Who You Callin’ Chicken?!

For all my bitching and moaning about money and financial woes, I finally found a bank I can trust.  To lose my money.  And by losing, I mean making.  Stoogepie has opened a bank (NSFW) and I’m going to scrape all my pennies together to give to this lost cause. In a few weeks I’ll be a millionaire!  Thank you, Stoogepie!  I already have plans for all the money I’ll make.  First, forget paying my credit cards and student loans.  That’s not how real bankers spend money that’s not theirs.  I’m spending my ill-gotten gains on a vacation.

In the almost five years that Mr. Dingo and I have been together we’ve only taken one vacation.  A few years ago Mr. Dingo and I went to Niagara Falls for my birthday.  I wish I was blogging then.  The trip was truly snarktastic.  While I had a good time, it was mostly because Mr. Dingo is my best friend and hanging out with him after I’ve imposed a Blackberry ban is a rare treat.  I was impressed by the sheer power and beauty of the falls but my god, people!  I don’t even know how to describe the casinos, Ripley’s Believe-it-or-Not museums, and souvenir stands where you can buy a silk screened t-shirt to commemorate your visit, but I’m sure it outranks the horrid Jelly Shoes on the Tack-O-Meter.

The best part of the trip, however, was the haunted house.  There are several haunted houses in Niagara Falls but I’m talking about the Nightmares Fear Factory.  I know I’ve said it before, but I am a big chicken. That talks smack.  I’m a big, smack talkin’, chicken.  Mr. Dingo and I passed by a few haunted houses that had children and families coming out of them.  I’m sorry, but if a kid emerges from a haunted house with a smile on her face, it’s not for me.  Side note:  My college sorority hosted a haunted house every Halloween for a charity.  We participated by dressing up, taking tickets, drinking in the parking lot, and acting as tour guides.  It was a family friendly haunted house.  Really, what the fuck is that?  You either want to be scared or you want to go to Disneyland.  Anyway, we were instructed that if a child came through and yelled “Friendly Ghost!” we were to cease our wails and moans and hand out candy.  Um, right.

I am a purist.  A zombie is not going to hand out candy.  A zombie is going to eat your hand.  Like candy.  Sometimes I we didn’t exactly adhere to the rules and frightened the shit out of the little shits that came through.  Those little brats had their revenge though.  We had to spend the rest of the Halloween season working in a urine soaked haunted house.

Whew!  That was quite the digression, wasn’t it?

Anyway, Mr. Dingo and I found a haunted house in Niagara Falls that made you sign waivers and HIGHLY advised pregnant women and people with heart conditions to forgo the entertainment.  There was even a “Chicken List” of all the people who chickened out, yelled “Chicken!” and had to be escorted from the haunted house.  Yes, it was the adult version of “Friendly Ghost.” Oh, puh-leeze!  I couldn’t throw my entry fee at them fast enough.  Mr. Dingo asked me if I was sure.  Sure?!  Hell Yes, I was Sure! Cluck-cluck-I-ain’t-‘fraid-of-no-ghost!-cluck-cluck!

Less than five minutes after we entered the haunted house Mr. Dingo was trying to coach me out of a corner where I had curled up into a little ball, hands over my eyes, refusing to move.  I am proud to say that I didn’t yell “Chicken.” I am less proud that the zombies, ghosts, and ghouls that inhabited that house may or may not have had to work the rest of the evening in urine soaked darkness. 

Needless to say, I had lots of fun.  It was so much fun, in fact, that visiting a haunted house is our yearly tradition for my birthday. 

Oh wait, what was I talking about?  Vacation!  The fact that I need one is evidenced by my inability to stay focused and offer a post that is both relevant and timely.  Make sure you come back in a few days when I discuss memories of Fourth of July and Memorial Day.

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Now, Honestly!

I know most of you are going to scroll down to the end just to see who won the Dan Aykroyd wine giveaway.  Just make sure you come back up here and read the rest of the post because I talk all about me!

One year ago today, As I Was Saying was born.  What started out as a writing blog where I could wax eloquent about my thoughts and my life turned into a blog where I write about waxing.  And hair cuts, clueless students, weird running companions, and other odd people in my life.  It’s been fun and at times cathartic.  But the best thing about blogging has been (everyone get your hankies out) meeting you, Innernetz.  Thanks for sticking around.  Thanks for your comments and emails.  Thanks for your support and encouragement.  And, when I needed to hear it, thanks for telling me to “Shut the fuck up already!  You think you have it so hard? There are starving children in Africa and moose running from rabid-incoherent-VP-wannabe-hockey-moms-with-high-powered-rifles-in-helicopters who have real problems!” So, yeah, thanks for that. Keep on keepin’ it real, Innernetz!

