Next Rest Area, 26.2 Miles

I can’t believe that I’ve just completed my second week of preliminary marathon training.  Ten minutes of plodding running followed by five minutes of desperate gasping for air in which bugs and other unsuspecting airborne creatures that couldn’t escape the vortex created by my desperate wheezing contribute to my protein intake for the week.  Now I know why nature abhors a vacuum.  It upsets her delicate balance as I rob hundreds of spiders and bats of their breakfast. 

While I did not start training with the intent of losing weight, I thought that dropping thirty pounds might just be a fringe benefit.  Wanna know how much weight I’ve lost?  None.  Not one ounce.  Mr. Dingo says this is because I’m gaining muscle, that water weight from sore muscles will eventually disperse, yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah....  Thank you, Charles Atlas.  He suggested that I go by measurements instead.  So I dug out the tape measure expecting to be pleasantly surprised.  I was surprised all right.  Do you want to know how many inches I’ve lost?  This   much.  See that teeny space between “this” and “much”?  Yep, that’s how many inches I’ve lost.  Thank goodness we have a tape measure with hundredths of inches on it or I might have missed the incredible improvement altogether.  It boggles the mind, doesn’t it?  It’s not fair.  I’ve changed my eating habits considerably.  On most days, I can go at least fifteen minutes without eating a candy bar.  And not one Twizzler today.  Not one!

So, someone please tell me when the weight should start melting off.  Right now, while the grass along my running trail is still wet with Spring rain, everything is alright.  Come the hot, parched days of summer, when everything green hoarsely begs for water, it will be a different story.  The sparks thrown off by the rubbing of my thighs will cause wildfires.  You’ll hear about it on the news.  “Well, it has been a very hot summer, but these are the first wildfires Central Park has ever known.  Back to you in the studio, Ernie.” Maybe I should alert the authorities now so they can start monitoring the water levels in The Reservoir.

Speaking of water, I thought that eating properly would be the most difficult part of marathon training but it’s not (I say as I wipe the grease from the fourth hamburger I’ve had this week from my keyboard).  It’s the peeing.  I have a bladder the size of a postage stamp.  In the two weeks I’ve been training, I have found every bathroom and port-o-potty on my running route in the park.  If I have the slightest sip of water at any time prior to my run, I’ll have to pee before I get to park entrance.  Running only makes it worse and all I can think about is the next pit stop.  What am I going to do in Florence?  I’m sure that the running route is not going to be lined with a Starbucks — a tiny bladder’s best friend — every fifty yards.  If Florence is anything like other European countries I’ve been to, I’m going to have to carry a pocket full of change to use the public loos.  Do they make running shorts with pockets that big? I am worried about how much change I will have to carry.  I will be the next wonder of the world.  Like the Great Wall of China, you will be able to see me from space. 

Or, even worse, I will have to resort to using adult diapers to make it through the race.  I have this image of myself being interviewed at the finish line by an Italian news crew speaking to me in broken English:

Reporter: Missa Dingo.  How does-a persona go from-a being a-thirty pounds overweight-a to a- winning la Firenze Marathon in only a few-a months-a?

Dingo: (Smiling brightly as the camera pans close, her waterproof makeup perfectly intact and her too-white teeth causing a momentary sunspot on the lens.) Depends....

Well, wildfires and pit stops be damned, I’ll get across that finish line!  Maybe not first or second or fiftieth.  Maybe the clowns on their stilts and the old people with their fancy prosthetic hips will finish before me.  I will be there though, at the very same finish line the one-man band with his accordion and the drums on his back and the cymbals between his legs will have passed only hours before.  I may not be there with bells on, one-man band will have taken all of them, but I’ll jingle the euros in my pocket like castanets.

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Not Making the Grade

Yesterday was one of the most difficult days of my teaching career.  I have vented and raged about the ethical standards of my students but I truly believe that if they genuinely faced the dilemma of having a meth-addicted, bodega-robbing, serial-killing roommate, they would actually call the number listed at the bottom of the screen on America’s Most Wanted. 

I really like these kids (except for Jackass Kareless and he’s gone now – la, la, la!).  They participate, they’re enthusiastic, and most of them work very hard.  They often stop by during office hours to talk about what’s going on in their lives and ask for advice on everything from how to improve their writing to how to balance work, school, and life because, apparently, I soooo have it together on that.  Oh, how that misconception would change if they could see the stack of dishes in my kitchen and the floors that are only swept when all the windows are open and there’s a strong cross-breeze. 

