Old Dog Teaches New Tricks

Dingo Girl and I are at Mom’s this week.  There are a lot of things on the agenda like showing her how to use her ATM card (we accomplished the internet and Gmail on my last trip), updating her cell phone plan, and most importantly, getting her to have some fun.  I’m trying to jump start her new persona as the slutty divorcée, but she’s resisting.  In between her volunteer work with her church youth group and caring for homebound and elderly church members, she doesn’t have much time to shop for fire-engine red teddy’s and six-inch stilettos.  I’m working on it though.  Of course, this is coming from someone whose idea of lounge wear shuns silk and ribbons for cotton tanks and boxers.  Oh yes, Mr. Dingo got hizself a practical girl! 

When I explained that I’m prepping her for life as a cougar, Mom looked puzzled at first.  After I described exactly what a cougar is, she looked at me like I had whipped a vibrator out of my purse and told her, “Here!  Try it!” Okay, maybe she’s not quite ready to look beyond southern belle right now.  I guess we’ll have to wait for the Match.com lesson until next time.

Dingo Girl loves it when we visit Mom.  There’s a backyard and trees that she doesn’t have to share with any other dog!  She likes to sit on the front porch and I join her with a glass of iced tea and a book.  It’s usually peaceful.  Usually. 

Today, the odd boy playing basketball in his driveway (in 90 degree heat!) across the street took an interest in us.  Every single time Dingo Girl and I stepped onto the front porch, Odd Boy came over.  First, he’d stop shooting hoops and just stare.  Then, he’d wander over to the curb and wait a few seconds before sloooowly meandering across the street.  After taking time to smell the rose bushes lining Mom’s driveway, he would eventually make it to the porch.  He did this every. Single. Time.  And every single time he’d ask me, “Is that your dog?” The first time it was funny in that, “No, I’m just doing some animal testing for my radiation therapy class.  You can have what’s left of her when I’m done,” sorta way.  But after the third time it was creepy and I thought he just might have been hired by evil scientists to secure subjects for animal testing for a radiation therapy class.  And I wasn’t too sure that I wasn’t on the one on his list!

The usual social cues were not working, “Well, it was nice meeting you,” or “Have a good day,” or even, “Get out of here weirdo,” were not having any effect.  The last one was particularly ineffective, probably because I said it inside my head.  But I said it very loudly in my head.  Anyway, Dingo Girl and I left him standing on the porch. 

About thirty minutes later, Dingo Girl wanted to go out.  I grabbed her ball and we headed out the front door.  Odd Boy was still on the porch.  He was sitting on the bench I had vacated thirty minutes earlier because he wouldn’t leave.  He looked at me, “Is that –?” “Yes, we’re going to play fetch,” I said, cutting him off.  So, I threw the ball and Dingo Girl laid down in the grass.  I told her to go get it and she rolled around in the grass.  This is how we play fetch.  It’s a spectator sport for her.  I throw the ball and she waits for me to go fetch it.  It’s a whole lot of fun.

Odd Boy wandered over to where we were in the front lawn.  “Does she know how to play fetch?” Is this kid fucking with me?  Did he not just see the finely tuned team of Dingo and Dingo Girl at work?  “Does she know any other tricks?” Yes, Odd Boy, she does know other tricks.  She can take up all the room on the bed, she can eat her own food and still have room for mine, and best of all, she sheds like a mofo yet always has a full head of shiny blonde hair.  Don’t try that one at home, kids. 

Again, I said all that in my head.  What I said out loud was, “No.” But the question I was answering was, “I’m definitely cuter and more charming than that creepy little kid from The Grudge, right?”

Where were Odd Boy’s parents?  They just let their kids roam the neighborhood?  Don’t they know that’s just asking for Junior to be used for animal testing?  Well, now that I think about it, maybe they do....

Odd Boy then proceeded to tell me how to teach Dingo Girl to play dead.  Ready for it?  I need to bring in an older dog to show her how.  Yep, that’s it folks.  I need to bring in an older dog to teach Dingo Girl the fine art of playing dead.  And you know how?  I’ll tell you.  Apparently, the older dog goes up to the younger dog and demonstrates how it is done.  I’ll give you a minute to let that soak in.  Old Dog.  New Dog.  Live demonstration.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to look for the camera.  I just knew I was being Punk’d.  Alas, I was not, but I was saved by the southern belle when Mom pulled into the driveway.  Odd Boy looked thrilled at expanding his listening audience and turned to greet her with a sentence that started with, “Is this — ?”

