Why Won’t She Call Me?

Hello, Innernetz!  I’m back!  I would like to say that I’ve spent the last two weeks touring the White House with the First Family-Elect and trying to help them find a suitable, non-allergenic pooch from a local rescue group but that isn’t the case.  Although I’ve eagerly offered my services via emails and phone calls, I’ve yet to receive a response. What’s up with that, First Family-Elect? Call me!

So, while I’ve been waiting, I’ve been writing my thesis. I know, I know! Raise your hand if you are tired of hearing about my fucking thesis?  Hey!  I said raise your hands, not start the freakin’ wave.  Long story short, my thesis advisor has been MIA all semester.  Emails unanswered, calls unreturned, notes left in her mailbox mysteriously never received – I think the people who run her office may be the same ones running interference between me and the First Family-Elect.  *psst!  Michelle, call me!*

So there I am tooling merrily along on my paper thinking that I had until the middle of December to turn it in to my elusive advisor when I discovered that my completed draft was actually due at the end of last week.  Last. Week.  Lastweek.  Last-week. lastweeklastweek.  A cry went up all throughout the land and there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Actually, the crying went on for quite a while.  At one point, I was worried that I was going to short out my keyboard. 

You know, when you put your entire life on hold to take care of something you expect others will as well, right?  I mean, you’d think because Dingo was not blogging that esprit de corps would mean that YOU weren’t blogging either. You’d think that you’d be home wondering why your emails were unanswered, your calls unreturned, and your cute little notes in my mailbox unacknowledged. But no, not at all.  You were all blogging.  There are over 1000 unread posts in my reader.  You are all asshats.  And I mean that in the nicest way possible.  Really. When Michelle finally invites me to a White House dinner, I will make sure to mention you all fondly as I let the crunchy caramelized crust of the crème brule we’re having for dessert melt on my tongue.

What kept me sane this past week, beside the concerned emails I got from some of you – it meant a lot to me to know that I was missed – were Mr. Dingo and Dingo Girl.  Not a Dingo was of little help.  Have you tried typing a paper with your cat lying on your keyboard or batting your hand as you type?  I think the worst Not a Dingo moments were at 3am when she’d actually yawn her Breath Of A Thousand Putrid Corpses in my face and then fall asleep in front of the monitor and snore.  Loudly. 

Mr. Dingo was a big help bringing me Monster Energy Drinks by the gallon and keeping me supplied in tissues until he decided that his life couldn’t be put on hold either and he had to prepare for a hearing.  A hearing?  Don’t get me wrong, Innernetz.  I understand that millions of dollars were at stake and that he’s a big shot NYC lawyer, but I had a paper due at the end of the week!  In the grand scheme of things, I think that I trump some corporate bigwigs, don’t you?  Where is the love, Innernetz?  Where is the love?!

As usual, Dingo Girl was my most trusted and loyal companion.  She always found a way to make me laugh and she didn’t seem to mind that the snot from my crying jags dried into crusty yuckiness on the back of her neck.  But her love and comic relief sometimes comes at the price of my pride. I took a study break to take her to the park on one of the nicest fall days we’ve had this year.  There was a slight chill in the air — the kind of chill that perks you up but also has you looking forward to a cup of hot tea once you get home.  Red and gold leaves were swirling on invisible currents and there was the delicious scent of roasting chestnuts in the air.  In other words, it was a perfect day to have wedding photos in the park.

I understand that Central Park is gorgeous.  What I don’t understand is how in the world people expect to have wedding photos taken in Central Park without some asshat and her dog in the background.  The afternoon that Dingo Girl and I went to the park, we passed by one of the most popular places for wedding photos — the steps by Bethesda Fountain.  When you stand at the bottom of the steps, it seems as if they lead right up into the sky.  The symmetry and the optical illusion appeal to photographers, wedding parties, and dogs who like to mind everyone else’s business.

