My Fat Mouth

Quick Update:  I forgot to tell you, I did another post at The Greenists.


Christmas came early to Casa de Dingo in the form of a 246-page glossy magazine.  Although I try to camouflage my fashionista aspirations beneath sweatshirts, tattered jeans, and slept-in pony-tails to avoid the ravenous paparazzi waiting to plaster my face across the latest copy of Useless and Oh no, not her again magazines, I cannot deny my love for Vogue, Marie Claire, Elle, and InStyle.  I consume them from cover to cover, ripping out the perfume inserts and rubbing them all over my body like poor woman’s Febreeze.  Except for the Prada Milano perfume insert.  It makes you smell less like Febreeze and more like the sticky stained carpet in a whore house.

It was with glee that I flipped through the pages of the November Glamour because it was the issue that promised to feature “plus-size” models — by plus size, they meant anyone who can wear corduroy without looking like a pipe cleaner.  What a disappointment!  Only two of the gorgeous plus-sized models were modeling clothes and even then, they had their arms crossed protectively in front of their bodies as if to shield readers from the sight of their unemaciated flesh:  Oh noes!  A Size-12!  Won’t someone think of the children?!1! 

I flipped through page after page of waifs, sticks, and cadavers balancing lollipop heads on necks so skinny they’d fail inspection at the broom factory.  I finally found models larger than the rolled Benjamins Kate Moss uses to snort her coke.  The luscious ladies were lumped together — literally, lumped together like tumors — in a two page spread waaaaaaay at the back of the magazine.  Fuck you Glamour.  Fuck.  You.  Nobody puts baby in — oh, wait, nevermind, Johnny Castle has left the building.

As fate would have it, last week my students were working on their research papers about advertising and media.  One of my students, a café au lait complexioned beauty with a honeyed patois that conjures images of Coronas, beaches, and “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” was struggling with her paper about the negative impact fashion magazines have on the female psyche. I don’t play favorites, Innernetz.  I really don’t.  I just like some students more than others.  Caribbean Queen just happens to be one of those students who could write her research paper on the back of a matchbook and light it on fire as she is handing it to me, and she would still get an A.  So, when I saw her chewing the end of her pen, I made my way to her desk.

“Stuck?” I asked.

Caribbean Queen sighed deeply and pulled a copy of Vogue from her backpack.  She slapped it onto her desk in disgust.  “I’m not in there.  I’m never in there!” she said.  I looked at this smart, funny, beautiful girl and felt her dismay.  She could forget about ever finding her Rubenesque body-type modeling an off the shoulder, cinched-waist, bracelet-sleeved, metallic pleated skirt, rock, paper, scissors, mini-shift in the pages of any fashion magazine.  The Glamour debacle, fresh as a newly erupted cold sore, propelled me to action.  Oh hellz no!  It was not going to go down like this.  I was not going to allow her to even begin to disparage herself.  I was going to change her life.  Change. Her. Life! 

I grabbed the pen from her hand and began to write.  Sparks erupted and the smoke that rose from her wide-ruled college pages was heady incense.  I gave her the names of web sites like Shapely Prose, Big Fat Blog, and Fatshionista.  I told her she is beautiful just as she is blah, blah, blah, don’t try to conform to arbitrary standards of beauty, yadda, yadda, yadda, Madison Avenue’s boy-like model of feminine beauty is more a statement about pederasty than pretty, nod, wink, nod.

I set the pen down only when the plastic casing started to melt.  She looked at me with awe and adoration.  I was humbled, Innernetz.  Humbled.  She was silent for a moment. Suddenly, tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks.  A simple “Thank you” would have sufficed. And some fresh brownies at Christmas.  And maybe a Moleskine notebook for Teacher Appreciation Day, engraved with “Best Teacher Ever!” But that’s it!  Anything more and I’d have to report it as income.

I looked into her watery eyes and mine grew watery, too.  My lips were pursed into a tight but quivering smile.  A hug was about to happen and my hands were already flapping a little.  She, meanwhile, was speechless. 

“Ms. Dingo, I didn’t . . . I mean . . .”

I managed to gasp, “Yes?”

“I want to see someone in the magazines who looks like me!”

“Exactly!” I said, and reached for that hug. 

“No!” she wailed.  “I didn’t mean fat!  I meant Black! Do you think I’m fat?”

“No! Nononononononononononono!” I spit out as fast as I could.  But it was too late.  The fat was out of the bag, spread all in her notebook.  Add some flour to her notebook, pop it in the oven, and you have a pie crust.  Add some baking soda and milk: biscuits.  Delicious biscuits.