I didn’t hear the rest because I took that moment to dash back inside.  Fetch this, ya’ll.  I’m outta here. Mom and Dingo Girl had to fend for themselves. 

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The Amazing Race

The last time I ran in downtown New York I was trying to avoid falling glass and concrete. Tripping over dropped purses and briefcases, my gait was anything but smooth.  My breath erratic, harsh, and shallow.  Believe it or not, I’d forgotten about all of that until this past Tuesday when Marian the Librarian and I got off the subway and headed to the starting line at the World Financial Center for the American Heart Association 5K.  My constant stream of chatter was due as much to a case of pre-race nerves as to the jarring influx of memories.  With all the mental jump cuts, it was almost like watching MTV back when they actually showed music videos.  While passing new stores, restaurants, apartment buildings and bars, my mind was working like a flip book; scanning back and forth trying to remember what used to be there.  My hands started to shake a bit and I wondered what would happen if the starting gun went off and I just started running, and running, and running somehow ending up in Central Park like I did almost six years ago.  I knew what would happen: Marian the Librarian would never run another race with me again.

Once I got over the initial not-quite déjà vu, the newness of the downtown area was actually stimulating.  “Fuck you, terrorists!  We’re still here.  I’m still here and I’m about to run a race.” And then Marian the Librarian said something about going to a bar after the race for mozzarella sticks and beer and my walk down patriot lane was over.  I get all fired up about messin’ with the US but I’d sell national secrets for a plate of mozzarella sticks and an ice cold Smithwicks.

I had a lot of questions for Marian the Librarian:  Will the route be clearly marked?  What happens if I lose my racing number?  Will Meredith get back together with McDreamy and is Callie really a lesbian?  While she answered all my queries patiently I could tell she was reconsidering her promise to not leave me behind and run at her own pace.  We got to the starting line, well, we got near the starting line.  There were thousands of people packed into an area the size of my bathroom.  While I am used to maneuvering around Mr. Dingo for sink space in the mornings and doing some fancy footwork to avoid stepping on Not a Dingo and Dingo Girl as they work their furry wiles to prevent our heading off to work, I was not used to the organized chaos at the starting area.  The starting line looked less like a civilized group of racers and more like a cattle call for the new Fox reality series, So You Think You Can Run?

We stood in place for at least thirty seconds after the starting gun went off.  The bottleneck gradually eased and we were finally able to run.  I was running!  I was running in my first race!  See Dingo run!  Run, Dingo, Run!  I used my Nike+ Sportband (best running gadget EVAH!) to check my starting pace.  Marian the Librarian assured me that while it seemed as if everyone was passing us by and the wheelchair and crutches contingent would soon be nipping at our heels, it was best to pace ourselves.  Most of those zooming ahead and elbowing us out of the way would soon be gasping for breath. I believed her but I still had to resist the urge to accidentally blind them with my long flowing locks nudge them back.  The whole talking while running thing?  Not a problem.  Marian the Librarian and I chatted and before I knew it a mile had passed by.  I kept checking my pace.  Wow!  I was doing great!  I was clipping along at a pace much faster than anything in my training runs.  I mentioned this to Marian the Librarian and we both attributed the faster time to the lack of hills in the race course.  Do not be fooled, folks.  Central Park has its own mountain range.  Yes, it does!  It has to, otherwise how can I run uphill both ways on both the east and west side of the park?  Somehow I never seem to be running downhill.  Just up, and up, and up.  As I’ve bitched before, I haven’t lost much weight but my calves, lord!, my calves have gained about thirty pounds of muscle.  It was a bit cool today so I thought I’d give my kick-ass and takin’ names boots one last hurrah before summer.  No dice.  I couldn’t zip them over my King Kong sized calves. So, sexy boots are out, but if you need someone to climb a building, I’m your gal.  Anywaaaaaay....

No sooner had we said, “No hills!” than the course began a gradual incline.  Are you freakin’ kidding me?  Hills in lower Manhattan?  But you know what?  I flew over those hills.  And you know what else?  We started passing some of the smart asses who had bolted out of the starting area.  I resisted the urge to turn around as I passed them and taunt, “In your face! In your face!” This nod to decorum was not because of any humility on my part but simple recognition of my limits.  I lack grace and coordination.  I am fortunate enough to be able to run in a straight line.  To run backwards, even with the incentive to serve some humble pie, would surely result in having a pie thrown in my own face.  So, I plodded on. 

