I Got Nuthin’

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Pound Of Flesh

Quick Update:  I did a movie review for The Greenists.  Please check it out!

Tap, tap, tap…testing 1, 2, 3…is anybody out there?

Well, that was an unexpected and unintended bloggy hiatus! 

The last two weeks of class were a flurry of papers, projects, exams, and grading.  You’d think that once grades were submitted I’d be able to kick back with a beer and revel in the five minutes I have to myself before I begin prepping for the fall.  Oh, Innernetz, how silly you are!  I had to use four of those minutes to catch up on the many things I had let slide during the summer session.  After grades are submitted, my personal life takes over. Among the many joyous tasks I had: calls to my slumlord about the dismal water pressure that had turned my shower into Chinese water torture, involuntary volunteer work, and inventing new miracle diets that magically and effortlessly pack on the pounds.  Yes, I did watch eighteen nonstop hours of Seasons 1 and 2 of True Blood, but that indulgence was earned since, even after grades were submitted, I spent a disproportionate amount of time performing cutting edge surgery on students whose heads were so far up their asses that their burps were indistinguishable from their farts

All of the students (and some of their parents) think that if they could just meet with me, they’d be able to convince me that getting that pedicure was much more important than attending the mid-term exam.  And every semester I get one or two students who tell me that they thought all of the assignments were optional.  I tell you what, if they were as creative and diligent in doing the assigned work as they were with coming up with excuses for not doing it, they’d all be A+ students.  But they’re not.  They’re just idiots.  Two seconds after grades were submitted I began receiving phone calls and emails asking, “What can I do about my grade?” My standard answer always starts with, “First, build a time machine....” They don’t think that’s as funny as I do. 

One student failed the course because she missed an entire week of class.  She flounced into my office peeling like a soft shell crab, her tan lines fish belly white against her crocodile jerky skin.  “I told you that I had a family vacation that was non-negotiable!” she shrieked, waving her arms with such fury and drama that she looked like a fight scene from the Matrix.  Layers of baked flesh drifted onto my desk as though I had landed in a dust-mite’s dream.  Flake threw herself into the chair next to my desk and crossed her arms like a petulant child.  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Flake demanded, her face shriveled like an Appalachian apple doll.  What else could I say?  I gently pushed a tube of Aveeno across the desk and held up the garden hose I keep in my desk.  “She rubs the lotion on her skin....”

The last time I saw skin like hers, I was Flake’s age and working at a video store.  (Just in case any of my students are reading: yes, they had televisions and even videos when I was your age.  Yes, the videos were made of wood.) My co-irker was a tall bottle-blonde who aspired to be a supermodel.  I didn’t see it ever happening only because she had a congenital defect that was impossible to overlook: she was butt ugly.  Willem Defoe/Janet Reno love-child ugly. If ugly were a sport, she would win the Tour de Ugly every year and, every single year, the French would accuse her of taking ugly-enhancing drugs.  My co-irker would lay out in the sun every chance she got, but her skin never changed from baboon-ass red to the deep copper tan she so desired.  I called her Chernobyl Barbie.

One day, after being on vacation for almost two weeks, Chernobyl Barbie walked into the video store looking as if she had vacationed on the sun.  Her skin was brown, blistered, and pork rind crispy.  In her red and white sundress, she resembled a KFC Chicken Strip.  Chernobyl Barbie slathered on cheap body lotion throughout the day to soothe her skin and prolong her third degree burn tan.  She scared more children than usual.

By closing time, her chest was an oozing mass of moist, peeling, bubbly flesh.  After returning some videos to the stacks, she came behind the counter where I was counting the day’s receipts, noting the surge in rentals of Nightmare on Elm Street. Chernobyl Barbie went to grab the next pile of unshelved movies from the floor and tripped.  I tried to catch her but my palm landed with a schwack! in the middle of her lubricated chest. It was like sinking my hand into Vaseline covered Tempur-Pedic foam, patented NASA research and all.  I yanked my hand away but, after her twelve hours of regular basting, my hand just slid across her Butterball chest, the skin curling like ribbon candy and encasing each digit like a Chinese finger trap. And the smell!  I gagged and tried to breathe through my nose as her skin gave off the swampy, wet smell of a dirty fish tank.  Where was her filter?  Must change her filter!

“Get it off!  Get it off!” I screamed, snapping my hands back and forth.  But the dead flesh clung on, not wanting to relinquish its hold on living cells.  Chernobyl Barbie was no help.  She was staring in disbelief at the raw white skin emblazoned on her chest in the distinct shape of my palm.  With a final violent shake, the skin came loose and dropped onto the glass counter with a sickening schlock! Imagine the sound you make when you suck Jello right out of the bowl: schlock!

