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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Human Beans

I spent my birthday on the couch with a nasty cold that’s still lingering.  Lots of coughing, sniffling, “poor me” moaning, and napping.  As I’ve mentioned before, I never have nightmares about the vampires, zombies, and post-apocalyptic literature I teach.  Unless I’m sick.  When I’m sick, the monsters come to play.  This weekend, I dreamt that I was a zombie with a penchant for chocolate-covered caramels.  While there’s nothing frightening about chocolate covered caramels, the scary part was walking into a candy store and having people run from my dead oozing flesh.  Damn it, my zombie money is as good as everyone else’s!  What’s a zombie gotta do to get some service around here!  I also dreamt that my students were vampires.  That’s actually not far from the truth.  One class in particular makes me feel as if they’ve sucked the life out of me. 

Anyway, this weekend was a great time to sit on the couch and catch up on some blog reading and commenting (if I haven’t gotten to your blog yet, I’m coming!  My Google Reader runneth over).  At one point, after the Nyquil had kicked in and I started to feel I had some fight in me, I engaged in a particularly, let’s say, vibrant discussion on another blog about the role of racism in this election (Hint:  It’s a BIG factor).  You should know that I was right and everyone else was wrong.  Okay, I’ll be fair, there were a few others who were right as well.  But I was more right.  Anyway, another commenter made the very astute observation that we all carry prejudices and biases with us whether we choose to acknowledge them or not.  At first, I was offended by this.  I am not a racist!!  I’m voting for Obama! Some of my best friends are…oh, wait….

A few weeks ago, Mr. Dingo was doing some home repairs and needed a special whozawhatsit to finish the job.  After a quick search online, we found the part on sale at the local Home Depot.  I dragged myself on down to the store leaving Mr. Dingo cursing and sputtering under the kitchen sink.  As I wandered around, a nice Indian guy in the Home Depot apron approached me and asked if I needed help.  I told him what I was looking for. He said that they had it in stock but that the manager had the key to the display case and he was at lunch at the moment.  So, I told the gentleman that I was going outside to make a call (I had to call Mr. Dingo to let him know that the cavalry was going to arrive at least 45 minutes later than expected).  The guy promised that he would hold the item for me. 

***15 minutes later***

Me:  Hi!  We just spoke a few minutes ago, you’re holding the whozawhatsit for me. Is the manager back?

Nice Indian Guy:  I’m sorry, Miss, I just came on this shift.  I don’t know what you are talking about.

Me:  We just spoke 15 minutes ago, you said that you didn’t have the key to the display case that has the whozawhatsit but…

Nice Indian Guy:  That wasn’t me…and we don’t have a whosawhatsit in stock.

Me:  What?  We just spoke!  15 minutes ago!  You said you had it in stock.  You had to wait for your manager.

Nice Indian Guy:  M’am that wasn’t me.

Okay, folks, one thing you need to know about Dingo – do NOT “M’am” me.  You also need to know that despite all evidence on this blog to the contrary, sometimes I can get completely irrational and act like an ass.  I know, I know!  I hope it doesn’t change your opinion of me, but there it is.  I am sometimes an ass.  This was one of those times.

Me:  Did you think I wasn’t coming back and sell it while I was gone? 

Nice Indian Guy:  M’am, I didn’t sell anything.  We didn’t talk.  Maybe that was someone else.

Me:  NO.  I specifically remember talking to YOU.

Nice Indian Guy:  Maybe it was Nice Indian Guy Number 2. (turning to the next aisle).  Nice Indian Guy Number 2, do you remember helping this young lady?

At this point, my “Oh Shit” meter began clanging like Big Ben on New Year’s Eve.  As Nice Indian Guy Number 2 came around the corner I realized that not only had I been an ass, but that I had been an ASS.  You know what made it even worse?  The Nice Indian Guys didn’t look anything at all alike.  The guy that I had actually spoken to was my height and wearing a white pinstripe shirt.  The guy I had waved my racist banner in front of like a NASCAR flag, was at least 6 feet tall and wearing a green polo shirt.  Did I say that I was an ass?  I just wanted to say it again, just in case you missed it the first time.

