I Got Nuthin’

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Like A Rock

*cough* <waving away dust and cobwebs> *cough* Day-um, y’all, it’s all dusty up in here!  It’s not that I’ve forgotten about you, Innernetz.  I’ve missed y’all tremendously, but if I didn’t focus on the freelance writing, copyediting, and tutoring jobs I rustled up for some extra cash, I’d instead miss things like electricity and food.  The past month was an exhausting pattern of workworkworkworksleepwork.  I’m not complaining — well, yes I am because that’s what I do — but this last month has been full of the suckage and no bloggage.

But I’m baaaccck, and I know you are just orgasmic with relief.  I’ll give you a minute or two to compose yourself and change your panties.  Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.

I had a break this weekend when The Cougar came to visit.  She took one look at my pasty pallor and prescribed large doses of Vitamin Daylight.  It took a while for her to crowbar me away from my desk, my ass having molded perfectly around my chair cushion, but once that was accomplished we headed to the park with Dingo Girl for a tasty but hasty dingolicious picnic. One of the paths that meandered up a steep hill took us along a massive vertical rock face jutting drunkenly out of the ground like Mel Gibson at The Passion of The Long Island Iced Tea. As I walked to the edge of the path so that Dingo Girl could do her bidness, I suddenly heard The Cougar say, “I’m going to climb that rock! I bet I can see most of the park from the top!” The next second she was scaling the smooth precipice like Spiderman with a sand wedgie.

“Come down!” I called.  “What are you doing?! Are you crazy?!”

The Cougar continued to climb.  “Take a picture!” she yelled.

My heart thumping so hard it sounded like Kirstie Alley in Wal-Mart flip-flops, I fumbled in my messenger bag for my camera.  Dingo Girl was pacing around my feet, whimpering.  By the time I found the camera, The Cougar was another five feet up.  She paused to wave at me.

“Don’t do that! Get down here!  You’re going to break your neck!” The Cougar responded by giving me The Cougar equivalent of the finger — she stuck her tongue out at me.  And kept climbing. 

I started to put the camera back in my bag when I felt a tug on Dingo Girl’s retractable leash.  She had started up the rock after The Cougar.  Dingo Girl, however, not having grasped the fine art of climbing 80-degree rock cliffs, shifted into reverse, going up the rock face ass first. I dropped the leash, crossed the path, and walked to the rock to get her down.  She crab-walked just out of my reach but not before planting a saucy lick on my nose — Dingo Girl’s version of the finger.

Dingo Girl halted her upward progression about twenty feet up where the rock veered even more sharply up the side of the hill and sat down.  She somehow remained stuck to the side of the rock, jutting from the cliff like Pinocchio’s nose at a Tea Party rally.  I started to scale the cliff to save her.

“Mom!” I yelled.  “Call Dingo Girl to you.  She has to keep going.”

Hearing the panic in my voice, Dingo Girl began to get nervous.  She began to whimper.  And then howl.  It was a long, high-pitched wail.  It sounded something like I’msofuuuuuucked! I’madognotamountaingoat! She started to slide.  Pebbles, dirt, and bits of moss kicked up by her struggles hit my face like a rice-substitute at a very environmentally friendly wedding.  Here comes the bride.  Too bad she died.

My feet couldn’t find purchase against the slick moss.  Motherfucker!  Motherfucker!  slip, slide, whack! My knee crashed against the rock.  Motherfucker!  Still, I made slow progress toward Dingo Girl.

“Grab her!” I yelled to The Cougar.  She reached for Dingo Girl’s collar and…missed!  Dingo Girl slammed into me.  For the first time in years, I thanked the Universe for my big thighs.  More surface area to hang onto the promontory of death.  I managed to catch Dingo Girl, her head trapped between my knees and her butt in my face.  I breathed a sigh of relief but now I had a freaked out dog trapped between me and the rock.  And I was on a rock!  No, I was on the side of a rock!

The Cougar carefully scooted toward us and got close enough to wrap her arm around Dingo Girl’s back end.  We slowly moved up the remaining five feet or so in fits and starts like Frogger, The Epilectic Edition.  When we finally reached level ground at the top of the boulder, The Cougar and I flopped onto our backs, breathing heavily, and picking dog hair out of our mouths.  Dingo Girl went to pee on a bush.

