Pound Of Flesh

Quick Update:  I did a movie review for The Greenists.  Please check it out!

Tap, tap, tap…testing 1, 2, 3…is anybody out there?

Well, that was an unexpected and unintended bloggy hiatus! 

The last two weeks of class were a flurry of papers, projects, exams, and grading.  You’d think that once grades were submitted I’d be able to kick back with a beer and revel in the five minutes I have to myself before I begin prepping for the fall.  Oh, Innernetz, how silly you are!  I had to use four of those minutes to catch up on the many things I had let slide during the summer session.  After grades are submitted, my personal life takes over. Among the many joyous tasks I had: calls to my slumlord about the dismal water pressure that had turned my shower into Chinese water torture, involuntary volunteer work, and inventing new miracle diets that magically and effortlessly pack on the pounds.  Yes, I did watch eighteen nonstop hours of Seasons 1 and 2 of True Blood, but that indulgence was earned since, even after grades were submitted, I spent a disproportionate amount of time performing cutting edge surgery on students whose heads were so far up their asses that their burps were indistinguishable from their farts

All of the students (and some of their parents) think that if they could just meet with me, they’d be able to convince me that getting that pedicure was much more important than attending the mid-term exam.  And every semester I get one or two students who tell me that they thought all of the assignments were optional.  I tell you what, if they were as creative and diligent in doing the assigned work as they were with coming up with excuses for not doing it, they’d all be A+ students.  But they’re not.  They’re just idiots.  Two seconds after grades were submitted I began receiving phone calls and emails asking, “What can I do about my grade?” My standard answer always starts with, “First, build a time machine....” They don’t think that’s as funny as I do. 

One student failed the course because she missed an entire week of class.  She flounced into my office peeling like a soft shell crab, her tan lines fish belly white against her crocodile jerky skin.  “I told you that I had a family vacation that was non-negotiable!” she shrieked, waving her arms with such fury and drama that she looked like a fight scene from the Matrix.  Layers of baked flesh drifted onto my desk as though I had landed in a dust-mite’s dream.  Flake threw herself into the chair next to my desk and crossed her arms like a petulant child.  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Flake demanded, her face shriveled like an Appalachian apple doll.  What else could I say?  I gently pushed a tube of Aveeno across the desk and held up the garden hose I keep in my desk.  “She rubs the lotion on her skin....”

The last time I saw skin like hers, I was Flake’s age and working at a video store.  (Just in case any of my students are reading: yes, they had televisions and even videos when I was your age.  Yes, the videos were made of wood.) My co-irker was a tall bottle-blonde who aspired to be a supermodel.  I didn’t see it ever happening only because she had a congenital defect that was impossible to overlook: she was butt ugly.  Willem Defoe/Janet Reno love-child ugly. If ugly were a sport, she would win the Tour de Ugly every year and, every single year, the French would accuse her of taking ugly-enhancing drugs.  My co-irker would lay out in the sun every chance she got, but her skin never changed from baboon-ass red to the deep copper tan she so desired.  I called her Chernobyl Barbie.

One day, after being on vacation for almost two weeks, Chernobyl Barbie walked into the video store looking as if she had vacationed on the sun.  Her skin was brown, blistered, and pork rind crispy.  In her red and white sundress, she resembled a KFC Chicken Strip.  Chernobyl Barbie slathered on cheap body lotion throughout the day to soothe her skin and prolong her third degree burn tan.  She scared more children than usual.

By closing time, her chest was an oozing mass of moist, peeling, bubbly flesh.  After returning some videos to the stacks, she came behind the counter where I was counting the day’s receipts, noting the surge in rentals of Nightmare on Elm Street. Chernobyl Barbie went to grab the next pile of unshelved movies from the floor and tripped.  I tried to catch her but my palm landed with a schwack! in the middle of her lubricated chest. It was like sinking my hand into Vaseline covered Tempur-Pedic foam, patented NASA research and all.  I yanked my hand away but, after her twelve hours of regular basting, my hand just slid across her Butterball chest, the skin curling like ribbon candy and encasing each digit like a Chinese finger trap. And the smell!  I gagged and tried to breathe through my nose as her skin gave off the swampy, wet smell of a dirty fish tank.  Where was her filter?  Must change her filter!

“Get it off!  Get it off!” I screamed, snapping my hands back and forth.  But the dead flesh clung on, not wanting to relinquish its hold on living cells.  Chernobyl Barbie was no help.  She was staring in disbelief at the raw white skin emblazoned on her chest in the distinct shape of my palm.  With a final violent shake, the skin came loose and dropped onto the glass counter with a sickening schlock! Imagine the sound you make when you suck Jello right out of the bowl: schlock!