I was mortified.  For all my talk of seeing people as “people,” that morning, all I saw was skin tone and ethnicity.  No, no, don’t try to tell me that I just made a mistake.  It was more than a mistake.  While it may not have been racist in that I had some Nice Indian Guy stereotype, it was racist in that I didn’t see these two gentlemen as individuals. It was a “they all look alike” mentality. 

That morning, I was forced to confront the biases I carry around with me.  But fate wasn’t done bitch slapping me yet.  That afternoon I had another foot in mouth moment when our food delivery guy showed up with our enchiladas, tacos, and burritos.  Our nickname for Dingo Girl is Bean, and she also has the title of Official Greeter of the Dingo Household — especially if she thinks there is food involved.  So, when the buzzer rang and the Mexican delivery guy began to come up the stairs to the apartment, I didn’t want her running downstairs and getting in the way (or getting to my taco before I did).  I opened the door and said “Wait right there, Bean”.  The delivery guy said, “Okay,” and backed down a step or two. 

I was confused by this and didn’t connect the two until I told Mr. Dingo what happened.  “I think Dingo Girl scared the delivery guy even though I told her to wait —” To say my stomach dropped when I realized what had happened would be an understatement.  I turned to Mr. Dingo, “Did I just say, ‘Wait right there, BEAN?‘ Did the Mexican delivery guy think that I was talking to him?” I think this was worse than that morning’s gaffe.  “Please, please tell me that our delivery guy did not think I just used a racial slur.” Mr. Dingo was no consolation, “Yep, I’m pretty sure he thought you were talking to him.”

What kind of world do we live in where people are accustomed to racial slurs and have internalized them so much that our delivery guy would think that I would say something like that?  And just accept it!  He was gone before I even realized the misunderstanding and could apologize.  He should have punched me in the mouth!  That would have taught me!  Or at least he could have pulled a McCain on me and said, “At least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt!” That would have made me realize that I had just unwittingly insulted him. Okay, at least he should have said, “I’m sorry, but did you just call me ‘bean?’” so I had a chance to explain that I had not and so that he, too, could realize what a fool I had just made of myself. 

It doesn’t really end there.  My penance has been to tip well every single time I have Mexican food delivered.  Yes, I could just tip that delivery guy really well one time and explain the confusion, but who am I kidding?  Every time I have Mexican delivered, I say to myself, “Is that Mr. Not-A-Bean?” And I have no idea.

So, that’s liberal guilt in action.  That’s why my Mexican food deliveries are more expensive than ever before.  And that’s me admitting that, yes, we all carry prejudices and biases with us all the time.  They are always just waiting on our lips like a herpes flair-up. 

I am working to recognize and exterminate my unwitting prejudices.  In the meantime, it’s good to deliver to Dingo.

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All That Glitter

Is it possible to ask for a do-over for an entire week?  No, really, I need to do this week over.  Whom do we talk to about this? 

Monday got the week off to a great start. I managed to ignore the snooze button on my Talking Al Gore alarm clock ("Time to wake up and contribute even more to the destruction of the planet") to stumble out the door for an early morning run.  I managed to knock an entire minute off my three-mile run!  While basking in the heat, humidity, and painful glow of this milestone during my post-run stretch, I noticed a flash of white down by my little girl bits.  Huh? I had worn my black running shorts so the flash of color took me by surprise.  It didn’t take Horatio Kane to figure out that I’d committed a fashion crime.  My running shorts were inside out.  So while I was burning up the miles, the white cotton crotch sewn into my shorts was burning the corneas of my fellow runners.  Tell me, who in the world makes black running shorts with a white cotton panty?  Who!?  Some of you may be asking, “Who wears their running shorts inside out?” To you I say, shush and get back to your spreadsheets and donuts.  You shouldn’t be reading blogs at work.

