West Nile is not a Vacation Destination

I haven’t been sleeping well lately.  Yes, my To Do list is longer than this election process feels and I am under no delusion that I will complete everything before we somehow manage to eliminate our national debt. In other words, I’m screwed.  Mr. Dingo is always telling me that I take on too much.  To prove his point he sent me an email that listed all the things I said I was going to accomplish that day, all the things I wished I could accomplish that day, and then, for kicks, because he’s silly like that, he added on a few things that no one in their right mind would think was doable in the amount of time that I have.  I, never claiming to be in my right mind, added them to my To Do list.  Yes, it is possible to learn Italian before I go to Florence, to train Dingo Girl so that we can win the Obedience Competition this Fall, and to find Osama Bin Laden before summer break begins.  I. CAN. DO. IT. ALL!!! 

I feel as if I am in a constant state of motion.  I can’t slow down or I’ll fall behind.  I don’t even know who or what this thing is I’m afraid of falling behind.  Whatever it is, though, all I know is that I don’t want to get behind it.  Maybe it poops a lot. Or drives down the highway with its left turn signal on.

The other night I woke up from a nightmare in which I dreamt that my English Literature Subject Matter test was in November and not only had I not started studying for it but I hadn’t even begun working on my applications to Ph.D. programs.  And then as the blood started pooling on the bed as I frantically pinched my arm harder and harder to wake up from the nightmare, I realized it was not a nightmare. 

For those of you who don’t know about the English Subject Matter test, it’s a test that you have to take to get into most English Ph.D. programs.  It doesn’t test you on the things that you’ve learned in undergrad or grad school.  Oh, no, that would be too easy.  Instead, it tests you on arcane literary devices and novels, essays, and quotes that no one who wasn’t alive to smoke opium with Poe would ever know.  Things added to my To Do list this past week: read every single Norton Anthology; write a personal statement for my Ph.D. applications worthy of the Pulitzer Prize, memorize and/or tattoo onto my inner thigh esoteric poetic devices; break into a big blubbering puddle of tears; eat Entemann’s.  I’m pretty sure I can accomplish the last two without much effort.

If my To Do list was all I had to do, I could do it.  I would be a raving, foaming at the mouth, hopped up on amphetamines unwashed, disheveled bitch, but I could do it.  I would not be happy, Mr. Dingo would not be happy, Dingo Girl would put herself up for adoption, and Not a Dingo would go on as usual, sleeping on my keyboard and only waking occasionally so that I could drop a treat into her mouth.  I. CAN. DO. IT. ALL!!!  But I can’t do any of it without sleep and I haven’t been getting much of that. 

No, it’s not these worries keeping me up at night, Valium Xanax meditation helps me with that.  It’s the damned mosquitoes.  Yes, you read that right, mosquitoes.  I am a magnet for bloodsuckers. 

As I sat down to write this, I counted 31 mosquito bites on my body.  No, I am not exaggerating.  No doubt by the time I hit Submit, there will be more.  The itching and scratching keep me awake at night and no amount of hydrocortisone or calamine lotion helps. 

During the day the itching is bad but I can sometimes forget about it in the frenzy and activity of my life.  At night, when the world is silent except for the mosquitoes buzzing above my bed like a cult of Satanists ready to drive their knives into my veins to bask in my blood, it’s all I can do not to climb out of my own skin.  It’s not just summer, although that’s when the fuckers are at their worst, but year round.  Mr. Dingo thinks that it’s somehow a point of pride that I am the only person in New York City who can be bitten by a mosquito in December.  By the way, Mr. Dingo never gets bitten.  Ever.  Mosquitoes find him thoroughly unappetizing.  He is the rice cake of the mosquito world.  Sometimes I wonder whether he is one of them.

The mosquitoes can’t just bite me and be done with it.  Oh no.  As it happens, I am allergic to mosquito bites.  Whereas most people get bitten and have a small red bump to show for the experience, I swell up like a bloated corpse.  By the end of the summer, I will be covered with enough mosquito bites that people will think I am in a Tyler Perry movie.  And because I can’t stop scratching, I have a scab or two.  And then, because my skin hates me, I don’t heal well so I have scars that will not fade until the next appearance of Halley’s Comet.  Am I creating a lovely visual image for you?  Aren’t you just picturing a misshapen mass of a woman with enormous bags under her eyes from lack of sleep plugging away at her keyboard stopping occasionally to pick her scabs and shoo away a swarming mass of nature’s vampires between bites of Entemann’s?