By this time, the rest of the class had turned their attention to us, wondering why Caribbean Queen was crying and why I was backpedaling so fast I knocked yesterday onto its ass.  Fortunately, there was only fifteen minutes of class left and I decided to let them out early.  Trying to recover my composure, I walked to the front of the class and announced, “Remember, your papers are due on Friday.  And please, please, PLEASE!, remember to fat chick.  Fact check!  I meant fact check!”

Ah yes, Innernetz, life is all about Teachable Moments.  That day, however, I was the one who got schooled.

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Welcome to Crazytown

I have frizzy hair.  Please, please, you are too kind.  There is no need to protest in my hair’s defense.  I know I have frizzy hair.  The Hunch-Back Woman at the post-office told me so.  If anyone knows frizzy, it’s the Hunch-Back Woman with her I Dream of Jeannie couture, Sideshow Bob ‘do, and John Wayne Gacy clown make-up.

During a Starbucks Workday last week, I decided to take a brief study break and stop by the nearby post office to mail a package.  I pass this post office frequently and Hunch-Back Woman appears to be a permanent fixture. You can smell her before you see her — she’s fond of a particularly aromatic variety of maryjane.  In fact, if you stand downwind of her for a minute, you get just a little high.

Hunch-Back Woman usually stands at the door to the post office and opens it for the unsuspecting public like a mime playing a doorman except that the door is real.  And she is not silent.  I say “unsuspecting” because the last thing you expect as she holds the door open is to have her bellow the post office hours in your ear.  It’s a lovely customer service.  I don’t know why the post office didn’t think of it themselves.  It’s so much more convenient than having to review the hours plainly posted on the door.

What post office patrons could do without, however, is the colorful dressing down they receive if they ignore the nasty coffee-cup tip jar half filled with an unknown, grayish fluid she shakes in your face as you enter the building.  Hunch-Back Woman has quite a repertoire.  “Cheap bastard!” and “Dirty Whore” seem to be her favorites, but those epithets are usually reserved for the people who actually tip her.  Those who don’t tip her are often called much worse.  Her favorite — perhaps she is a fan of Mike Myers’s films — seems to be “Fat Bastard.” Every now and then I’ve heard her let loose with “Motherfucker!” but I think that special nickname is reserved for those who decide that facing off against Yucko the Hopheaded Clown is not on their Bucket List and decide to come back some other time.

On this particular day, I had already been tapped out of tips.  Figuring I would get a pass because I give Hunch-Back Woman change every time I see her, I offered a smile and a “Sorry.” Oh, yes, I was sorry.  Her pasted-on smile immediately transformed into one of Virgil’s Furies and I began to wonder if Hunch-Back Woman’s Wet & Wild Carnage Red lipstick was actually the bloody remnants of other non-tippers.  She sucked in enough air to demonstrate a lifetime of perfecting the art of inhalation before expelling a loud and vicious…

 
“FRIZZY!”
 

Um, what?  Frizzy?  Frizzy?!  I was stunned.  I was braced for “bitch” or worse, but not FRIZZY!  Is FRIZZY worse than Dirty Whore, Cheap Bastard, Twatwaffle, or all the other colorful euphemisms for men, women, sex acts, minorities, and homosexuals?  Because, believe me, I’ve heard her use almost all of them but I’ve never heard her use FRIZZY.  Self-consciously I reached up to touch my hair.  Had I forgotten to use my humidity resistant gel this morning?  I did switch conditioners, but this winter weather has really made.... 

Seeing my weakness she pounced on it. 

“Your hair is FRIZZY!  FRIZZY!  FRIZZY!  Hahahahah!  You have FRIZZY hair!”

I rushed past her into the post office lobby checking over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t flying at me with VO5 and a hair net.  I seemed safe for the time being and the long lines at the post office almost assured me that she would be gone by the time I left.  And thank goodness, she was.

So, stamps in hand, my frizzy hair and I headed back to Starbucks.  About a block away, I felt a presence at my shoulder.  Oh, no, I thought.  I walked a little faster.  The shadow kept pace.  I slowed down.  So did the shadow.  I was trying to avoid a confrontation but apparently there was going to be one whether I liked it or not.  I quickly turned to face Hunch-Back Woman and was surprised to find that it wasn’t her.  My shadow was a thin, bespectacled, confused-looking man in colorful superhero tights and high-tops.  Thinking that maybe he was lost or needed some other assistance I asked, “Can I help you?” This man who two seconds before was walking close enough to give me a colonoscopy suddenly reared back and yelled, “YOU STINK!!”

What.

The.

Fuck?!