The rest of the week fell into a familiar pattern:  I dropped my make-up brush into the toilet. Twice.  After spending hours preparing for class, I left my lesson plans, attendance sheet, and Red Bull at home. The lesson plans and attendance sheet were trivial matters compared to the distress of not having my liquid energy.  I put my hand through a hole in the poopy bag while picking up Dingo Girl’s evening offering and got a handful of recycled dog food organic waste dog shit. And that was just Monday.  All week long, I felt as if I were the subject of a Punk’d all-Dingo special.

But Friday finally rolled around.  Marian the Librarian and I had an appointment for a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, that is if your idea of Ladies Who Lunch consists of cold pints and plates of fries.  And if that is not your idea of a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, then la-di-da, look who’s puttin’ on airs!  After pounding down a few brews we stumbled into Sephora.  It wasn’t our original destination but the sign outside advertising a free color consultation and make-over was a sign from the Make-Up Gods that we dared not disobey.  It was fate.  It was destiny.  It was the signpost leading to another disaster.

Marian got whisked away by an edgy platinum blonde with asymmetrical hair and a fun, hip vibe.  I was corralled into a chair by a woman whose sole experience with make-up application consisted of painting the detached Barbie Styling Head she got for Christmas with a floor mop.  Side note:  Did you know that they now make the Make Me Pretty Talking Styling Head?  Is it just me or does everyone else find that unbelievably disconcerting as well?  There’s nothing like trying to put glitter on your doll’s eyelids while she’s sassing you about how Glitter Glam Green is sooo not her color and did you make sure to moisturize first?  Shut up, Be-otch!  Anatomically Incorrect Ken is going to be here in ten minutes to take your disembodied self to the prom and you want to be ready, don’t you?

Okay, okay, where was I?  Oh yes, as I was leaning back in my chair futilely telling Commandant Clueless that Glitter Glam Green is sooo not my color.  She kept telling me to lean forward and to stop squinting.  I couldn’t help it.  The way she wielded that make-up brush I thought for sure I was going to lose an eye.  And she used enough frosted shadow to make me look like a three-tiered Betty- Off-Her-Crocker cake.  Between glimpses of myself in the mirror, I tried to make a run for it but she body blocked me.  I think I still have bruises. 

Realizing that resistance was futile, I humbly submitted to her will.  Forty-minutes later, she was done with my eyes.  Forty-minutes!  I asked about concealer and mascara to complete the look.  The sigh she gave me made me feel as if I’d just asked her to donate a liver to the Pâté Makers Association. Just then, Marian the Librarian appeared at my elbow.  She. Looked. Stunning.  Now, Marian the Librarian is a pretty woman in ordinary circumstances but her make-up person had accentuated her natural beauty.  She looked like she wasn’t wearing any make-up at all.  I can only imagine all the horny kids coming to her desk at the library asking for assistance.  “Excuse me, Ms. Marian the Librarian.  Can you help me?  I’m looking for Looooooove.” And then Marian the Librarian, who takes no sass from anyone and who has an incredible right hook, would knock them into the reference stacks.  They’d feel as if they’d been hit by Cupid and go away happy.

Marian the Librarian took one look at me and said, “I like it.  It’s summery.” I think it was because my face looked like a bowl filled with tropical fish.  Commandant Clueless looked at me expectantly.  Um, did she really expect me to buy any of this crap?  I didn’t buy any make-up but I did buy a nice face wash and travel chisel to help remove the layers of spackle.

I should’ve ended the evening right there and gone home to console myself with Grey’s Anatomy re-runs.  Dr. McSteamy, with all his plastic surgery prowess, would make things okay.  Hell, as surreal as my day had been, he might have even reached through the screen to tell me how to fix the hot mess on my eyes.  But no, I headed to H&M where I tried to fit into clothes made for people as thin and boobless as a Barbie Styling Head. 

