I Got Nuthin’

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And Then . . .

Christmas blew like an enthusiastic whore with razor blade braces.  As I was shopping among the holly jolly holiday lights at Victoria’s Secret and deciding between the comfortable cotton jammies and the brittle acrylic slip that looked as if it had been Bedazzled by blind kindergartners, Bob Cratchit Mr. Dingo was in a nondescript office holding a slip of another sort.  It was pink.  Yes, the Tuesday before Christmas, Mr. Dingo lost his job.  We’re fucked.  The holidays have been spent deciding whether our bed will fit under one of the city’s main bridges and scouring the internet and classifieds for apartments we can afford with frequent flyer miles and an adjunct teacher’s salary (Hahahahahahaha! *wipes tears from eyes*).  We eventually nixed the bridges because there’s no Innernetz.  In spite of all the hype, there are no habitable bridges on the Information Superhighway.  I can live without cable, and electricity, and running water.  But who can live without Innernetz?  I love you, Innernetz.  I really do.  I also love writing comments I never post and sending emails I regret ten seconds after cutting the umbilical cord.  Besides, there’s no Starbucks under any bridges in New York City.  Not yet, at least.  Still, having investigated the bridge option, I now know where all my Starbucks Friends come from. 

So, that’s my Christmas post. 

And here’s my New Year’s post:  Happy Fucking New Year. 

Moving on….

About a week ago, as I sat in front of the computer screen transfixed by our bank account — what does it mean when all the numbers are preceded by a hyphen? — Dingo Girl had just about had enough.  She wanted to play.  She wanted to walk.  She wanted to run and be free of my foul mood and my phone calls canceling things.  Now, Dingo Girl, she’s my chill pill, my Paxil, my shred of sanity, my mutually co-dependent canine compadre.  Dingo + Dingo Girl = BFF4EVA!  Walks with Dingo Girl are never run-of-the-mill.  It’s more like run-after-squirrel and run-after-child-eating-cookies.  Her favorite thing, though, is run-through-puddles.  After the previous week’s rain, I knew the park would be the muddy stuff of a redneck Bubba’s wet dream — dirt so soggy it demands that monster trucks pull tractors, that bikini-clad women wrestle, and that you take your boots off to keep them from getting dirty.

Cresting a hill, we found a stream that had overrun its bank and covered the path.  Fallen trees icky with moss, fungi, and the rest of nature’s enormous assortment of snot blocked one side. The other was a steep drop off into a used condom- and beer-can-infested pond.  There were only two choices: through or around. The wall of logs looked stable, but that was as misleading as an Enzyte commercial.  I kicked the center of the gnarly mass and the log jam shifted.  Something scurried underneath.  I couldn’t really see it, but it looked like it glanced at the ring on my finger and whispered, “my precious.” Oh, hell to the no!  Dingo Girl, we’re turning around.  Dingo Girl gave me the “Bitch, puh-leeez” look as I backpeddled from the Leaning Tower of Nasty.  Mouth open and tongue flying, Dingo Girl cannonballed into the middle of the puddle.  And disappeared.  She vanished.  I looked around me to see if anyone had seen the thirty-pound dog in the fifty-pound body disappear but also half expecting Dingo Girl to be behind me, shaking her paws in my face and telling me I just got freaked.  But I was alone.  All alone.  Dingo Girl had pulled an Osama bin Laden on me without so much as a bark goodbye.

I could hear Gollum sliding around under the Leaning Tower of Nasty, but the puddle was still.  I searched the sky.  There had been a meteor shower over New York City a month or so before, and strange, flashing lights had been spotted all over the place right around Christmas.  That could only mean one thing: alien zombies.  “Give me back my dog you big-headed, one-eyed, undead motherfuckers!” I screamed at the UFOs hovering overhead. 

And it worked!  Suddenly, the surface of the water broke.  That little overflowed puddle was much deeper than it looked!  Dingo Girl emerged on the other side of the puddle sputtering blach, blaaach! blaaaaghhhh! and snarling at the water. 

Ha!  Served her right.  Puddles are one thing.  Total submersion without her wetsuit and fins is another.  She was one mad dog. 

