I’m Lovin’ It

A lot of good stuff has happened recently.  First and foremost, I graduated!  But don’t think you are off the hook.  Although my wailing and moaning about the thesis has ended, a new era of bitching is about to begin.  I’m going to apply to Ph.D. programs and I need to get a good score on my English Literature Subject Matter test to get into the schools I’ve chosen.  The studying and whining will commence now tomorrow after the Law & Order marathon this weekend. 

Mr. Dingo has been very supportive with this decision.  Actually, it wasn’t really a decision.  If I don’t have a Ph.D. I’ll never be able to be on the tenure track at any university.  Except for McDonald’s Hamburger University.  While I find black pants slimming, I just can’t make peace with wearing a visor every day; it would crush my curls and I’m sure that the polyester would make me break out along my hairline.  I also think that 3½ years as a flight attendant was more than enough to show me that my strengths do not lie in customer service. 

The second good thing that happened was that classes started this week!  I’ve missed teaching and it looks as if I have some pretty good students this semester. So far they seem very animated and chatty.  I’d rather reign in conversation than do everything short of lighting my farts on fire just to get a response.  I swear, there were times last semester when I wasn’t sure if I had walked into my class or the cadaver room at the nearby medical center.

The first day of class was this past Tuesday.  I gave my big “Plagiarism:  Don’t do it or I will fuck you up” speech.  It was a big hit.  I had one student, however, who came up after class and claimed that she had some sort of psychic ability and that sometimes the stuff she writes has already been written.  It’s not plagiarism though, she promised.  She’s just channeling other creative energies.  Riiiiight.  You’ve got to give it to the girl, to make up an excuse like that takes crystal balls.  While I was thinking “Great, I’ve got the Ghost Whisperer in my class,” I responded professionally by informing her that I am also psychic because when I smell bullshit, it’s a sign that a plagiarized paper is nearby. She didn’t show up today.  She must’ve seen a giant floating F in her future.

Annnddd…I know you’ve been wondering what’s up with the lack of running updates.  Quite simply, I haven’t been running.  With a knee injury in October that required six to eight weeks of healing, the thesis madness of November and December, and a severe case of the Lazy Ass Can’t Even Get Off The Couch To Find The Television Remote, my running was non-existent.  But I’ve started up again.  I’m at a run/walk now.  It’s a little frustrating to know that I was running 14 miles just a few months ago and I’m run/walking one measly mile now.  But it’s good to be moving again.  It’s good to be out there.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any comments on the usual running freak parade.  With 20 degree temperatures, anyone out there running is the freak parade, myself included.  Who runs in 20 degrees?!  I do. And the guy who runs in a puffy jacket and jeans with a Marlboro hanging from his mouth. 

The only sand in my panties this week is the ongoing construction next door.  Aren’t we in a recession, Innernetz?!  Didn’t Home Depot just lay off a gabillion people?  Then why are the construction workers still working?  I am praying to Sweet Baby Jebus that they soon run out of nails, drills, and what sounds like a broken accordion because my sanity depends on it.

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The Thing That Irritates Me

I was up at 3am this morning because one of the Stiletto Sisters from upstairs called.  3am phone calls freak me out.  If someone is calling at 3am I envision missing limbs (obviously not ones involving fingers needed to dial), bail requests, or a panicked voice saying, “The calls are coming from inside the house!” I don’t expect to hear a slurred voice asking me to buzz her in because she’s locked herself out.  To say I was pissed would be flat out wrong.  I was PISSED!  The Stiletto Sisters still keep up their noisy, nocturnal perambulations but now it often includes their drunken friends mistakenly ringing our buzzer, shouting in the hallway, and barking back at Dingo Girl who is also pissed at being awakened in the middle of the night. 

This is not the first time we’ve received a late night plea to let one of them in the building. It happens quite frequently. I slept through their last drunken escapade on New Year’s Eve because two bottles of champagne tend to make me sleep rather soundly.  Mr. Dingo however was the one to field the 4am buzzer at the intercom.  He calls the Stiletto Sisters Thing #1 and Thing #2 because he can’t tell them apart.  With their identical flat-ironed brunette hair, spray on tans, and noses undoubtedly sculpted by the same plastic surgeon for their Sweet Sixteen, they are virtually identical. So he’s not sure whether it’s Thing #1 or Thing #2 who rang the buzzer New Year’s Eve and who, when admitted to the apartment building, proceeded to punch the walls, curse loudly, and slap herself for almost an hour. 