As Dingo Girl and I approached the steps, we saw a bride and groom posing for pictures.  I really want to see their proofs because this was some fucked up shit. In one photo, the bride is lying on the steps, head in her arms, face obscured.  The man is standing but he’s straddling her as if he’s stepping over her like a piece of litter.  The photographer is yelling, “Good, good!  That’s great!” Dingo Girl and I follow all the other pedestrians to the left side of the steps to avoid being in the photos.  The line was single-file and I went ahead of Dingo Girl knowing that she would follow me.  Only she didn’t.  She decided that it was more interesting to check out the couple who were now facing the camera gripping each other as if they were trying to withstand gale force winds.  They didn’t notice that four steps above them, a 40-pound yellow dog was scooting her butt across the steps like an Atari Space Invader. 

Although neither the photographer nor the bride and groom noticed my butt-scratching dog in the background of their pictures, everyone else did and started laughing hysterically.  I called to her, telling her to get her yellow ass over to my side of the steps but she ignored me, choosing that moment to sit perfectly still facing the camera.  I hissed, whispered, and used sign language that was unmistakable to get her attention.  When she finally deigned to look my way, Dingo Girl smiled — yes smiled! — and began to scoot her butt the remainder of the way across the steps.  It would have been more dignified had I just apologized, walked over, and grabbed her by the collar.  But no, I was still trying to play it cool and there’s nothing cooler than crawling on your hands and knees across cold marble steps hissing and sputtering to your dog who is paying you no mind whatsoever.

I managed to get Dingo Girl, not because she obeyed the commands I spent months and hundreds of dollars with a trainer trying to teach her, but because once she got to the right hand side of the staircase, she walked up three steps and butt-scooted her way back to my side of the stairs.  I promptly snapped her leash on and headed for home.  She trotted and smiled the entire way. I tell you, cold marble and an ill-mannered dog will get your blood flowing.  I think the adrenaline from our outing kept me writing and typing for at least an hour.

So, my thesis draft is done.  I’m just waiting for comments and suggestions but who knows when those will come in because I think my thesis advisor has entered witness protection or something.  My final deadline is in two weeks and in that time I have to make the revisions, give it to my second reader, incorporate those comments, blah, blah, blah.  And to make it all worse, still nothing from Michelle.  Call me Michelle!  I have a non-allergenic dog that I just KNOW you and the First Family-Elect will love!

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A Little Bit Crazy A Lot Of The Time

The first deadline for my thesis is Monday and it’s been a real bitch to finish. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer the past few days surrounded by pages and pages of notes, stacks of books, and enough Red Bull to wake the dead. 

That’s why I decided to take a mini-study break and use the Green Tea Calming Face Mask that I had been saving for just such a stressful occasion.  The woman on the box looked happy and calm.  I wanted to be happy and calm!  As my face was on its way to happy calmness, I saw my hair in the mirror. Dear god, this fall weather is wreaking havoc on my hair.  I needed a hot oil treatment.  But not just any hot oil treatment.  I remembered reading about a super-moisturizing-organic-whisk-together-shit-you-have-in your-kitchen-hot-oil-treatment.  But since I never have time to actually finish an entire magazine article, I wasn’t sure if I need to include olive oil and avocado and egg and mayo and honey.  I figured a lot of moisture is better than none and whipped up a foul smelling brew with all the ingredients I had on hand.  Mr. Dingo decided that it was time to say good-night and ran to bed. 

So, with the entire contents of the Whole Foods produce section composting on my head, and a Calming Face mask drying into a Google Maps image of Death Valley on my face, Dingo Girl decided she needed to go out.  Thinking that the Chinese Food I fed her earlier must not agree with her, I threw on a hoodie and sunglasses before we had a Def Con 4 situation on our hardwood floors.  I was confident that I was sufficiently incognito to take her for a quick walk down the street.  After all, who’s out at 2am, right?  I’ll tell you who.  Everyone.  Everyone had decided that one of the coldest nights we’ve had so far was a fine night for a leisurely stroll.

Dingo Girl’s urgent need to poo dissipated as soon as we left the apartment.  She suddenly decided, like everyone else on the street last night, that near-arctic temperatures provide a delightful backdrop for window shopping and unhurried wandering.  I was afraid that I would run into someone I knew who would either run in horror or ask me to explain my Halloween costume.  The great thing about New York, however, is that no matter how out of place you think you are, there’s someone else more fucked up than you.  Last night was my lucky night.

