why it takes all day to place a tarp over a roof when suddenly, in the middle of the day, outside of the apartment went dark.  UFO hovering over the city dark.  Godzilla-like monster outside the windows dark.  Or perhaps, most frightening of all, ectoplasm-powered giant marshmallow man walking through midtown dark.  I knew this would happen one day.  I opened the terrace door — graham crackers and Hershey bars in hand — to find a waving, trembling wall of blue.  I should have guessed.  Tsunami.

But, I didn’t drown.  The wall just stayed there, wobbling at me.  Blue wobble wobble.  It was the freakin’ tarp.

“What’s going on?” I shouted as I batted my way through yards of blue nylon trying to find an opening through which I could reach Apartment Manager’s neck.  “This is a great idea!” he shouted back with glee, rubbing his hands together as if he’d just discovered how to make explosives with two three-ounce bottles of shampoo rather than one six-ounce bottle of shampoo.  Apparently, all the whistling and singing deprived Apartment Manager’s brain of much needed oxygen.  I can think of no other reason why he decided to secure the tarp to the top of my apartment, sloping the material over the terrace to the far side of the rooftop deck.  The back of the apartment looked like an isolation tent from a horror movie except there were no cute, superviolent monkeys with cute, superviolent viruses running around.  I did a double-take.  Nope, no monkeys.  Just one whistling ass.

“You’re blocking off all of our light!” I said.  Apartment Manager was convinced that it would be a short-lived inconvenience. He promised that a more permanent and probably far less convenient solution would be in place in less than a week.  I wanted to ask him if a “more permanent solution” meant actually fixing the roof so it didn’t hold water like a woman eating two pounds of taffy a week before her period.  But I didn’t.  Instead, I went back into the apartment to fume.  The fuming only lasted a few minutes.  Not because I took the high road and decided to just deal with living in a cloudless sky for the next week, but because my fuming was interrupted by phhhrrrt!  Phhhrrrt!  Phhhrrrt! 

I tried to ignore the sound but my curiosity got the best of me.  I went back out onto the terrace to find that Apartment Manager didn’t have enough rope to tie down the tarp.  So he decided to use duct tape.  Yep, Apartment Manager was MacGyvering the tarp to a brick apartment building.  It was his very own Blue Badge of Stupid.  “This is my best idea ever!” he kept shouting.  Woo-hoo!  Phhhrrrt!  Woo-hoo-hoo!  Phhhrrt! Best!  phhrrrt!  Idea!  phhrrrt!  Ever!  phhhrrrt!

Later that evening, a passing thunderstorm made mincemeat of the Blue Badge of Stupid.  It lay sad and alone for two months on the roof deck below forming a delightful mosquito duplex.  I watched passively for the first month, then I ordered Sea Monkeys.  I hoped to have a colony of cute, superviolent Sea Monkeys with cute, superviolent viruses waiting for Apartment Manager when he finally returned.  Alas, that plan was thwarted.  Last week Apartment Manager came to fix the roof deck as well as the roof on the top of our building.  I thought that would be the end of the repair drama, but I think the real drama is about to begin.  Now there is a swath of blue tarp draped over the top of our building.  Realizing that duct tape was not the best way to secure a big, blue tarp to brick, Apartment Manager decided to keep the tarp from flying off the top of the building by securing it with bricks wrapped with rope and draped over the edge of the roof like piñatas for kids you just don’t friggin’ like.  Or maybe the bricks just say, “Best!  Idea!  Ever!”

It’s supposed to storm tonight.  The wind has already picked up and the bricks swing precariously closer and closer to our living room window.  All I can say is that I’m going to bed tonight dreaming of all the Sea Monkeys I could buy with the settlement money.

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Leggo My Ego!

With the end of the semester fast approaching, my scheduled office hours have overflowed with students from the classes I teach who have no hope of receiving a passing grade, begging for mercy.  Regardless of all the times I scrawled Purple Sharpie Words of Doom on their papers, my exhortations of “Please come see me” or “We need to discuss your grades,” drifted through the echo chamber between their ears like tumbleweeds.  Helpful observations like “You are such a dumbass, be glad that breathing is an involuntary physiological function” went without notice.  But now? With a week of class left, now everyone wants to be a model student.  My ass has been kissed so much this past week, it’s burnished to a beautiful copper glow.  And it’s a nice ass, too! 