But the day and the week wasn’t a total wash.  I got home to find out our A/C was on the fritz and the make-up soon melted right off.  Thank heaven for global warming.

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Go Find the Funny Contest

It’s time for a contest!! 

Sunny at CityLitNYC called me today to tell me about a fantastic find she made over the weekend.  And because I’m fantastic, I decided to share it with you.  But I’m going to make you work for it, be-otches!

Because all of you were so wonderful during McMini-Meltdown I and II (yes, even you lurkers; although you didn’t comment, I could feel the love) I’m going to give something back.  I’m going to give you this!

Yes, it’s the coolest t-shirt ever:  Keith Richards asking, “Who the fuck is Mick Jagger?” And how do you win this fine, fine piece of t-shirtery?  (Yes, that is a word.  I just used it, didn’t I?) I’ll tell you.  You have to provide a caption to this photo from I’ll Make My Own Lemonade:

For those of you who are lame do not want to wear the F-bomb across your bosom, I did ask the store clerk if they had any t-shirts that said Who the heck is Mick Jagger, Who the hell is Mick Jagger, or even Who in guldarnit consternation is Mick Jagger?  But no.  The pimply-faced gangsta was astonished that someone would be offended by the word fuck.  “What’s wrong with fuck?” he asked.  I told him that people might be uncomfortable wearing that word.  And you know, he had an eye-opening solution.  “Well, they could just go to church!” Hmmm….good idea, wearing the fuck t-shirt, no doubt. 

So, if you already have something with the word fuck among your Sunday best, I will send you Shine a Light:  The Original Soundtrack by the Rolling Stones.

You have until Friday at midnight to enter.  Friday!  A whole week to find the funny and leave your caption in a comment to this post.  Because my Mom needs a good laugh, I’m going to have her pick the winner.  I’ll announce the winner sometime on Saturday.  But don’t get up early!  I’m sleeping in so you shouldn’t expect anything until after 1pm. 

Now, go!  Go find the funny!

Update:  It’s okay if you leave more than one caption or more than one comment.  No need to edit the captions or comments for content.  I will make sure there’s a difibulator nearby in case The Cougar (Mom) gets the vapors.
Oh, and I won’t be commenting on this post because I don’t want to influence Mom’s decision.  I will also try to post something later in the week so you can get your Dingo fix.

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Making It Work

I’ve used Mr. Dingo’s absence this week to catch up on my reality TV and fashion make-over shows.  They are not my usual fair.  No, really.  They are more like guilty pleasures that I watch when I need some mind candy.  Mr. Dingo tries to steer me away from these shows because I am living proof that entertainment as advertising works.  I can resist subliminal advertising but blatantly yell, “Buy this!” while holding up a pair of black suede pumps and I’ll respond, “Okay!” After these fashion shows I am convinced that everything I wear is not appropriate for my body type, personality, age, or color palette.  And the plastic surgery shows?  I think Mr. Dingo is looking into installing a V-chip on our cable box.  I can’t watch one of these shows without thinking that a little diet and exercise…and liposuction…and an eye lift…and butt booster…are completely acceptable ways to continue to eat Peeps and lose a few pounds.  Here are a few of my favorites:

How do I look? Finola Hughes, the Barbara Walters of the fashion make-over realm, likes to dig deep to the psyche to find the real reasons their target for the week wears paisley culottes with a plaid satin blouse.  The target always ends up in tears.  I don’t have a deep dark secret. I’m just convinced that I’ll fit back into my size sixes in a few months and I hate shopping.  My friend Sunny is my only shopping buddy. She has a way of making me enjoy shopping.  It’s not a leisurely waste of the day expedition but a “wham, bam, buy that m’am” extreme sport.  She has an eye for fashion, taste, and simplicity.  And speed.  We can hit Old Navy, Anthropology, Ann Taylor, and Urban Outfitters in the time it takes for a governor to be brought down by a sex scandal.  Maybe even faster.