As Dingo Girl and I walked down the street we passed a old man in a trench coat and tube socks.  Tube socks like the hipsters now wear thinking that it’s retro when it’s actually just stupid.  Trench coat and tube socks.  And a fedora.  But only the brim.  Yes, the top of the fedora was missing so the brim of his hat surrounded his head like a monk’s tonsure.  Well, Dingo, you ask, how do you know it was a fedora if the top part was missing?  Oh you sneaky Innernetz, Dingo can’t slip one past you, can she?  I didn’t know if it was a fedora but I do like typing that word.  Fedora, fedora, fedora. 

Anyway, as we passed by this man he yelled out, “Fuck you!” I turned to tell him that I wished him a good night and that I hoped the blessings of the upcoming holiday season descended upon him like cherry blossoms in spring. He yelled, “Fuck you!” again.  Now I realized he wasn’t talking to me.  He was talking to a taxicab on the street that was bleating its horn like a Jeopardy game show contestant on meth.  They made an odd musical pair.

Honk.

Fuckyou!

Honk.

Fuckyou!

Honk.

Fuckyou!

The man never broke stride and was oblivious to the stares and shocked looks he was attracting as his tube-socked, trench-coated, fedora-brimmed self walked down the street.  The scene took on an added element of ridiculousness when both the cab driver and Fedora man increased the tempo of their night music.

Honk. Fuck.

Honk. You.

Honk. Fuck.

Honk. You.

This continued until the man turned the corner.  A woman who might have been a man wearing a red-sequined evening gown under a pink fur jacket, but also wearing tan construction boots and a utility belt complete with foot-long flashlight attached, was standing at the bus stop where Dingo Girl decided she needed to make her night deposit.  She turned to me and, looking directly into my moon-colored hardening-face masked oliveoilavacadoeggmayohoney hair treatment hoodied person, said, “Can you believe the freaks that walk the streets around here?”

“No, m’am,” I said, my face mask cracking a little around the corners of my mouth.  “No, I can’t.”

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Human Beans

I spent my birthday on the couch with a nasty cold that’s still lingering.  Lots of coughing, sniffling, “poor me” moaning, and napping.  As I’ve mentioned before, I never have nightmares about the vampires, zombies, and post-apocalyptic literature I teach.  Unless I’m sick.  When I’m sick, the monsters come to play.  This weekend, I dreamt that I was a zombie with a penchant for chocolate-covered caramels.  While there’s nothing frightening about chocolate covered caramels, the scary part was walking into a candy store and having people run from my dead oozing flesh.  Damn it, my zombie money is as good as everyone else’s!  What’s a zombie gotta do to get some service around here!  I also dreamt that my students were vampires.  That’s actually not far from the truth.  One class in particular makes me feel as if they’ve sucked the life out of me. 

Anyway, this weekend was a great time to sit on the couch and catch up on some blog reading and commenting (if I haven’t gotten to your blog yet, I’m coming!  My Google Reader runneth over).  At one point, after the Nyquil had kicked in and I started to feel I had some fight in me, I engaged in a particularly, let’s say, vibrant discussion on another blog about the role of racism in this election (Hint:  It’s a BIG factor).  You should know that I was right and everyone else was wrong.  Okay, I’ll be fair, there were a few others who were right as well.  But I was more right.  Anyway, another commenter made the very astute observation that we all carry prejudices and biases with us whether we choose to acknowledge them or not.  At first, I was offended by this.  I am not a racist!!  I’m voting for Obama! Some of my best friends are…oh, wait….

A few weeks ago, Mr. Dingo was doing some home repairs and needed a special whozawhatsit to finish the job.  After a quick search online, we found the part on sale at the local Home Depot.  I dragged myself on down to the store leaving Mr. Dingo cursing and sputtering under the kitchen sink.  As I wandered around, a nice Indian guy in the Home Depot apron approached me and asked if I needed help.  I told him what I was looking for. He said that they had it in stock but that the manager had the key to the display case and he was at lunch at the moment.  So, I told the gentleman that I was going outside to make a call (I had to call Mr. Dingo to let him know that the cavalry was going to arrive at least 45 minutes later than expected).  The guy promised that he would hold the item for me. 