Mr. Dingo and I have done everything short of having me bathe in Off.  I am hesitant to wear a chemical barrier to mosquitoes 24/7 because that can’t be good for your skin and it smells.  But I’m running short on options and on unbitten skin.  Then, this morning, in an answer to our burnt offerings (my last two turns at the stove ended short of calling the fire department but that’s a story for another post), I received an email from a friend about how to get rid of mosquitoes.  This is the text of the email:

The best way of getting rid of mosquitoes is Listerine, the original medicinal type. The Dollar Store-type works, too. I was at a deck party awhile back, and the bugs were having a ball biting everyone. A man at the party sprayed the lawn and deck floor with Listerine, and the little demons disappeared. The next year I filled a 4-ounce spray bottle and used it around my seat whenever I saw mosquitoes. And voila! That worked as well. It worked at a picnic where we sprayed the area around the food table, the children’s swing area, and the standing water nearby. During the summer, I don’t leave home without it.....Pass it on.  Also can be used to dab any bites you receive. It will stop the itching quicker and go away faster.

Really?  Listerine?  As it so happens, we have Listerine on hand.  Is the orange-flavored kind okay?  I’m not sure exactly where we should spray it.  We have already saturated the areas around our doors and windows with Raid, Off, and any other chemical repellant that, in two years, will be found to cause irreversible brain damage.  But I am open for anything at this point and have spent the day dabbing at my skin with the mouthwash.  Should I make a body spray out of it and douse myself with the mediciney smelling concoction?  I didn’t wear Off because I didn’t want to smell like a chemical factory, but will wearing Eau de Listerine make me smell like an alcoholic trying to hide her addiction?  Because really folks, if I can’t find some relief and get some sleep, I’m going to have to bring my buddies Jim and Jack out of retirement just to get some shut eye.  And then I would have to add another task to my To Do list: Rehab.

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It’s the DNA

I don’t think a balanced diet means hoovering one Entenmann’s Fudge Iced Golden Cake for every veggie that I manage to force down my gullet.  I could just kick myself.  I’m going to blame it on Mr. Dingo, though. 

Yesterday when I made my grocery list laden with yucky boring healthy foods like zucchini and grapes, Mr. Dingo asked if I wouldn’t mind picking up an Entenmann’s Fudge Iced Golden Cake for him.  Let me take this moment to inform you that Mr. Dingo is buff and he doesn’t have to break a sweat to maintain his David-like physique.  (Mr. Dingo wants me to insert here that I have changed the subject from vegetables.  I am referring his six pack abs, muscular legs, and great ass, not the baby-carrot-looking boybits Michelangelo’s David so proudly flaunts). 

Anyway, I think the only exercise Mr. Dingo gets is when he loses at Rock, Paper, Scissors and has to take Dingo Girl out for her potty breaks during a Class 5 hurricane while I remain inside keeping an eye on the weather channel and making a mental list to take stock of our bottled water and other perishables; namely, Swedish Fish — so yummy, yet so nasty when they get hard and stale.  So yeah, he’s genetically gifted with hotness. 

Unlike me, Mr. Dingo lacks the congenital defect otherwise known as a Sweet Tooth.  While the failure to have a fresh stash of Swedish Fish during a state of emergency would render me a blubbering mess languishing on the kitchen floor bemoaning our imminent demise and mentally calculating the amount of protein on Not a Dingo’s six- pound frame, Mr. Dingo would be completely satisfied surviving off of hardtack and MREs.  Sometimes, however, he likes a little dessert and will ask me to pick something up for him.  Come on, man!  Asking me to go to the grocery store and roam the candy aisle is like asking a pedophile to go to your local elementary school to pick up your daughter.

