I’ll Make My Own Lemonade

I got back to NYC late last night. Woohoo!  Now I can catch up with my blog reading and commenting and you can catch up with commenting on mine (comment-whore hint).  Although Mom kept me busy shopping, cleaning out gutters, and installing an Odd Boy alert system, I managed to stick to my running schedule.  But not without mishaps.

I went for a run yesterday and got lost.  In a subdivision.  What was supposed to be a three-mile run turned into a four-and-a-half-mile slog through a tangled knot of streets with names like Dancing Deer Lane, Dancing Deer Lane Court, and Dancing Deer Court Lane Partridge in a Pear Tree.  Is it any wonder I got lost?  I bet even Santa, being the deer expert that he is, loses his way in this neighborhood. I would feel bad for the poor toyless tykes of this neighborhood except not one of those little fuckers had a lemonade stand set up yesterday in the ninety-degree heat.  What’s up with that?  How do these kids make money?  They can’t all be mowing lawns at $65 a pop. So, no lemonade yesterday, and thus I made sure that Santa will get lost in this neighborhood by switching all the street signs.

My running times were slower this week.  It could have been because of the god awful humidity but it’s more likely the lack of snark material on my run.  There was no one to distract me from my collapsing lungs.  And the only change in scenery from one cookie cutter house to the next was the color of the Honda Civic in the driveways.  I did not come across any other runners this week.  There were kids on bikes, a few skateboarders, and one rollerblade.  No, not someone on a pair of rollerblades but a kid peg-legging his way down the street on one rollerblade.  It was so pathetic that I can’t muster a snide aside even now.  Okay, I snarked a little at the time but it was so lame, I’m not even going to share it with you.  I did see one old lady with a cane walking on the sidewalk.  She did not look like she posed an OLWW-type threat.  She was just going to the mailbox but I made a note to myself to keep an eye on her just in case.

I should’ve brought my iPod to help me pick up the pace but I’ve been running without it lately.  Trying to keep the earbuds in my tiny ears was just too distracting and I like being able to hear my footsteps and my breathing.  I can also hear the water sloshing around in the water bottle strapped to my waist.  The fact that I have to use a bungee cord to get the thing around my waist is a drawback.  It feels like a corset or an external gastric bypass.  The waist belt is so tight that I can’t breathe much less drink. And if I’ve had any liquids in the last month or so, the pressure of the belt as it jostles my waistline sends ripples to my bladder making sure that I have to pee when I am at the furthest point away from home.  Being one to plan not only for zombie invasions but other worst-case scenarios, I have this potentially embarrassing situation already figured out.  First, drink all the water.  Then, pee in the water bottle, relieving my bladder, and, finally, make some money in the process by selling it as lemonade to some unsuspecting runner.  These suburban kids may not know how to turn a buck but I am a survivor. 

So, why did I buy a waist belt that was too small?  It was on sale at Target.  Duh! 

Speaking of Tar-zhay — and I always seem to be speaking of Tar-zhay — as Mom and I were walking to our car at the very back of the parking lot earlier this week, I made the non-judgmental observation that the people here seem very, very out of shape.  Especially compared to the people in NYC.  I think it’s because the people in NYC walk so freakin’ much.  And then there’s running after cabs, so even if you do end up taking the cab across town, the brief sprint to beat out the guy on crutches trying to carry two bags of groceries counts as both cardio and strength training — and you get some resistance training in there too if you have to hold the door closed as he tries to yank it open.  No, this did not happen to me.  I just saw it happen to others a few times.  Really!  And if it had been me, I would’ve pushed the guy down on the way to the cab so that there was no chance he could come after me.  And that counts as contact sport training, too.  Anyhoodle....

You know, one of the most humbling and encouraging lessons that I’ve learned is that fat does not mean unfit.  I have about @&! pounds to lose and when I started running I thought that people would wonder what this chunky monkey was doing taking up space when there were real runners trying to get by.  And you know what?  Some of those real runners were much, much bigger than I was and they blasted by me on the running trail without even breaking a sweat or breathing hard. It boosted my confidence in a fucked up kind of way because, as they zoomed by me, I wondered what those chunky monkeys were doing taking up space when there were real chunky monkey’s trying to get by.  Even though I haven’t lost much weight, I feel so much stronger and more confident.  In fact, I am confident that, if ever faced with a cab duel with a guy on crutches carrying two bags of groceries, I could not only beat him to the cab but I could hold the door closed without so much as breaking a nail in the process. 

The second most important thing I’ve learned from running is how to spit.  Oh, don’t twist your face up like that.  Before I began running I would throw an undisguised look of disgust at runners who spit.  I usually watched the Ironman from the comfort of my couch, but occasionally cheered marathoners as they passed by during an early happy hour.  As I double-fisted a high quality brew like Natural Light while maintaining my balance on a bar stool barely bigger than one ass cheek, I was certain that, while I may not have been fit, at least I had class. Now, however, I understand.  No matter how dry your throat feels or how dehydration has caused your eyeballs to shrivel up like raisins and rattle in their sockets, there will be a nasty loogie waiting at the back of your throat.  It must be expelled.  Yes, that’s gross, but so is swallowing the loogie.  Do you want to swallow the loogie?  No, I didn’t think so.  I’ve learned two cardinal rules of spitting: 

1) Do not spit directly in front of you, especially if it is windy.  It is very important that you turn your head to your side. 
2) Make sure there is no one running by your side.