***15 minutes later***

Me:  Hi!  We just spoke a few minutes ago, you’re holding the whozawhatsit for me. Is the manager back?

Nice Indian Guy:  I’m sorry, Miss, I just came on this shift.  I don’t know what you are talking about.

Me:  We just spoke 15 minutes ago, you said that you didn’t have the key to the display case that has the whozawhatsit but…

Nice Indian Guy:  That wasn’t me…and we don’t have a whosawhatsit in stock.

Me:  What?  We just spoke!  15 minutes ago!  You said you had it in stock.  You had to wait for your manager.

Nice Indian Guy:  M’am that wasn’t me.

Okay, folks, one thing you need to know about Dingo – do NOT “M’am” me.  You also need to know that despite all evidence on this blog to the contrary, sometimes I can get completely irrational and act like an ass.  I know, I know!  I hope it doesn’t change your opinion of me, but there it is.  I am sometimes an ass.  This was one of those times.

Me:  Did you think I wasn’t coming back and sell it while I was gone? 

Nice Indian Guy:  M’am, I didn’t sell anything.  We didn’t talk.  Maybe that was someone else.

Me:  NO.  I specifically remember talking to YOU.

Nice Indian Guy:  Maybe it was Nice Indian Guy Number 2. (turning to the next aisle).  Nice Indian Guy Number 2, do you remember helping this young lady?

At this point, my “Oh Shit” meter began clanging like Big Ben on New Year’s Eve.  As Nice Indian Guy Number 2 came around the corner I realized that not only had I been an ass, but that I had been an ASS.  You know what made it even worse?  The Nice Indian Guys didn’t look anything at all alike.  The guy that I had actually spoken to was my height and wearing a white pinstripe shirt.  The guy I had waved my racist banner in front of like a NASCAR flag, was at least 6 feet tall and wearing a green polo shirt.  Did I say that I was an ass?  I just wanted to say it again, just in case you missed it the first time.

I was mortified.  For all my talk of seeing people as “people,” that morning, all I saw was skin tone and ethnicity.  No, no, don’t try to tell me that I just made a mistake.  It was more than a mistake.  While it may not have been racist in that I had some Nice Indian Guy stereotype, it was racist in that I didn’t see these two gentlemen as individuals. It was a “they all look alike” mentality. 

That morning, I was forced to confront the biases I carry around with me.  But fate wasn’t done bitch slapping me yet.  That afternoon I had another foot in mouth moment when our food delivery guy showed up with our enchiladas, tacos, and burritos.  Our nickname for Dingo Girl is Bean, and she also has the title of Official Greeter of the Dingo Household — especially if she thinks there is food involved.  So, when the buzzer rang and the Mexican delivery guy began to come up the stairs to the apartment, I didn’t want her running downstairs and getting in the way (or getting to my taco before I did).  I opened the door and said “Wait right there, Bean”.  The delivery guy said, “Okay,” and backed down a step or two. 

I was confused by this and didn’t connect the two until I told Mr. Dingo what happened.  “I think Dingo Girl scared the delivery guy even though I told her to wait —” To say my stomach dropped when I realized what had happened would be an understatement.  I turned to Mr. Dingo, “Did I just say, ‘Wait right there, BEAN?‘ Did the Mexican delivery guy think that I was talking to him?” I think this was worse than that morning’s gaffe.  “Please, please tell me that our delivery guy did not think I just used a racial slur.” Mr. Dingo was no consolation, “Yep, I’m pretty sure he thought you were talking to him.”

What kind of world do we live in where people are accustomed to racial slurs and have internalized them so much that our delivery guy would think that I would say something like that?  And just accept it!  He was gone before I even realized the misunderstanding and could apologize.  He should have punched me in the mouth!  That would have taught me!  Or at least he could have pulled a McCain on me and said, “At least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt!” That would have made me realize that I had just unwittingly insulted him. Okay, at least he should have said, “I’m sorry, but did you just call me ‘bean?’” so I had a chance to explain that I had not and so that he, too, could realize what a fool I had just made of myself. 

It doesn’t really end there.  My penance has been to tip well every single time I have Mexican food delivered.  Yes, I could just tip that delivery guy really well one time and explain the confusion, but who am I kidding?  Every time I have Mexican delivered, I say to myself, “Is that Mr. Not-A-Bean?” And I have no idea.

