That’s Not In The Script

I love my friend’s little boy.  The Kid is three years old and knows he has me wrapped around his finger.  The thing is, entertaining a three-year-old is exhausting!  So, what do you do with a three-year-old full of energy on a fine Saturday afternoon? No, not the baby Benadryl.  Moms seem to frown upon that.  You enter him in a baby race, of course. 

So there I was in Central Park on Saturday morning lining The Kid up with all the other three-year-olds at the starting line.  I kept telling him that this race was for fun and he should enjoy it, there are no losers and all that other blah, blah, bullshit.  Look, it’s fine if you want your child to be an impotent, underachieving, unpopular loser.  My little friend, however, is in it to win it and so, although I was giving him useless platitudes just in case he turned out to be an utterly embarrassing failure, I also had him practice his Game Face along with important dignity-preserving statements like, “I let the Special Olympics kid win” and “It’s easy to run fast when you’re not burdened by all this handsomeness.” We may or may not have made other children cry.  Pussies.

Standing at the starting line, I surreptitiously checked out the competition.  I scoffed at the mom who had her kid in Baby Crocs.  O rly?  Even if you win this race (which you won’t) your kid loses.  Baby Crocs!  Humpft!!!  And then I looked down at her feet.  My. god.  She had long, leathery, bony feet that stretched over the edges of her flip-flops like an old gator sunning on a rock.  Really, her feet were overstuffed, cracked, vintage handbags.  Her toes were aged ginger.  If Dingo Girl had been there, I would not have been able to stop her from gnawing on those nasty feet.  I quickly turned my head in the other direction but then I locked eyes with HIM.  Oh, lord. 

Back in my younger days I was doing quite a bit of work as an extra on films and television shows shot in my town.  You may have heard of Chuck Norris and a little show called Walker, Texas Ranger.  I was on the set as an extra almost every week.  I excelled in the art of the fake, silent phone call made in the background of some lavish set.  I am the veritable Robert DeNiro of this little known niche.  For every take I’d create a different scenario.  First, I’d be the Tearful Girlfriend.  Face contorted in grief and despair, I’d conduct an entire conversation that started with an angry “You’ll never find another doormat as stupid as me!” and ended with me softly whispering, “So long, my love.  Go now with God,” before wistfully hanging up the phone.  And if you think it’s easy to convincingly portray intense emotion without uttering a single sound, you are sadly mistaken.  My favorite was Glamour Girl, where I’d mouth words like “Lunch?  Yes, I’d love to!  Oh, but let me check my calendar,” while tossing my long flowing hair and flashing a toothy smile. But my fine acting skills went unnoticed.  Until one day…

One day I got the call from my piece of shit agent that the casting directors wanted me to audition for a bit part in the show.  They were looking for someone sexy and bold but sophisticated.  They must have seen me in the background of last week’s episode when I was perfecting Phone Sex Operator!  Once the excitement died down, panic set in.  I was a naïve and not-so-worldly twenty-something.  What did I know about sexy but sophisticated?  Not a whole hell of a lot.  Just out of college, I was a starving artist living in khakis and denim skirts (hey, it was the early nineties in Texas where denim never goes out of style!).  I tell you what, the outfit I came up with makes me blush even to this day. 

As I teetered into the casting studio on pleather Payless five-inch stilettos, I noticed the other women waiting to audition had taken a different fashion approach.  One that did not involve looking like Jessica Rabbit trying to pay the rent in the red-light district.  “I got this,” I thought.  “These women aren’t even showing skin!” You know, if I’d spent more time paying attention to the show and less attention to the candy and sodas at the craft services tables, I’d have realized that Walker, Texas Ranger was a family-friendly show delivering heartwarming lessons week after week with a flying roundhouse followed by a tip of the hat.  It was not Streetwalker, Sex Arranger.