Since I can no longer run I’ve been doing a bunch of workout DVDs.  Oh, no, not your mother’s workout DVDs.  No Denise Austin or Kathy Smith for this ol’ Dingo.  I’ve been doing Crunch’s cardio dance DVDs.  I have no grace.  I have no coordination.  As we say down home, I look like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.  But it’s fun and I think it’s working. I also love the cardio sculpt DVDs.  The only DVD I’ve had issues with is the Jillian Michaels 30-day Shred.  The title makes me think of shredded cheese!  String cheese!  Blocks of cheese!  And then I wander away from the exercises on the TV screen and into the kitchen for a little snack.  So, yes, I have a nice ass if your idea of a nice ass is one shaped like a Bonbel cheese ball.

All this working out had me feeling pretty good.  But that was before I had my ass and my ego handed to me on a platter.  It started innocently enough.  The other day a friend sent me an email about an audition.  A cosmetics company was looking for “real women” to use in their next ad campaign.  The only instructions contained in the email were directions to the audition location and orders not to wear make-up because they wanted our natural beauty to shine through.  Natural beauty!  Ha!  You know they just wanted to us to show up looking like cadavers so they could ambush us for an edition of Extreme Makeover: The Ugly Truth.  Because we all know that women who don’t wear make-up are ugly, right?

Anyway, a week of PMS, getting my va-jay-jay waxed, and re-playing Izzie and Alex’s wedding on Grey’s Anatomy over and over again assured me that I was a real woman, so I went to the audition. Sans make-up.  No one died from fright as I walked down the street, although a few people gasped in horror and averted their eyes.  When I got to the audition location, the sign-in sheet had additional information.  Important information.  Information I should have been made aware of before traipsing my cheese ball across Manhattan during rush hour.  Right at the top of the sign in sheet in a BIG, BOLD font was:

We’re looking for Real Women between the ages of 20-30 to be the new faces of Cosmetics Company blah, blah, blah….

Wait, wha?!  Ages 20-30?  I signed in anyway.  I was already there and what could it hurt?  As I sat in the waiting area with a herd of sixteen-year-olds trying to look twenty, I was relieved to see another woman my age.  Actually, she looked older.  Much older.  As in, those aren’t freckles, honey, those are age spots.  I accidentally on purpose glanced at her sign-in information.  Under “Age,” she had written 23.  Twenty-three!  I wanted to let her know that we were supposed to write our age, not the year of our birth, but she was already deeply engrossed in reading Cosmo Girl.

Another thing I noticed about The Lying Old Lady was that she was wearing make-up.  I looked around the waiting area.  Everyone was wearing make-up!  Bitches!  And not just a light dusting of powder and mascara.  No, these girls looked like living, breathing Bratz dolls.  Geez, am I the only one who follows directions?!  Well, except for that 20-30 years old thing.  I quickly rummaged through my bag for some powder, eyeliner, anything!  But all I came up with was a tube of lip gloss that had lost its top and was therefore caked with fuzz, furr, and other detritus from the bottom of my bag.  It would have to do.  I put my bag on the floor and pretended to rummage through it while surreptitiously using the lip gloss to give me kissable lips and rubbing a little on my cheeks for that youthful glow.  I was proud of my resourcefulness until I looked in the mirror next to the sign-in table.  If they were casting for Bette Davis’s character from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane: the Trailer Park Production, I was a shoo-in. 

When they finally called my name I walked into the room where the Cosmetics Company make-up artist and photographer were taking pictures and scribbling notes on a legal pad.  Most of the girls who had gone into the room before me were back there for at least ten minutes.  I kicked myself for not using the restroom while I had the chance.  But I needn’t have worried.  I was in and out in ten seconds.  They didn’t even ask me to sit in the make-up chair under the bright department store dressing-room-type lights.  The photographer and make-up artists huddled around my information form, cast dubious glances my way and then muttered “Thank you” in my general direction.  “That’s it?  You don’t need to take my picture?” I asked.  “No m’am, that won’t be necessary.” M’am?!  Did they just “m’am” me?  I would’ve beaten them with my cane and flung my dentures at them had my hip not chosen just that moment to go out. 

