My Feet Taste Nasty (Updated!)

So far, 2009 has created the giant sucking sound once only associated with NAFTA and Keanu Reeves movies (The Lake House, anyone?). It’s been a particularly rough few weeks here at Casa Dingo.  You ever have a problem where the solutions are equally unpalatable?  Like a choice between chewing razor blades and then gargling lemon juice or dousing yourself with honey and laying on an anthill.  You ever have a problem like that?  And then?  Then you put on your big girl panties and do what needs to be done only to open another can of worms.  I’m not talking about those thin, weak looking things that litter the sidewalk after a heavy rain.  I’m talking Tremors-size worms, Dune-size worms, Jabba the Hut size worms!  Well, from now on I have decided no more big girl panties.  I want to wear my Princess Leia Underoos and throw sand at the other children in the sandbox.  Especially the kids wearing Disney Princess Underoos.  Disney Princesses suck. Except for Belle.

I’ve been moody, weepy, cranky, and I know you are not going to believe this but — I’ve been a bitch.  Yes, yes, I have.  You don’t have to pretend.  We’re all friends here.  You can tell me.  In fact, Gay Best Friend has already told me.  You know what he said?  He said, “You’re a bitch.”

And then he said the magic words, “You need some wine.” So he made me get out of my jammies and traipse across the city to his favorite wine store.  I was not going to get out of my jammies.  Ever.  Even when I thought of going to get wine, I figured getting out of my jammies was a waste of time because I was just going to come back home, unscrew the cap to a 2-for-1 box of Boone’s, and stay in my jammies until they fell off from dry rot.  Or until Mr. Dingo promised to make his homemade Red Velvet Cake.  His Red Velvet Cake is the best cake EVAH! And definitely worth taking a shower and fixin’ my ‘do for.  He might even get some Sexytime.  If the Boone’s doesn’t make me fall asleep first.

But it was wine and not cake that was on my mind this afternoon, and Gay Best Friend insisted that I lose the jammies.  And then it was whine and not wine that was on my lips when I saw the line extending out the door to the wine shop.  It was packed.  You would have thought that this was the only wine store in Manhattan.  I happen to know that it is not.  I happen to know that there are one thousand two hundred and fifty three wine stores in Manhattan.  I know this because I have done my part to stimulate the economy.  One wine bottle at a time.  Anyway, I had a few choice words for all those asshats who waited until the day before Valentine’s Day to stock up on libations. 

Bitching and moaning, I made my way through the crowd.  As I was scanning the shelves, Gay Best Friend tapped me on the shoulder,

Gay Best Friend:  Hey look!  Dan Aykroyd has a new wine on the —

Me:  Dude, I’ve had a bad week.  I certainly don’t need bad wine.

Gay Best Friend (pointing over my shoulder):  — And he’s right behind you signing bottles.

Dan Aykroyd smiled at me when I turned. 

Cue earth opening up and swallowing your beloved Dingo.  There was only muffled screaming as I plunged through the hole in the floor because my foot was lodged firmly between my teeth. 

Yeah, I was embarrassed.  Maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the long line snaking out of the wine store.  Yeah, it’s the day before Valentine’s Day, but all those ugly New Yorkers aren’t getting some.  Really.

Or maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the guy who wore his Ghostbusters costume.  He wasn’t embarrassed.  Dressed in his khaki Ghostbusters uniform, complete with official Ghostbusters patches, combat boots, and utility pack, he was loudly proclaiming, “It’s the 20-year anniversary!  Twenty years!” I don’t know if he was talking about the movie release date or the date he moved into his parents’ basement.  Either way, I was waiting for Dan Aykroyd to say, “Listen asshole, I have been in at least fifty straight-to-video movies since Ghostbusters and did you ever see my real masterpiece?  Blues Brothers?”

But Dan Aykroyd didn’t say that.  He was busy warning his legions of fans to watch out for the hole that the curly-haired bitch who had just bad-mouthed his latest label right in front of him had fallen into. 

Who ya gonna call?