So there I was in the room with HIM, the casting director.  I started reading my lines at one end the room as I tried to walk seductively toward his desk at the other end.  Seduction is difficult to pull off in towering pleather stilettos when you’re used to wearing Keds, but I soldiered on, skillfully masking my unsteady teetering with regular tottering, swinging and swaying like the Betty Boop float at the Macy’s Spanksgiving Day Parade.  My voice low and husky, I whispered line after line because that’s what sexy women do, right?  They whisper? 

As I got closer to his chair my vision started to blur.  What the —?  My fake eyelashes had decided to become unglued and crawl down my face like hairy Wacky Wall Walkers.  But I pressed on, my padded boobs like beacons leading the way to his desk.  As I placed one hip against his desk and leaned precariously toward him, a wayward layer of eyelashes, having made its way to my chin, tumbled off my face and landed with a delicate splash in his coffee cup like a furry black fairy.  Neither of us said a word.  I racked my brain trying to cover my embarrassment without losing character.  Although it felt like a lifetime, I’m sure it was only a few seconds before I heard myself whisper seductively, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t lash out at you like that.”

I wrapped up the scene moments later, proud of my ad-libbing and wondering if I would be able to contribute other lines of dialogue once I was cast for the part.  I went home and waited for the phone to ring.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  All of this went through my mind in the mere seconds it took for him to smile and say, “Gorgeous day for a race, isn’t it?” Oh my god, he didn’t recognize me?  I can’t explain why, but I found myself lowering my voice and whispering, “Yes, yes it is.” His eyes popped open wide but I was saved from further humiliation by the starting bell and everyone yelling, “Run! Run! Run!” And so, I did. 

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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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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.

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More About My Neighbors

I know everyone on my block.  Well, almost everyone.  I don’t know most of the neighbors and those I do know, I do not like.  There’s Thing 1 and Thing 2, the Horrible Dog Owner, and the Bread Thrower.  The Horrible Dog Owner used to live in the apartment now occupied by Thing 1 and Thing 2.  We thought that would be the last we’d see of Horrible Dog Owner, but no, she moved to an apartment building three doors down.  Our terraces are within eyeing distance of each other.  Stink-eyeing distance.  She has a beautiful friendly dog that she leaves on her terrace in the worst weather conditions.  Mr. Dingo and I never have to check the weather report.  During the winter, if we can see the dog, we know that it’s freezing with a 100% chance of hail.  In the summer, if we can see his thick, fluffy fur, we know that there’s a heat advisory and we’d best stay indoors eating Popsicles and making sure we have enough ice cubes for our Long Island Iced Teas. 

I’ve never seen The Bread Thrower.  I’ve only seen the aftermath.  Occasionally, Mr. Dingo and I will be sitting on our couch watching TV and enjoying our Long Island Iced Teas when we hear a series of thumps on our terrace.  Upon investigation, we’ll find partially eaten bagels, crusts of bread, and saltine shards.  I have no idea who’s throwing bread out their window.  I know it’s not Thing 1 and Thing 2 because I don’t think they’ve eaten a carb since the first Bush administration.  Sometimes I’ll hear a window open and I’ll dash to the terrace — but too late.  I arrive just in time to be showered in bread and walk back into the apartment pissed off and looking like a chicken cutlet. 

The neighbors I like the best don’t actually live in my neighborhood; they either own or work in the shops on my block.  There’s the deli where I buy my bagels, the deli where I buy sandwiches (Yes, two delis on one block.  This is NYC), the dry cleaners, flower shop, nail salon, and pizza place.  I’m on a first name basis with most of them.  I know who’s working their way through school and who’s getting married.  They know my class schedule and the results of Dingo Girl’s last vet visit.  And we all hate the nail salon people.  The salon people have an attitude that makes them a pox upon this block.  The rest of us are sunshine on Sesame Street and they’re more like a sleep-inducing moonless night on Elm Street. 