It’s been a great good interesting year overall, but it has been a fabulous year of blogging.  I’ve won quite a few awards including some I have not mentioned yet.  I was recently listed at Blogtrepenuer as one of the 100 Must Read Blogs . . . Written by Women!  I’m excited!  Thrilled!  Honored!  There are some great blogs on the list in several categories so pop over there and check them out.

And April at It’s All About Balance has also given me some cyberbling — the Honest Scrap Award.  You know how I feel about honesty.  It’s always the best policy if you don’t think you can get away with lying.  We’re supposed to list ten honest things about ourselves but I’m only going to list two.

• My poop is green.  Yes, green.  Remember my ode to Mr. Dingo’s Red Velvet Cake?  Alas, it was not to be.  I searched the entire grocery store for red food coloring.  All they had was blue.  There was an entire shelf devoted to blue food coloring.  I suppose it’s the overstock from all the Obama baking.  But really, they need to stock the red now.  Can’t we all just get along?

So, Blue Velvet it was.  Except that when we poured the blue food coloring into the cake batter, it turned green.  Not pretty Spring time green.  No, this was someone-left-the-cheese-in-the-fridge-too-long green.  It was Shrek with food poisoning green.  But the cake was good and the frosting was heavenly.  And I ate half of it in one night.  The next morning my poop was green.  I asked Mr. Dingo to come look but he wouldn’t.  I then asked him if his poop was green.  He said that he hadn’t checked but since he only had one slice to my ten, his poop probably wasn’t green.  Do people poop red after eating Red Velvet Cake?  You just know that someone somewhere is receiving a government grant to research just this issue.

Hmmm, maybe this is one of those stories where I should’ve lied.  Mr. Dingo made Red Velvet Cake.  It was good.  The end. 

• I dumpster dive in my own trash.  Remember my stinky shoes?  Innernetz, when your shoes are in the bedroom closet and you can smell them in the living room, it’s time to throw them away.  So I did.  Days passed.  It rained.  It snowed.  I wore boots.  And then…then, the sun came out.  The clouds parted, flowers bloomed, children laughed, and angels sang.  And I didn’t have appropriate too-warm-for-boots-not-yet-warm-enough-for-flip-flops footwear.  What’s a Dingo to do?! 

I’ll tell you what she does, she rummages to the bottom of the trash and takes her stinky shoes from under layers of funk, egg shells, and coffee grinds.  Perfect!  I don’t even think they stink anymore.  The competing offensive aromas canceled each other out and all I smell is, well, nothing.  Dingo Girl has been acting odd, however. When I take my good as new old shoes off, Dingo Girl immediately tries to bury them or rolls on them with squeaks and groans of ecstasy.  She does the same thing when we’re at the park and she finds a three-day dead pigeon.  She’s just weird like that.

So, those are my two Honest Scrap offerings.  After those two, I can’t imagine that you’d want to know any more. 

And now, what you’ve all been waiting for….the winner of the I’m a Bitch, You’re a Lush Giveaway…..The Coconut Diaries!  This was her winning foot-in-mouth anecdote:

Me: I hate taking aerobics classes with these college students. I feel so old!
Lady: I know what you mean. (uncomfortable silence). You know, I was really excited about Obama’s win. It’s like the first time I can remember being so moved by a president.
Me:  Really? Even more than Kennedy?
Lady: Well, I was 3 then.

That just cracked me up.  Coconut Diaries, I’m surprised you didn’t show her some of your own high-impact moves.

Shelly certainly gets an honorable mention for:

As a 20 yr old, working at her first Big Girl job, I was a bookkeeper, office ‘girl’/apartment/duplex manager for a construction guy.
There was this lady who has all sorts of personal problems that was going to move out of a duplex.  A second lady wanted said duplex.  I called Lady #1 to get the scoop of her time frames (of moving out) and got the latest tale of woe about her divorce and I am certain other devastation in her life.  I proceeded to call lady #2 to tell her that she couldn’t have the duplex for a while...and immaturely recounted EVERY DETAIL of this poor lady #1’s dismal life.......being all cute and gossipy, you know?
As it turned out, my airheaded 20 year old self actually dialed the FIRST number on my list (which belonged to lady #1) and of course her name was next to the number so unthinkingly I asked for her....and recounted her OWN SORRY LIFE BACK TO HER........yea...so much for cute and gossipy. 

Thanks to everyone for participating!  Please drink to another year of As I Was Saying and to good friends, good food, and green poop.

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My Feet Taste Nasty (Updated!)