So I went to the grocery store and filled my grocery cart with things like apples, a block loaf of whole grain bread, and the Entenmann’s cake.  You will be proud of my fortitude.  I waited until Mr. Dingo got home from work so he could see the cake in its entirety before I dove into it face first. To be fair to myself, it was a very difficult day and if downing an Entemann’s in three bites was an effective form of self-medication, then cut me some slack. 

Yesterday was my niece’s birthday.  I’ve never mentioned my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother and, other than in today’s post, you will most likely never hear about him again.  His only redeeming quality is that he has four of the most beautiful, intelligent, funny, and loving children evah!  I have three nieces and a nephew.  I haven’t seen them in two years.  I’m not going into details, not out of any respect for his privacy because I don’t give a flying fuck about that.  It’s out of respect for my nieces and nephew that I can’t tell you more.  But in spite of the fact that I haven’t had any contact with them, I still send cards and letters on holidays and birthdays in the off chance that one of them will get them and know that my Mom and I have done everything we can to protect them.  That’s so much more than the circus courts ever did.  It is my greatest fear that one day they will contact me and hate me for not doing more. 

So I called Niece #2 for her birthday.  My heart was in my throat when some woman (this may be wife three or four, lord knows my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother cannot pick, or keep, a sane woman) answered the phone.  I said, “Hi, this is Aunt Dingo.  I’d like to wish Niece #2 a Happy Birthday.” There was silence as I heard her put the phone down and I could hear the kids in the background.  If this were a Lifetime movie, you know I would’ve been screaming into the receiver so that they could hear me.  But this wasn’t a Lifetime movie and I lost my chance when my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother got on the phone.  I would like to say that I conducted myself with maturity and restraint so I’ll say that.  But that’s not how it went down.  No, in reality the moment was much more like me trying that cartoon maneuver of sticking my hand into the mouthpiece of the phone so it would come out of the earpiece at the recipient’s end.  Just so you know, it doesn’t work on cordless phones.  So, what it actually came down to was, two hours later, me wolfing down Entenmann’s with a knife and my bare hands.  But hey, at least I wasn’t smoking!!

There are so many times when something happens that reminds me of the kids and something they said or did.  I decided though, that just because I can’t see my nieces and nephew doesn’t mean that I can’t remember them.  It doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you about the time that Mom and Niece #2 were standing in the grocery store check-out lane when Niece #2 proclaimed, in a loud, proud three-year-old voice, “Grammy, I LOVE your titties!” while giving them a lurid squeeze.  It doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you about the beautiful summer day that the kids and I drove around with the windows down and bags full of candy and pumped up on soda singing songs from Maroon 5’s Songs about Jane.  Hmmm.... Maybe the fact that I returned them to my dickhead rot in hell piece of shit brother on a sugar and caffeine high with suggestive lyrics in their little heads is an indication of why my parents and I can’t see them.  Nah.  He’s just an ass.  But if you’ve read this, you know that he comes by it naturally.  It’s in the DNA. 

Thank you, my loyal readers reader Mom, for being here for me.  After yesterday, I figured the best way to deal with this was to write about it.  And eat Entemann’s.  Lots and lots of Entenmann’s.  So, thank you also Entemann’s .  And thank goodness today was one of my running days. 

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YouTube is a Time Suck

You Tube is a time suck. I sat down hours ago to write a post about Dingo Girl’s birthday and ended up watching videos like the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain’s rendition of "Hey Ya," and at least three different versions of Kate Bush’s "Wuthering Heights." I finally realized that tomorrow’s lesson plan is not going to write itself and Scrubs is probably the best sitcom I’ve never seen. It seems they have a song and choreographed routine for every occasion. Hell, anyone that can belt out tunes and Boys2Men footwork at a moment’s notice is a friend of mine. And, if you can do it in a hospital without slipping on blood-drenched floors or tripping over bed pans, well, you’ve got my Neilson rating. Where has this show been all my life?