Surely he and Hunch-Back woman came from the same family shrub.  One root.  One branch.  Twice the crazy.  He repeated it again just in case I missed it at 180 decibels.  “YOU STINK!!”

This time I was ready. 

Me (in sweetest voice evah!):  Why thank you.  That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.

Shrub:  No!  I said, you STINK!

Me (very sweet):  I heard you.  Again, you are too kind.

Shrub (getting frustrated and welling up with tears):  No, no, no, no!  I said —

Me (making myself choke with my own sweetie sweetness):  I know.  And you really are a doll but I must be running now.  You have a nice day!

Shrub (crying):  crycrycrycrycry

I don’t know what the lesson is from all of this.  Do I need to pay more attention to my personal hygiene?  Do I need to find a Starbucks that is not in Crazytown?  Or maybe I should just tape twenty-dollar bills to my packages and avoid the post office.  My packages will still get to their destinations, right?

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All That Glitter

Is it possible to ask for a do-over for an entire week?  No, really, I need to do this week over.  Whom do we talk to about this? 

Monday got the week off to a great start. I managed to ignore the snooze button on my Talking Al Gore alarm clock ("Time to wake up and contribute even more to the destruction of the planet") to stumble out the door for an early morning run.  I managed to knock an entire minute off my three-mile run!  While basking in the heat, humidity, and painful glow of this milestone during my post-run stretch, I noticed a flash of white down by my little girl bits.  Huh? I had worn my black running shorts so the flash of color took me by surprise.  It didn’t take Horatio Kane to figure out that I’d committed a fashion crime.  My running shorts were inside out.  So while I was burning up the miles, the white cotton crotch sewn into my shorts was burning the corneas of my fellow runners.  Tell me, who in the world makes black running shorts with a white cotton panty?  Who!?  Some of you may be asking, “Who wears their running shorts inside out?” To you I say, shush and get back to your spreadsheets and donuts.  You shouldn’t be reading blogs at work.

The rest of the week fell into a familiar pattern:  I dropped my make-up brush into the toilet. Twice.  After spending hours preparing for class, I left my lesson plans, attendance sheet, and Red Bull at home. The lesson plans and attendance sheet were trivial matters compared to the distress of not having my liquid energy.  I put my hand through a hole in the poopy bag while picking up Dingo Girl’s evening offering and got a handful of recycled dog food organic waste dog shit. And that was just Monday.  All week long, I felt as if I were the subject of a Punk’d all-Dingo special.

But Friday finally rolled around.  Marian the Librarian and I had an appointment for a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, that is if your idea of Ladies Who Lunch consists of cold pints and plates of fries.  And if that is not your idea of a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, then la-di-da, look who’s puttin’ on airs!  After pounding down a few brews we stumbled into Sephora.  It wasn’t our original destination but the sign outside advertising a free color consultation and make-over was a sign from the Make-Up Gods that we dared not disobey.  It was fate.  It was destiny.  It was the signpost leading to another disaster.

Marian got whisked away by an edgy platinum blonde with asymmetrical hair and a fun, hip vibe.  I was corralled into a chair by a woman whose sole experience with make-up application consisted of painting the detached Barbie Styling Head she got for Christmas with a floor mop.  Side note:  Did you know that they now make the Make Me Pretty Talking Styling Head?  Is it just me or does everyone else find that unbelievably disconcerting as well?  There’s nothing like trying to put glitter on your doll’s eyelids while she’s sassing you about how Glitter Glam Green is sooo not her color and did you make sure to moisturize first?  Shut up, Be-otch!  Anatomically Incorrect Ken is going to be here in ten minutes to take your disembodied self to the prom and you want to be ready, don’t you?

Okay, okay, where was I?  Oh yes, as I was leaning back in my chair futilely telling Commandant Clueless that Glitter Glam Green is sooo not my color.  She kept telling me to lean forward and to stop squinting.  I couldn’t help it.  The way she wielded that make-up brush I thought for sure I was going to lose an eye.  And she used enough frosted shadow to make me look like a three-tiered Betty- Off-Her-Crocker cake.  Between glimpses of myself in the mirror, I tried to make a run for it but she body blocked me.  I think I still have bruises. 