So far, 2009 has created the giant sucking sound once only associated with NAFTA and Keanu Reeves movies (The Lake House, anyone?). It’s been a particularly rough few weeks here at Casa Dingo.  You ever have a problem where the solutions are equally unpalatable?  Like a choice between chewing razor blades and then gargling lemon juice or dousing yourself with honey and laying on an anthill.  You ever have a problem like that?  And then?  Then you put on your big girl panties and do what needs to be done only to open another can of worms.  I’m not talking about those thin, weak looking things that litter the sidewalk after a heavy rain.  I’m talking Tremors-size worms, Dune-size worms, Jabba the Hut size worms!  Well, from now on I have decided no more big girl panties.  I want to wear my Princess Leia Underoos and throw sand at the other children in the sandbox.  Especially the kids wearing Disney Princess Underoos.  Disney Princesses suck. Except for Belle.

I’ve been moody, weepy, cranky, and I know you are not going to believe this but — I’ve been a bitch.  Yes, yes, I have.  You don’t have to pretend.  We’re all friends here.  You can tell me.  In fact, Gay Best Friend has already told me.  You know what he said?  He said, “You’re a bitch.”

And then he said the magic words, “You need some wine.” So he made me get out of my jammies and traipse across the city to his favorite wine store.  I was not going to get out of my jammies.  Ever.  Even when I thought of going to get wine, I figured getting out of my jammies was a waste of time because I was just going to come back home, unscrew the cap to a 2-for-1 box of Boone’s, and stay in my jammies until they fell off from dry rot.  Or until Mr. Dingo promised to make his homemade Red Velvet Cake.  His Red Velvet Cake is the best cake EVAH! And definitely worth taking a shower and fixin’ my ‘do for.  He might even get some Sexytime.  If the Boone’s doesn’t make me fall asleep first.

But it was wine and not cake that was on my mind this afternoon, and Gay Best Friend insisted that I lose the jammies.  And then it was whine and not wine that was on my lips when I saw the line extending out the door to the wine shop.  It was packed.  You would have thought that this was the only wine store in Manhattan.  I happen to know that it is not.  I happen to know that there are one thousand two hundred and fifty three wine stores in Manhattan.  I know this because I have done my part to stimulate the economy.  One wine bottle at a time.  Anyway, I had a few choice words for all those asshats who waited until the day before Valentine’s Day to stock up on libations. 

Bitching and moaning, I made my way through the crowd.  As I was scanning the shelves, Gay Best Friend tapped me on the shoulder,

Gay Best Friend:  Hey look!  Dan Aykroyd has a new wine on the —

Me:  Dude, I’ve had a bad week.  I certainly don’t need bad wine.

Gay Best Friend (pointing over my shoulder):  — And he’s right behind you signing bottles.

Dan Aykroyd smiled at me when I turned. 

Cue earth opening up and swallowing your beloved Dingo.  There was only muffled screaming as I plunged through the hole in the floor because my foot was lodged firmly between my teeth. 

Yeah, I was embarrassed.  Maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the long line snaking out of the wine store.  Yeah, it’s the day before Valentine’s Day, but all those ugly New Yorkers aren’t getting some.  Really.

Or maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the guy who wore his Ghostbusters costume.  He wasn’t embarrassed.  Dressed in his khaki Ghostbusters uniform, complete with official Ghostbusters patches, combat boots, and utility pack, he was loudly proclaiming, “It’s the 20-year anniversary!  Twenty years!” I don’t know if he was talking about the movie release date or the date he moved into his parents’ basement.  Either way, I was waiting for Dan Aykroyd to say, “Listen asshole, I have been in at least fifty straight-to-video movies since Ghostbusters and did you ever see my real masterpiece?  Blues Brothers?”

But Dan Aykroyd didn’t say that.  He was busy warning his legions of fans to watch out for the hole that the curly-haired bitch who had just bad-mouthed his latest label right in front of him had fallen into. 

Who ya gonna call?

Update:  Who’d a’ thought that so many of you were interested in Dan Aykroyd’s wine?  Well, dear Innernetz, I’ll have you know, I did buy some and even had one autographed.  Since it was Friday the 13th and I’m a sucker for connoisseur of horror movies, in honor of the release of Friday the 13th (2009) I had Dan Aykroyd sign the bottle, “To Jason.” Because I’m a geek like that.  But hey, at least I didn’t show up in a stupid hockey mask!