My favorite neighbor, however, is Michael.  Michael works in one of the non-descript buildings on my block. I don’t know exactly what he does but I think it has something to do with the arts/entertainment industry.  He’s very cryptic about his line of work but he often has backstage passes for many of the cultural events around the city.  This weekend he gave me a ticket to an international photography exhibit way uptown where the ladies who lunch live and work and shop.  The exhibit was incredible.  It featured everything from mid-nineteenth century daguerreotypes to freaky experimental stuff that I pretended to like because everyone around me was viewing it with slack-jawed awe.  Okay, I didn’t pretend to like it, but I did have a slack-jawed look on my face.  The price tag on one particularly garish piece was a mere $250,000.  See!  Your jaws just went slack, didn’t they?!  $250,000!  One woman was elated that the recession had made the price of art so affordable these days.  You see, she was looking for artwork to complement the new Italian marble in the Grande Foyer and the completely renovated Petit Foyer (and yes, she pronounced it “pet-tee foy-yay”).  The Petit Foyer was completed last Summer and she’s just positively mortified that it’s Spring yet the Petit Foyer remains barren.  I wanted to tell Lady Foy-yay that I just ordered a venti foy-yay and then ask whether her pet-tee foy-yay was for the pets because I would never be caught dead with anything less than a tall foy-yay, and then it would need to be made with whole milk and an extra shot of espresso.  I didn’t say any of that, though.  I just shrugged and vomited a little when I did.

I left the mewling masses to explore other parts of the exhibit and was completely in awe of photos by Jill Freedman, Minor White, and Ansel Adams.  Poking around the nooks and crannies of the exhibit I couldn’t help but think that Ken Gilbert’s photography belonged there. His work is by turns shocking, soothing, introspective, and in your face but it’s all from a very talented eye.  If you haven’t checked out his photoblog you are missing out.  As I was standing on one side of an L-shaped wall looking at a tiny landscape and trying to convert 1900£ into U.S. currency — unlike Lady Foy-yay, I had forgotten to bring an accountant along — I heard a sound that could only be described as someone trying to play a kazoo filled with Jello.  And then came the “ahhhhhh!” And then, the smell.  Apparently someone chose to go to an out-of-the-way spot to relieve some gastrointestinal distress. 

Imagine a rotten egg wrapped in moldy feta cheese stuck between two layers of decomposing meat.  Now imagine baking that in a crock pot for a few hours before just now opening the lid.  It came drifting around the corner and wrapped my head in its stink molecules like a tight facial compression wrap.  My eyes watered and my throat immediately seized up.  The room started spinning and everything began to fade to black.  I knew I couldn’t pass out because the olfactory offender would be sure to tell the arriving paramedics that I was the one who forgot my Beano.  I don’t know why I was the one who felt embarrassed, but I did.  I thought about leaving before the sense assaulter came around the corner.  My mama raised me well.  Courtesy is about making the other person feel comfortable. But I don’t listen to the mama on my shoulder.  I just held my breath and waited for the noxious noisemaker to appear.  And appear she did. 

Apparently, Lady Foy-yay was also an accomplished player of the ass-trumpet.  The butt-ugly piece of art she just bought?  $250,000.  The look on her face when she saw me standing in her fog of stench?  Priceless.

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My Feet Taste Nasty (Updated!)

So far, 2009 has created the giant sucking sound once only associated with NAFTA and Keanu Reeves movies (The Lake House, anyone?). It’s been a particularly rough few weeks here at Casa Dingo.  You ever have a problem where the solutions are equally unpalatable?  Like a choice between chewing razor blades and then gargling lemon juice or dousing yourself with honey and laying on an anthill.  You ever have a problem like that?  And then?  Then you put on your big girl panties and do what needs to be done only to open another can of worms.  I’m not talking about those thin, weak looking things that litter the sidewalk after a heavy rain.  I’m talking Tremors-size worms, Dune-size worms, Jabba the Hut size worms!  Well, from now on I have decided no more big girl panties.  I want to wear my Princess Leia Underoos and throw sand at the other children in the sandbox.  Especially the kids wearing Disney Princess Underoos.  Disney Princesses suck. Except for Belle.

I’ve been moody, weepy, cranky, and I know you are not going to believe this but — I’ve been a bitch.  Yes, yes, I have.  You don’t have to pretend.  We’re all friends here.  You can tell me.  In fact, Gay Best Friend has already told me.  You know what he said?  He said, “You’re a bitch.”