Realizing that resistance was futile, I humbly submitted to her will.  Forty-minutes later, she was done with my eyes.  Forty-minutes!  I asked about concealer and mascara to complete the look.  The sigh she gave me made me feel as if I’d just asked her to donate a liver to the Pâté Makers Association. Just then, Marian the Librarian appeared at my elbow.  She. Looked. Stunning.  Now, Marian the Librarian is a pretty woman in ordinary circumstances but her make-up person had accentuated her natural beauty.  She looked like she wasn’t wearing any make-up at all.  I can only imagine all the horny kids coming to her desk at the library asking for assistance.  “Excuse me, Ms. Marian the Librarian.  Can you help me?  I’m looking for Looooooove.” And then Marian the Librarian, who takes no sass from anyone and who has an incredible right hook, would knock them into the reference stacks.  They’d feel as if they’d been hit by Cupid and go away happy.

Marian the Librarian took one look at me and said, “I like it.  It’s summery.” I think it was because my face looked like a bowl filled with tropical fish.  Commandant Clueless looked at me expectantly.  Um, did she really expect me to buy any of this crap?  I didn’t buy any make-up but I did buy a nice face wash and travel chisel to help remove the layers of spackle.

I should’ve ended the evening right there and gone home to console myself with Grey’s Anatomy re-runs.  Dr. McSteamy, with all his plastic surgery prowess, would make things okay.  Hell, as surreal as my day had been, he might have even reached through the screen to tell me how to fix the hot mess on my eyes.  But no, I headed to H&M where I tried to fit into clothes made for people as thin and boobless as a Barbie Styling Head. 

But the day and the week wasn’t a total wash.  I got home to find out our A/C was on the fritz and the make-up soon melted right off.  Thank heaven for global warming.

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Go Find the Funny Contest

It’s time for a contest!! 

Sunny at CityLitNYC called me today to tell me about a fantastic find she made over the weekend.  And because I’m fantastic, I decided to share it with you.  But I’m going to make you work for it, be-otches!

Because all of you were so wonderful during McMini-Meltdown I and II (yes, even you lurkers; although you didn’t comment, I could feel the love) I’m going to give something back.  I’m going to give you this!

Yes, it’s the coolest t-shirt ever:  Keith Richards asking, “Who the fuck is Mick Jagger?” And how do you win this fine, fine piece of t-shirtery?  (Yes, that is a word.  I just used it, didn’t I?) I’ll tell you.  You have to provide a caption to this photo from I’ll Make My Own Lemonade:

For those of you who are lame do not want to wear the F-bomb across your bosom, I did ask the store clerk if they had any t-shirts that said Who the heck is Mick Jagger, Who the hell is Mick Jagger, or even Who in guldarnit consternation is Mick Jagger?  But no.  The pimply-faced gangsta was astonished that someone would be offended by the word fuck.  “What’s wrong with fuck?” he asked.  I told him that people might be uncomfortable wearing that word.  And you know, he had an eye-opening solution.  “Well, they could just go to church!” Hmmm….good idea, wearing the fuck t-shirt, no doubt. 

So, if you already have something with the word fuck among your Sunday best, I will send you Shine a Light:  The Original Soundtrack by the Rolling Stones.

You have until Friday at midnight to enter.  Friday!  A whole week to find the funny and leave your caption in a comment to this post.  Because my Mom needs a good laugh, I’m going to have her pick the winner.  I’ll announce the winner sometime on Saturday.  But don’t get up early!  I’m sleeping in so you shouldn’t expect anything until after 1pm. 

Now, go!  Go find the funny!

Update:  It’s okay if you leave more than one caption or more than one comment.  No need to edit the captions or comments for content.  I will make sure there’s a difibulator nearby in case The Cougar (Mom) gets the vapors.
Oh, and I won’t be commenting on this post because I don’t want to influence Mom’s decision.  I will also try to post something later in the week so you can get your Dingo fix.

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If Miles Were Measured in Donuts

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because most of it consists of things like, “Oh my holy hell, it’s hot y’all!” and “Someone talk me out of this madness!” But overall it’s going well.  I have about seventeen weeks until the marathon.  Yes, seventeen.  I had to make a wee change in my plans.  I am not going to Florence for the marathon.  Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, I am still running a marathon.  It’s just not in Italy.  It’s in Massachusetts. Cape Cod, to be exact.  Racing in Florence with a weak dollar and the cost of everything rising due to oil prices seemed like a big burden right now.  So, instead, I decided to race in Cape Cod, which is just like Italy with fewer popes.

Why Cape Cod?  Well, everyone knows that Italy is shaped like a boot, but did you know that Cape Cod is shaped like an arm?  Check it out on a map.  I am all into running in places shaped like extremities, so Cape Cod and Italy were the natural next choices after my first race in Manhattan.  Hey, if any of you are truly disappointed by this change in plans, I will reluctantly accept donations of cash, air miles, free drink coupons, duty free discount certificates or, hell, any old thing, toward the Send Dingo to Florence fund. 