I started to climb over the Leaning Tower of Nasty to get Dingo Girl when my disorder surfaced like a floater.  I was FUCKED.  At the pinnacle of the heap, one foot darted to the left.  I caught my balance. Then, my other foot went right. Leftrightleftrightleftright.  My feet slipped in an increasingly rapid rhythm until I was doing the hillbilly hoedown, knees up to my ears, hands flapping and arms waving like a pew-jumping Pentecostal on So You Think You Can Dance.  The more I tried to regain my balance the more I looked like a wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man.  And then the logs shifted.  Gollum was coming!  I was running in place, trying to keep up with the rotation of the logs to keep Gollum from nibbling on my fingers — highkneeshighkneeshighknees — when suddenly my ass hit the log pile and I slid, branch by anal probing branch, until I landed on my back in The Puddle That Ate My Dog.  Dingo Girl whined and pawed at the ground. 

And then, something finally began to go my way. 

Unfortunately, it was the Leaning Tower of Nasty.  It creaked and groaned and swayed toward me like a withered old nun with a ruler in her hands.

Just then, the water moved.  The water didn’t ripple.  It moved.  By itself.

I was on my feet and by Dingo Girl’s side faster than Britney Spears speed-dialed her attorney after she woke up married to Jason Allen Alexander.  Dingo Girl and I were both sputtering blach, blaaach! blaaaaghhhh! and snarling at the water until, suddenly, Dingo Girl turned and ran, leaving me at the edge of the underwater portal to another dimension.  I turned to chase her.  As I turned to go, out the corner of my eye, I saw something slither out of the puddle into the pile of rotted wreckage.  I’m not joking.  It was not human.  Not animal.  Not my imagination.  Dingo Girl barked again.  I followed her in my water-logged boots — squishsplatsquishsplat.  You won’t get us, you big-headed, one-eyed, undead freaks, I muttered. 

Not today, anyway.

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Cookie Monsters

Ooooh, holeEey niiIIIght—

A clatter from the kitchen interrupted my shower serenade and made me drop my microphone loofah. What the —?!  Another crash, followed by what sounded like someone digging through my breakfast cereal looking for the prize.  Ha, ha muthafucka!  I already took out the prize!  It was a Lego toilet or something.  And Dingo Girl already chewed it into a pulpy wad of plastic!  You FAIL, chump!

Wait!

I was home alone.  I was in the shower.  The ruckus from the kitchen could only mean one thing — zombies.

Trapped in my bathroom, my only hope for survival would rest on how resourceful I could be.  I needed a weapon.  I looked around.  I could concoct a Molotov cocktail in my empty mouthwash bottle with Nyquil and a wash cloth.  But the wash cloth was wet and I had no matches.  Nyquil alone would certainly knock out someone who is a zombie even before they take it, but how would I get him to drink it?  I couldn’t even find the little plastic cup.  I needed something foolproof.  I could squirt shower gel in the zombie’s face.  If it didn’t close its eyes, that would sting like hell.  And zombies don’t blink all that much.  I had about half a bottle of Aveda Rosemary Mint Hand and Body Wash.  But it’s a small bottle and, serious, it was almost $20.  It should cost less than $10 to blind a zombie.  I needed a cheaper weapon.

I did have morning breath, a known WMD, and no mouthwash.  I breathed into my cupped hand.  Oh yeah, I thought.  Locked and loaded.  But, you know, no need to rush into anything.  Besides, I hadn’t yet washed off my oatmeal-honey scrub mask.  Maybe hiding out in a steamy shower covered in breakfast was the appropriate way to deal with the zombie hordes.  Kind of like how Governor Arnie handled those aliens in Predator.

No.  Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo were out there.  I had to make a move.  I was carefully and oh. so. quietly sliding the shower curtain aside when I heard the dishes by the sink clatter to the floor.  Innernetz, this was serious.  There was really something in the kitchen.  I may or may not have peed my birthday suit. 

I stepped carefully across the bathroom floor.  It was probably not a good idea to apply the oatmeal-honey scrub mask to my entire body because it was really hard to move with ninja-like stealth with my butt cheeks stuck together.  I pressed my ear to the door.  The sounds were definitely coming from the kitchen.  I really needed a weapon.  The plunger!  Grabbing Excalibur from behind the toilet, I gave a few practice thrusts and put on my mean face.  “Don’t come any closer, asshole!” I whispered.  “I have e coli and I’m not afraid to use it!.”

I was ready. 

