It’s the DNA

I don’t think a balanced diet means hoovering one Entenmann’s Fudge Iced Golden Cake for every veggie that I manage to force down my gullet.  I could just kick myself.  I’m going to blame it on Mr. Dingo, though. 

Yesterday when I made my grocery list laden with yucky boring healthy foods like zucchini and grapes, Mr. Dingo asked if I wouldn’t mind picking up an Entenmann’s Fudge Iced Golden Cake for him.  Let me take this moment to inform you that Mr. Dingo is buff and he doesn’t have to break a sweat to maintain his David-like physique.  (Mr. Dingo wants me to insert here that I have changed the subject from vegetables.  I am referring his six pack abs, muscular legs, and great ass, not the baby-carrot-looking boybits Michelangelo’s David so proudly flaunts). 

Anyway, I think the only exercise Mr. Dingo gets is when he loses at Rock, Paper, Scissors and has to take Dingo Girl out for her potty breaks during a Class 5 hurricane while I remain inside keeping an eye on the weather channel and making a mental list to take stock of our bottled water and other perishables; namely, Swedish Fish — so yummy, yet so nasty when they get hard and stale.  So yeah, he’s genetically gifted with hotness. 

Unlike me, Mr. Dingo lacks the congenital defect otherwise known as a Sweet Tooth.  While the failure to have a fresh stash of Swedish Fish during a state of emergency would render me a blubbering mess languishing on the kitchen floor bemoaning our imminent demise and mentally calculating the amount of protein on Not a Dingo’s six- pound frame, Mr. Dingo would be completely satisfied surviving off of hardtack and MREs.  Sometimes, however, he likes a little dessert and will ask me to pick something up for him.  Come on, man!  Asking me to go to the grocery store and roam the candy aisle is like asking a pedophile to go to your local elementary school to pick up your daughter.

So I went to the grocery store and filled my grocery cart with things like apples, a block loaf of whole grain bread, and the Entenmann’s cake.  You will be proud of my fortitude.  I waited until Mr. Dingo got home from work so he could see the cake in its entirety before I dove into it face first. To be fair to myself, it was a very difficult day and if downing an Entemann’s in three bites was an effective form of self-medication, then cut me some slack. 

Yesterday was my niece’s birthday.  I’ve never mentioned my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother and, other than in today’s post, you will most likely never hear about him again.  His only redeeming quality is that he has four of the most beautiful, intelligent, funny, and loving children evah!  I have three nieces and a nephew.  I haven’t seen them in two years.  I’m not going into details, not out of any respect for his privacy because I don’t give a flying fuck about that.  It’s out of respect for my nieces and nephew that I can’t tell you more.  But in spite of the fact that I haven’t had any contact with them, I still send cards and letters on holidays and birthdays in the off chance that one of them will get them and know that my Mom and I have done everything we can to protect them.  That’s so much more than the circus courts ever did.  It is my greatest fear that one day they will contact me and hate me for not doing more. 

So I called Niece #2 for her birthday.  My heart was in my throat when some woman (this may be wife three or four, lord knows my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother cannot pick, or keep, a sane woman) answered the phone.  I said, “Hi, this is Aunt Dingo.  I’d like to wish Niece #2 a Happy Birthday.” There was silence as I heard her put the phone down and I could hear the kids in the background.  If this were a Lifetime movie, you know I would’ve been screaming into the receiver so that they could hear me.  But this wasn’t a Lifetime movie and I lost my chance when my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother got on the phone.  I would like to say that I conducted myself with maturity and restraint so I’ll say that.  But that’s not how it went down.  No, in reality the moment was much more like me trying that cartoon maneuver of sticking my hand into the mouthpiece of the phone so it would come out of the earpiece at the recipient’s end.  Just so you know, it doesn’t work on cordless phones.  So, what it actually came down to was, two hours later, me wolfing down Entenmann’s with a knife and my bare hands.  But hey, at least I wasn’t smoking!!