While they were off last week wearing beer helmets and competing in Best Buns on the Beach contests, I graded their papers.  I could tell that they put a lot of effort into these papers.  Despite clunkers like the ones I talked about on Monday, most of the papers showed a slight improvement from the ones they turned in several weeks ago.  One of the papers showed incredible improvement.  And that was the problem: the improvement just wasn’t credible.  So I showed some of the questionable phrases to my friend Google, and Google told me that the paper was plagiarized.  Google is smart that way. 

When Google rendered its verdict, my stomach dropped and my breakfast felt as if it had overstayed its welcome.  On the first day of class, we had discussed plagiarism: what it is, what it isn’t, and what happens if they plagiarize.  While my class is relaxed and I am lenient regarding some issues like eating in class (apparently verboten in some classrooms), I am inflexible about others.  I have repeatedly made it very clear that if you are ten minutes late to class, you are marked absent.  All paper deadlines are strictly enforced.  And there is zero tolerance for plagiarism.  Zero.  Zilch.  None.  The only thing worse than plagiarism is calling me during Grey’s Anatomy.  Do not call me during Grey’s Anatomy. 

I felt sick to my stomach.  I broke into a sweat.  I wanted to cry.  I felt guilty.  What had I done to make this student feel he couldn’t come to me to discuss whatever problems he was having writing this paper?  There are certain students who know they have issues with writing and staying focused (because I have told them repeatedly), and we have weekly appointments at Starbucks to discuss their progress and any problems they are having.  Why not this student?  Didn’t he think I could help?  Doesn’t he like coffee?  I felt like a failure. 

I met with the student.  I heard his side of it.  And yes, I cried.  Not that the student’s story was particularly moving, but because I knew that failing this student was going to have an impact in his life.  Not the impact I envisioned when I became a teacher.  I do not imagine myself as Michelle Pfieffer in Dangerous Minds or Joe Clark in Lean on Me.  I am not Hillary Swank trying to have my students write the trauma of their lives and turn it into life changing realizations, and besides I don’t have a freakishly square jaw.  My school is more of a cross between the school in Clueless and Mark Harmon’s Summer School.  (Yes, I’m old.  I think we established that several posts ago.  Get over it).  I’m just me.  I’m just trying to teach them how to read and think critically. 

I suppose I should’ve given the student props for critically reading the piece he plagiarized and realizing it was much better than anything he could’ve written.  Then again, this was one of the students that justified taking the twenty dollars from a lost wallet.  Is it any wonder that stealing someone else’s words was acceptable?

Even though I felt that sticking to my guns was the best thing for the student by not allowing him to use certain issues in his life as an excuse to just give up, I felt like the worst human being and teacher in New York City.  It was with this attitude that I went to see my mentor.  And yes, I cried.  She listened sympathetically and then told me to grow some balls and get a grip.  And I did.  Until the student sent me an email thanking me for being such a wonderful teacher and for caring enough about him to do the right thing. 

So yeah, I still feel like crap.  But I’m going to see a doctor.  Tomorrow is Thursday and the goings on at Seattle Grace will make everything okay when I get my weekly fix of my favorite hunk-o-rama duo McSteamy and McDreamy.  So if you want to tell me I did the right thing or berate me for being a heartless bitch, have at it.  Just don’t call me during therapy Grey’s Anatomy.

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Delete, Backspace, Repeat

When I return my students’ papers to them today via email, most of them will quickly scroll to the bottom of the screen to find their grade.  What they won’t find are the comments and exclamations of disbelief that ricocheted around my apartment this week.  They will see my suggestions on how to improve grammar, sentence structure, and organization but they will not see the battered surface of my Delete and Backspace keys, worn smooth with repetitive tapping.  While my bitching made Mr. Dingo laugh, I’m sure that sharing those unrefined first impressions with my students would not be conducive to a positive and enriching learning environment. 

But really, how would you have responded to statements like these?

Loneliness makes you feel as if you are all alone by yourself.
This is very insightful!  I had never thought of this before.  But aren’t you overlooking group loneliness?  I know that it’s group loneliness that brings me down.  And my friends, too.

When ww 1 was fought in the United States….
Yes, after the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, tried to seize the throne of King of Prussia, PA he was repelled at the border of Staten Island.  The abolitionists celebrated their victory at the Boston Tea Party with fireworks and that, my dear, was the shot heard around the world.

When it comes to the structure and operation of family life the author hit the nail on the head of a dysfunctional family.
OUCH!!  Sounds to me like the author might have issues of his own.

So, how did I respond?  Diplomatically, delicately, Delete, Backspace. There were, however, diamonds among the coals and, overall, the quality of the papers has improved over the course of the semester.  I wish I could say as much about their email communication:

Remind me never to look at a poem again...analyzing poems are hard.....=( (sorry, just my personal opinion hope you’re not offended)
Of course I’m not offended.  What was I thinking?  College should be easy!  Thank you, by the way, for the poor grammar and punctuation.  Thank you also for the stunning self-portrait.  As I always say… a picture are worth a thousands word…………

I am sorry I was out of class for the past few classes.  I have allergies.  Did I miss anything important?
Yes, you missed the commercials telling you that Zyrtec is now available over the counter.