The door creaked open on its warped hinges. The kitchen went silent.  Damn!  Had I lost the element of surprise?  I eyed the living room through the quarter-inch crack.  I didn’t see Dingo Girl.  She was probably protecting me from under the bed.  Into my peripheral vision strolled Not a Dingo.  Evidencing the fearless mien of her leonine ancestors, she mercilessly stalked a sunbeam. And then got bored. Yawing and stretching, she plopped down in the middle of the floor, hiked her hind leg over her ear and began to slurp her cooter.  I remembered reading an article about a cat that saved her owner from an intruder and another one about a cat that dialed 911.  I knew I could count on Not a Dingo. “Run, Not a Dingo!  Go get help!” I thought.  I could tell the moment Not a Dingo received my instant mental message.  She looked up from her cooter slurpin’ for just a moment and messaged back, “Hey!  Look what I can do!”

There was another crash from the kitchen.  Damn, damn, damn! I thought.  It sounded like the cookie jar.  And then I got mad.  Oh, no you din’t! You did NOT come to my kitchen and steal my cookies.  The front door was just inches away from the bathroom and I was confident I could make it. But there was no way I was going to leave Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo in the apartment with a killer.  And I knew it had to be a killer.  Anyone with enough balls to sneak into my apartment and touch my Snickerdoodles had to foresee the potential need for deadly force. 

One hand on the door, the other holding Excalibur, I had to make a decision.  And then I heard it.  tich, tich, tich.  I knew that sound!  tich, tich, tich. But in the kitchen?  Drying oatmeal flaked off my trembling body and crumbled to the floor.  My feet left wet tattoos on the cold hardwood as I snuck to the kitchen.  Every Law and Order episode I’d ever seen flicked through my brain.  I could see Ice-T standing over the chalk outline of my body shaking his head saying, “Ah, here!  See this footprint?  This is where the victim did something really stupid.” I took a deep breath that never quite reached my lungs and peeked into the kitchen.  Pots, pans, dishes, and cookie crumbs were everywhere.  And there, in the middle of it all was the black-eyed fiend. 

“Pinky!” I yelled.  “You scared the shit out of me!”

Pinky’s bushy tail waved at me wildly as she dove into the tub of nuts by the fridge searching for the walnuts that warm her squirrel heart.  A cold breeze alerted me to the open window.  “Get out of here,” I hissed.  “Do you know what will happen if Not a Dingo sees you?”

Pinky was unperturbed.  A quick glance over my shoulder revealed Not a Dingo oblivious to the gamey morsel just within her reach as she practiced the Licking Your Own Belly With Two Outstretched Legs In The Air yoga routine that still gives me a sore neck when it’s just about to rain. 

“Get back outside,” I said to Pinky.  “I’ll bring some walnuts to you.”

Pinky ran to the window, pausing briefly to scoop up a piece of Snickerdoodle.  She waited impatiently while I sorted through the tub of nuts.  I presented her with the largest walnut I could find.  Without so much as a “thank you,” she grabbed it from me and scrambled away.  I closed the window.  I had twenty minutes to get to work.

Although I managed to wash off most of the oatmeal and honey, the areas I missed formed an insoluble binding agent between my clothes and skin.  Walking to work like a drunken hula girl in an attempt to dislodge the resulting denim wedgie was a painful reminder not to miss my waxing appointment later that afternoon. 

But the day was not through fucking with me yet.  Alone in my office, frantically printing out the day’s lesson plan, the lights suddenly went out.  It could only mean one thing — zombies.

******I have a new post up over at The Greenists. It’s about food!****

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Fine Feathered Fiends

Alfred Hitchcock scarred me for life. “Good evening,” my ass, motherfucker. How am I supposed to sleep when all I can think about are birds waiting to peck me to death on the way to the subway station?  All the ghosts, goblins, and ghouls from the twisted minds of Stephen King and Clive Barker don’t scare me as much as Hitchcock’s fucking birds. With their beady eyes and sharp beaks, birds are nature’s ultimate killing machine. If you put a bird up against a lion, the bird would win. Shut up!  It would too!  That’s the National Geographic special they don’t want you to see. Can you imagine the worldwide panic?  I don’t like birds. Except for puffins. Puffins are cute. And chickens. Chickens taste good.  There are no puffins or chickens in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds for the same reason that not even Peter Jackson took the screenplay for Alien vs. Hello Kitty very seriously.