The Cape Cod Marathon is sponsored by Dunkin Donuts because, you know, donuts and exercise go hand in hand.  I’m counting on them to have donut holes at every water station.  Or even instead of water stations. I can bring my own freakin’ water, but I want to make Dunkin Donuts put their “America Runs on Dunkin” money where my mouth is.

While my race training has gotten tougher and the hills don’t seem to be getting any easier, I have reached a running milestone.  The other day, I finally passed the old lady with a walker I see on the park track all the time when I run.  And I did it with style and only a small amount of gloating because I’m just humble like that.  When I first started running, Old Lady With Walker would kick my ass.  She would come out of nowhere and I’d think, “I may be slow but at least I can beat Old Lady With Walker.” Only, I couldn’t.  I could never catch up to her.

At first, I thought I had the upper hand.  OLWW is always dressed from head to foot in a white calf-length puffy coat — the kind you wear when the New York winter is at it’s worst and the mayor is telling everyone to stay home from work so the snow plows can do their job — and leather gloves.  She looks like the Michelin man, except I don’t recall ever seeing sweat stains under his armpits.  Anyway, I figured if I couldn’t catch up to her on my own power, she’d eventually fall out from heat stroke and I’d be able to hurdle over her prone body and claim victory.  Unless I was really tired from running.  Then I would have to step on her.  Gently. 

But I think OLWW has a tricked-out walker.  It’s sort of the Sports edition of walkers.  It has thick SUV wheels on the back legs and tennis balls on the front ones.  Tennis balls!  How could I compete with that?  She pushes this walker up and down the hills of Central Park like she just won a $5000 shopping spree at Tar-zhay and has only five minutes to reach the check-out line.  I thought, “Day-um!  I should be able to beat OLWW!” But I just couldn’t.  The distance between us would continue to increase until finally she came around behind me. 

And then.... this week, the impossible happened.  I passed OLWW.  I didn’t just pass her.  I passed her going uphill!  I was ecstatic.  Rocky Balboa couldn’t have been more pleased when he reached the top of those famous steps than I was at that moment.  I heard his theme music in my ears, danced a jig and did a couple of fist pumps in the air before becoming so out of breath my vision began to blur.  But I wanted to savor my victory.  So I turned around to see if she was choking on my dust.  Folks, I am just mastering the art of forward movement.  Running backwards is the Ph.D of coordination and apparently I don’t have that gift.  I tripped.  And fell. 

The world looks completely different when you are only six inches off the ground.  I did not relish having the Nike Swoosh tattooed onto my forehead by the approaching runners who did not stop.  Yeah, no one stopped.  They just kept on running although I think I heard one woman say something to her running buddy about stepping on me gently.  Through my haze of embarrassment, I swore I could hear OLWW’s wicked cackle as she anticipated leaving walker tracks across my outstretched body, so I quickly jumped up and continued my run. 

You would think making a complete ass of myself would dial back my snarkometer to acceptable leveIs, but you would be wrong.  The only thing that can make you feel better after an incident like that is to make fun of someone else.  It’s really not hard to do.  At my pace, there is plenty of snark material running right past me every few seconds.  The normal people pass me too quickly to fully engage my Bitch Vision, so all I’m left with is the freak parade.  Now, I know what you are thinking, and shame on you.  I am not a freak.  I just run like one.

I was not disappointed.  Two of my favorite runners appeared up ahead and instantly lifted my mood.  First there was the guy who runs like he’s on his way to a Broadway audition or the Extreme Cheer Challenge competition.  Arms bent at the elbow, fingers fully splayed, he has the perfect jazz hands. My internal iPod doesn’t know whether to start humming tunes from A Chorus Line or reciting dialogue from Bring it On: In It To Win It .  (Shush!  Don’t judge me! I’d like to see your DVD collection!) I always want to slap a Spirit Stick into his hands just to see what happens. 

Speaking of flashy numbers, did you know they make gold lamé running shorts?  Well, they do!  And my second favorite runner, Lame Lamé, has a pair for every day of the week.  Either that or she wears the same ones over and over again, but that’s just too nasty to think about.  Luckily, they make gold lamé running shorts in various sizes so you can choose ones that are two sizes too small, allowing everyone to see the shape of your girl bits.  I am glad I wear sunglasses because the reflection off her ass can scorch your corneas.  When she passed me the other day, the heat from her vulva-laser caused me to stumble, but I somehow maintained my balance.  Not only would falling twice in the same run have been mortifying, but it would be a sad day indeed if the last sight I ever had of this world was a pornographic baked potato and OLWW tennis balls approaching my forehead.

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