At first, Mr. Dingo thought she was being attacked and, ever the hero, prepared to go to her rescue.  A quick look through the peephole, however, showed that the only person she was fighting was herself.  For almost an hour she slapped and punched herself until Thing #1 (or was it Thing #2?) came home to let her into the apartment.  If this were a movie, she’d be cast as Jim Carrey in a wig doing his worst “oh no, I can’t stop hitting myself in the face and falling down!” shtick. I wish I had seen it.  That’s probably the one time I would not have had to photoshop a picture; I would’ve posted video, y’all.

But there was no such amusement last night.  I answered the phone with my heart racing, “Are you okay? What happened?” She was okay.  Just locked out.  I was not pleased. I would have been more understanding if she had said that her-head-was-attached-to-her-neck-by-a-tiny-piece-of-sinew-and-I-really-hate-to-bother-you-but-could-you-let-me-in-so-I-can-get-some towels-to-wipe-up-the-bloody-mess-on-the-landing? If that had happened, I would have been very gracious.  I would have opened the door as she passed by my apartment and handed her a bottle of OxyClean and a mop. 

But no.  It wasn’t anything Faux News worthy.  She’d just forgotten her keys.  Again. I snapped the phone off and buzzed her in.  Of course, by then I was wide awake, fuming, and couldn’t get back to sleep until hours later.  You know, about the time that Dingo Girl was ready to go for her morning walk.  Since Mr. Dingo was feigning sleep, I did what any self-respecting doggy mama would do.  I bribed her back to bed with treats and toys and slept for an hour.

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Let Us Eat Cupcakes

The migraine that crushed me like an avalanche is gone.  I have Obama to thank.  Why? Oh, no reason really.  I just want to thank him.  And lick him.  And possibly rummage through Michelle’s closet while she’s occupied in today’s festivities.  Today is a joyous, momentous, and historic occasion, and yet…And yet I cannot fail to think about those who died to make this day possible and those who died before this day was possible. Leaders like Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Bobby Kennedy, and every day heroes like my grandmother.  I think about my students who have never heard of the Montgomery Bus Boycott whine about a thirty minute subway ride to school.  I think of six-year old Ruby Bridges in her plaid dress and bow in her hair praying for the mobs that spewed hatred at her as she made her way into school.  And then I think of my students who will skip class because someone happens to be wearing the same shirt that they are wearing that day.  But I am optimistic that the import of this event for human rights and for righting the path of our country will get through to them.

I want to ride this wave of optimism and hope.  Doesn’t everyone?  Especially Pepsi – oh, come on, you can’t tell me that you haven’t noticed the new Pepsi logo.  It seems that while banks are tanking and the American automotive industry is running out of gas the food industry is booming.  Cupcakes, pies, and anything that can be slathered, frosted, or concocted with a red, white, and blue Obama image is flying off the shelves.  Even blue cheese has had a resurgence – although I think the stink is supposed to remind us of the eight years we are leaving behind.  I, for one, have done my part.  Mr. Dingo and I made cookies last night.  I didn’t have any Obama iconography to put on top of the cookies but I did use chocolate chips.  I hope that counts.

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Construction Criticism

I have another migraine.  The last one kicked my ass and this one promises to knock me out of the ring.  Right now it’s a dull throbbing behind my left eye, but when that eye pops out and rolls across the floor gathering an outer layer of pet hair before wedging itself under the couch, I’m going to get really irritated.  I’ve taken all manner of pharmaceuticals to no avail.  You see, they’re doing construction on the building next door.  It didn’t start until a few days ago but it feels as if it’s been going on since the first Bush administration.  The noise is constant and deafening; 7am to 6pm, six days a week. There’s drilling, welding, hammering, sawing, lots and lots of thumping, pounding and loud crashes that have me crossing my fingers that the scaffolding has fallen and OSHA will come and shut the construction down.  But no, a chorus of Ay Carumba! and Dios mio! and the pounding and drilling starts all over again.

I had planned on using this time to get some balance back in my life.  The past few years have felt like the mechanical bull at the Texas State Fair.  And I’ve been riding it like a horny cowgirl. Back before my Winter Break started, I dreamt of doing some writing, getting things organized for next semester, and figuring out my what nows (Ph.D. or no Ph.D?).  Most of all, I was going to use this time for quiet introspection and reflection.  I need to shed a lot of things and even people (but not you, Innernetz! Never you!) that have kept me running around like a one-legged soccer player.  However, with the racket next door, the only balance I can focus on is the heft and weight of my camping hatchet.  The workers poured new cement over the patio area this morning.  I believe it will hold ten to twelve bodies as long as no one comes along and tries to smooth out the lumps.