I don’t remember much after that, and neither would you.  But I do remember that, for the rest of that summer, Chernobyl Barbie walked around with my handprint on her chest like a turkey drawing kids do at Thanksgiving, except that, against the crispy pork-rind skin next to it, it looked like a marshmallow turkey.  Still, somehow, she continued to scare more kids than usual.

I thought about Chernobyl Barbie as I watched Flake douse herself with my tube of lotion.  As she sputtered and spewed about her vacation and how I owed her a good grade, her dry skin crackled and threatened to split like a crusty baked potato.  Where was my sour cream?

With the apartment in such a state of disrepair that Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo are weighing the benefits of homelessness and the drama of summer semester just beginning to fade, students for next semester are already starting to contact me (“Do we have to read all the books on the syllabus?”).  I have been too tired and unmotivated to blog, preferring instead to escape my surroundings via the Fine Living channel. But that will change soon.  I’ve scheduled myself for a thirty minute nap on Thursday.  After that, I’ll be Dingolicious all over again.

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Do Jellyfish Eat Oreos?

There’s a reason that there hasn’t been a running post on here in a while.  I’m not running anymore the only running you will see on this post from now on are run-on sentences.  As much as I loved it, my ankles, knees, and back did not.  I’ve had to face the fact that my riding accident ended joint pounding athletics for me.  Osteochondral lesions, potential surgery, months of physical therapy, and the thought of unattractive fashion choices among hospital gowns that leave my ass exposed are some of the things that have led me to this difficult decision.  And difficult it was.  For a while, I convinced myself that I could continue.  However, hobbling home after what should have been an easy three-mile run convinced me that grinding my joints to dust would not be in my best interests unless I wanted to spend my life as a jellyfish.  As appealing as floating around my apartment consuming everything within reach of my grasping fingers may be, I do not want to end up with my own TLC program, The Jellyfish Woman, sandwiched between showings of The Woman with the Talking Tumor and The Man with Three Brains.  That last show is fascinating. As we all know, men usually only have two thinking organs.

I can walk.  I can use the elliptical machine.  But no running. What has surprised me is how the news that my running days are over has affected me.  We’re talking depression, folks.  Woe is me and all that shit.  I have been cranky, moody, and weepy.  Ordinarily I run when the cRazY strikes.  But that is no longer an option.  So I go for a walk.  Well, dye my hair blue and call me Hazel!  All I need is a velour tracksuit and a few stories about my home in Boca and I’m all set.  As I power walk in the park, runners pass me and I wonder if they think I’m lazy or lack the mental toughness it takes to be a runner.  Because I am not lazy.  I am a procrastinator.  There’s a difference!  Laziness is sitting on the couch in the dark because you don’t feel like getting up to turn on the light.  Procrastination is . . . well, I’ll tell you later.

Ironically, since I’ve started walking as exercise I’ve lost four pounds.  Four pounds!  In one week!  What the hell?  When I was running it would take me weeks to lose four pounds.  I like to think that it has something to do with my awareness that consuming a Starbucks Luscious Lemon Tart has greater repercussions on the circumference of my hips now that I’m no longer doing five mile laps in the park.  Believe it or not, a pack of Oreos has been sitting in the kitchen sniffling and whining about loneliness for over a week.  But I resist, muttering protective spells and making the sign of the food pyramid.  Instead of reaching for the chocolaty double-stuffed goodness, I grab an apple. 

The Cougar was up visiting last week and helped me stock my kitchen with healthy food.  I’ve been cooking healthy meals but grazing snacking sabotages me.  I need things that can be prepared quickly and eaten on the go.  Or in front of the TV.  So The Cougar and I went grocery shopping. “Do you like bananas?” she asked, holding up a yellow crescent-moon shaped object.  “Ba-na-na?  What mean this thing ‘ba-na-na’?” She was not amused.  “Fruit, you need to eat more fruit,” she insisted.  Now, I’m no stranger to fruit, I eat the garnish on my frozen alcoholic beverages.  But fruit all on its own?  With no margarita to accompany it?  Who does such a thing?  I loaded my cart with apples, grapes, oranges, and berries but put the kibosh on unsweetened fruit cocktail.  My idea of a fruit cocktail is a gin soaked olive.  Anything else is just obscene. 