Like JD and Turk, I have a song for everything.  EVERYTHING.  You know that game where you have to start a sentence with a word beginning with the first letter of the last word in the sentence?  No?  Geez! What did you guys do on your long-assed family road trips, or was that just an ingenious game invented Mom to keep me stumped and quiet after she said, “Yesterday, I went for my x-ray?” Well, anyway, my life is kinda like that game.  I have a song for anything anyone says.  I’m sure it often makes Mr. Dingo feel as if he’s trapped inside a 1970s station wagon with wood panel siding and no air conditioning headed to the Grand Canyon but, well, he’s stuck with me.  I’ve been playing this game all my life and I’m good.  I’m also not proud.  I’ll dredge up Schoolhouse Rock.

Mr. Dingo:  I can’t find the macro function on the camera.

Me:  (singing) Conjunction junction, macro function?  Hooking up words and phrases and clauses.

Mr. Dingo: Are you done?

Me: (singing) Conjunction Junction, how’s that function?
I got three favorite cars
That get most of my job done.
Conjunction Junction, what’s their function?
I got “and,” “but,” and “or.”
They’ll get you pretty far.

Yes, now I’m done.

I admit that it’s probably annoying but I can’t stop. 

My blog should really be called, As I Was Singing.  A childhood raised on musicals, church camp, country music, Motown, and Casey’s Top 40 made me the most versatile singer not in the business.  I would stage musicals for my neighbors and, at ten cents a ticket to my backyard performances, I thought they were getting a great deal.  Where else could you see a nine year old make a seamless transition from Grease’s “Summer Nights” to A Chorus Line’s “Dance: Ten, Looks: Three?” Oh yeah, Momma was proud.  I think she stayed home from church the next morning just to plan my Broadway debut. 

With MTV, VH1, and the internet, my musical repertoire expanded.  Mr. Dingo, Dingo Girl, and Not a Dingo are the grateful recipients of my musical endeavors.  The problem is that once I hit puberty, my vocal prowess went the way of Peter Brady (“When it’s time to cHAAngE…”) and never came back.  I can’t carry a tune in a Kate Spade hobo bag.  No, no, I’m not being modest.  I really can’t sing.  But I can’t sing loudly.  I mean, I can’t sing but I do it loudly.  In the seclusion of my own home, of course.  Or the car.  Or on deserted running trails.  Yeah, it’s that last one that causes a bit of embarrassment from time to time.

On days when I haven’t encountered another runner since leaving the trail around The Reservoir, I feel as if I’m the only one in the park.  Yesterday the cherry blossoms blew their heavenly scented petals in my path and the sun was shining brightly.  Life was a Disney movie — before the Elton John sellout and all that Circle of Life crap.  I’m talking Snow White.  Squirrels and pigeons gathered around my Saucony running shoes to guide my steps over the uneven bridle path, so it seemed perfectly natural to crank up the iPod and start singing.  Toward the end of my run I like to kick it to Melanie C’s “Suddenly Monday.” It gives me that extra boost I need not to sit down on the curb and start crying to keep going.  Singing along is fine.  But this song makes my tired legs want to dance as well.  Singing or talking to oneself while running is not unusual.  I see perfectly normal looking people singing to themselves as they run all the time.  Singing to oneself and breaking into a jig is not normal.  It’s just bizarre.  But yesterday I couldn’t help it.  And of course as Melanie C and I are singing and dancing to “together we flyyyyyyyyYYYYyyyy….” this couple comes from out of nowhere and passes me, giving me wide berth and trying to pretend like they’re not frightened by my wailing and flailing but they clearly are.  I’m tempted to turn all Aquaman on them and direct the squirrels and pigeons at my command to attack — but I restrain myself.  I do not want to go from Disney to Law & Order in one morning.

So that’s the end of my post.  Nothing witty or wise to get you started on this Monday morning.  Nothing but Melanie C and “Suddenly Monday.” Enjoy.  And I DARE you to listen to it without dancing.

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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 Last Supper

I don’t know how it happened, one minute I was emailing my friend Wheaties about our upcoming trip to Philly and the next I was committing myself to run a marathon with her in November.  “With” should be translated to mean, we’ll both be running on the same continent.  See, Wheaties has been a marathoner and triathlete for years.  She runs, bikes, and swims — for fun!  The only running I do is for the subway and I consider life sweet if I’m swimming in a good bottle of Pinot Noir by the end of the evening.  As for bikes, I haven’t ridden one in years.  Biking in NYC is out of the question unless you’re a courier.  NYC couriers have balls of steel.  It may make sitting on their bikes a bit uncomfortable but it also enables them to dart between buses and cars within an ass hair of death without batting an eye. 