Another reason I hate birds is because of the lunacy they inspire in otherwise normal people.  Anything that motivates people to wear pith hats, safari vests, and knee length khaki shorts while walking around chirping bird calls to each other ranks up there with Renaissance Festivals and Star Trek conventions.  These are the people who, as children, wore calculator watches so they could keep track of how often they got beat up at the playground.  Fortunately, although Central Park is a birder’s paradise, I rarely encounter bird watchers. They get up way too fucking early. By the time I get to the park, the early birds have eaten their worms and the early birders have moseyed off for coffee, shuffleboard, and a relaxing change of diaper. But there’s one birder I see quite frequently. Unlike the others, her voice is not the hushed, subdued equivalent of one hand clapping. Her voice is The Clap. A painful, abnormal discharge that induces nausea and general discomfort.

The rain last week kept The Clap sightings to a minimum but there was an outbreak yesterday as Dingo Girl and I were on our morning walk. The Clap came into view as she swooped toward an unsuspecting flock of feathered menace. “I see ‘em!  I see ‘em!  The blue jays!” she yelled, running to a rock outcropping in the middle of a small stand of trees. She tried to run up the rock face but her bright yellow Crocs slipped on the smooth surface and she fell backwards, Crocs over cranium. Her pasty legs and multi-colored muumuu flashed and sparkled like a chameleon under disco lights. The bags of Wonder Bread tied to her waist burst open, sending doughy goodness spinning through the air like cotton candy. I had a sudden craving for carnival food and was torn between rushing over to help and rushing to Coney Island. Oh, come on, Innernetz!  You know I did the right thing!  It was too early to go to Coney Island.

But The Clap didn’t need my help.  She jumped up unscathed and carefully made her way to the top of the rock. “Pretty biiiiiiird!  Pretty biiiiiird!” she hissed, sounding less like Mother Earth and more like a sucking chest wound. “Pretty biii — *hack* *cough* *hiss* — iiiird!” Craning her face to the tree branches she raised her arms to the sky and hopped in a lop-sided circle resembling a one-legged chicken trying to cross a hot road. “Blue jay, blue jay, bluuuu *hack* *phlegm* *ooze* jaaaaaay!”

The Clap stopped her masturbatory mating Macarena long enough to yell at Henpecked Husband to get the camera. Henpecked rummaged through his Power Ranger backpack and rushed over to The Clap waving — a cell phone. “Not that one, damn it!  The good camera!” The Clap wheezed. Henpecked, properly castrated, dumped the contents of the the backpack on the ground next to the sullied slices of Wonder. “Here! Here!” he whimpered, racing toward her with &another cell phone. But it was too late. The Blue Jays scattered. And by Blue Jays, I mean Crows.  Big, black, nasty crows. It’s easy to see how The Clap could have confused the two. After all, Blue Jays are blue and white and Crows are black. I would’ve made the same mistake as well if my Guide to North American Birds was written in Braille.  And if I were a moron.

The Clap, being the avid birder that she is, obviously knew the best way to get the Blue Jays Crows to return. She cupped her hands around her mouth, took a deep breath and called, “Come back here you motherfuckers!” Surprisingly, it didn’t work. The Crows circled in an ominous dark cloud. Damn, I thought. I’ve seen how this movie ends!  And that was my cue to get Dingo Girl and go. It was about to get ugly. Do you know what a flock of Crows is called?  A murder! Yes, a murder of crows. That’s not a mistake made by superstitious naturalists long ago.  That’s not even a hint.  That’s a warning.  A warning somewhere along the lines of someone throwing a note through your window attached to a rock that’s attached to a dead ninja with your name painted on his toenails.  I had a feeling that I was about to witness a fly-by.

Perched on the rock with her pasty skin, bright yellow Crocs, and flamboyant muumuu, The Clap resembled the lesser-known urban fairy tale character, Snow Blight. Surrounded by the Seven Loaves.  And her Dopey husband.  As Dingo Girl and I headed home and away from the impending crime scene, we could hear The Clap still trying to daintily woo the crows:  “Goddamnyoushitforbrainsmotherfuckers! God *hiss* *phlegm* *cough* damncomehere!”

If The Clap hasn’t been murdered, I’m sure I’ll see her again.  Perhaps at Starbucks.

********
I’m over at The Greenists again!  Come see me!

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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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