If You Want This World To See A Better Day

Helloooo!  Is anybody out there?  I wouldn’t blame you if you had abandoned me.  This place has been filled with dust bunnies and cobwebs of late.  But I’m back, Innernetz!  My thesis is done!  My thesis is done!  After my third and final reader signed the This Is The Best Damn Thing I’ve Ever Read form, I called Mr. Dingo with the joyous news and then promptly came home and took a seven hour nap.

I am now free to get into the Christmas spirit.  And so are you — although some of you have gone ahead and done so without me. Didn’t we already talk about this? Innernetz, you are supposed to put your lives on hold until I can catch up.  But I will forgive you, Innernetz, because I love you.  And it’s Christmas.  Christmas is all about forgiveness.  And presents.  I noticed that on my birthday, in spite of my expectations for a mailbox overflowing with birthday bounty, it was remarkably empty.  I don’t blame YOU, Innernetz, I blame my lazy, thieving postman.  I know he stole all your wonderful gifts. But this is Christmas, so, bygones.

Mr. Dingo gave me an early Christmas present this year and it really put me in the holiday spirit.  He took me to see a folk music concert.  I first fell in love with folk music during my freshman year of college.  To be more specific, it was during Christmas break of my freshman year.  You see, I wasn’t always the sharp, with it woman with terrific rain boots that you know today.  In fact, back then you could say that I fell off the turnip truck. Daily.  So when I misread the dates for Christmas break I found myself back at school a week earlier than everyone else. 

The dorm was desolate.  Well, not completely desolate.  There were the girls who always dressed as if they were going to the Renaissance Festival; complete with long flowing velvet gowns and May pole ribbons in their hair.  I don’t know why they were back early.  The family must’ve run out of mutton or something.  Oh, there were also the vampire chicks.  Yeah, sorry iGeneration, you did not invent the fascination with tall, gaunt men with a thirst for blood.  The vampire chicks on campus slept all day, took night classes, dressed in black and listened to The Cure non-stop.  That they did not volunteer to help with the yearly blood drive had me doubting their commitment to their dark lord.

One of my good college friends, Kate, found out about my predicament and saved me from being challenged to a joust or joining the ranks of the not-really-very-dead by whisking me away to her family’s beautiful farm outside of Fort Worth.  The food was incredible.  I swear I put on the Freshman Fifteen during that one week.  The music, however, was the real feast.  Joan Baez, Simon & Garfunkel, The Mamas and the Papas, you name it, they had it.  On LPs.  And although my transformation from fundamentalist to feminist and political activist didn’t take place until many, many years later, the seeds were planted. 

These are the same seeds I’m attempting to plant in the embryonic brain cells of my students.  On one of my mid-semester evaluations, a male student complained that I was a feminist.  Oh, wait, what he actually wrote was, “FEMINIST.” And underlined it.  Three times.  Although it was meant as a rebuke, I took it as a compliment.  I think he was upset because I called him out for saying that women who wore mini-skirts and tank tops “deserved what they got.” He was also a little bent out of shape when, in response to one of my questions he stated, with no irony or awareness that he is a misogynistic jerk, “Because I’m a real man!” I fired back with, “Real men are not afraid of confident women.” Maybe I should put that on a t-shirt.

Don’t even get me started on his views about minorities, gays, lesbians, immigrants, etc.  It really amazes me that in 2008, his views seem to be the norm among my freshmen students.  I have been surprised by their ultra-conservative viewpoints. It’s as if they’ve been raised sucking at the over-inflated ego and rancorous tit of Rush Limbaugh. I’ve had female students tell me that a woman could not be president because she’s, well, a woman.  In another class, I pointed out that men also face discrimination, particularly when it comes to childcare issues and paternity leave.  My class thought this was hilarious!  Why in the world would a man want to take time off to spend with his newborn?  That’s the wife’s job!  Most of them thought it was disgusting to even consider that a gay couple would adopt a child much less have issues in the workplace regarding time off to care for that child.  Sometimes I want to beat my head against a wall.  Most of the time I want to beat their heads against a wall. Repeatedly.

I think, however, it would be best to send them to Kate’s for re-education.  They will come back too stuffed on good ol’ Southern cookin’ to hate anyone except the person who ate the last piece of pecan (pronounced peh-cahn NOT pee-can!) pie.  And maybe listening to music from people passionate about equality and peace will reach some primordial part of their brain. 

Well, this post ended up miles from where I intended.  I wanted to tell you about the man at the concert who kept giving us the Stink-Eye until the usher made him leave.  I also wanted to tell you how incredible the concert was.  We sang, we drank champagne, we sang louder.  My musical tastes now lean more toward the likes of Feist, Brandi Carlile, Vienna Teng, Rob Thomas, Maroon 5, and Gavin Degraw (Innernetz, are you taking notes?) but there’s a special place in my iPod for folk music.

Classes end next week.  I’m preparing the final exams this weekend.  Maybe I should ask them only one question.  A question Yusuf Isalm (formerly known as Cat Stevens) asked back in 1974:  Oh very young, what will you leave us this time?  Then again, he’s a Muslim.  And I’m pretty sure I know what they’d have to say about that.

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It’s Like A Bad Rockwell Video

Are you tired of my excuses for not posting?  Well, only that one excuse – the thesis.  Are you tired of it yet?  Yeah, me too.  So we won’t talk about it, shall we?  Okay, since you asked, just one more thing:  It’s almost done!  It’s been approved by my first and second readers and is on its way to my third and final reader right now.  Knowing that the deadline is rapidly approaching, I wanted to nudge my third reader a little but not seem overbearing.  I left her a nice little note with my draft that says, “Thank you for your time.  If you do not approve this thesis, I WILL CUTCHU!” And there’s a smiley face at the end.  Do you think the smiley face is a bit much?  Too in-your-face maybe? 