And then he said the magic words, “You need some wine.” So he made me get out of my jammies and traipse across the city to his favorite wine store.  I was not going to get out of my jammies.  Ever.  Even when I thought of going to get wine, I figured getting out of my jammies was a waste of time because I was just going to come back home, unscrew the cap to a 2-for-1 box of Boone’s, and stay in my jammies until they fell off from dry rot.  Or until Mr. Dingo promised to make his homemade Red Velvet Cake.  His Red Velvet Cake is the best cake EVAH! And definitely worth taking a shower and fixin’ my ‘do for.  He might even get some Sexytime.  If the Boone’s doesn’t make me fall asleep first.

But it was wine and not cake that was on my mind this afternoon, and Gay Best Friend insisted that I lose the jammies.  And then it was whine and not wine that was on my lips when I saw the line extending out the door to the wine shop.  It was packed.  You would have thought that this was the only wine store in Manhattan.  I happen to know that it is not.  I happen to know that there are one thousand two hundred and fifty three wine stores in Manhattan.  I know this because I have done my part to stimulate the economy.  One wine bottle at a time.  Anyway, I had a few choice words for all those asshats who waited until the day before Valentine’s Day to stock up on libations. 

Bitching and moaning, I made my way through the crowd.  As I was scanning the shelves, Gay Best Friend tapped me on the shoulder,

Gay Best Friend:  Hey look!  Dan Aykroyd has a new wine on the —

Me:  Dude, I’ve had a bad week.  I certainly don’t need bad wine.

Gay Best Friend (pointing over my shoulder):  — And he’s right behind you signing bottles.

Dan Aykroyd smiled at me when I turned. 

Cue earth opening up and swallowing your beloved Dingo.  There was only muffled screaming as I plunged through the hole in the floor because my foot was lodged firmly between my teeth. 

Yeah, I was embarrassed.  Maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the long line snaking out of the wine store.  Yeah, it’s the day before Valentine’s Day, but all those ugly New Yorkers aren’t getting some.  Really.

Or maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the guy who wore his Ghostbusters costume.  He wasn’t embarrassed.  Dressed in his khaki Ghostbusters uniform, complete with official Ghostbusters patches, combat boots, and utility pack, he was loudly proclaiming, “It’s the 20-year anniversary!  Twenty years!” I don’t know if he was talking about the movie release date or the date he moved into his parents’ basement.  Either way, I was waiting for Dan Aykroyd to say, “Listen asshole, I have been in at least fifty straight-to-video movies since Ghostbusters and did you ever see my real masterpiece?  Blues Brothers?”

But Dan Aykroyd didn’t say that.  He was busy warning his legions of fans to watch out for the hole that the curly-haired bitch who had just bad-mouthed his latest label right in front of him had fallen into. 

Who ya gonna call?

Update:  Who’d a’ thought that so many of you were interested in Dan Aykroyd’s wine?  Well, dear Innernetz, I’ll have you know, I did buy some and even had one autographed.  Since it was Friday the 13th and I’m a sucker for connoisseur of horror movies, in honor of the release of Friday the 13th (2009) I had Dan Aykroyd sign the bottle, “To Jason.” Because I’m a geek like that.  But hey, at least I didn’t show up in a stupid hockey mask!

Because I love you, Innernetz, I’m going to give a bottle of the Dan Aykroyd Cabernet to a lucky reader.  Mr. Dingo and I had some at dinner tonight.  It was good!  And Innernetz?  I’m giving away the signed bottle of Dan Aykroyd Cabernet.  Hell, I’ll even throw a bottle of his Chardonnay in the mix (unsigned).  All you need to do is tell me your own “foot-in-mouth,” wine, or celebrity run-in story.  You can put your anecdote in the comments of this post, post it on your own blog and post your link in the comments here, or send it to me via email (see the Blackberry in the top right of this page?).  I’ll announce the winner on Thursday, February 19th!

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