This wasn’t such a concern here in the ‘burbs but it’s something to keep in mind if you ever run the loop around the Reservoir in Central Park.  Helpful tips, I gots ‘em.

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Taxes Not Included

By now you know that no visit to Mom’s is complete without a trip to Target.  Or an encounter with Odd Boy.  But I think GeekHiker jinxed me a few days ago by mentioning that Odd Boy would one day grow up to be Odd Man.  Well, yesterday I met Odd Boy’s future, and it is odd. 

I was sitting on the front porch reading — I know, I should just go read in the back yard, right?  Wrong.  It is a mosquito-infested bog.  And besides, the hammock is broken.  If I am going to be assaulted by West Nile assassins, I want to do it in luxury.  And although the sounds of frogs, toads, and other unidentified insect-eating amphibious creatures punctuate the night air disrupting my beauty sleep as they belch the alphabet, they have had zero impact on the mosquito population.  Zero. 

But this is not about mosquitoes.  Nor is this about the time earlier this week when I stepped out onto the back porch with bare feet and the perfect pedicure to let Dingo Girl out for her evening poop patrol and kicked a big-assed toad.  It had a J. Lo.-size ass and it wasn’t happy about having my size 8 ½ foot, (perfect pedicure or not!) imprinted on it.  He belched his protest and instead of hopping away, three more J. Lo. toads jumped onto the porch to back him up.  It was an ambush!  I was trapped! 

I screamed like a city girl and jumped away from my slimy attackers, landing five perfectly pedicured toes on a giant garden slug.  I am sure that I have never before heard the sound that rose from my throat.  I think it was a shriek garbled by vomit.  And so, that is why I don’t go into the backyard anymore unless I’m wearing my combat boots.  And it’s just entirely too hot to wear those this week.

So I sit on the front porch where the breeze kisses my face, the scent from what’s left of Mom’s flowers hangs in the air, and the “curse-said” (thanks, Mrs. Chili!) crop circle taunts me.  The front porch also makes me the prime target for Odd Family across the street.  I saw Odd Man pull his 1970’s-child-molester brown-on-brown conversion van into his driveway yesterday but I did not look up from my book or wave (in the South, y’all, you wave to everyone so look at what they have reduced me to!).  It didn’t stop him from coming over to talk to me.  Now, before y’all go thinking that I’m not neighborly, let me just say that Odd Family moved in a few years after I’d already left for college so I don’t really know them except from holiday visits home and phone calls conducted in hushed whispers.

Me:  Mom, speak up, I can’t hear you.

Mom (strained whisper):  I can’t.  Odd Family just pulled in across the street and I don’t want them to know I’m home.

Me:  They can’t hear you from across the street.

Mom (frantic):  Yes, yes they can.  They’re like bats!  They hear everything!  Well, darn it!  I left the porch light on, here they come.  If you don’t hear from me again, remember, you were always my favorite.  Always!

Me:  Mom?  Mom?  Moooooooommmmmmm!!!

Odd Man can talk the ears off a mule.  Except a mule would probably have the sense to walk off and leave Odd Man with his jaws a-flappin’.  I just sit there with a polite smile stuck to my face and murderous thoughts drifting through my head.  Although I truly believe, that even from six feet under, Odd Man would continue to talk.  He would be the one dead man to tell a tale.  And then another.  And then another.  So when Odd Man saw me sitting on the porch, I knew my peaceful afternoon had come to an end.  I immediately regretted shunning the company of my web-footed companions in the back yard.  At least if the big-assed toads annoyed me badly enough, I could seek my revenge with a frying pan and a pound of butter.  Odd Man has no such redeeming qualities.  His legs are knobby and hairy and should be kept hidden under long pants. 

Odd Man walked to the edge of the road and stood there for a few seconds.  Then he walked slowly up Mom’s driveway, stopping to smell the roses, before coming to stand in front of me.  And he started talking. 

Odd Man:  You reading that book?

Me:  Yes.  I don’t have a lot of time to read for pleasure these days so I —

Odd Man:  I have to read a lot too.  With my new tax business, blah, blah, blah…yaddah, yaddah, yaddah…snooze, snooze, snooze…so that’s why I have the docking station in the van.

Me (waking up):  You have a docking station in the van?

Odd Man:  For my laptop.  For when I go visit clients.

Me:  You see tax clients in your van?

Odd Man:  Yes, I make house calls.

Me:  Wouldn’t house calls mean that you go to their house?

Odd Man:  I do.  I park out front and then they come out to the van and that way I can show them stuff on my computer.

Me:  You have a laptop.

Odd Man:  *blink* *blink*

Me:  Why don’t you just take the laptop into their house?

Odd Man:  Ohhhhhh....  Say!  Didn’t you used to have a dog?

That Odd Man, nothing gets by him.