So, I’ve been walking and reaching for fruit and veggies, leaving the Oreos to whine plaintively on the shelf.  I miss running.  I miss the endorphins, I miss the zen of breath and body, and I miss the freak parade and my fellow runners , but I think I would miss my joints and cartilage more. 

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Washed Up

There’s a good reason for my unexpected blogging hiatus.  But I don’t want to bore you with tales of luxurious warm days flashing my six-pack abs in a HAWT white bikini on the Cote d’Azure or lull you to sleep with anecdotes of decadent nights hobnobbing with the Hollywood elite.  No, we’ll just pretend that I spent Spring Break conducting important science experiments about mass and inertia: 

How many Peeps can one consume before someone who hasn’t run in two weeks swells up to Violet Beauregard proportions?

I also pondered the great questions of math and logic:

How long does it take to grade 59 papers, 62 Mid-Terms, and 57 writing exercises when Real Housewives and The Millionaire Matchmaker have back to back marathons?

Then, there was the Great Dishwasher Debacle.  The email from Marian the Librarian was unexpected.  “We’re moving and we no longer need our portable dishwasher.  Do you want it?” I know if I were a good friend my first thoughts should have been, where are you moving to?  When?  Do you need help?  But no, my first thought was DISHWASHER!  Mr. Dingo was startled at the tears that sprang to my eyes.  He asked if I was okay and between sobs I informed him that we were getting a dishwasher.  I may have even jumped up and down and mimed spiking a football before propelling myself across the apartment in a Charlies Angel’s roll in celebration. 

I love, love, love a clean house.  Many a night when I can’t sleep I drool over the interior decorating porn on Apartment Therapy and Desire to Inspire.  The airy, bright living rooms, spotless tubs, the mystery of “where in the hell did they store all their clothes?” and the crisp, pet-hair free couches make me swoon.  I just don’t have the time to make the apartment look like those photos.  Sure, sometimes cleaning can be therapeutic.  Like when I finally move the couch to vacuum and find a wayward Oxycontin tablet.  Those turn out to be lovely afternoons.  Just me, the tingly feelings, and pretty colors. 

Anyway, the dishwasher was like winning the lotto.  It was beautiful.  I named her Bianca.  I also let the dishes pile up for days.  I would use one spoon to scoop the sugar into my tea and a different one to stir it.  When I was feeling wild and reckless I took plates from the cupboards and licked them thoroughly before placing them on the counter next to the sink — because I HAD A DISHWASHER!  The day finally came to let Bianca do what she was born to do.  I loaded the dishwasher, hit Start, and the gentle swishing of water fell upon my ears like the dulcet tones of angels.  And then it all went black.  Pitch black.  I called to Dingo Girl hoping she would act as a seeing eye dog and lead me to my bed where I could cry myself to sleep, but she cleared out when the first cries of “Shitfuckgoddamnmutherfucker!” bounced off the walls. 

Apparently, our apartment is a holdover from the Middle Ages and the fuses can’t cope with the demands made by a dishwasher.  Bianca requires more power than the gear and pulley system attached to the hamster wheel in the fuse box is able to muster.  So, this weekend, we listed Bianca on freecycle.com and placed her on the curb for some lucky person to pick up.  I taped a sign to her door:  WILL WORK FOR FUSE.

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How ’Bout ’Dem Apples!

Sometimes I think I can change the world.  Sometimes I think that I can do something that makes a difference.  I usually feel this way when I’m listening to the Broadway soundtrack to Hair. I get pumped.  I look up volunteer positions, I make sure I’m getting Rachel Maddow’s tweets and then…and then, I just get deflated.  It’s overwhelming. Bailout.  Homelessness. Domestic Violence. Illiteracy.  Animal Abuse.  Natural Disaster Relief. Fashion Policing and Passing Judgment on Tourists.  There’s so much to be done and I can’t even remember to change Not a Dingo’s litter box with any regularity.  And then sometimes I feel that the best thing I can do is to bolster the economy by ordering another Venti Earl Grey and slice of pound cake from the grumpy Starbucks barista.  And no, I’m not putting a tip in the tip jar. 

Really, who does that?  You know when I put a tip in the Starbucks tip jar?  When the whole bean coffee Mr. Dingo drinks isn’t on the shelf and someone runs to the back to get some for me.  Not when someone puts a tea bag in a cup of hot water.  Excuse me, isn’t that your job?  You want me to tip you for doing your job?  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I am definitely in the overtipper category.  Waiters, hairdressers, delivery people, and cab drivers love me. These are all people who tend to go above their job description to make my interaction with them the best it can be.  Refills before I ask, squeezing me into an appointment at the last minute, delivering my pizza so that it’s hot and right side up keeping the cheese on the pizza and not sticking to the cardboard box, seeing me waving frantically in the pouring rain and pulling over to haul me and a soaking Dingo Girl to a vet appointment uptown — those things get tips.  Big tips.  But, no, grumpy barista, you are not getting a tip from me for simply turning from the cash register to the hot water spout and dropping in a tea bag. 