So, I’m around Innernetz.  I’m just cranky and not much fun to be with.  Oh damn!  There goes my left eye.  I’d better chase after it before Dingo Girl decides to use it as a chew toy.

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B-A-N-A-N-A-S!

Oh, the busy life of Dingo.  One of the perks of not living in the real world is that I get a month off for Winter Break.  An entire month!  Unpaid, of course, but who needs money when I can live on love Ramen Noodles?  I know, I know, Innernetz, you are thinking, “Bitch gets a month off and can’t bring her ass to post more often!” There’s a reason for that, Innernetz.  I’ve been terribly busy.  Please read that last line with a British accent.  No really, do it.  Out loud.  I don’t care if the person in the office next to you can hear you.  I think they’d be impressed that not only are you terribly busy but that you also know a foreign language!

So, what have I been doing you ask? 

• I finally got around to organizing my cookbook.  That took all of two minutes. I basically have two categories:  Soup.  Sandwiches.  I make awesome soup.  I’m still working on the sandwiches. 

• I went to the school at least five times to make-sure-they-got-my-thesis-and-why-haven’t-I-received-any graduation-information-yet-oh-my-god-what-if there’s-a-mistake-and-I-still-need-to-take-another-class-oh-look-someone-left-donuts-in-the-staff-lounge!

• The apartment is finally clean.  Well, except for the bedroom.  Apparently, the people who built our apartment back in the days when people weren’t expected to live past their 30’s obviously counted on tenants not living long enough to notice that there were no closets.  So we have piles of things, stacks of stuff, and mounds of madness just waiting to trip me when I get up in the middle of the night to pee.  The Cougar is coming to visit in a few weeks and I’m hoping that in a fit of nostalgia for my teenage years, she’ll clean my bedroom for me.  Maybe if I play Duran Duran and wear friendship bracelets and parachute pants, she will automatically start sorting and folding in a Pavlonian response.  Then again, she could just ground me until my room is clean. 

• Sleep.  ‘Nuff said.

But best of all, Innernetz, I found a place to cut my hair.  Yes, I went and got my hur did.  It has been months since my last hair cut and I’m still having post traumatic flashbacks. My previous hairstylist was apparently also fan of the 80’s because I walked out of the salon looking like an extra in a hair band rock video. So, I took a day off from eating bon-bons and having our cabana boy feed me grapes to interview a couple of hairstylists.  Yes, I interviewed them.  I asked them questions and asked to see their book/portfolio.  Most of the stylists I spoke to were quite willing to talk about themselves and their work.  I crossed the ones that talked too much off my list.  I don’t care how good you are, I don’t want a chatty stylist. You should be channeling that energy into making me look gorgeous. The ones that looked at me as if I were crazy and refused to talk were not only crossed off my list but I left a big red X on the sidewalk in front of their salon as a warning to others.  Okay, I didn’t really do that last part, but I’m sure if I had, curly-haired women citywide would thank me.  And maybe even throw me a party.

I also eliminated stylists who charged for consultations.  Charging someone a fee to take a look at your hair and the six inch stack of movie star photos you’ve brought in as references is ridiculous.  Some of the salons say that the consultation fee will be deducted from your salon service.  But what if you decide not to get your hair cut with them?  What if you pay your consultation fee and then they bring Bobo the Monkey out to play with your hair?  Although, thanks to my Discovery Channel obsession, I know that monkey’s are meticulous groomers, I just don’t have a purse big enough to carry around enough bananas to properly tip.

But I did find one stylist who met my exacting standards and yesterday was my date with destiny.  She was amazing.  After she was done cutting and styling my hair, I wanted to roll over and have a cigarette.  Walking home from the salon, I stopped at my corner deli to pick up something to eat.  I hadn’t seen the woman behind the counter in almost a month but when she noticed me her eyes got big and she rushed right over.  I was prepared to preen and bask in hair admiration.  She leaned across the counter, “I haven’t seen you in ages!  You look different!” I smiled, “I do?!”

“Yes,” she said, “Did you gain weight?”

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