But I didn’t leave empty handed.  On my way out Make-up Artist handed me a consolation prize. “Thanks for coming in!” she bleated.  “Here’s a 20% off coupon for Cosmetics Company make-up.  It’s also good for our line of wrinkle reducers and fade creams!” Oh, no she d’int!  Oh, yes, Innernetz. Oh, yes she did.

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Disruptive

A few days ago Dingo Girl and I were at our local drug store stocking up on hair gel and conditioner.  It’s going to be a humid summer and I want to get a jump on the frizzies.  If I can find something to tame these Medusa-like curls before the locker room dampness of June descends upon the city like a sweaty armpit, I’ll be happy.  During the winter months, I usually add a touch of honey to my leave-in conditioner.  Not only does it make my hair curlier and more defined, but it also smells scrumptious.  For obvious reasons, I forgo this at-home remedy during the summer.  The last thing I need is a swarm of bees descending upon my head like vampires at a blood bank.  It’s going to be difficult enough battling the mosquitoes.

Dingo Girl loves going into this drug store.  Actually, she loves going into any store.  Fortunately, New York is very dog friendly.  Dingo Girl knows exactly which stores have dog treats by the door or behind the counter.  We’ve been going to this drug store ever since she was a puppy. The cashiers fawn all over her and make sure she gets the peanut butter flavored treats.  On this particular day, a new crop of cashiers was at the front counter.  They were taking their sweet ol’ time ringing up the customers because it would have been expecting too much for them to continue their conversation about baby-daddies and broke down ho’s trying to steal their men during their lunch break.  I had a basket of hair products in one arm — I added a few bags of jellybeans and a pint of ice cream because gelatin and calcium makes your hair strong.  Shut up! They do too!  In my other hand I had Cooking Light and Shape.

Dingo Girl was sitting obediently at my feet. When the line didn’t budge for a good ten minutes, she gave an impatient sigh and laid down.  As I was flipping through one of the magazines trying to figure out if the “Cooking Without Butter” article was some sort of joke, there was a loud crash, crying, and screaming coming from one of the aisles.  Everyone turned.  We were greeted by the sight of a woman casually perusing Cover Girl’s new Spring lip glosses as her two children dismantled the store.  One imp of Satan child, around four years old, was pelting her sister with what looked like the entire collection of Opi nail polish with the accuracy and speed of a Gatling gun.  Bottles smashed into the glass display holding the knock-off perfumes.  Bruises were already rising on the other demon’s child’s head and she was crying great gobs of snot as she tried to duck the multi-colored missiles.  That didn’t stop her, however, from undoing her diaper and finger-painting a freestanding Neutragena display and floor with her feces.  Have I mentioned that all this was occurring as their mother was oohing and aahing over Tickled Pink and Merry Berry?  She opened each gloss, applied it to her lips, checked herself in a mirror borrowed from another aisle, wrinkled her nose in disgust, and then put the lip gloss back on the shelf.  Yes, back on the shelf.  This is why you don’t buy make-up that has been opened.

One of the cashiers finally decided that her co-worker was not going to be able to diagnose her burning, oozing va-jay-jay infection from just a verbal description and, for lack of something better to do, decided to actually do her job.  As we watched the disaster that was still continuing in the store (throwing Grecian Formula and feces finger-painting the hair care aisle), Monistat Cashier called out, “Excuse me!” as she came from behind the counter.  “Thank god!” I thought.  Not only was the yelling giving me a headache, but Fecal Frida was getting closer to the check-out line and the stench of toddler poo was curdling my Ben & Jerry’s.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the train wreck in the aisles.  “Excuse me!” yelled Monistat who could barely be heard above the caca cacophony ringing throughout the store.  Just then, she appeared at my elbow.  “Excuse me, m’am, no dogs allowed in the store.” Dingo Girl, who was still lying on the ground, sat up expecting a treat from Monistat.  In this store, the approach of a red shirt usually means a tasty treat is about to come her way.  I was shocked but managed to maintain my eloquence and charm.  “No dogs? Since when?” Now, I realize that this may seem argumentative and when you are yelling to be heard over Annie Oakley and Fecal Frida, it can seem downright obnoxious.  But I really didn’t mean it to come out that way.  Okay, maybe a little bit.  Monistat didn’t answer my question, she just pointed at Dingo Girl who was batting her brown eyes, waiting expectantly for a treat and said, “No dogs.  They’re disruptive.” At this point, Annie Oakley was banging her head against the deodorants and Fecal Frida was stomping on boxes of toothpaste.  “Okay,” I said as I handed her my basket of goodies and gave a head-nod to the mayhem.  “Have fun cleaning that up.” Because I’m real mature.