But lately, I have had to change my grumpy barista tipping policy.  You see, I’ve become one of those people.  You know the people I mean, the people you see sitting in Starbucks for hours at a time typing away on laptops or scribbling furiously in a wire-ringed notebook.  I always asked myself, “Don’t they have an office or at least a dining room table to work from!  Who comes to Starbucks to work?” People like me, that’s who.  People who can’t see their desk for all the crap piled on top of it.  People like me who cannot shut out the catcalls and running commentary on my poor housekeeping skills from the dishes in the kitchen and laundry on the floor.  And the mold in the bathtub shooting dice with the soap scum?  They taunt me.  Oh, how they taunt me. 

You know who else works at Starbucks?  People who can’t type a complete sentence without Not a Dingo walking all over the keyboard on her way to the mouse.  The mouse she then chooses to sleep on only to wake up when I try to slide my hand under her dingleberried butt to do a cut and paste.  And waking her up means that I must want to pet her, right?  So she makes sure she stays within arms reach by sitting in front of the monitor. 9999999999999999999999999999 (okay, that was from Not a Dingo walking on the 8888888888888 keyboard and I’m too lazy to delete it).

And then there’s Dingo Girl.  Dingo Girl who loves her mama so much that she must sit and whine at her mama’s feet for attention.  If whining doesn’t work, she’s sure that pawing at my arm will.  Or maybe licking my feet.  Put shoes on and she licks my leg.  Put on jeans studded with cactus tines and she stands on her hind feet to lick my face.  There’s so much love at Casa Dingo.  Love is killing me.  Hey!  I think that’s a great title for a new Lifetime Movie. 

*announcer voice*

One woman.  Two fur-kids.  She’s slowly losing her mind.  Is the descent into madness a sadistic plan by the four-legged critters or is this woman simply unable to love?
Starring Melissa Gilbert, Garfield, and that dog from the Taco Bell commercials.

*end announcer voice*

Really, go set your Tivos.  I’m sure that my screenplay is going to be picked up by Jane Campion or Sofia Coppola any day now.

I could go into the office to work but I share an office with about a gabillion other adjuncts.  It’s less of an office and more like detention from The Breakfast Club.  No one really goes there to work.  It’s a place to go to commiserate about The Man and hand out leftover homemade cupcakes.  Here’s how my attempt to work in the office went late last week,

Me:  (going to my desk and taking out a six inch pile of papers and notebooks)
Co-Irker #1:  Talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk…My daughter had her dance recital.  Talktalktalktalktalk…living room…talktalktalktalktalk…Peru…talktalktalk..ha!ha!ha!...cupcakes!
Co-Irker#2:  Slurp! Chomp! Chomp!  Slurp!  Click! Click! Click! Slurp!

Apparently Co-Irker#2 needs to get his dentures fixed.  He brought in an apple and proceeded to grind it to applesauce with ill-fitting dentures.  He couldn’t bite the apple like a normal person.  Instead, he would slurp the apple creating a suction of saliva and spittle that softened the peel allowing him to chomp into the crunchy flesh.  Of course the saliva made the apple a little slippery. His mouth would lose suction and he’d have to do the slurping thing again.  Then, his dentures would shift and protrude from his mouth like the creature from Aliens.  They’d chatter together with a clicking sound as he masticated the poor fruit and then the cycle would start all over again.

So, I’ve ended up at Starbucks.  And the past two weeks have been more productive than any day I’ve had in the past two years.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner!  The only down side is not having internet access.  I mean, they have it but I’m not about to pay ten bucks for it.  Hmmm, could the lack of internet access have something to do with my productivity.  Nah, that’s just too silly to believe.  And oh, Innernetz, the people who come to Starbucks are a strange lot.  I have some stories for you.  But those are for another day.

What I want to tell you is that I tip at Starbucks now.  I tip a lot.  Hell, it’s more like I’m paying rent.  I’m not tipping for my hot water and tea bag.  I’m tipping for a place to work, a place to think, and a place to people-watch and be highly entertained.  I love you Virginia Woolf, but you didn’t need a room of your own.  You needed a Starbucks.

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