Update:  Who’d a’ thought that so many of you were interested in Dan Aykroyd’s wine?  Well, dear Innernetz, I’ll have you know, I did buy some and even had one autographed.  Since it was Friday the 13th and I’m a sucker for connoisseur of horror movies, in honor of the release of Friday the 13th (2009) I had Dan Aykroyd sign the bottle, “To Jason.” Because I’m a geek like that.  But hey, at least I didn’t show up in a stupid hockey mask!

Because I love you, Innernetz, I’m going to give a bottle of the Dan Aykroyd Cabernet to a lucky reader.  Mr. Dingo and I had some at dinner tonight.  It was good!  And Innernetz?  I’m giving away the signed bottle of Dan Aykroyd Cabernet.  Hell, I’ll even throw a bottle of his Chardonnay in the mix (unsigned).  All you need to do is tell me your own “foot-in-mouth,” wine, or celebrity run-in story.  You can put your anecdote in the comments of this post, post it on your own blog and post your link in the comments here, or send it to me via email (see the Blackberry in the top right of this page?).  I’ll announce the winner on Thursday, February 19th!

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I Should’ve Used A Car Wash

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system I can move on to brighter things.  Things like dingleberries.  Remember the last dingleberry incident? Dingleberry 2008?  If you don’t, you may not want to read this if you are eating lunch.  Take my word for it, it wasn’t pretty.  Is it a remarkable coincidence that during Dingleberry 2009, with a huge dingleberry dingle-dangling from Not a Dingo’s delicate butt, Mr. Dingo had to go to work early and then called to say that he had to work late?  I think that Not a Dingo is not the only pussy in the Dingo household.

I’m a delicate flower.  I have a sensitive constitution.  But with Mr. Dingo unexpectedly detained, I knew if I was going to prevent further befouling of my desk, papers, couch, and oh, anything Not a Dingo sat her furry butt on, I was going to have to take fecal matters into my own hands.  I should have known that things were not going to go well when I started to gather the pet shampoo and conditioner and both Not a Dingo and Dingo Girl made themselves scarce.  Normally, Dingo Girl is very protective of Not a Dingo.  During bath time, however, all bets are off.  When I located them under the bed, Dingo Girl was practically shoving Not a Dingo toward me with a “Sorry Sis, better you than me” look on her face.

Let me tell you right now, it is impossible to bathe a cat by yourself.  Everyone who makes snide comments about crazy single cat ladies had better watch out.  Any woman who bathes a cat by herself and emerges unbutchered is a force to be reckoned with.  I am not one of those women. 

As I’m trying to hold Not a Dingo steady, douse her with water, open the shampoo bottle, and keep myself from gagging, Dingo Girl has decided that it’s safe to come from under the bed and defend Not a Dingo’s honor.  She’s pawing at my legs, barking, and whining like a little bitch.  So, with one hand on Not a Dingo, one hand on the shampoo bottle, and one leg braced against the tub, I use the other leg to try to scoot Dingo Girl out the bathroom and close the door. 

On the best of days I am not a coordinated woman.  On my worst of days I’m lucky if I don’t end up in traction surrounded by hot male nurses feeding me ice chips and giving me sponge baths….  Hmmmmmm!  Let me think about this….  Hot male nurses….  Sponge baths….

Um, where was I?  Oh yeah, falling into sewage.  I lost hold of Not a Dingo who took that as her cue to dart for the nearest escape route.  Which happened to be underneath the gaping opening of my oversized t-shirt.  Everything would have been okay if she had gone up the shirt, popped out the neck opening, and scurried on her merry way to sun in the bedroom window. 

But that’s not what happened.  I am lucky if I can find a T-shirt to fit over my big head without stretching the neck opening large enough to allow Ann Coulter’s ego to fit through.  Fitting both my head and a wet, irate cat through said opening is not. gonna. happen.  Of course when she darted up my shirt I jumped up.  Being clawed by a pissed off kitty will make one do stupid things.  Not wanting her to fall to the floor and hurt herself, I put my hand over the opening of my t-shirt.  I had a feline Edward Scissorhands bouncing around my shirt like a bb and wailing as if someone just set her tail on fire.  Dingo Girl barking.  Me screaming.  It’s amazing that the construction workers next door and the Stiletto Sisters upstairs didn’t pound on the walls asking me to keep it down. 