It was fantastic to see the city from the street and note all the reconstruction that had taken place.  There were parks and gardens.  Stores and vendors.  Even Ground Zero had finally lost its death pall and taken on a new vivacity.  As we ran through the streets people cheered for us.  It was an incredible feeling. 

Marian the Librarian kept checking in with me to make sure I wasn’t pushing myself too hard and to discuss our options post-race.  We’d passed a bunch of bars but there were also some shoe stores that looked inviting and Century 21 (a massive designer discount store) was still open.  You know, it’s one thing to run a race, it’s another talent altogether to scope out store hours while dodging potholes and sewage grates.

As we rounded the corner to the finish line I could hear loud clapping and cheering.  As we got closer we discovered it was a group of children, probably between 7 and 9 years old, who were cheering on the runners and giving high fives.  Chalk it up to being tired or overly emotional at nearly accomplishing my goal, but I found it incredibly moving.  I nearly knocked Marian the Librarian over in order to reach the kids before we passed them.  Hey, I wanted my high five! 

And then, it was done.  I crossed the finished line.  I wanted to cry.  I felt great!  I felt light.  I felt happy.  I felt hungry.  It was time for food and celebratory beer.  Marian the Librarian is the perfect race companion.  She cheered for me and encouraged me all the way.  Although we’ll see what I have to say about her in a few weeks; at her urging I signed up for a 10K. 

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Gawk-her

I am not a celebrity gawker.  The main reason being that in my fourteen years as a New Yorker, my brushes with the glitterati have been limited to spotting that guy who played Paulie in the Rocky series.  Yeah, I’m not even going to look up his real name on IMDB because really, would you recognize it if I told you?  I spotted Jeannine Garofalo coming out of Crunch Gym several years ago.  Oh yeah, and once, I was annoyed by Jim Carrey who can’t seem to cut the over-the-top-aren’t-I-funny-schtick even when the cameras aren’t rolling.  Until today, my friends, my celeb run-ins have been strictly B-list.*

There was that one time I was Val Kilmer’s sex slave flight attendant and served him drinks and dinner at 40,000 feet.  But my flight attendant celebrity sightings don’t count.  I’m talking about walking down the streets of NYC.  My streets. 

But today, today I was a gawker.  Today, Dingo Girl and I stalked Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell.  Dingo Girl and I rounded a corner and there was Kurt in all his rugged handsomeness and Goldie in all her Goldiness.  Being a New Yorker I played it cool and acted all unimpressed while inwardly I was doing cartwheels and back flips.  Note that, had I decided to show my inward glee outwardly by actually performing a cartwheel or back flip, this blog entry would be about that miracle or, more likely, my subsequent visit to the emergency room.  Sorry Kurt and Goldie. 

Dingo Girl was either truly unimpressed or intent on helping me to maintain my façade of normalcy by stopping to pee every five feet.  Although I take my camera everywhere, I just couldn’t bring myself to snap a picture of them.  They were trying to enjoy a beautiful day in the city and I was trying to maintain my masquerade as a cosmopolitan city girl. I think Dingo Girl pulled it off better than I did. But, because I’m all about pleasing you, I did find a picture someone else took of them today.  Readers reader Mom, meet my friend Google Maps.  Can you see Kurt and Goldie? 

*As in: Please be gone; I can’t believe someone would pay to see them; I am befuddled that they have managed to make a career of this; etc.

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The Vampire

I am so freakin’ tired today.  I have no idea how I’m going to stay awake through the endless rounds of meetings that are on my schedule.  I think it’s going to be a Red Bull kinda day.  Today, the bags under my eyes and the zzzzz’s emanating from behind the closed doors of my office are brought to you courtesy of the nocturnal habits of our upstairs neighbor. 

I’m not really sure what he’s doing up there but he keeps some very odd hours.  Vampire hours.  Without fail, between midnight and 5am it sounds as if he’s trying to gouge out a life-sized replica of the Grand Canyon by pushing the entire inventory of our local IKEA across the hardwood floor of his apartment.  At 5am he either crawls back into his coffin or he has finally decided that the chiffarobe actually does look better wedged between the mini-fridge and the sink and all is quiet until the next evening.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat. 

Being the nosey parker that I am, I once asked him what he does for a living.  I got some vague entrepreneur, actor, model, type answer.  I’m thinking that maybe he’s in the witness protection program or he’s a secret agent and he hasn’t fully worked out his cover story.  Now, I’m not a vindictive person but if he doesn’t STFU so that I can get some sleep I’m going to put his picture in a full page ad in the New York Times with the headline, “Here he is.  Please come get him.”

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