What Not To Wear. I know what not to wear.  Anything in my closet.

Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style. This show is terrible.  I’m disappointed in Mr. Gunn but I’ve taken his words to heart. His words from Project Runway. 

“Make it Work” has become my motto as I try to find something to wear in the morning.  I fumble and grumble through my closet and pick out what’s clean, non-wrinkled, and can fit without camel-toe and gaping buttons. 

Make it Work to make it to work.  That issue may soon be moot.  My boss has decided, in spite of the agreement we had when I accepted the job nine months ago, that she wants me to work longer hours and take on more responsibility with no increase in pay.  It’s not in the budget.  What?  I already work for peanuts…wait, let me rephrase, I went grocery shopping earlier this week and I saw the price of peanuts.  Those things are expensive!  It’s more like I work for…dryer lint…yes, that’s right, dryer lint.  Actually, even if they would increase my pay from dryer lint to, let’s say, belly button fuzz, I still wouldn’t be able to stay.  Extending my hours beyond the 35-hour week I already have would conflict with my teaching schedule.  I love teaching.  With teaching assignments so hard to come by, I’m not about to jeopardize my placement.

Believe me, I like my job and I do it well, often going above and beyond the call of duty.  She needed her suit picked up from Bloomingdale’s during the only snow storm we’ve had this year.  I did it.  She wanted a venti-white mocha-skim-no whip-wet-cappuccino and the cappuccino machine at the closest Starbucks was broken.  I walked eight blocks to the next Starbucks.  In the rain.  Without an umbrella.  Other NYC neighborhoods have a Starbucks on every corner and sometimes even just across the street from each other. Our next closest Starbucks is in another zip code.  Another time zone.  Another dimension.  I can’t even tell you how many times she has had me traipse all over the city trying to locate a particular type of tulip, orchid, Japanese coin plant, or shrub of the moment to thank a colleague.  In the rain.  She seems to like assigning field trips when it’s raining.  I’m rather fortunate that I haven’t electrocuted myself as I typed her thank you notes and meeting minutes with my hair dripping onto the keyboard.  Did I tell you that I was an office assistant and not a personal assistant?  Yeah, sometimes I think she forgets that too.

She’s actually not that bad to work for.  She’s certainly no Devil Wears Prada.  She’s more like Mrs. Garrett Wears St. Johns.  In addition to Mrs. Garrett, my office has an interesting cast of characters.  There’s Juicy, our self-titled fashionista who thinks that Juicy Couture is actually that and can’t stop talking about her Juicy perfume, her Juicy purse, her Juicy jewelry and anything else she can append the Juicy name to.  Sorry, hon.  I don’t care who made your velour track suit.  Inappropriate for the office.  Oh, and Juicy, consistently coming in at 11am and then asking your already overworked office mates to help you with your work is not going over well.  How you get away with it I’ll never know.  I suppose it’s because your Juicy perfume is so strong that no one can get close enough to actually talk to you about your lack of punctuality.  Mrs. Garrett could send an email to you but I don’t think you are off Facebook or Match.com long enough to check your office email.  Then there’s Passive-Aggressive Pat.  I call her Pap for short.  She’s as intrusive as a gyno exam and as warm as a speculum.  Weezy, Sassy, and The Disappearing Man round out the crew.  There are at least ten other people in my office but they’re all normal.

There was so much to tell you.  Academia is not the civil environment you would think.  There’s enough backstabbing and political maneuvering to keep Wonkette blogging for days.  I will have to save my workplace musings for my tell-all memoir. Teaching and working on my thesis will keep me plenty busy, but now that I’ll never move from dryer lint to peanuts, I will have to put off wardrobe updates and plastic surgery for another day.  No matter, I can make it work.

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