I ran to the living room and stood over the couch before opening my T-shirt to dump Not a Dingo onto a soft landing pad.  There was no gratitude for my sacrifice of skin.  The bitches ran to the bedroom to hide under the bed and talk about what a mean mom I am while I surveyed the damage to my tender flesh.  Did I mention that I am a delicate flower?  My stomach and chest looked as if I spent the day playing in razor wire before exfoliating with a brillo pad.

Mr. Dingo came home a few hours later.  By that time Not a Dingo had emerged from her hiding place, matted and covered in dust bunnies and other detritus of questionable origin that clung to her damp fur.  “That’s some nasty-assed shit!” he said, “She needs a bath!”

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Ice, Ice Baby (Seals)

I’m in a real pissy mood.  It seems as if that’s becoming the status quo for me lately and I don’t like it at all.  I don’t like being angry.  It gives you wrinkles.  I don’t know about you, but when I’m angry my brows furrow dangerously close to each other making me look like a woolly headed muppet and my eyes squint from throwing death rays.  Furrowed Brow + Squinty Eyes = Wrinkles.  I’m also convinced I’ve inhaled toxic levels of pet hair and dander from all my huffing and puffing around the apartment.  The plus is that the fur encasing my lungs ensures that they do not freeze during my runs in the Central Park tundra. 

I’ve been carrying this anger around for awhile and it’s really inhibited my ability to write.  My brain is in a fog and the only thing I seem to be able to write is, “Fuck you!” I don’t have the Welsh eloquence of Christian Bale.  I mean, I can understand his anger against the Director of Photography who interrupted his scene three times.  I think we all can, right?  Damn DP all up in Batman’s Kool-Aid.  Who does he think he is?  Doesn’t he know that he’s a little people?  Tiny, really.  But not like, you know, little people.  But Christian Bale dropping the F-bomb thirty-six times in three minutes?  Pure genius.  I could use that gift of gab right now.  Who’s his agent?  Can we get his people to call my people me?  But don’t tie up the line.  I’m expecting Michelle to call any minute.

If I could actually talk to the people on my shit list, this is what I would say:


Dear Jackass,

You are a vile, reprehensible excuse for a human being.  Thank god I don’t believe that blood makes family.  If I did, I’d slice a vein and die a happy desiccated shell to have no further connection to you.  It’s not enough that you left The Cougar for your money-grubbing chippie, but once you realized that The Cougar was no longer going to be your doormat, you set out to destroy her emotionally and financially.  Your latest slime ball antics do not surprise me.  I knew you were a low-life piece of shit.  I’m just pissed that I can’t seem to scrape you off my shoes.  Just do what you were court-ordered to do and get out of our lives.

Sincerely,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck you. 


Dear Chase and Bank of America,

I am one of the millions of people bailing out your mismanaging, wastrel, could-care-less-about-average-Americans, laughing-all-the-way-to-the-corporate-jet, asshat CEOs.  You could not pay your debts so I am paying them for you.  I’m nice like that.  You, however, are not so nice.  In fact, you suck.  You are getting a bonus for failing.  A bonus for failing your company.  A bonus for failing your employees.  A bonus for failing me.  I, however, have done all I can to succeed and I get the shaft.  Well, I also get my monthly minimum payment increased to double the amount it was two months ago.  Thanks for that.  Unfortunately, the money tree Mr. Dingo and I planted a few years ago (species 401(k)) withered away.  I think it’s because you took a great big dump all over it.  I appreciate a good compost as much as anyone but your contribution was a bit much.