Because I love you, Innernetz, I’m going to give a bottle of the Dan Aykroyd Cabernet to a lucky reader.  Mr. Dingo and I had some at dinner tonight.  It was good!  And Innernetz?  I’m giving away the signed bottle of Dan Aykroyd Cabernet.  Hell, I’ll even throw a bottle of his Chardonnay in the mix (unsigned).  All you need to do is tell me your own “foot-in-mouth,” wine, or celebrity run-in story.  You can put your anecdote in the comments of this post, post it on your own blog and post your link in the comments here, or send it to me via email (see the Blackberry in the top right of this page?).  I’ll announce the winner on Thursday, February 19th!

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I Should’ve Used A Car Wash

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system I can move on to brighter things.  Things like dingleberries.  Remember the last dingleberry incident? Dingleberry 2008?  If you don’t, you may not want to read this if you are eating lunch.  Take my word for it, it wasn’t pretty.  Is it a remarkable coincidence that during Dingleberry 2009, with a huge dingleberry dingle-dangling from Not a Dingo’s delicate butt, Mr. Dingo had to go to work early and then called to say that he had to work late?  I think that Not a Dingo is not the only pussy in the Dingo household.

I’m a delicate flower.  I have a sensitive constitution.  But with Mr. Dingo unexpectedly detained, I knew if I was going to prevent further befouling of my desk, papers, couch, and oh, anything Not a Dingo sat her furry butt on, I was going to have to take fecal matters into my own hands.  I should have known that things were not going to go well when I started to gather the pet shampoo and conditioner and both Not a Dingo and Dingo Girl made themselves scarce.  Normally, Dingo Girl is very protective of Not a Dingo.  During bath time, however, all bets are off.  When I located them under the bed, Dingo Girl was practically shoving Not a Dingo toward me with a “Sorry Sis, better you than me” look on her face.

Let me tell you right now, it is impossible to bathe a cat by yourself.  Everyone who makes snide comments about crazy single cat ladies had better watch out.  Any woman who bathes a cat by herself and emerges unbutchered is a force to be reckoned with.  I am not one of those women. 

As I’m trying to hold Not a Dingo steady, douse her with water, open the shampoo bottle, and keep myself from gagging, Dingo Girl has decided that it’s safe to come from under the bed and defend Not a Dingo’s honor.  She’s pawing at my legs, barking, and whining like a little bitch.  So, with one hand on Not a Dingo, one hand on the shampoo bottle, and one leg braced against the tub, I use the other leg to try to scoot Dingo Girl out the bathroom and close the door. 

On the best of days I am not a coordinated woman.  On my worst of days I’m lucky if I don’t end up in traction surrounded by hot male nurses feeding me ice chips and giving me sponge baths….  Hmmmmmm!  Let me think about this….  Hot male nurses….  Sponge baths….

Um, where was I?  Oh yeah, falling into sewage.  I lost hold of Not a Dingo who took that as her cue to dart for the nearest escape route.  Which happened to be underneath the gaping opening of my oversized t-shirt.  Everything would have been okay if she had gone up the shirt, popped out the neck opening, and scurried on her merry way to sun in the bedroom window. 

But that’s not what happened.  I am lucky if I can find a T-shirt to fit over my big head without stretching the neck opening large enough to allow Ann Coulter’s ego to fit through.  Fitting both my head and a wet, irate cat through said opening is not. gonna. happen.  Of course when she darted up my shirt I jumped up.  Being clawed by a pissed off kitty will make one do stupid things.  Not wanting her to fall to the floor and hurt herself, I put my hand over the opening of my t-shirt.  I had a feline Edward Scissorhands bouncing around my shirt like a bb and wailing as if someone just set her tail on fire.  Dingo Girl barking.  Me screaming.  It’s amazing that the construction workers next door and the Stiletto Sisters upstairs didn’t pound on the walls asking me to keep it down. 

I ran to the living room and stood over the couch before opening my T-shirt to dump Not a Dingo onto a soft landing pad.  There was no gratitude for my sacrifice of skin.  The bitches ran to the bedroom to hide under the bed and talk about what a mean mom I am while I surveyed the damage to my tender flesh.  Did I mention that I am a delicate flower?  My stomach and chest looked as if I spent the day playing in razor wire before exfoliating with a brillo pad.

Mr. Dingo came home a few hours later.  By that time Not a Dingo had emerged from her hiding place, matted and covered in dust bunnies and other detritus of questionable origin that clung to her damp fur.  “That’s some nasty-assed shit!” he said, “She needs a bath!”

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Ice, Ice Baby (Seals)

I’m in a real pissy mood.  It seems as if that’s becoming the status quo for me lately and I don’t like it at all.  I don’t like being angry.  It gives you wrinkles.  I don’t know about you, but when I’m angry my brows furrow dangerously close to each other making me look like a woolly headed muppet and my eyes squint from throwing death rays.  Furrowed Brow + Squinty Eyes = Wrinkles.  I’m also convinced I’ve inhaled toxic levels of pet hair and dander from all my huffing and puffing around the apartment.  The plus is that the fur encasing my lungs ensures that they do not freeze during my runs in the Central Park tundra. 