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Phone Company Grass

I’m headed to Mom’s again for a few days to help out around the house.  What that means for me is a lot of cougar training shopping yard work.  What that means for you is cougar training shopping Odd Boy updates.  Do you see all that I do for you?  No sacrifice is too great to keep you, my dear readers, updated on the Adventures of Odd Boy. 

Fortunately, the kids from Mom’s youth group came over this week to mow the lawn so all I have to do is some weeding and hedge trimming when I get there.  There’s much more weeding to do now that the phone company updated the underground fiber optic lines.  They ripped out Mom’s beautiful flowerbed by the front walk and, after they had finished, reseeded the area with grass.  But not just any old grass.  This Phone Company Grass is some of the toughest grass I have ever seen.  We’ve uprooted it, sprayed it, and cursed at it. Well, I’ve cursed at it.  Mom’s strongest curse is a half-hearted, “Well, darn it!”

No matter what we do to the Phone Company Grass, it keeps coming back.  It is the herpes of grass.  Osama Bin Laden may be made of this grass or, at least, hiding under it somewhere.  Meanwhile, where the phone company did not touch anything, there’s a giant bare spot in the front lawn that looks like someone has been making crop circles with battery acid.  I had better keep a closer eye on Odd Boy. 

Odd Boy, you see, has a fascination with Mom’s lawn.  He’s always offering to mow it.  My mom told me that he seemed genuinely hurt to discover that the kids from church were mowing her lawn this week.  He walked over to where Mom was dispensing iced tea and cookies to ask about her use of child labor.

Odd Boy:  Is that your lawn?

Mom: Um….yes.

Odd Boy:  Are those kids mowing your lawn?

Mom: Yes.

Odd Boy:  Do you pay them to do that? 

Mom:  No, they’re from my youth group.  They do it to help out.

Odd Boy:  Well, I would’ve charged you to mow the lawn.

Mom (always wanting to help and thinking he might need the money):  How much do you charge?

Odd Boy:  Sixty-five dollars.

Mom:  Sixty-five dollars!  That’s… hey, how come I never see you mowing your own lawn?

Odd Boy:  I’m not allowed to mow it by myself.  My dad has to watch me.

Mom:  So, how would you be able to mow my lawn?

Odd Boy:  My dad would come over and watch me.  Can I have some cookies?

Mom (handing him cookies): Of course!

Odd Boy:  I would still charge you sixty-five dollars.  My dad watches for free.

That Odd Boy, he drives a hard bargain.

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I Am?!  I Am the Dog?!

Dingo Girl and I got back from Mom’s late this afternoon.  I meant to blog more while I was there but Mom was a slave driver kept me busy.  After this week, between yard work and paper work, I don’t think there isn’t a hedge trimmer I can’t master or a printer I can’t configure.  Dingo Girl did a lot of work too!  There were squirrels to chase, sticks to fetch, naps to take, and bellies to be rubbed.  Now I understand that age-old dog lament: “Rough!”

It wasn’t all work, though.  We made several trips to mecca Target.  There is no Target in New York City, but I heart Target.  I understand why all the zombies head to malls in the George Romero movies.  I know that, when I come back as a zombie, I’m going to Target!  Some people find peace and contentment in church and religious worship.  Target is my church.  The big red Bulls Eye is, to me, more beautiful than stained glass.  When the sliding doors part with their reverent “shuuuush” and bid me enter the over air-conditioned sanctuary, I am at peace.  I am at one with commerce. 

Really, what does religion have that Target doesn’t?  Need peace of mind?  Head to the pharmacy for some Valium and Ativan.  Need cleansing?  Soap is in aisle six.  Food for the soul?  Can’t see your way in this world?  There’s a Starbucks and optical center.  If you are one of the fortunate few who lives near a Target Greatland, send me your address.  I’m coming for a visit.

Returning home proved to be the only downside of our pilgrimages to the holy city.  Odd Boy always awaited us as we pulled into the driveway.  Determined that my dedication to Animal Planet would do me some good, I advised Mom to just sit still.  “He can’t see you unless you move and his memories are only two minutes long.  He’ll go away.  Just. Don’t. Breathe.” It never worked.  Mom would get blue in the face and I would start blacking out just as Odd Boy tapped on the car window, “Is there a dog in there?”

The last time I saw Odd Boy, he was particularly brilliant.  As Dingo Girl circled the bags to see what we had brought her (Woofhoo!  Target has doggie toys!), Odd Boy came up with this astute observation:

Odd Boy:  Did you ever notice how owners look like their dogs?

Me:  Are you saying that I look like a dog?

Odd Boy:  I’m just saying that dogs and their owners look alike.

Me:  Exactly what about me looks like a dog?

Odd Boy:  People go into the pet store, they see a dog that looks like them and they say, ‘That’s the dog I want.  It looks like me.’

Now I happen to think that Dingo Girl is the cutest thing evah but I don’t think that is what he was getting at. 

Once we got inside, I pulled up some pictures from last summer on my laptop.  It was Dingo Girl’s first trip to the beach.

Here’s me:

Here’s Dingo Girl:

I don’t see a resemblance at all.  Do you?  No, Odd Boy is just odd.

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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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