Your claim that limiting the caps on compensation will cause good managers to go elsewhere is bullshit.  If you had good managers, I wouldn’t be paying for your bailout.  Let dem bums go!  You know who the good managers are?  The good managers are people like me.  People who are managing to eat less to save more.  People who are managing to heat their homes on fumes.  People who still manage to spare a few dollars to help friends and family who’ve lost their homes or their jobs.  I suppose it’s hard to relate to this when you and your family are vacationing in the Caribbean on the credit card I am paying for.  So, you know what?  Your credit and credibility is denied.  Your credit card has been canceled.  Your debt is due.

So CEOs, Fuck You. 

Sincerely and from the bottom of my bitter broke heart,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck You.


And finally:

Mr. Environmentalist,

I appreciate your passion for the environment, I really do.  I also appreciate that when the Environmental shtick isn’t working, you are flexible enough to promote other causes.  However, you’ve accosted me every day for the past year as I’ve been rushing to get to class on time.  Your, “Do you have a minute for the Environment/Gay Rights?” was amusing at first.  Then it got annoying.  No, I do not have a minute.  Do you not see me with a wet head because I managed to shower, get dressed, and dash out of the door ten minutes before class starts?  Do you not see the icicles forming on my still-dripping locks?

No, I don’t have a minute to hand my credit card information over to someone with a clipboard and Birkenstocks.  Really, if you are going to exercise such poor judgment by wearing Birkenstocks in the dead of winter, do you really think I would trust you with my credit card?  Especially when you can’t tell me how the money is going to be spent?  Hey, if you ever get tired of standing in the frigid temps being dissed by hurried New Yorkers, I hear that Bank of America is looking for good managers.  Your compensation would be limited to $500,000, though.  That might buy you one or two pairs of socks to wear with your Birks.

So, no, I do not have a minute.  However, if you do not get your clipboard outta my face, I will take a few seconds to put my gay-loving carbon footprint up your ass.

In the name of baby seals and Ryan Seacrest Elton John,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck You

Whew!  I feel so much better now!  I’ll be back to my regular snarky cheerfulness real soon!

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I’m Lovin’ It

A lot of good stuff has happened recently.  First and foremost, I graduated!  But don’t think you are off the hook.  Although my wailing and moaning about the thesis has ended, a new era of bitching is about to begin.  I’m going to apply to Ph.D. programs and I need to get a good score on my English Literature Subject Matter test to get into the schools I’ve chosen.  The studying and whining will commence now tomorrow after the Law & Order marathon this weekend. 

Mr. Dingo has been very supportive with this decision.  Actually, it wasn’t really a decision.  If I don’t have a Ph.D. I’ll never be able to be on the tenure track at any university.  Except for McDonald’s Hamburger University.  While I find black pants slimming, I just can’t make peace with wearing a visor every day; it would crush my curls and I’m sure that the polyester would make me break out along my hairline.  I also think that 3½ years as a flight attendant was more than enough to show me that my strengths do not lie in customer service. 

The second good thing that happened was that classes started this week!  I’ve missed teaching and it looks as if I have some pretty good students this semester. So far they seem very animated and chatty.  I’d rather reign in conversation than do everything short of lighting my farts on fire just to get a response.  I swear, there were times last semester when I wasn’t sure if I had walked into my class or the cadaver room at the nearby medical center.

The first day of class was this past Tuesday.  I gave my big “Plagiarism:  Don’t do it or I will fuck you up” speech.  It was a big hit.  I had one student, however, who came up after class and claimed that she had some sort of psychic ability and that sometimes the stuff she writes has already been written.  It’s not plagiarism though, she promised.  She’s just channeling other creative energies.  Riiiiight.  You’ve got to give it to the girl, to make up an excuse like that takes crystal balls.  While I was thinking “Great, I’ve got the Ghost Whisperer in my class,” I responded professionally by informing her that I am also psychic because when I smell bullshit, it’s a sign that a plagiarized paper is nearby. She didn’t show up today.  She must’ve seen a giant floating F in her future.