So, that’s liberal guilt in action.  That’s why my Mexican food deliveries are more expensive than ever before.  And that’s me admitting that, yes, we all carry prejudices and biases with us all the time.  They are always just waiting on our lips like a herpes flair-up. 

I am working to recognize and exterminate my unwitting prejudices.  In the meantime, it’s good to deliver to Dingo.

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Rainy Days and Mondays

Forgive me for my absence, Innernetz.  I’ve been in a funk lately (two points for everyone that just started singing “Give up the Funk” by Parliament) and kicky new rain boots just haven’t been able to lift me out of it.  In fact, my kicky new rain boots mock me.  They mock my pain.  Mockers.  Mocky McMoccasins.  You see, my new rain boots are Chooka’s rockin’ turquoise Tattoo City.

For those of you too lazy to click over or who get distracted by the champagne fountain of never ending linkage on every web site, I’ll describe them for you.  What?  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.  The champagne fountain?  If you’ve ever been to a wedding with a champagne fountain you know that it starts innocently enough.  You take a glass from the top of the cascade and two hours into the wedding reception after you’ve slaked your thirst following the Electric Slide, deftly dodged the bouquet toss, and worked your way to the bottom tier of glasses, you are so drunk that you forget where you are or why your tongue is down the throat of a guy dressed in a valet parking uniform.  That’s not just me, is it?  IS IT?! 

Anyway, to prevent a linkage meltdown that will have you on some page featuring ambiguously dressed boy bands from Thailand, I’ll describe them for you.  They are turquoise.  They have various tattoo related images stamped all over them.  Oh hell, that description doesn’t do them justice.  Just go look at them but come right back.  No linky-linky!

Well?  What did you think?  They rock, right?  How could they not cheer me up, right?  Because, Innernetz, they remind me of the tattoo that I’m not going to get.  You see, I told myself that after I finished the marathon I would get myself a tattoo.  I have a cool one designed by Mr. Dingo himself.  He rocks almost as much as my rain boots.  I don’t have any other tattoos and this tattoo, this post-marathon tattoo, was going to have a lot of meaning for me.  Alas, I don’t think it’s meant to be.  My short runs (eight miles or less) have been great. I feel strong, I feel invincible!  However, for the past three weeks my long runs have been disastrous.  I’m not going to give you a blow by blow of my 14 mile run because, basically, it blew.  Determined to finish the run, I hobbled the last 5 miles.  I got to the front of my building and had to call Mr. Dingo to help me up the stairs to the apartment.  He swooped down and carried me away.  It was an Officer and a Gentleman moment.  Without all the kissing.  I can’t really blame him.  With my face red and puffy from crying and snot hanging from my nose, I made a less than attractive romance movie heroine. 

My leg was a mess.  With my knee swollen to Saturn-like proportions and unable to bend, I dashed off a poor me e-mail to Lesley, my bloggy running guru, at JustRunJustLiveJustBe.  Lesley gave me some great advice and even helped revise my training schedule.  A week to recuperate, a few fantastic short runs, new running shoes, stretching exercises, Advil, and a mental pep talk and I was on my way!  NOT.  My 16 mile run tonight was aborted at mile 9.  Mile 9!  For those of you not mathematically inclined, that’s 7 miles short of tonight’s goal and 17.2 miles short of an actual marathon.  Yes, it was my knee again.  Not only that, but in my obstinate persistence to complete the 14 miles from the week before, I think I sustained a stress fracture to my foot.  I’ve had stress fractures before.  Years of soccer, horseback riding, and lodging my size 8 ½ up people’s asses has made me thoroughly familiar with the throbbing and sharp pain associated with the injury.  In short, Innernetz, my marathon dreams are fucked.

I have only four weeks left until the marathon and it’s simply not enough time to recover.  I knew after my 14 mile run that things were not looking good and it sent me into a mild depression that I have been trying to fight all week.  I was depending on tonight’s run to give me the mental and physical boost I needed to make it to the marathon.  Instead, after having Old Man With Walker almost lap me on tonight’s run, I’ve been sitting in my nasty running clothes crying, “Why me?! Why me?!” wondering if Tonya Harding had somehow managed to whack my knee with a tire iron when I wasn’t looking. 

