Gawk-her

I am not a celebrity gawker.  The main reason being that in my fourteen years as a New Yorker, my brushes with the glitterati have been limited to spotting that guy who played Paulie in the Rocky series.  Yeah, I’m not even going to look up his real name on IMDB because really, would you recognize it if I told you?  I spotted Jeannine Garofalo coming out of Crunch Gym several years ago.  Oh yeah, and once, I was annoyed by Jim Carrey who can’t seem to cut the over-the-top-aren’t-I-funny-schtick even when the cameras aren’t rolling.  Until today, my friends, my celeb run-ins have been strictly B-list.*

There was that one time I was Val Kilmer’s sex slave flight attendant and served him drinks and dinner at 40,000 feet.  But my flight attendant celebrity sightings don’t count.  I’m talking about walking down the streets of NYC.  My streets. 

But today, today I was a gawker.  Today, Dingo Girl and I stalked Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell.  Dingo Girl and I rounded a corner and there was Kurt in all his rugged handsomeness and Goldie in all her Goldiness.  Being a New Yorker I played it cool and acted all unimpressed while inwardly I was doing cartwheels and back flips.  Note that, had I decided to show my inward glee outwardly by actually performing a cartwheel or back flip, this blog entry would be about that miracle or, more likely, my subsequent visit to the emergency room.  Sorry Kurt and Goldie. 

Dingo Girl was either truly unimpressed or intent on helping me to maintain my façade of normalcy by stopping to pee every five feet.  Although I take my camera everywhere, I just couldn’t bring myself to snap a picture of them.  They were trying to enjoy a beautiful day in the city and I was trying to maintain my masquerade as a cosmopolitan city girl. I think Dingo Girl pulled it off better than I did. But, because I’m all about pleasing you, I did find a picture someone else took of them today.  Readers reader Mom, meet my friend Google Maps.  Can you see Kurt and Goldie? 

*As in: Please be gone; I can’t believe someone would pay to see them; I am befuddled that they have managed to make a career of this; etc.

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Furry Frenzy

I had planned to write a witty post this morning about how I quit my job and the how trying to find someone to replace me has my former coworkers in a frenzy.  I was going to gloat about how Mrs. Garrett runs late to meetings and curses the day I walked out the door.  I was going to write about all of that this morning.  Instead, I chased Not a Dingo around the apartment with a pair of scissors. 

Not a Dingo had a massive dingleberry hanging from her butt and I had to remove it.  It was gross.  Really gross.  I first noticed it this morning when I smelled a rotten stench on the bed.  At the time I blamed it on Mr. Dingo and the delicious burritos we consumed last night.  “Very funny, Sweetie,” I said, before making a quick escape to the living room.  Well, it wasn’t exactly a quick escape.  Not a Dingo sleeps on my pillow and Dingo Girl sleeps across my legs, but I extracted myself as quickly as possible without inflicting bodily injury and hightailed it outta there.  The girls were close behind.  I did not believe Mr. Dingo’s drowsy denials and was a little miffed that I was driven from bed and robbed of thirty additional minutes of sleep — robbed, I tell you! — by his malodorous wake-up call. 

About 20-minutes later, Not a Dingo joined me at my desk.  She often takes up residence in my outbox while I am working.  When she’s not in my outbox, she’s sitting on my keyboard, trying to sit on my keyboard, or sitting in front of my keyboard with her furry face five inches from mine trying to hypnotize me with those big eyes of hers to get up and get her a treat.  So, when my feline inhabited outbox produced the odor of a fully inhabited catbox this morning, I knew that I had unjustly maligned Mr. Dingo — but I didn’t apologize.  If he didn’t deserve my censure this morning, he certainly has on other occasions.  He had it coming.

Lifting Not a Dingo from her perch I was immediately disgusted and repelled at the nastiness appended to her.  And now, you are disgusted and repelled as well.  That’s what blogs are for, no?  But you didn’t have to wrestle with a pissed-off cat this morning.  And neither did Mr. Dingo.  Two seconds after I told him of our dilemma, he suddenly had to be at work early for a conference call or some such sorry-I-just-checked-my-calendar-and-noticed-it-have-to-run-don’t-want-to-be-late-very-important-bye thing, and out the door he went.  Oh Mr. Dingo, you will get yours....

So, this morning was spent running with scissors.  Not a Dingo was far from cooperative.  Without getting into the gritty details of this morning’s bout of Twister with my normally docile kitty (because I expended all the grittiness describing Not a Dingo’s poor hygiene), let’s just say that I’m reconsidering our decision not to declaw her and have notified the CDC that my local hospital will need antibiotics to counteract the effects of cat scratch fever. 

This was definitely a two-person job.  I could not hold a wiggling Not a Dingo and use a pair of scissors to clip a foul-smelling golf ball size mutant appendage while trying to calm Dingo Girl.  Yes, Dingo Girl had to get in on the act.  Any sign of distress from Not a Dingo caused Dingo Girl to whine, bark, and nudge my elbow with her nose.  Between the mewling, gyrating, barking, nudging, stinking, tears and tears, I was truly in awe of people who work from home and manage to be productive. 