I don’t remember much after that, and neither would you.  But I do remember that, for the rest of that summer, Chernobyl Barbie walked around with my handprint on her chest like a turkey drawing kids do at Thanksgiving, except that, against the crispy pork-rind skin next to it, it looked like a marshmallow turkey.  Still, somehow, she continued to scare more kids than usual.

I thought about Chernobyl Barbie as I watched Flake douse herself with my tube of lotion.  As she sputtered and spewed about her vacation and how I owed her a good grade, her dry skin crackled and threatened to split like a crusty baked potato.  Where was my sour cream?

With the apartment in such a state of disrepair that Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo are weighing the benefits of homelessness and the drama of summer semester just beginning to fade, students for next semester are already starting to contact me (“Do we have to read all the books on the syllabus?”).  I have been too tired and unmotivated to blog, preferring instead to escape my surroundings via the Fine Living channel. But that will change soon.  I’ve scheduled myself for a thirty minute nap on Thursday.  After that, I’ll be Dingolicious all over again.

Leave a comment....

This Week’s Short List of People Who Piss Me Off

Why is everyone trying to piss me off this week?  As if I didn’t have enough to do getting ready for the start of summer classes, I had to sit down and write some letters:

Dear fuckety-fuck-fucking-fuckheads at the Philadelphia Valley Swim Club,

You know, this flap over throwing the black kids from the local summer camp out of your pool is your own damn fault.  Sure, you signed the agreement to have the kids from a local summer camp come to your pool.  And yes, you took their $1900.  But what you didn’t do, you sillies, is make sure all the kids were white!!  And now, there’s an uproar because your club President expressed concern that allowing the children to swim with you would change the “complexion” of the club and some of your members feared that their children were not safe around the black kids.  Thank you for demonstrating to the rose-colored glasses contingent that there’s no such thing as a post-racial America.  Or maybe you didn’t read the post-racial memo with all those black letters blighting that pristine white page and whatnot.  It’s more likely that you’re just dumbass motherfuckers who didn’t cut eyeholes in your sheets.  Either way, fuck you with a burning cross.

Sincerely,

Dingo

Dear Obama,

I know you must be surprised to be on the short list of people who’ve pissed me off, but here you are.  When you first took office I was ecstatic, giddy even, as I stood in Times Square with thousands of others watching the election results come in.  We kissed friends, we kissed neighbors, and I may have even slipped some tongue to a gorgeous Swedish tourist.  You, however, seem to have given those of us who voted for you the big kiss-off choosing to lock lips instead with Right Wing ass.  At first, I didn’t view it as pandering as others did.  “Oh, no,” I said. “He’s reaching across the aisle!  He’s building bridges! Give him a chance!” And yes, I used a lot of exclamation points. 

Well, Obama your building bridges has turned into a game of Chutes and Ladders.  You’ve backtracked on repealing Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, you’ve appointed radical Anti-Choice Activist Alexia Kelley to the Department of Health and Human Services, and your promises about closing Guantanamo Bay and actually upholding our Constitution and restoring our good name were as empty as Keira Knightly’s bra.  In spite of the Michelle baby-bump speculation, I’m starting to think you’ve lost your balls.  I voted for change and I voted for principles.  Get your act together, POTUS, or my next letter to you will be short, sweet, and to the point: F.U.

Sincerely,

Dingo

Dear Annoying Parents in the Dog Run,

Do not yell at my dog.  She doesn’t bite but I do.  Dingo Girl had no interest in your big-headed offspring.  She was playing at least eight feet way with her best doggy buddy when you decided that you weren’t taking up enough space with your stroller, diaper bag, wagon, and soccer ball and moved in our direction. Your baby was completely safe at all times since there was absolutely no way Dingo Girl would ever fit that ginormous Tweety-Pie head in her mouth.  Believe me, your baby is safe, although you might want to consider forgetting about the college fund and think about setting aside a HUGE dowry. Maybe one about the size of your kid’s head.  And oh, it’s a DOG RUN not a freakin’ playground!  I’d tell you to get your head out of your asses but since it’s obvious where your little Jimmy Neutron got her noggin, I think you’re quite stuck.  So, fuck you.

Sincerely,

Dingo Didn’t Eat Your Baby

Well, that’s it for now.  I’m sure as this week goes on this list will get longer and longer.  That’s just the sort of mood I’m in.