There are so many times when something happens that reminds me of the kids and something they said or did.  I decided though, that just because I can’t see my nieces and nephew doesn’t mean that I can’t remember them.  It doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you about the time that Mom and Niece #2 were standing in the grocery store check-out lane when Niece #2 proclaimed, in a loud, proud three-year-old voice, “Grammy, I LOVE your titties!” while giving them a lurid squeeze.  It doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you about the beautiful summer day that the kids and I drove around with the windows down and bags full of candy and pumped up on soda singing songs from Maroon 5’s Songs about Jane.  Hmmm.... Maybe the fact that I returned them to my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother on a sugar and caffeine high with suggestive lyrics in their little heads is an indication of why my parents and I can’t see them.  Nah.  He’s just an ass.  But if you’ve read this, you know that he comes by it naturally.  It’s in the DNA. 

Thank you, my loyal readers reader Mom, for being here for me.  After yesterday, I figured the best way to deal with this was to write about it.  And eat Entemann’s.  Lots and lots of Entenmann’s.  So, thank you also Entemann’s .  And thank goodness today was one of my running days. 

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Finding My Chi

I am going to a yoga class this morning.  I’ve been doing yoga off and on for the past several years — more off than on due to time constraints, but I love how regular practice makes me feel.  I also love the non-competitiveness of yoga.  A competitive person by nature, yoga is not a level playing field in which I can one day hope to “win.” I am not, and will never be, one of those women who can put her leg behind her head — Mr. Dingo has made peace with that — but in the classes I’ve attended, it’s feeling good in your own skin that is cause for celebration and not whether you can braid your hair with your toes.

I am looking forward to starting yoga again.  The years and calcification are catching up to me.  I move with all the stiffness of a zombie; not one of those new fangled George Romero Dawn of the Dead (2004) fast-moving zombies but one of the Night of the Living Dead (1976) ghouls — arms fully extended, knees locked.  I’m too young for this stiffness but I’ve always been this way.  At five years old, while other girls were aspiring to be the next Nadia Comaneci (yes, I’m that old) or starring in Swan Lake, my dance instructor told my mom that, “Dingo’s talents lie in other areas.” She did not specify exactly what those other areas were.  Although Mom tried to hide it, I could tell she was crushed.  Not because she had the stage mother aspirations of the other moms at my dance studio, but because she loved making the costumes for my dance recitals.  She truly missed her calling.  Mom belongs in NYC making costumes for Broadway.  Still, there were days in grade school when I thought that going to school dressed as a pirate right down to the eye patch was a bit much.  And, in retrospect, my mom standing in the hall for costume changes — going, for instance, from the Cat in the Hat for English to a pilgrim for History — now does seem excessive.

Years later I discovered yoga.  At that point it wasn’t that I wanted to look like a Degas portrait as much as I wanted to be able to bend over and tie my shoes without pulling a muscle.  Yoga was incredible.  It took me months to gain flexibility but my body felt good.  I felt good.  So I’m off to the yoga studio this morning.  If I haven’t sprained my fingers or torn a ligament, I will give you an update later this evening or tomorrow.

For now, meditate on the peaceful expression of the Yoga Frog gracefully executing Tree Pose on my terrace.

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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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Craptacular

I haven’t posted much this craptacular week.  Certain family situations had my hackles raised and claws drawn.  I might let you get away with a minor slight against Texas, but don’t mess with my Mama.  The helplessness of not being able to do anything for her but offer words of support angered me almost as much as the jackass that’s making her life difficult right now.  That the jackass happens to be another family member doesn’t help matters.  Maybe one of you out there is wondering whether I’m referring to you.  Well, if you have to wonder… So, I spewed enough acid in my potential posts to peel multiple layers of polyurethane off my hardwood floors (at one point when I was writing, Mr. Dingo mentioned, quite spontaneously, that he had never liked the monsters in Aliens).  And then I deleted my words in case there was a possibility that I would have to eat them later.  A few days before posting my first blog entry last month I read Julie Pippert’s post about How To Talk About Other People On Your Blog.  It was a thought-provoking post about how we blog about our personal histories and the people in our lives.  I’ve since printed out her Seven Guidelines and have it taped by my desk until I can make it to the tattoo parlor to have them etched into my forearm.  Even if I’d never read Julie’s post , I hope that I would’ve deleted my angry rants before posting them, but it’s nice to have a reminder for those times when the angel on my shoulder is taking a day off and the devil is dancing up and down on the SUBMIT key.