When I quit my job a little over two weeks ago, I had blissful but seemingly realistic visions of morning workouts in Central Park followed by several hours of writing, preparing for my English subject-matter test, a break for some play time and a walk with Dingo Girl, working on my thesis, and then studies before running off to teach and returning home to a warm, hot, nutritious meal and glass of wine on the beach, the sunset glittering off my diamonds and too-white teeth.  But it was not to be.  There are not enough hours in the day when my days are filled with things like dingleberry distractions and extractions that prevent me from sitting at my desk and working.  I need to come up with a system that makes me just as efficient and as organized at home as I was at work.  Any suggestions that do not involve violence?

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It’s All Happening at the Zoo

Several times a week, Dingo Girl and I walk past the entrance to the Central Park Children’s Zoo.  When she was little, she’d paw at the wall on Fifth Avenue that overlooks the Children’s Zoo.  I would hoist her up so that she could see the animals, particularly the goats.  She was fascinated with the goats.  When I think of a zoo, I think of penguins, polar bears, lions.  Not goats.  I guess it’s not a good public relations move to let children run around a lion enclosure.  It’s not that goats are any less dangerous; not by a long shot.  In fact, at the entrance to the Central Park Children’s Zoo there is a statue of a child being mauled by two goats!  Somehow the goats tearing the clothes off of this child fails to deter parents from buying their overpriced tickets to the “petting zoo.” I have only seen one child balk at entering the Children’s Zoo.  This marvelously prescient child must have realized that the “children’s zoo” was a ruse to get cheap human fodder for the goats and other animals behind the enclosure.  The parents of this child ignored her tears and, as they dragged her through the entrance, I swore I could hear her shout, “Soylent green is people!”

Update:  It is with irony and sadness that I need to update this post to let you know that Charlton Heston, one of the old school actors of the big screen died on Saturday, April 5, 2008.  He was 83.

Heston had a prolific film and television career spanning more than six decades.  Although in his later years Heston became better known as the face of the NRA, at one time the silver screen icon was the king of blockbusters.  He often portrayed the gritty, rough around the edges leading man in blockbusters such as Ben Hur (1959), Planet of the Apes (1968), and one of my favorites as evidenced by the film clip that is linked above, Soylent Green (1973).

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Response-able

I’ve been spending a lot of time training Dingo Girl lately, with mixed results.  She is smart and learns quickly.  She enjoys learning new things, but after she’s learned something new, when you give her the command she looks at you like, “It was fun learning that, but don’t expect me to just do it every friggin’ time you snap your fingers, be-otch.” I’ll write more about this later, but the biggest problem is with Dingo Girl’s response times.  She’ll do something, especially if there is a treat at stake, but don’t expect for her to rush about it.  Yeah, she’ll come, but she has an itch she has to scratch first and maybe she wants to check to see if there is anything in the garbage can along the way. 

You may have noticed, if you’ve been following this blog, that the blog itself was experiencing this very same problem.  You would innocently point your browser to asiwassaying.com and then your browser would wait and wait and wait.  The website would eventually serve up the page, but it had an itch it had to scratch first and maybe it wanted to check to see if there was anything in the garbage can along the way.  In the time it took the page to load, you could have prepared and filed your taxes.  On a particularly slooow day, your refund would have already arrived and you would find yourself with enough time to lounge on a sun-drenched beach in Antigua sipping umbrella drinks and checking out the cabana boy before the first As I Was Saying pixel hit your screen.  This site is undergoing improvements and the first one I wanted to address was response time.  If you are like me I truly feel sorry for you when it comes to cyberspace, you know the angst any delay brings.  If a page doesn’t load within .2 nanoseconds after I click on a link, I twirl my hair, gnash my teeth, and bemoan the fact that valuable seconds of my already jam packed day are being sucked up by the cyberspace gremlins.  The option of backing away from the computer just does not exist.  I am convinced that whatever is on the other side of the computer screen fighting to make its way through is absolutely vital to my existence.  Vital! 

But you, dearest readers reader Mom, will have to wait no more. 

Did you notice the speedy response time today?  Did it impress you?  Did it make you happy?  Did it make you want to add As I Was Saying to your Google Reader?  If so, take a second, add me to your Google Reader and then come back and I will tell you how Mr. Dingo saved the day and how my old web host is now on my shit list along with idiots who wear Uggs in the summer, Rachel Ray, and people who unwrap hard candy during the tearjerker scenes in the movie theater.  (Oh, if we ever meet again, “Mr. I’m Too Manly To Cry During The Notebook But I Happen To Have A Brand New DVD With Me That I Am Dying To Open,” I’ll show you what it feels like to be a Twizzler.) What was I saying?  Oh, add me to your Google Reader.  Go on, I’ll wait.