I’ve been carrying this anger around for awhile and it’s really inhibited my ability to write.  My brain is in a fog and the only thing I seem to be able to write is, “Fuck you!” I don’t have the Welsh eloquence of Christian Bale.  I mean, I can understand his anger against the Director of Photography who interrupted his scene three times.  I think we all can, right?  Damn DP all up in Batman’s Kool-Aid.  Who does he think he is?  Doesn’t he know that he’s a little people?  Tiny, really.  But not like, you know, little people.  But Christian Bale dropping the F-bomb thirty-six times in three minutes?  Pure genius.  I could use that gift of gab right now.  Who’s his agent?  Can we get his people to call my people me?  But don’t tie up the line.  I’m expecting Michelle to call any minute.

If I could actually talk to the people on my shit list, this is what I would say:


Dear Jackass,

You are a vile, reprehensible excuse for a human being.  Thank god I don’t believe that blood makes family.  If I did, I’d slice a vein and die a happy desiccated shell to have no further connection to you.  It’s not enough that you left The Cougar for your money-grubbing chippie, but once you realized that The Cougar was no longer going to be your doormat, you set out to destroy her emotionally and financially.  Your latest slime ball antics do not surprise me.  I knew you were a low-life piece of shit.  I’m just pissed that I can’t seem to scrape you off my shoes.  Just do what you were court-ordered to do and get out of our lives.

Sincerely,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck you. 


Dear Chase and Bank of America,

I am one of the millions of people bailing out your mismanaging, wastrel, could-care-less-about-average-Americans, laughing-all-the-way-to-the-corporate-jet, asshat CEOs.  You could not pay your debts so I am paying them for you.  I’m nice like that.  You, however, are not so nice.  In fact, you suck.  You are getting a bonus for failing.  A bonus for failing your company.  A bonus for failing your employees.  A bonus for failing me.  I, however, have done all I can to succeed and I get the shaft.  Well, I also get my monthly minimum payment increased to double the amount it was two months ago.  Thanks for that.  Unfortunately, the money tree Mr. Dingo and I planted a few years ago (species 401(k)) withered away.  I think it’s because you took a great big dump all over it.  I appreciate a good compost as much as anyone but your contribution was a bit much.

Your claim that limiting the caps on compensation will cause good managers to go elsewhere is bullshit.  If you had good managers, I wouldn’t be paying for your bailout.  Let dem bums go!  You know who the good managers are?  The good managers are people like me.  People who are managing to eat less to save more.  People who are managing to heat their homes on fumes.  People who still manage to spare a few dollars to help friends and family who’ve lost their homes or their jobs.  I suppose it’s hard to relate to this when you and your family are vacationing in the Caribbean on the credit card I am paying for.  So, you know what?  Your credit and credibility is denied.  Your credit card has been canceled.  Your debt is due.

So CEOs, Fuck You. 

Sincerely and from the bottom of my bitter broke heart,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck You.


And finally:

Mr. Environmentalist,

I appreciate your passion for the environment, I really do.  I also appreciate that when the Environmental shtick isn’t working, you are flexible enough to promote other causes.  However, you’ve accosted me every day for the past year as I’ve been rushing to get to class on time.  Your, “Do you have a minute for the Environment/Gay Rights?” was amusing at first.  Then it got annoying.  No, I do not have a minute.  Do you not see me with a wet head because I managed to shower, get dressed, and dash out of the door ten minutes before class starts?  Do you not see the icicles forming on my still-dripping locks?

No, I don’t have a minute to hand my credit card information over to someone with a clipboard and Birkenstocks.  Really, if you are going to exercise such poor judgment by wearing Birkenstocks in the dead of winter, do you really think I would trust you with my credit card?  Especially when you can’t tell me how the money is going to be spent?  Hey, if you ever get tired of standing in the frigid temps being dissed by hurried New Yorkers, I hear that Bank of America is looking for good managers.  Your compensation would be limited to $500,000, though.  That might buy you one or two pairs of socks to wear with your Birks.

So, no, I do not have a minute.  However, if you do not get your clipboard outta my face, I will take a few seconds to put my gay-loving carbon footprint up your ass.

In the name of baby seals and Ryan Seacrest Elton John,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck You

Whew!  I feel so much better now!  I’ll be back to my regular snarky cheerfulness real soon!

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