In other crapitudinous news, Dingo Girl decided that the dog food and copius table scraps we usually feed her just weren’t good enough.  She decided to go for “the other white meat” and took a chunk out of a friend of ours.  Just because I cracked a lame but somewhat racially charged joke about it, believe me, it’s nothing to laugh about.  Having your dog bite someone is intolerable.  The fact that we live in NYC and a simple walk around the block puts us in contact with mouth-watering hordes at roughly every mealtime makes the situation all the more dire.  Beyond the scrumptiousness of this particular friend — whom Mr. Dingo and I have often commented would go well with a nice Chianti, lightly dusted with rice flour and quickly sautéed with cherry tomatoes and a light cream sauce — we don’t know what triggered her bite.  She hasn’t been feeling well lately and has been unusually skittish during our walks.  She constantly looks over her shoulder as if she’s being tailed and will dart away at the slightest sound and unexpected movement.  When this first began to happen, I thought, “She has those keen dog senses!  She knows something I don’t!  We had better run!” And the two of us would bolt down the street together screaming, running from nothing in particular.  Today, a guy wearing a hockey mask carrying a machete dripping blood could suddenly appear behind us causing her to freak out.  I would ignore her warning with a yawn and sigh.  She has set me up to be one of those stupid, oblivious people in horror movies!  Well, anyway, her skittishness has made me wonder what she gets into during the day when I’m at work.  Maybe The Vampire has recruited her into his secret agent network or something.  Or maybe she watches Nancy Grace on CNN all morning and has come to realize that evil lurks around every corner, but all we can do about it is cry and cry.

Up until now I’ve taken Dingo Girl on shopping expeditions.  That’s one of the great things about NYC.  Most stores allow canine companions and many have water bowls at the door and delicious treats behind the counter.  Among Dingo Girl’s favorite shopping haunts are Home Depot and Bed Bath and Beyond.  Dingo Girl is all into the DIY thing.  And if shopping for my DIY efforts isn’t enough to satisfy Dingo Girl’s appetite for treats, my execution of the actual DIY labor may distract me long enough so that she can sneak into Not a Dingo’s litter box for a feline fudge brownie.  Yum.  Often, though, we work as a team.  I create while she destroys.  If I get new curtains, that means she can lay on the old curtains and chew on the hardware.  If I buy new pillows, that means she can rip up the old pillows.  This may not sound appropriate to you, but that could only mean that you have never experienced it.  You see, together, we are the godlike creator/destroyer.  We are the Phoenix, rising from the ashes we fashion.  We are Shiva.  We are Bob Villa!

I spent two days calling trainers/behaviorists who work with aggressive dogs.  That was one of the hardest things to overcome — the label of “aggressive dog.” One trainer understood my qualms about labeling Dingo Girl and rephrased it, “so you have a dog that has exhibited aggressive behavior.” Yes, that’s more like it, though I prefer to think that she was inappropriately confrontational or unnecessarily argumentative.  Maybe the ultimate irony is that she now gets a trainer because she had a fit of rebellion, lashing out at authority in the form of a pulpy little human hand?  Well, after a lot of research and calling around I found someone I trust to help us.  This particular behaviorist doesn’t come cheap, but the cheap ones all asked if Dingo Girl bruised easily.  Really, for what we’re paying this behaviorist, I think Mr. Dingo and I should get to bite her.  We’ve just finished paying Dingo Girl’s surgical bills and thought that this month would be the month we get a little cushion.  Instead, this month is the month that Mr. Dingo and I have to decide who is going to sell their kidney.  I sold my soul last month, I think it’s Mr. Dingo’s turn to put up. 

So, those two things are what drove me into writing reclusiveness last week.  I didn’t know how to write about them and I was throwing myself a pity party.  Be glad I didn’t invite you to the party.  It was a last minute thing and all I had on hand were feline fudge brownies.

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