Leave a comment....

Disruptive

A few days ago Dingo Girl and I were at our local drug store stocking up on hair gel and conditioner.  It’s going to be a humid summer and I want to get a jump on the frizzies.  If I can find something to tame these Medusa-like curls before the locker room dampness of June descends upon the city like a sweaty armpit, I’ll be happy.  During the winter months, I usually add a touch of honey to my leave-in conditioner.  Not only does it make my hair curlier and more defined, but it also smells scrumptious.  For obvious reasons, I forgo this at-home remedy during the summer.  The last thing I need is a swarm of bees descending upon my head like vampires at a blood bank.  It’s going to be difficult enough battling the mosquitoes.

Dingo Girl loves going into this drug store.  Actually, she loves going into any store.  Fortunately, New York is very dog friendly.  Dingo Girl knows exactly which stores have dog treats by the door or behind the counter.  We’ve been going to this drug store ever since she was a puppy. The cashiers fawn all over her and make sure she gets the peanut butter flavored treats.  On this particular day, a new crop of cashiers was at the front counter.  They were taking their sweet ol’ time ringing up the customers because it would have been expecting too much for them to continue their conversation about baby-daddies and broke down ho’s trying to steal their men during their lunch break.  I had a basket of hair products in one arm — I added a few bags of jellybeans and a pint of ice cream because gelatin and calcium makes your hair strong.  Shut up! They do too!  In my other hand I had Cooking Light and Shape.

Dingo Girl was sitting obediently at my feet. When the line didn’t budge for a good ten minutes, she gave an impatient sigh and laid down.  As I was flipping through one of the magazines trying to figure out if the “Cooking Without Butter” article was some sort of joke, there was a loud crash, crying, and screaming coming from one of the aisles.  Everyone turned.  We were greeted by the sight of a woman casually perusing Cover Girl’s new Spring lip glosses as her two children dismantled the store.  One imp of Satan child, around four years old, was pelting her sister with what looked like the entire collection of Opi nail polish with the accuracy and speed of a Gatling gun.  Bottles smashed into the glass display holding the knock-off perfumes.  Bruises were already rising on the other demon’s child’s head and she was crying great gobs of snot as she tried to duck the multi-colored missiles.  That didn’t stop her, however, from undoing her diaper and finger-painting a freestanding Neutragena display and floor with her feces.  Have I mentioned that all this was occurring as their mother was oohing and aahing over Tickled Pink and Merry Berry?  She opened each gloss, applied it to her lips, checked herself in a mirror borrowed from another aisle, wrinkled her nose in disgust, and then put the lip gloss back on the shelf.  Yes, back on the shelf.  This is why you don’t buy make-up that has been opened.

One of the cashiers finally decided that her co-worker was not going to be able to diagnose her burning, oozing va-jay-jay infection from just a verbal description and, for lack of something better to do, decided to actually do her job.  As we watched the disaster that was still continuing in the store (throwing Grecian Formula and feces finger-painting the hair care aisle), Monistat Cashier called out, “Excuse me!” as she came from behind the counter.  “Thank god!” I thought.  Not only was the yelling giving me a headache, but Fecal Frida was getting closer to the check-out line and the stench of toddler poo was curdling my Ben & Jerry’s.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the train wreck in the aisles.  “Excuse me!” yelled Monistat who could barely be heard above the caca cacophony ringing throughout the store.  Just then, she appeared at my elbow.  “Excuse me, m’am, no dogs allowed in the store.” Dingo Girl, who was still lying on the ground, sat up expecting a treat from Monistat.  In this store, the approach of a red shirt usually means a tasty treat is about to come her way.  I was shocked but managed to maintain my eloquence and charm.  “No dogs? Since when?” Now, I realize that this may seem argumentative and when you are yelling to be heard over Annie Oakley and Fecal Frida, it can seem downright obnoxious.  But I really didn’t mean it to come out that way.  Okay, maybe a little bit.  Monistat didn’t answer my question, she just pointed at Dingo Girl who was batting her brown eyes, waiting expectantly for a treat and said, “No dogs.  They’re disruptive.” At this point, Annie Oakley was banging her head against the deodorants and Fecal Frida was stomping on boxes of toothpaste.  “Okay,” I said as I handed her my basket of goodies and gave a head-nod to the mayhem.  “Have fun cleaning that up.” Because I’m real mature.

So now Dingo Girl and I go to a different drug store.  She gets her treats from the cashiers and I make sure to get all of my products from the very top shelves.

