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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And To All, A Good Night

Merry Christmas, Innernetz! I’m not just saying that, I really mean it — MERRY CHRISTMAS!!  And no, I’m not drunk on eggnog or the caustic homemade wine my uncle usually brings to family gatherings that smells like he mashed the grapes with his feet wrapped in rotten cheese and smegma.  I love Christmas.  I love lights, Christmas music, Love Actually, Christmas cookies, everything!  That’s not to say that all my Christmas memories are sugar-coated.  I was not privileged with a perfect childhood (in spite of the fact that I was a perfect child), so my childhood memories are mixed.

I have great memories of making Christmas cookies with The Cougar and wrapping presents. My favorite Christmas memories, however, are of the food baskets The Cougar would make for impoverished families.  You want a Christmas miracle?  It truly was a miracle how many turkeys, canned goods, pampers, boxes of formula, and packages of stuffing she was able to load into our broken down black conversion van with screen painted horses on the side.  Oh yes, Santa may have had his reindeer but we had a herd of wild mustangs. And a cobalt blue shag carpet interior.  The Cougar was a self-proclaimed Meals on Hot Wheels. 

The best thing, and what I didn’t appreciate until later, was that she insisted on being anonymous.  We’d drive around the asscrack of nowhere until The Cougar spotted a house in need of a holiday miracle.  Then, she’d park down the street and we’d sneak up and leave the box on the porch.  If the house had toys in the yard, she knew to put pampers and baby food in the box.  And she was fearless. Barking dogs at the end of long, prison-grade chain link leashes did not deter her.  With a wave of her hand, those slathering, razor sharp jaws would snap shut!  Cesar Milan, you are small potatoes.  The Cougar was thirty years ahead of you.  It wasn’t until many years later that I realized how lucky we were to sneak up on a home in the backwoods of the Land that Time Forgot and not get a face full of buckshot.  Or, even worse, we could have all wound up in some else’s food basket.  I’ve seen a lot of horror movies since then.

I don’t have many good Christmas memories of Jackass I.  He was either bitching about how putting up the Christmas lights was interfering with the football game or complaining that the Christmas music and singing interrupted his nap.  One year he surprised me with a handmade dollhouse.  That’s it.  That’s my best Christmas memory of Jackass I.  Oh, I have other memories.  There’s the time that Jackass II and I were so excited about the gifts that Santa left that we burst into our parent’s bedroom squealing with glee.  Jackass I got out of bed fumbling for his belt to give us a whippin’ for waking him up.  Then there was the time that we kept walking in front of the television while decorating the tree.  When he snapped off the television, Jackass II and I were so excited!  We thought he was going to help us put the ornaments in the places way up high where we couldn’t reach. Instead, he snatched the boxes of ornaments out of our hands and threw them into the trash.  Ahhh, good times.  Too bad The Cougar wasn’t quite as good with jackasses as she was with guard dogs.

That dollhouse was a good memory, but it would eventually be razed by a bad memory.  That dollhouse was around until about 5 years ago.  My nephew would use it as an “apartment” for his Metal Gear and G.I. Joe action figures.  Every now and then one of my niece’s Barbies would be allowed to visit, but it was pretty much a war-hero-only bachelor pad.  You know, where they could kick back after a secret mission and relive blowing off heads and survey the amputated appendages that littered the playroom floor with manly pride.  But Jackass I and Jackass II freaked out.  Fifty grown action figures living in a blue and white house could only mean one thing.  HOMO-SEX-YOU-AL-IT-EE!!  Oh, noes!  It was okay for my nephew to play at blowing up Polly Pockets and Ken (who, admit it, truly is gay) but seat G.I. Joe around the plastic dinner table with some friends, and katy-bar-the-door!  G.I. Joe may as well be playing footsie in an airport men’s room with a hole-saw for making glory holes in his rucksack!  If I remember correctly, that Christmas my nephew got more toy guns and a tank, but the Jackasses threw the dollhouse away.  I understand, though.  Little boys must be made to understand that real men are violent and homeless.  What, is living in your tank curled up with your Uzi not good enough for you?

But here is the thing: the good memories live on.  Even today, after Jackass I has made every effort to drive The Cougar to destitution, she still manages to make what little she has go far and at least once a month fixes dinner for all the servicemen and women in her area that are stationed away from home.  Word of mouth has caused these dinners to blossom to over thirty men and women in uniform who want a home cooked meal away from the base.  And she still goes around and leaves food baskets for the poor because she says as long as there is someone who has less than she has, she will give.

So, yeah, I don’t have only good Christmas memories, just like the rest of you.  But just as G.I. Joe ripped the heads of Polly Pockets and then settled down for a spot of tea in his A-frame townhouse, the good memories grind the bad memories to shreds.  And as long as we all do our best to keep the good memories happening today, the way The Cougar does, the spirit of Christmas lives on.

So, to my mom and my blogger friends and all the other sugarplums who make every day of my life sweet, thank you.  I love you.  You keep Christmas alive and well, and you are my Christmas miracle.

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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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