***
Mr. Dingo is not only a superfantastic cook, my own resident comedian, and the Dingo household late night, torrential rain, blinding snow, stars are not in alignment dogwalker, he’s also my very own personal IT guy.  Yep, all of the knowledge but none of the khakis with white socks and black shoes.  A few days ago when I started to receive emails from you gently notifying me that Social Security would be defunct by the time my page loaded, I asked Mr. Dingo to figure out what the heck was going on.  He said that it had something to do with [insert technical computer jargon here that I don’t understand even though Mr. Dingo explained it four eight twice] and our web host.  He contacted the web host via email because we all know trying to get in touch with a live customer service agent these days is like trying to squeeze into those chic winter pants you bought last fall that were so comfortable in the dressing room.  Their website promised a response within 24 hours.  Two days later, two whole days later, we still had not heard back from them.  When we figured moving at the speed of a garden slug was their standard operating procedure, we switched web hosts. 

The transfer has not been without its own adventures.  My posts did not transfer verbatim.  The punctuation apparently decided that it liked the old web host better, especially the commas and the periods.  With all the pausing and stopping they do, they found nothing wrong with the old ways.  So instead of ellipses, apostrophes, and em dashes, you saw ¤, ×, or ð.  No, I wasn’t trying to send coded messages.  There are no fragile vials filled with doomsday secrets; there are no creepy robed men; there is no flabby Tom Hanks in a bad toupee.  It was merely a freaky transfer issue that has since been resolved through my meticulous attention to detail and the magic of “find and replace.” So far, the only other issue we’ve encountered was brought to my attention by Lunanik from Secrets of a Black Heart, who emailed me to let me know the comments weren’t working properly.  Thanks Lunanik!  Your blog name to the contrary, your heart is not so black, merely a shade of cerebral grey.  Now, if I can just get Technorati to feature me on the front page, all will be fine in the world.  In the meantime, comment away, folks!  Comment away!

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Was My Face Red!

Amanda at Shamelessly Sassy is hosting an Embarrass Yourself contest.  Since I embarrass myself on a daily basis my problem was not finding something to write about but narrowing down the options.  With Mr. Dingo vacationing in meetings in Miami I called Mom for suggestions.  She took to the task a little too enthusiastically.

Mom:  What about the time you fell off the stage in front of your entire high school?
Me:  Oh, that’s a good one!  I’ll write about –
Mom:  How about the time you almost drowned at the Sunday School picnic!
Me:  Mom!  That’s not funny, I almost died!
Mom:  It’s funny in hindsight, dear.
Me:  Um, not really.
Mom:  Oh! Remember when you wiped out on your rollerblades in front of the –
Me:  Mom! I told you to never mention that again.  You’re not being very helpful.  This is Embarrass Yourself for $100, not Embarrass Yourself So That You Can Never Go Out In Public Again.

We ended the conversation shortly thereafter with my realization that I am more accident prone than I cared to acknowledged.  I am a magnet for embarrassing spills (both liquid and gravitational) and while I am the only person I know whose yoga has not made them lithe and limber, I have the unenviable ability to insert my foot into my mouth with regularity.  I finally decided which embarrassing moment to post to Amanda’s web site.  You should take a look at some of the other entries.  Hilarious!  You can even post your own.  The contest ends today.  Here’s my entry:

Dingo Girl and I had just moved into a 5th floor walk-up and my legs hadn’t adjusted to the compulsory workout.  Around mid-afternoon on the second day we were there Dingo Girl needed to go for a walk.  I decided to multi-task and take down empty boxes and a bag of trash.  It was awkward getting down the stairs with the boxes under one arm and the trash bag in the other with Dingo Girl’s leash in my teeth.  We got to the street and had to go just around the corner to get rid of my garbage.  People waved and smiled as we walked by.  I figured we probably made an amusing convoy and was happy to see that people in my new neighborhood were friendly and had a sense of humor.  Dingo Girl, for once, did not try to dart ahead.  I could hear the click-clack of her nails on the sidewalk and it sounded as if she was happily prancing behind me.  I was so proud of my girl.  We’d been working on “heel” but Dingo Girl was more like, “hell no,” so this obedient stroll down the sidewalk was a major improvement. 

We made it to the trash bin which was on a busy side street and I dumped my things on top of the heap.  Taking the leash out of my mouth, I turned around to praise Dingo Girl profusely for her good behavior.  I just about died.  Apparently, Dingo Girl decided to “help” me take things downstairs and grabbed something from the dirty clothes pile on the way out.  My bright turquoise blue thong underwear.  No wonder people were smiling and waving — oh no!  They weren’t waving!  They had been pointing!  I made a hasty grab for my unmentionables which instantly turned into her favorite games: keep away and tug of war.  We continued to make a spectacle on the street with me trying to be as discreet as possible…”drop it, drop it”…yes, one more command we needed to work on.  I managed to get my hands on the delicate fabric but as soon as I had a firm grip on it the waistband broke knocking me a bit off balance which made me drop the leash.  This was Dingo Girl’s cue for mayhem.  She never moved more than four feet from me but she darted about like a hummingbird on crack waving her trophy.  It was at this time that a police officer who was walking to his patrol car parked near the trash bins walked up behind me and laughingly asked if I needed help.  Before I could say no and that I had it all under control (wasn’t it obvious?), Dingo Girl walked up to the police officer and promptly dropped the shredded thong at his feet.

I wondered if it was too late to break the lease and move somewhere far, far away.

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