It’s Like A Bad Rockwell Video

Are you tired of my excuses for not posting?  Well, only that one excuse – the thesis.  Are you tired of it yet?  Yeah, me too.  So we won’t talk about it, shall we?  Okay, since you asked, just one more thing:  It’s almost done!  It’s been approved by my first and second readers and is on its way to my third and final reader right now.  Knowing that the deadline is rapidly approaching, I wanted to nudge my third reader a little but not seem overbearing.  I left her a nice little note with my draft that says, “Thank you for your time.  If you do not approve this thesis, I WILL CUTCHU!” And there’s a smiley face at the end.  Do you think the smiley face is a bit much?  Too in-your-face maybe? 

I feel as if I’ve been in a bubble the past few weeks.  A bubble occasionally burst by important stress relievers like pot excessive amounts of booze Grey’s Anatomy and Top Chef.  Unfortunately, my social life has been very limited.  I’ve seen the laundry guy and Bean, the Mexican food delivery dude, but that’s about it.  With Mr. Dingo working so much, Dingo Girl has been my connection to the outside world.  We’ve spent so much time together that I’ve started to sniff people’s butts in greeting rather than go in for the obligatory air kiss.  You’ll have to forgive me for another Dingo Girl post because right now, folks? It’s all I got.

Anyway, taking Dingo Girl out for her frequent constitutionals is sometimes the only thing that gets me away from my paper and out of the apartment.  For those of you who don’t have a dog in the city, let me tell you, you will be amazed how your circle of associates and psychopaths expands when you walk your dog.  Everyone knows Dingo Girl and wants to pet her.  Dingo Girl, however, is like her mama.  She’s a snob.  If you smell like patchouli, or wear socks with flip-flops, or push a shopping cart laden with bells, wind chimes, and questionable organic matter, she gives you wide berth.  Sometimes, however, interacting with the crazies of this world is unavoidable. 

There’s this one guy who acts as some sort of security guard for the store on the corner.  I say he acts like a security guard because most of the time he’s in front of the store smoking and drinking coffee.  He always says hello to Dingo Girl.  Hearing her name, she’ll pause and in the brief millisecond before she realizes that it’s Creepy Security Guard Wannabe and that he’s one of those people her mama has warned her about and she should run, he engages me in chit-chat.  I would love to ignore him and breeze right by, but my gnarly New York City exterior belies my Southern Girl Heart.  I just can’t be rude.  It’s like the Eleventh Commandment or something: “Y’all, Don’t Be Rude”.  It comes right after the Tenth Commandment: “Eat Grits, Y’all.”

I can’t say exactly what it is about him that gives me the creeps.  It might be his knock off Members Only jacket, or how he pops the collar of his security guard shirt, or it just might be that he monitors my every activity.  Every time I walk by he has something to say.  Something beyond the normal, “My, Dingo, you look stunning today.  And smart.  You look incredibly smart. ” See, that type of normal stuff I’m used to and can smile graciously while offering to sign an autograph or two.  Creepy Security Guard Wannabe, however, notices odd stuff. 

“You’re carrying your backpack on your left shoulder today. You usually carry it on your right.”

It’s true.  I do usually carry it on my right shoulder but why does he know that?!

”You look good in blue.”

Innocent enough, right?  Wrong!  My black coat was buttoned up and I was wearing a lavender scarf.  If Creepy Security Guard Wannabe has X-ray vision, I may have to buy lead underwear.

But perhaps the eeriest comment of all:

“I noticed Mr. Dingo leaving the apartment this morning with suitcases.  He must be going on a long trip. Do you like to be alone?”

That is just fucking creepy.  I didn’t think anything of it (other than the creepiness factor) until later that evening.  The night before Mr. Dingo left on his trip we watched The Strangers.  I don’t want to give the story away so let’s just say that it’s a scary-assed story about a home invasion.  But merely saying it’s about a home invasion is like saying Saw is about a man who liked puzzles. 