Leave a comment....

Washed Up

There’s a good reason for my unexpected blogging hiatus.  But I don’t want to bore you with tales of luxurious warm days flashing my six-pack abs in a HAWT white bikini on the Cote d’Azure or lull you to sleep with anecdotes of decadent nights hobnobbing with the Hollywood elite.  No, we’ll just pretend that I spent Spring Break conducting important science experiments about mass and inertia: 

How many Peeps can one consume before someone who hasn’t run in two weeks swells up to Violet Beauregard proportions?

I also pondered the great questions of math and logic:

How long does it take to grade 59 papers, 62 Mid-Terms, and 57 writing exercises when Real Housewives and The Millionaire Matchmaker have back to back marathons?

Then, there was the Great Dishwasher Debacle.  The email from Marian the Librarian was unexpected.  “We’re moving and we no longer need our portable dishwasher.  Do you want it?” I know if I were a good friend my first thoughts should have been, where are you moving to?  When?  Do you need help?  But no, my first thought was DISHWASHER!  Mr. Dingo was startled at the tears that sprang to my eyes.  He asked if I was okay and between sobs I informed him that we were getting a dishwasher.  I may have even jumped up and down and mimed spiking a football before propelling myself across the apartment in a Charlies Angel’s roll in celebration. 

I love, love, love a clean house.  Many a night when I can’t sleep I drool over the interior decorating porn on Apartment Therapy and Desire to Inspire.  The airy, bright living rooms, spotless tubs, the mystery of “where in the hell did they store all their clothes?” and the crisp, pet-hair free couches make me swoon.  I just don’t have the time to make the apartment look like those photos.  Sure, sometimes cleaning can be therapeutic.  Like when I finally move the couch to vacuum and find a wayward Oxycontin tablet.  Those turn out to be lovely afternoons.  Just me, the tingly feelings, and pretty colors. 

Anyway, the dishwasher was like winning the lotto.  It was beautiful.  I named her Bianca.  I also let the dishes pile up for days.  I would use one spoon to scoop the sugar into my tea and a different one to stir it.  When I was feeling wild and reckless I took plates from the cupboards and licked them thoroughly before placing them on the counter next to the sink — because I HAD A DISHWASHER!  The day finally came to let Bianca do what she was born to do.  I loaded the dishwasher, hit Start, and the gentle swishing of water fell upon my ears like the dulcet tones of angels.  And then it all went black.  Pitch black.  I called to Dingo Girl hoping she would act as a seeing eye dog and lead me to my bed where I could cry myself to sleep, but she cleared out when the first cries of “Shitfuckgoddamnmutherfucker!” bounced off the walls. 

Apparently, our apartment is a holdover from the Middle Ages and the fuses can’t cope with the demands made by a dishwasher.  Bianca requires more power than the gear and pulley system attached to the hamster wheel in the fuse box is able to muster.  So, this weekend, we listed Bianca on freecycle.com and placed her on the curb for some lucky person to pick up.  I taped a sign to her door:  WILL WORK FOR FUSE.

Leave a comment....

How ’Bout ’Dem Apples!

Sometimes I think I can change the world.  Sometimes I think that I can do something that makes a difference.  I usually feel this way when I’m listening to the Broadway soundtrack to Hair. I get pumped.  I look up volunteer positions, I make sure I’m getting Rachel Maddow’s tweets and then…and then, I just get deflated.  It’s overwhelming. Bailout.  Homelessness. Domestic Violence. Illiteracy.  Animal Abuse.  Natural Disaster Relief. Fashion Policing and Passing Judgment on Tourists.  There’s so much to be done and I can’t even remember to change Not a Dingo’s litter box with any regularity.  And then sometimes I feel that the best thing I can do is to bolster the economy by ordering another Venti Earl Grey and slice of pound cake from the grumpy Starbucks barista.  And no, I’m not putting a tip in the tip jar. 

Really, who does that?  You know when I put a tip in the Starbucks tip jar?  When the whole bean coffee Mr. Dingo drinks isn’t on the shelf and someone runs to the back to get some for me.  Not when someone puts a tea bag in a cup of hot water.  Excuse me, isn’t that your job?  You want me to tip you for doing your job?  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I am definitely in the overtipper category.  Waiters, hairdressers, delivery people, and cab drivers love me. These are all people who tend to go above their job description to make my interaction with them the best it can be.  Refills before I ask, squeezing me into an appointment at the last minute, delivering my pizza so that it’s hot and right side up keeping the cheese on the pizza and not sticking to the cardboard box, seeing me waving frantically in the pouring rain and pulling over to haul me and a soaking Dingo Girl to a vet appointment uptown — those things get tips.  Big tips.  But, no, grumpy barista, you are not getting a tip from me for simply turning from the cash register to the hot water spout and dropping in a tea bag. 