So now Dingo Girl and I go to a different drug store.  She gets her treats from the cashiers and I make sure to get all of my products from the very top shelves.

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Do Jellyfish Eat Oreos?

There’s a reason that there hasn’t been a running post on here in a while.  I’m not running anymore the only running you will see on this post from now on are run-on sentences.  As much as I loved it, my ankles, knees, and back did not.  I’ve had to face the fact that my riding accident ended joint pounding athletics for me.  Osteochondral lesions, potential surgery, months of physical therapy, and the thought of unattractive fashion choices among hospital gowns that leave my ass exposed are some of the things that have led me to this difficult decision.  And difficult it was.  For a while, I convinced myself that I could continue.  However, hobbling home after what should have been an easy three-mile run convinced me that grinding my joints to dust would not be in my best interests unless I wanted to spend my life as a jellyfish.  As appealing as floating around my apartment consuming everything within reach of my grasping fingers may be, I do not want to end up with my own TLC program, The Jellyfish Woman, sandwiched between showings of The Woman with the Talking Tumor and The Man with Three Brains.  That last show is fascinating. As we all know, men usually only have two thinking organs.

I can walk.  I can use the elliptical machine.  But no running. What has surprised me is how the news that my running days are over has affected me.  We’re talking depression, folks.  Woe is me and all that shit.  I have been cranky, moody, and weepy.  Ordinarily I run when the cRazY strikes.  But that is no longer an option.  So I go for a walk.  Well, dye my hair blue and call me Hazel!  All I need is a velour tracksuit and a few stories about my home in Boca and I’m all set.  As I power walk in the park, runners pass me and I wonder if they think I’m lazy or lack the mental toughness it takes to be a runner.  Because I am not lazy.  I am a procrastinator.  There’s a difference!  Laziness is sitting on the couch in the dark because you don’t feel like getting up to turn on the light.  Procrastination is . . . well, I’ll tell you later.

Ironically, since I’ve started walking as exercise I’ve lost four pounds.  Four pounds!  In one week!  What the hell?  When I was running it would take me weeks to lose four pounds.  I like to think that it has something to do with my awareness that consuming a Starbucks Luscious Lemon Tart has greater repercussions on the circumference of my hips now that I’m no longer doing five mile laps in the park.  Believe it or not, a pack of Oreos has been sitting in the kitchen sniffling and whining about loneliness for over a week.  But I resist, muttering protective spells and making the sign of the food pyramid.  Instead of reaching for the chocolaty double-stuffed goodness, I grab an apple. 

The Cougar was up visiting last week and helped me stock my kitchen with healthy food.  I’ve been cooking healthy meals but grazing snacking sabotages me.  I need things that can be prepared quickly and eaten on the go.  Or in front of the TV.  So The Cougar and I went grocery shopping. “Do you like bananas?” she asked, holding up a yellow crescent-moon shaped object.  “Ba-na-na?  What mean this thing ‘ba-na-na’?” She was not amused.  “Fruit, you need to eat more fruit,” she insisted.  Now, I’m no stranger to fruit, I eat the garnish on my frozen alcoholic beverages.  But fruit all on its own?  With no margarita to accompany it?  Who does such a thing?  I loaded my cart with apples, grapes, oranges, and berries but put the kibosh on unsweetened fruit cocktail.  My idea of a fruit cocktail is a gin soaked olive.  Anything else is just obscene. 

So, I’ve been walking and reaching for fruit and veggies, leaving the Oreos to whine plaintively on the shelf.  I miss running.  I miss the endorphins, I miss the zen of breath and body, and I miss the freak parade and my fellow runners , but I think I would miss my joints and cartilage more. 

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