“Well,” I said to The Cougar, “we made it! Thank you for that exhilarating experience!”

Then I grumbled something only marginally obscene.  You couldn’t even see the entire park from the top.  Too many trees!  I called Dingo Girl over and then turned toward her.  She was still rustling in the nearby bushes so I went to get her.  I didn’t want her near the steep edges.  I pictured her jumping over the edge and The Cougar jumping right after her because that looked like fun, too.

When I reached Dingo Girl, I realized that she had found a staircase carved into the rock.  The stairs led down and around the rock to a point about thirty feet in front of the spot where The Cougar had decided to climb.

And that, dear Innernetz, is how I lost my voice.

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How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Two weeks ago The Cougar and I were supposed to take a trapeze class at the Trapeze School of New York.  I was excited.  I had my trapeze outfit all planned out.  Mom was going to go with boring black tights and a t-shirt but I wanted more pizzazz.  PIZZAZZ! After searching high and low I found what I was looking for.  Pink tights, pink top.  I stopped at sequins. Believe me, Innernetz, it was an exercise in self-restraint.  The sequins may have been a bit much and I didn’t want to intimidate all the other novices with my innate trapeze fashion sense.  I also thought that showing up in pink sequined tights would make me look like a plump, pink caterpillar larva as I twisted in the wind on my tiny little trapeze branch.  But alas, this caterpillar never had a chance to become a butterfly.  The morning that The Cougar was to catch the train I received a call from my aunt.  The Cougar had fallen and couldn’t get up.  Actually, once she regained consciousness she did get up, but she’d missed her train.  How did she fall, you ask?  Let’s just say that FUCKED runs in the family.  So instead of The Cougar coming here, I went there to pamper her and make her feel guilty for ruining my big summer event.  Although I didn’t get to fly through the air in Cirque du Soleil splendor, the past two weeks have definitely been one of those circus clown cars.  Just when I think I can’t shove another thing onto my To Do list, I shove another thing on my To Do list.  Not only are things getting jammed packed in here, it’s also starting to smell like feet.  Nasty ol’ clown feet.

When I visit The Cougar I turn into Dingo Do-It-Yourselfer.  At home, when something breaks, I take to my bed in a fit of vapors until Caesar, our landlord, can come make things right.  At The Cougar’s, however, I am Dingo!  Hear me bark!  Seriously folks, while I was there I fixed a toilet, washing machine, garage door opener, printer, and barbecue grill.  I was at Lowe’s and Home Depot so often that I parked in the handicapped parking and no one said a word.  They just waved their canes and walkers at me in a show of support.

Unlike the home improvement stores here, where us city folk sort through paint chips with names like Frappe and Wasabi, debate the merits of low flush toilets, and compare the Krups and Braun espresso machines to the ones we can buy at Starbucks, the stores near The Cougar have power tools!  Nail guns!  Chain saws!  Orbital sanders!  Other thingys I don’t know the names of!  It’s all very manly and testosterone hangs in the air like pepper spray at a WTO protest. 

I found the staff and customers at these everyman country clubs to be very condescending helpful.  And confused, possibly even offended, when I politely told them to fuck off rejected their help.  I had Mr. Google to assist me.  Mr. Google is very informative and doesn’t insinuate that his help can be obtained in exchange for sexual favors.  He also doesn’t flash his hairy ass crack.  Ass crack man, if you are going to let your ass locks fly free you should at least trim your split ends.

In addition to home improvement projects, I dispensed relationship advice to The Cougar.  It’s time she got over The Jackass and found herself a boy toy.  The Cougar is having none of it, however.  Forty years of marriage to The Jackass was quite enough, thankyouverymuch.  Then again, I don’t think I’d ever find anyone deserving of her.  How do you find someone for a woman who spends the majority of her time caring for ill and injured church members, is on the hospitality committee of her church, sings in the choir, leads the teen youth group, works in the nursery every other Sunday, volunteers at Vacation Bible School, and is the go-to person for all the fucked up kids in the neighborhood?  And she does all of this without a Kindness Card.  I call bullshit on that.  If I’m going to mentor juvenile delinquents, I want some damn Oreos.  Hey!  Come to think of it, she’d be the perfect date for Jesus!  He could come pick her up in a pimped out chariot and whisk her to dinner.  I have a feeling that Jesus would be a cheap date.  They’d probably end up at some loaves and fishes buffet.  Word of advice mom, avoid the Communion Special and stay away from the apple pie!  Actually, I would think that the Holy Mack Daddy is too busy with all the stuff in Iran and Darfur to actually date.  Then again, it’s such a royal clusterfuck over there who knows what the hell he’s doing these days.  Maybe he’s hiking in the Appalachians or visiting Argentina. 