With all this in mind, the thought that once the race started I would actually be within shouting distance of Wheaties is laughable.  But, the thought that I could actually train for and run a marathon by November appealed to me.  As did the marathon location: Florence, Italy!  Yes, the marathon is in Florence, Italy.  If that’s not motivation to get off my ass then you really need to just stick a feeding tube down my throat and turn me over every two hours so that I don’t get bed sores.

On Saturday, I went to Barnes and Noble and got a great book on training for marathons.  I then headed to Paragon Sporting Goods, the mecca for all things athletic in NYC.  The crowds were insane and intimidating.  All the customers seemed to know exactly what they were looking for and did not mind pushing me aside to get it.  And then, a ray of light from heaven showed me the way.  His name was Carlos.  Carlos was fantastic!  I told him my goal (26 miles through the beauty of Florence) and my current level of activity (pub crawls through Little Italy).  After trying on at least eleven pairs of shoes, I finally settled on the white and blue Saucony Progrid Guide.  They feel like air.  Or at least as if my feet have wings.  I am Mercury!  If I don’t run the marathon, I can at least deliver flowers for FTD.  Carlos gave me some running pointers and I was on my way.  It was a gorgeous day and, on my way home as I strolled through the farmers market in Union Square smelling the flowers and avoiding the temptation of home baked goods, I felt that anything was possible — even running a marathon. 

Later that evening, Mr. Dingo suggested that we go out for my last calorie-laden, trans-fat saturated, no holds barred meal.  We went to Brother Jimmy’s.  Yes, there are better places for BBQ in NYC but Brother Jimmy’s is located a few blocks away from the real culinary goal of the evening — Cold Stone Creamery.  Brother Jimmy’s is a loud, crowded, twenty-something hang-out but, when the smorgasbord we ordered appeared, all the noise faded into the distance.  It was like a romantic movie scene where the lovers spy each other and the focus is narrowed to their dreamy faces as everything around the edges gets all fuzzy and out of focus.  It took me a few seconds to realize the Mr. Dingo was talking to me, “Dingo.  Dingo!  We’re supposed to share that appetizer platter!” Spoil sport.  Take a look at this and tell me: is there enough for two people?!?

There was this weird fire thingy in the middle.  I don’t know what it was for.  Mr. Dingo suggested that it was placed there to prevent me from reaching over and taking his share of the food.  Good idea, that. 

I was full, distended tummy full, by the time we finished the appetizers.  When the entrees came I made an attempt to eat, knowing that in a few days I would be looking back at this meal with longing.  I also had to save room for Cold Stone’s Cake Batter Ice Cream.  I made a valiant effort to eat but ended up with a rather large doggy bag to take home to Dingo Girl.

Walking to Cold Stone after that meal was painful.  I felt like Violet Beauregarde after eating Willy Wonka’s Three-Course Dinner Gum.  Just roll this ol’ blueberry down the street, Mr. Dingo!  My tummy hurt.  I think I got stretch marks from all the BBQ I ate.  Cold Stone was delish but I couldn’t finish.  My stretch marks got stretch marks.  Yes, it was an exercise in gluttony but at least it was exercise, right?

I know that the next few months will test my determination, stamina, endurance, and Mr. Dingo.  Wheaties is going to help me train via internet and I hope that, by the time we meet in Philly this May, I’ll be able to run a few miles with her.  One of my biggest hurdles will be overcoming my mental quirks.  I tend to take on too much but become frustrated when I just can’t seem to do everything at my top form, and then I grow discouraged and disappointed in myself.  Oh boy, is it fun to live with me then!  It’s like a constant state of PMS.  Mr. Dingo, however, is a trooper.  I am sure that his preparation for this Florence marathon will consist of lots of wine and whine — and I think you know who’s doing the latter. 

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