My fiancee as you know is fighting in Iraq and we were blessed to receive hes redeployment letter, meaning he was coming home.  I have to go to Kansas to pick him up.  I won’t be in class for a while.
Um, redeployed means that he’s going back to Iraq.  Sorry Dorothy, I don’t think he’s in Kansas anymore.  You won’t be in class for a while?  Are you mailing yourself to Kansas?

My favorite email communication of the semester came from a student who was a pain in the ass from the day he sauntered into class with his Jack Kerouac paperback sticking out of his backpack with the Nietzsche bumper sticker.  He would sigh, roll his eyes, and shake his head in condescension whenever anyone in the class would speak.  This put a damper on the good times.  One thing you do not do in my class is put a damper on the good times.  I mean, what is a good horror fiction class about if not terror, fear, blood, and good times? 

Jackass Kareless brought his arrogant attitude to his writing.  Prior to turning in his paper he informed me that he is an excellent thinker and philosopher and he felt that proper grammar and adherence to the rules of writing are unnecessary.  Apparently his grade wasn’t to his liking because I received the following email from him within twenty minutes of sending his paper to him:

Thanks for the bad grade and wasting my time.

When I got over my shock at the audacity of such a response (which, by the way, didn’t happen until I made Mr. Dingo look at my computer screen about twenty times as I asked, “Did he really just send a ‘fuck you’ email?” Each time Mr. Dingo confirmed that yes, I had in fact received a “fuck you” email) I typed a scathing rebuke.  And then hit Delete.

Funny, he hasn’t been back to class since then.  I suppose he’s off philosophizing somewhere.  The class dynamic has changed for the better since he dropped the course.  It was with glee that I placed the cursor over his name in my attendance chart and hit Delete, Delete, Delete.

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When Bad Fashion Attacks

I so wish you could see what I see when I am out for my run.  A few days ago I talked about the lady running in high heeled sneakers and lest you think I’m lying, I will take my camera with me on one of my “off” days when I’m walking.  I did not realize that this new hobby of mine would expose me to a world of fashion faux pas formerly unknown to me.  As if I needed something new to obsess about. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am no fashion plate.  My summer wardrobe consists of khakis and t-shirts.  If it’s really hot, I’ll wear khaki shorts.  But my simple wardrobe means that very little can go wrong and, therefore, I can preside over Fashion Court, judging couture wannabes in their Hootchi and Offendi threads.  The motto in my court:  Just because you can does not mean you should!  Let’s discuss.

Super low riders with exposed butt crack. Maybe that’s a runway La Perla thong that you’re wearing.  If so and you really, really insist that I see it, wear it on the outside of your low riders so that at least you are acknowledging your tastelessness.  And you know what else?  You may have paid a plastic surgeon thousands of dollars for butt cheek implants, but (no pun intended) I still don’t want to see it. 

Uggs in summer. Whether with summer dresses or a micro-mini, you don’t look stylish.  You look silly.  If you read my Hamster Grrl interview, you will know that this is one of my biggest summertime fashion pet peeves.  If you didn’t read the interview, please write a 500-word essay entitled, “Why I Do Not Find Dingo So Fascinating That I Want To Read Every Gem That Springs From Her Fingertips.” I can’t say that I will get the essay back to you anytime soon.  I still have 25 papers to grade and Spring Break is almost over.

Exposed bra straps. For the love of Tim Gunn, please do not show me your underwear!  This isn’t just about the spaghetti strap wearing crowd who wears a bra in a vibrant contrasting hue such as purple or orange.  This is also for the halter and tube-top wearing hellhounds who think that the rest of us won’t notice that not only are their straps showing but so is the top portion of their bras!!  I don’t care if it’s from Victoria’s Secret.  I don’t care if your ta-tas are so surgically enhanced that they require not just underwire but the entire San Francisco trolley cable system.  Bounce back into Victoria’s Secret where you bought the bra you are so intent on revealing and buy something a) strapless or b) that has one of those weird bra-strap configurations that makes your bra look strapless.  See, easy.  Fashion problem solved.  Spread the word.

White hose with black shoes. When were you voted Ms. Quaker Oats?  Unless you are wearing this horrid combination to a Halloween party in which you are a Pilgrim or a French Maid, cease and desist immediately.  Like how I got all lawyer-like on you there?  Yes, I have a completely irrational loathing for this particular ensemble and I will slap a restraining order on your Mayflower Madame legs if I see you walking down the street in such legwear.