So, there you have it.  Between cursing at appliances and blasphemy, I have been a busy little Dingo.  Oh sure, I may end up in hell, but I’ll install one heck of a sprinkler system.

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Do Jellyfish Eat Oreos?

There’s a reason that there hasn’t been a running post on here in a while.  I’m not running anymore the only running you will see on this post from now on are run-on sentences.  As much as I loved it, my ankles, knees, and back did not.  I’ve had to face the fact that my riding accident ended joint pounding athletics for me.  Osteochondral lesions, potential surgery, months of physical therapy, and the thought of unattractive fashion choices among hospital gowns that leave my ass exposed are some of the things that have led me to this difficult decision.  And difficult it was.  For a while, I convinced myself that I could continue.  However, hobbling home after what should have been an easy three-mile run convinced me that grinding my joints to dust would not be in my best interests unless I wanted to spend my life as a jellyfish.  As appealing as floating around my apartment consuming everything within reach of my grasping fingers may be, I do not want to end up with my own TLC program, The Jellyfish Woman, sandwiched between showings of The Woman with the Talking Tumor and The Man with Three Brains.  That last show is fascinating. As we all know, men usually only have two thinking organs.

I can walk.  I can use the elliptical machine.  But no running. What has surprised me is how the news that my running days are over has affected me.  We’re talking depression, folks.  Woe is me and all that shit.  I have been cranky, moody, and weepy.  Ordinarily I run when the cRazY strikes.  But that is no longer an option.  So I go for a walk.  Well, dye my hair blue and call me Hazel!  All I need is a velour tracksuit and a few stories about my home in Boca and I’m all set.  As I power walk in the park, runners pass me and I wonder if they think I’m lazy or lack the mental toughness it takes to be a runner.  Because I am not lazy.  I am a procrastinator.  There’s a difference!  Laziness is sitting on the couch in the dark because you don’t feel like getting up to turn on the light.  Procrastination is . . . well, I’ll tell you later.

Ironically, since I’ve started walking as exercise I’ve lost four pounds.  Four pounds!  In one week!  What the hell?  When I was running it would take me weeks to lose four pounds.  I like to think that it has something to do with my awareness that consuming a Starbucks Luscious Lemon Tart has greater repercussions on the circumference of my hips now that I’m no longer doing five mile laps in the park.  Believe it or not, a pack of Oreos has been sitting in the kitchen sniffling and whining about loneliness for over a week.  But I resist, muttering protective spells and making the sign of the food pyramid.  Instead of reaching for the chocolaty double-stuffed goodness, I grab an apple. 

The Cougar was up visiting last week and helped me stock my kitchen with healthy food.  I’ve been cooking healthy meals but grazing snacking sabotages me.  I need things that can be prepared quickly and eaten on the go.  Or in front of the TV.  So The Cougar and I went grocery shopping. “Do you like bananas?” she asked, holding up a yellow crescent-moon shaped object.  “Ba-na-na?  What mean this thing ‘ba-na-na’?” She was not amused.  “Fruit, you need to eat more fruit,” she insisted.  Now, I’m no stranger to fruit, I eat the garnish on my frozen alcoholic beverages.  But fruit all on its own?  With no margarita to accompany it?  Who does such a thing?  I loaded my cart with apples, grapes, oranges, and berries but put the kibosh on unsweetened fruit cocktail.  My idea of a fruit cocktail is a gin soaked olive.  Anything else is just obscene. 

So, I’ve been walking and reaching for fruit and veggies, leaving the Oreos to whine plaintively on the shelf.  I miss running.  I miss the endorphins, I miss the zen of breath and body, and I miss the freak parade and my fellow runners , but I think I would miss my joints and cartilage more. 

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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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