Annnddd…I know you’ve been wondering what’s up with the lack of running updates.  Quite simply, I haven’t been running.  With a knee injury in October that required six to eight weeks of healing, the thesis madness of November and December, and a severe case of the Lazy Ass Can’t Even Get Off The Couch To Find The Television Remote, my running was non-existent.  But I’ve started up again.  I’m at a run/walk now.  It’s a little frustrating to know that I was running 14 miles just a few months ago and I’m run/walking one measly mile now.  But it’s good to be moving again.  It’s good to be out there.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any comments on the usual running freak parade.  With 20 degree temperatures, anyone out there running is the freak parade, myself included.  Who runs in 20 degrees?!  I do. And the guy who runs in a puffy jacket and jeans with a Marlboro hanging from his mouth. 

The only sand in my panties this week is the ongoing construction next door.  Aren’t we in a recession, Innernetz?!  Didn’t Home Depot just lay off a gabillion people?  Then why are the construction workers still working?  I am praying to Sweet Baby Jebus that they soon run out of nails, drills, and what sounds like a broken accordion because my sanity depends on it.

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The Thing That Irritates Me

I was up at 3am this morning because one of the Stiletto Sisters from upstairs called.  3am phone calls freak me out.  If someone is calling at 3am I envision missing limbs (obviously not ones involving fingers needed to dial), bail requests, or a panicked voice saying, “The calls are coming from inside the house!” I don’t expect to hear a slurred voice asking me to buzz her in because she’s locked herself out.  To say I was pissed would be flat out wrong.  I was PISSED!  The Stiletto Sisters still keep up their noisy, nocturnal perambulations but now it often includes their drunken friends mistakenly ringing our buzzer, shouting in the hallway, and barking back at Dingo Girl who is also pissed at being awakened in the middle of the night. 

This is not the first time we’ve received a late night plea to let one of them in the building. It happens quite frequently. I slept through their last drunken escapade on New Year’s Eve because two bottles of champagne tend to make me sleep rather soundly.  Mr. Dingo however was the one to field the 4am buzzer at the intercom.  He calls the Stiletto Sisters Thing #1 and Thing #2 because he can’t tell them apart.  With their identical flat-ironed brunette hair, spray on tans, and noses undoubtedly sculpted by the same plastic surgeon for their Sweet Sixteen, they are virtually identical. So he’s not sure whether it’s Thing #1 or Thing #2 who rang the buzzer New Year’s Eve and who, when admitted to the apartment building, proceeded to punch the walls, curse loudly, and slap herself for almost an hour. 

At first, Mr. Dingo thought she was being attacked and, ever the hero, prepared to go to her rescue.  A quick look through the peephole, however, showed that the only person she was fighting was herself.  For almost an hour she slapped and punched herself until Thing #1 (or was it Thing #2?) came home to let her into the apartment.  If this were a movie, she’d be cast as Jim Carrey in a wig doing his worst “oh no, I can’t stop hitting myself in the face and falling down!” shtick. I wish I had seen it.  That’s probably the one time I would not have had to photoshop a picture; I would’ve posted video, y’all.

But there was no such amusement last night.  I answered the phone with my heart racing, “Are you okay? What happened?” She was okay.  Just locked out.  I was not pleased. I would have been more understanding if she had said that her-head-was-attached-to-her-neck-by-a-tiny-piece-of-sinew-and-I-really-hate-to-bother-you-but-could-you-let-me-in-so-I-can-get-some towels-to-wipe-up-the-bloody-mess-on-the-landing? If that had happened, I would have been very gracious.  I would have opened the door as she passed by my apartment and handed her a bottle of OxyClean and a mop. 

But no.  It wasn’t anything Faux News worthy.  She’d just forgotten her keys.  Again. I snapped the phone off and buzzed her in.  Of course, by then I was wide awake, fuming, and couldn’t get back to sleep until hours later.  You know, about the time that Dingo Girl was ready to go for her morning walk.  Since Mr. Dingo was feigning sleep, I did what any self-respecting doggy mama would do.  I bribed her back to bed with treats and toys and slept for an hour.

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