But lately, I have had to change my grumpy barista tipping policy.  You see, I’ve become one of those people.  You know the people I mean, the people you see sitting in Starbucks for hours at a time typing away on laptops or scribbling furiously in a wire-ringed notebook.  I always asked myself, “Don’t they have an office or at least a dining room table to work from!  Who comes to Starbucks to work?” People like me, that’s who.  People who can’t see their desk for all the crap piled on top of it.  People like me who cannot shut out the catcalls and running commentary on my poor housekeeping skills from the dishes in the kitchen and laundry on the floor.  And the mold in the bathtub shooting dice with the soap scum?  They taunt me.  Oh, how they taunt me. 

You know who else works at Starbucks?  People who can’t type a complete sentence without Not a Dingo walking all over the keyboard on her way to the mouse.  The mouse she then chooses to sleep on only to wake up when I try to slide my hand under her dingleberried butt to do a cut and paste.  And waking her up means that I must want to pet her, right?  So she makes sure she stays within arms reach by sitting in front of the monitor. 9999999999999999999999999999 (okay, that was from Not a Dingo walking on the 8888888888888 keyboard and I’m too lazy to delete it).

And then there’s Dingo Girl.  Dingo Girl who loves her mama so much that she must sit and whine at her mama’s feet for attention.  If whining doesn’t work, she’s sure that pawing at my arm will.  Or maybe licking my feet.  Put shoes on and she licks my leg.  Put on jeans studded with cactus tines and she stands on her hind feet to lick my face.  There’s so much love at Casa Dingo.  Love is killing me.  Hey!  I think that’s a great title for a new Lifetime Movie. 

*announcer voice*

One woman.  Two fur-kids.  She’s slowly losing her mind.  Is the descent into madness a sadistic plan by the four-legged critters or is this woman simply unable to love?
Starring Melissa Gilbert, Garfield, and that dog from the Taco Bell commercials.

*end announcer voice*

Really, go set your Tivos.  I’m sure that my screenplay is going to be picked up by Jane Campion or Sofia Coppola any day now.

I could go into the office to work but I share an office with about a gabillion other adjuncts.  It’s less of an office and more like detention from The Breakfast Club.  No one really goes there to work.  It’s a place to go to commiserate about The Man and hand out leftover homemade cupcakes.  Here’s how my attempt to work in the office went late last week,

Me:  (going to my desk and taking out a six inch pile of papers and notebooks)
Co-Irker #1:  Talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk…My daughter had her dance recital.  Talktalktalktalktalk…living room…talktalktalktalktalk…Peru…talktalktalk..ha!ha!ha!...cupcakes!
Co-Irker#2:  Slurp! Chomp! Chomp!  Slurp!  Click! Click! Click! Slurp!

Apparently Co-Irker#2 needs to get his dentures fixed.  He brought in an apple and proceeded to grind it to applesauce with ill-fitting dentures.  He couldn’t bite the apple like a normal person.  Instead, he would slurp the apple creating a suction of saliva and spittle that softened the peel allowing him to chomp into the crunchy flesh.  Of course the saliva made the apple a little slippery. His mouth would lose suction and he’d have to do the slurping thing again.  Then, his dentures would shift and protrude from his mouth like the creature from Aliens.  They’d chatter together with a clicking sound as he masticated the poor fruit and then the cycle would start all over again.

So, I’ve ended up at Starbucks.  And the past two weeks have been more productive than any day I’ve had in the past two years.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner!  The only down side is not having internet access.  I mean, they have it but I’m not about to pay ten bucks for it.  Hmmm, could the lack of internet access have something to do with my productivity.  Nah, that’s just too silly to believe.  And oh, Innernetz, the people who come to Starbucks are a strange lot.  I have some stories for you.  But those are for another day.

What I want to tell you is that I tip at Starbucks now.  I tip a lot.  Hell, it’s more like I’m paying rent.  I’m not tipping for my hot water and tea bag.  I’m tipping for a place to work, a place to think, and a place to people-watch and be highly entertained.  I love you Virginia Woolf, but you didn’t need a room of your own.  You needed a Starbucks.

Leave a comment....