So there I am that evening taking a study break and playing tug-of-war with Dingo Girl when she suddenly stops and perks up her ears.  I didn’t hear anything and after a few seconds she went right back to playing.  The next thing I know, Not a Dingo comes barreling out the bedroom past me and Dingo Girl as if Curiosity is chasing her with a sickle.  Now, my back is facing the bedroom.  The moment I see the blur of fur and claws that is Not a Dingo run past me, Dingo Girl sits straight up, growling, hackles raised, death in her eyes, and looks behind me.  Toward the bedroom.  *cue horror movie music*

I freeze.  Just freeze.  And I whisper to Dingo Girl, “You are not about to tell me that someone is behind me, are you?” My rational self is saying that no one is in the apartment.  My irrational self is saying that, somehow, Creepy Security Guard Wannabe scaled five flights on the front of a building that faces a busy street and entered the apartment through a locked window.  That would not be the astounding part.  What would have amazed me is if he had managed to climb through the window without knocking over the stack of books, laundry, and moldy coffee cups on the nightstand.  So, I did what every horror movie heroine does.  I pretended that all was right in the world while saying oh so nonchalantly, “Well, Dingo Girl, I guess it’s time for your dinner.  I’ll just go into the kitchen….” Where I immediately grabbed the biggest knife I could find and huddled against the kitchen window.

Yes, I realize there are several things wrong with that scenario.  One, my back was against the kitchen window.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  Everyone knows the bad guy is going to reach through the window and grab me.  Two, there’s not a clean dish in the house.  The knife I grabbed was crusted with whatever I had for dinner the night before.  My intruder was more likely to die from botulism than blood loss if I ever got within stabbing range.  Three, my study break was over and I had to get back to revising my thesis.  So, with knife in hand I braved the living room once again where I found Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo asleep on the couch.

Bitches.

It seemed that Creepy Security Guard Wannabe was somehow thwarted in his efforts, but there’s always tomorrow.  I just know that he has a cellar somewhere and wants to add me to his collection.  I watch all the serial killer movies, I know how this stuff works.

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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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New Addition

We have a new addition to the Dingo family.  No, not that type of addition.  For the love of Todd, people!  Don’t you think I would’ve said something if Mr. Dingo and I were expecting?  Something like, “Save Me!” or “For Christ Sake, How Did This Happen?!” No, our new addition is of the feathered variety.  I’m just going to lay it all out there.  It’s a pigeon.  Now before you get your panties in a bunch and revoke my New York City citizenship, let me explain. 

Like all TRUE New Yorkers, I hate pigeons.  But this pigeon, well, he’s special.  You see, being a runt, his mama kicked him to the curb, which in this case, means our terrace. And there he sat looking up at the nest where his Mama and his fat fuck of a brother sat eating and lounging in pigeon luxury as he cried out, “Cheep, cheep, cheep!  Mama, I’m hungry!” and “Cheep, cheep, cheep, Mama, I’m scared!” It tore my heart out how excited he would get when his Mama would come out of her pigeon penthouse (the abandoned air conditioner unit from the apartment upstairs) only to have her ignore him and even chase him away.  I am tearing up thinking about it right now.  And so, I decided to feed him.  At least give him a chance to grow up to be the ugly, disease-infested vermin he was meant to be.

I refused to name him until I was sure he would live.  Having a dead baby pigeon on our terrace would be bad enough, having a dead baby pigeon that I named and anthropomorphized would be worse. 

Don’t ask me how Mr. Dingo got him to eat.  It was a Christmas miracle fluke.  It took a while but once he realized that the crumbs Mr. Dingo and I spread before him like a sumptuous buffet at The Luxor was food, he began to eat with relish.  In fact, if Mr. Dingo and I are a late with his breakfast or dinner, he bangs on the terrace door with his wings until we come out.  So, he’s going to live and I decided to name him.  Innernetz, I’d like to introduce you to McJagger.

Dingo Girl has learned that she is to chase all pigeons except for McJagger off the terrace.  McJagger has no fear of Dingo Girl or of me and Mr. Dingo.  He often hops onto our laps to make sure we really are out of bread and not just putting one over on him and he’ll dart toward a piece of bread to get to it before Dingo Girl does.  And Not a Dingo?  McJagger is not afraid of her either – bravado or stupidity, I’m not sure.  Mr. Dingo and I make sure we leave the terrace door cracked open enough to give her a peek at her foster brother but not enough so that she can pounce.  And pounce she would.  She eyeballs him through the door and licks her lips.