I feel as if I’ve been in a bubble the past few weeks.  A bubble occasionally burst by important stress relievers like pot excessive amounts of booze Grey’s Anatomy and Top Chef.  Unfortunately, my social life has been very limited.  I’ve seen the laundry guy and Bean, the Mexican food delivery dude, but that’s about it.  With Mr. Dingo working so much, Dingo Girl has been my connection to the outside world.  We’ve spent so much time together that I’ve started to sniff people’s butts in greeting rather than go in for the obligatory air kiss.  You’ll have to forgive me for another Dingo Girl post because right now, folks? It’s all I got.

Anyway, taking Dingo Girl out for her frequent constitutionals is sometimes the only thing that gets me away from my paper and out of the apartment.  For those of you who don’t have a dog in the city, let me tell you, you will be amazed how your circle of associates and psychopaths expands when you walk your dog.  Everyone knows Dingo Girl and wants to pet her.  Dingo Girl, however, is like her mama.  She’s a snob.  If you smell like patchouli, or wear socks with flip-flops, or push a shopping cart laden with bells, wind chimes, and questionable organic matter, she gives you wide berth.  Sometimes, however, interacting with the crazies of this world is unavoidable. 

There’s this one guy who acts as some sort of security guard for the store on the corner.  I say he acts like a security guard because most of the time he’s in front of the store smoking and drinking coffee.  He always says hello to Dingo Girl.  Hearing her name, she’ll pause and in the brief millisecond before she realizes that it’s Creepy Security Guard Wannabe and that he’s one of those people her mama has warned her about and she should run, he engages me in chit-chat.  I would love to ignore him and breeze right by, but my gnarly New York City exterior belies my Southern Girl Heart.  I just can’t be rude.  It’s like the Eleventh Commandment or something: “Y’all, Don’t Be Rude”.  It comes right after the Tenth Commandment: “Eat Grits, Y’all.”

I can’t say exactly what it is about him that gives me the creeps.  It might be his knock off Members Only jacket, or how he pops the collar of his security guard shirt, or it just might be that he monitors my every activity.  Every time I walk by he has something to say.  Something beyond the normal, “My, Dingo, you look stunning today.  And smart.  You look incredibly smart. ” See, that type of normal stuff I’m used to and can smile graciously while offering to sign an autograph or two.  Creepy Security Guard Wannabe, however, notices odd stuff. 

“You’re carrying your backpack on your left shoulder today. You usually carry it on your right.”

It’s true.  I do usually carry it on my right shoulder but why does he know that?!

”You look good in blue.”

Innocent enough, right?  Wrong!  My black coat was buttoned up and I was wearing a lavender scarf.  If Creepy Security Guard Wannabe has X-ray vision, I may have to buy lead underwear.

But perhaps the eeriest comment of all:

“I noticed Mr. Dingo leaving the apartment this morning with suitcases.  He must be going on a long trip. Do you like to be alone?”

That is just fucking creepy.  I didn’t think anything of it (other than the creepiness factor) until later that evening.  The night before Mr. Dingo left on his trip we watched The Strangers.  I don’t want to give the story away so let’s just say that it’s a scary-assed story about a home invasion.  But merely saying it’s about a home invasion is like saying Saw is about a man who liked puzzles. 

So there I am that evening taking a study break and playing tug-of-war with Dingo Girl when she suddenly stops and perks up her ears.  I didn’t hear anything and after a few seconds she went right back to playing.  The next thing I know, Not a Dingo comes barreling out the bedroom past me and Dingo Girl as if Curiosity is chasing her with a sickle.  Now, my back is facing the bedroom.  The moment I see the blur of fur and claws that is Not a Dingo run past me, Dingo Girl sits straight up, growling, hackles raised, death in her eyes, and looks behind me.  Toward the bedroom.  *cue horror movie music*

I freeze.  Just freeze.  And I whisper to Dingo Girl, “You are not about to tell me that someone is behind me, are you?” My rational self is saying that no one is in the apartment.  My irrational self is saying that, somehow, Creepy Security Guard Wannabe scaled five flights on the front of a building that faces a busy street and entered the apartment through a locked window.  That would not be the astounding part.  What would have amazed me is if he had managed to climb through the window without knocking over the stack of books, laundry, and moldy coffee cups on the nightstand.  So, I did what every horror movie heroine does.  I pretended that all was right in the world while saying oh so nonchalantly, “Well, Dingo Girl, I guess it’s time for your dinner.  I’ll just go into the kitchen….” Where I immediately grabbed the biggest knife I could find and huddled against the kitchen window.

Yes, I realize there are several things wrong with that scenario.  One, my back was against the kitchen window.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  Everyone knows the bad guy is going to reach through the window and grab me.  Two, there’s not a clean dish in the house.  The knife I grabbed was crusted with whatever I had for dinner the night before.  My intruder was more likely to die from botulism than blood loss if I ever got within stabbing range.  Three, my study break was over and I had to get back to revising my thesis.  So, with knife in hand I braved the living room once again where I found Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo asleep on the couch.

Bitches.

It seemed that Creepy Security Guard Wannabe was somehow thwarted in his efforts, but there’s always tomorrow.  I just know that he has a cellar somewhere and wants to add me to his collection.  I watch all the serial killer movies, I know how this stuff works.

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