Open-toed shoes with your toes hanging over the edge. Call a toe truck, I see a wreck!  What happened here?  Did you just finish the dance marathon with Mr. Two-Left-Feet or did your toes spontaneously grow an inch last night?  Did you buy size-8 shoes for your size-10 feet or are those hand-me-downs?  I ask these questions rhetorically, of course.  Whatever your reasoning, dangling your piggies over the edge like that is animal cruelty, and someone should call the ASPCA.  This also applies to your heels hanging off the back of your shoe.  My rollerblades have a rubber bulge on the back that enables me to brake as I’m careening precariously along NYC streets.  I assume your heel hanging over the back of your shoe serves the same purpose.  Are you afraid that you might be walking too fast to stop at the Ugg outlet and need to screech to a stop?  Here’s a suggestion:  fall backwards onto your super low riders to make that quick stop, but please, please wear shoes big enough to fit your gnarly toes and calloused heels.

These are just a few of my summer pet peeves.  I will add more to the list as the hot weather sets in and people go mad from the heat and start wearing things like socks with sandals.  I really need a fashion police badge.  And where’s that chic taser Mr. Dingo got me last Valentine’s Day? 

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Beer, It Isn’t Just for Breakfast Anymore

Oh my holy hell, y’all, I have a stock tip for you.  Ibuprofen.  Yes, sales of ibuprofen are going to go through the roof within the next few months.  When I’m lying on the apartment floor after a run, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m practicing my visualization — you know, “seeing” myself completing the marathon, imagining having a great workout, all that New Age mumbo jumbo that scientist begrudgingly admit is important in helping us achieve our goals.  So far, my visualization has included picturing myself getting off the floor and going into the kitchen for a beer.  What usually happens is that I end up begging Mr. Dingo for some ibuprofen with a beer chaser.  What, you think that beer is not an appropriate workout beverage?  I should be swilling Gatorade perhaps?  You forget, my friends, that I will be running this marathon in Florence.  Beer is just the first step in my post-marathon training.  I need to be able to hold my liquor when I go out for the celebratory binge meal after the race.  I would hate to embarrass you, my fellow countrymen, by falling face first into my plate of pasta after only one cask bottle glass of wine.  So, in order to prepare for the post-race festivities, I am chewing ibuprofen and chugging beer.  Why beer?  Because, really, who drinks wine at 7:30 in the morning!?  What, do you think I am an alcoholic? 

My training plan is great.  Before actually training for distance, the training manual I’m using prepares your body and your mind for the rigorous workout to come.  Visualization and gradual increases in running time are on my agenda for the next few weeks before training for distance and speed.  Right now, I’m running for five minutes and walking “briskly” for five minutes.  I think briskly means slightly faster than a zombie lurch but slower than the mad dash during the Pamploma Running with the Bulls.  Next week I jog for ten and walk briskly for five.  You see the pattern here?  This is the training plan that Wheaties used and now look at her — she’s competing in the Ironman in October.  While I am immensely proud of her, the only Ironman I wanna do is Robert Downey, Jr.

Anyway, I’ve discovered that ibuprofen is my friend.  I’ve already gone through a bottle and have sometimes wondered if it would ease my aches and pains faster if I ground it up first and snorted it through a dollar bill.  Side note:  I read that 80% of all paper currency in the US contains trace amounts of cocaine.  Think about that the next time you are going through airport security and one of those friendly looking drug sniffing dogs comes your way

As I’m lying on the floor visualizing the ibuprofen levitating from the medicine cabinet into my hand, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m meditating.  But I’m not.  I’ve found religion.  Yes, those “visualization” moments on my floor are actually prayers.  I’m bargaining with God. 

Me:  God, if you just let me move my legs, I promise I’ll stop making fun of the woman who runs in high heeled sneakers.  But I can’t promise that I won’t stare. 

God: 

Me:  Just a toe, God.  If I could just move my right big toe, I’ll stop cursing the stroller mom who thinks it’s okay to talk on her cell phone while pushing her damn double stroller in the running lane taking up the entire path so that I have to go into the grass to go around her. 

God:

Me:  Okay, since you’re God, you know that I’m lying.  I won’t stop cursing her, but I will stop cursing in that fake under my breath way that’s loud enough for her to hear it.

God:

Me:  I got nothin’ else.

God:

So, marathon training is going well.  I’m actually enjoying it.  To tell you the truth, I never thought I could run for five seconds and now I’m zooming along at the speed of erosion for five minutes at a time.  I freakin’ rock!

(Get it?  Erosion?  Rock?  Oh come on!  That was funny!)

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