McJagger’s next obstacle is learning how to fly.  He doesn’t fly.  He flops.  He executes leaps worthy of Michael Jordan (without the grace and style) before landing in a hail of feathers and fluff.  But he doesn’t fly.  He crashes into walls.  He falls off the banister.  He hops around the terrace like one of those wind-up chicks and Easter eggs that are popular every Spring.  Mr. Dingo has pulled off the miracle of teaching McJagger to eat.  I’m waiting to see how he teaches our newest addition how to fly.

I started this post with the intention of writing about my encounter with the hostile Pigeon Lady that menaces the neighborhood and ended up introducing you to our newest family member.  I’ll write about Pigeon Lady another day – if I’m not arrested for grinding her bones to meal and feeding them to her feathered legions first.

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Furry Frenzy

I had planned to write a witty post this morning about how I quit my job and the how trying to find someone to replace me has my former coworkers in a frenzy.  I was going to gloat about how Mrs. Garrett runs late to meetings and curses the day I walked out the door.  I was going to write about all of that this morning.  Instead, I chased Not a Dingo around the apartment with a pair of scissors. 

Not a Dingo had a massive dingleberry hanging from her butt and I had to remove it.  It was gross.  Really gross.  I first noticed it this morning when I smelled a rotten stench on the bed.  At the time I blamed it on Mr. Dingo and the delicious burritos we consumed last night.  “Very funny, Sweetie,” I said, before making a quick escape to the living room.  Well, it wasn’t exactly a quick escape.  Not a Dingo sleeps on my pillow and Dingo Girl sleeps across my legs, but I extracted myself as quickly as possible without inflicting bodily injury and hightailed it outta there.  The girls were close behind.  I did not believe Mr. Dingo’s drowsy denials and was a little miffed that I was driven from bed and robbed of thirty additional minutes of sleep — robbed, I tell you! — by his malodorous wake-up call. 

About 20-minutes later, Not a Dingo joined me at my desk.  She often takes up residence in my outbox while I am working.  When she’s not in my outbox, she’s sitting on my keyboard, trying to sit on my keyboard, or sitting in front of my keyboard with her furry face five inches from mine trying to hypnotize me with those big eyes of hers to get up and get her a treat.  So, when my feline inhabited outbox produced the odor of a fully inhabited catbox this morning, I knew that I had unjustly maligned Mr. Dingo — but I didn’t apologize.  If he didn’t deserve my censure this morning, he certainly has on other occasions.  He had it coming.

Lifting Not a Dingo from her perch I was immediately disgusted and repelled at the nastiness appended to her.  And now, you are disgusted and repelled as well.  That’s what blogs are for, no?  But you didn’t have to wrestle with a pissed-off cat this morning.  And neither did Mr. Dingo.  Two seconds after I told him of our dilemma, he suddenly had to be at work early for a conference call or some such sorry-I-just-checked-my-calendar-and-noticed-it-have-to-run-don’t-want-to-be-late-very-important-bye thing, and out the door he went.  Oh Mr. Dingo, you will get yours....

So, this morning was spent running with scissors.  Not a Dingo was far from cooperative.  Without getting into the gritty details of this morning’s bout of Twister with my normally docile kitty (because I expended all the grittiness describing Not a Dingo’s poor hygiene), let’s just say that I’m reconsidering our decision not to declaw her and have notified the CDC that my local hospital will need antibiotics to counteract the effects of cat scratch fever. 

This was definitely a two-person job.  I could not hold a wiggling Not a Dingo and use a pair of scissors to clip a foul-smelling golf ball size mutant appendage while trying to calm Dingo Girl.  Yes, Dingo Girl had to get in on the act.  Any sign of distress from Not a Dingo caused Dingo Girl to whine, bark, and nudge my elbow with her nose.  Between the mewling, gyrating, barking, nudging, stinking, tears and tears, I was truly in awe of people who work from home and manage to be productive. 

When I quit my job a little over two weeks ago, I had blissful but seemingly realistic visions of morning workouts in Central Park followed by several hours of writing, preparing for my English subject-matter test, a break for some play time and a walk with Dingo Girl, working on my thesis, and then studies before running off to teach and returning home to a warm, hot, nutritious meal and glass of wine on the beach, the sunset glittering off my diamonds and too-white teeth.  But it was not to be.  There are not enough hours in the day when my days are filled with things like dingleberry distractions and extractions that prevent me from sitting at my desk and working.  I need to come up with a system that makes me just as efficient and as organized at home as I was at work.  Any suggestions that do not involve violence?

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