This past week, none of my usual storm cloud dispersers have been able to lift me out of this funk.  Not my favorite massacre scene from 30 Days of Night, not teaching, and not even walks with Dingo Girl.  For some reason Dingo Girl has decided to turn over a new paw and instead of having to beg and plead just to get her to walk around the block, she wants to RUN!  Run everywhere.  Run downstairs.  Run around the block.  Run to the park.  Run, run, run.  See Dingo Girl Run.  Run, Dingo Girl, run! 

So, that’s where I am these days.  It’s not like good things haven’t happened to me this week.  The Cougar came for a visit, I got a gift certificate to a fantastic spa, blah, blah, blah.  I didn’t want to write a whiny post but that’s just where I am right now.  I feel defeated.  I feel like a quitter. 

And now Dingo Girl needs to go for a walk run.  It’s raining.  And my new rain boots are still mocking me.

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New Addition

We have a new addition to the Dingo family.  No, not that type of addition.  For the love of Todd, people!  Don’t you think I would’ve said something if Mr. Dingo and I were expecting?  Something like, “Save Me!” or “For Christ Sake, How Did This Happen?!” No, our new addition is of the feathered variety.  I’m just going to lay it all out there.  It’s a pigeon.  Now before you get your panties in a bunch and revoke my New York City citizenship, let me explain. 

Like all TRUE New Yorkers, I hate pigeons.  But this pigeon, well, he’s special.  You see, being a runt, his mama kicked him to the curb, which in this case, means our terrace. And there he sat looking up at the nest where his Mama and his fat fuck of a brother sat eating and lounging in pigeon luxury as he cried out, “Cheep, cheep, cheep!  Mama, I’m hungry!” and “Cheep, cheep, cheep, Mama, I’m scared!” It tore my heart out how excited he would get when his Mama would come out of her pigeon penthouse (the abandoned air conditioner unit from the apartment upstairs) only to have her ignore him and even chase him away.  I am tearing up thinking about it right now.  And so, I decided to feed him.  At least give him a chance to grow up to be the ugly, disease-infested vermin he was meant to be.

I refused to name him until I was sure he would live.  Having a dead baby pigeon on our terrace would be bad enough, having a dead baby pigeon that I named and anthropomorphized would be worse. 

Don’t ask me how Mr. Dingo got him to eat.  It was a Christmas miracle fluke.  It took a while but once he realized that the crumbs Mr. Dingo and I spread before him like a sumptuous buffet at The Luxor was food, he began to eat with relish.  In fact, if Mr. Dingo and I are a late with his breakfast or dinner, he bangs on the terrace door with his wings until we come out.  So, he’s going to live and I decided to name him.  Innernetz, I’d like to introduce you to McJagger.

Dingo Girl has learned that she is to chase all pigeons except for McJagger off the terrace.  McJagger has no fear of Dingo Girl or of me and Mr. Dingo.  He often hops onto our laps to make sure we really are out of bread and not just putting one over on him and he’ll dart toward a piece of bread to get to it before Dingo Girl does.  And Not a Dingo?  McJagger is not afraid of her either – bravado or stupidity, I’m not sure.  Mr. Dingo and I make sure we leave the terrace door cracked open enough to give her a peek at her foster brother but not enough so that she can pounce.  And pounce she would.  She eyeballs him through the door and licks her lips.

McJagger’s next obstacle is learning how to fly.  He doesn’t fly.  He flops.  He executes leaps worthy of Michael Jordan (without the grace and style) before landing in a hail of feathers and fluff.  But he doesn’t fly.  He crashes into walls.  He falls off the banister.  He hops around the terrace like one of those wind-up chicks and Easter eggs that are popular every Spring.  Mr. Dingo has pulled off the miracle of teaching McJagger to eat.  I’m waiting to see how he teaches our newest addition how to fly.

I started this post with the intention of writing about my encounter with the hostile Pigeon Lady that menaces the neighborhood and ended up introducing you to our newest family member.  I’ll write about Pigeon Lady another day – if I’m not arrested for grinding her bones to meal and feeding them to her feathered legions first.

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