How ’Bout ’Dem Apples!

Sometimes I think I can change the world.  Sometimes I think that I can do something that makes a difference.  I usually feel this way when I’m listening to the Broadway soundtrack to Hair. I get pumped.  I look up volunteer positions, I make sure I’m getting Rachel Maddow’s tweets and then…and then, I just get deflated.  It’s overwhelming. Bailout.  Homelessness. Domestic Violence. Illiteracy.  Animal Abuse.  Natural Disaster Relief. Fashion Policing and Passing Judgment on Tourists.  There’s so much to be done and I can’t even remember to change Not a Dingo’s litter box with any regularity.  And then sometimes I feel that the best thing I can do is to bolster the economy by ordering another Venti Earl Grey and slice of pound cake from the grumpy Starbucks barista.  And no, I’m not putting a tip in the tip jar. 

Really, who does that?  You know when I put a tip in the Starbucks tip jar?  When the whole bean coffee Mr. Dingo drinks isn’t on the shelf and someone runs to the back to get some for me.  Not when someone puts a tea bag in a cup of hot water.  Excuse me, isn’t that your job?  You want me to tip you for doing your job?  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I am definitely in the overtipper category.  Waiters, hairdressers, delivery people, and cab drivers love me. These are all people who tend to go above their job description to make my interaction with them the best it can be.  Refills before I ask, squeezing me into an appointment at the last minute, delivering my pizza so that it’s hot and right side up keeping the cheese on the pizza and not sticking to the cardboard box, seeing me waving frantically in the pouring rain and pulling over to haul me and a soaking Dingo Girl to a vet appointment uptown — those things get tips.  Big tips.  But, no, grumpy barista, you are not getting a tip from me for simply turning from the cash register to the hot water spout and dropping in a tea bag. 

But lately, I have had to change my grumpy barista tipping policy.  You see, I’ve become one of those people.  You know the people I mean, the people you see sitting in Starbucks for hours at a time typing away on laptops or scribbling furiously in a wire-ringed notebook.  I always asked myself, “Don’t they have an office or at least a dining room table to work from!  Who comes to Starbucks to work?” People like me, that’s who.  People who can’t see their desk for all the crap piled on top of it.  People like me who cannot shut out the catcalls and running commentary on my poor housekeeping skills from the dishes in the kitchen and laundry on the floor.  And the mold in the bathtub shooting dice with the soap scum?  They taunt me.  Oh, how they taunt me. 

You know who else works at Starbucks?  People who can’t type a complete sentence without Not a Dingo walking all over the keyboard on her way to the mouse.  The mouse she then chooses to sleep on only to wake up when I try to slide my hand under her dingleberried butt to do a cut and paste.  And waking her up means that I must want to pet her, right?  So she makes sure she stays within arms reach by sitting in front of the monitor. 9999999999999999999999999999 (okay, that was from Not a Dingo walking on the 8888888888888 keyboard and I’m too lazy to delete it).

And then there’s Dingo Girl.  Dingo Girl who loves her mama so much that she must sit and whine at her mama’s feet for attention.  If whining doesn’t work, she’s sure that pawing at my arm will.  Or maybe licking my feet.  Put shoes on and she licks my leg.  Put on jeans studded with cactus tines and she stands on her hind feet to lick my face.  There’s so much love at Casa Dingo.  Love is killing me.  Hey!  I think that’s a great title for a new Lifetime Movie. 

*announcer voice*

One woman.  Two fur-kids.  She’s slowly losing her mind.  Is the descent into madness a sadistic plan by the four-legged critters or is this woman simply unable to love?
Starring Melissa Gilbert, Garfield, and that dog from the Taco Bell commercials.

*end announcer voice*

Really, go set your Tivos.  I’m sure that my screenplay is going to be picked up by Jane Campion or Sofia Coppola any day now.

I could go into the office to work but I share an office with about a gabillion other adjuncts.  It’s less of an office and more like detention from The Breakfast Club.  No one really goes there to work.  It’s a place to go to commiserate about The Man and hand out leftover homemade cupcakes.  Here’s how my attempt to work in the office went late last week,

Me:  (going to my desk and taking out a six inch pile of papers and notebooks)
Co-Irker #1:  Talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk…My daughter had her dance recital.  Talktalktalktalktalk…living room…talktalktalktalktalk…Peru…talktalktalk..ha!ha!ha!...cupcakes!
Co-Irker#2:  Slurp! Chomp! Chomp!  Slurp!  Click! Click! Click! Slurp!

Apparently Co-Irker#2 needs to get his dentures fixed.  He brought in an apple and proceeded to grind it to applesauce with ill-fitting dentures.  He couldn’t bite the apple like a normal person.  Instead, he would slurp the apple creating a suction of saliva and spittle that softened the peel allowing him to chomp into the crunchy flesh.  Of course the saliva made the apple a little slippery. His mouth would lose suction and he’d have to do the slurping thing again.  Then, his dentures would shift and protrude from his mouth like the creature from Aliens.  They’d chatter together with a clicking sound as he masticated the poor fruit and then the cycle would start all over again.

So, I’ve ended up at Starbucks.  And the past two weeks have been more productive than any day I’ve had in the past two years.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner!  The only down side is not having internet access.  I mean, they have it but I’m not about to pay ten bucks for it.  Hmmm, could the lack of internet access have something to do with my productivity.  Nah, that’s just too silly to believe.  And oh, Innernetz, the people who come to Starbucks are a strange lot.  I have some stories for you.  But those are for another day.

What I want to tell you is that I tip at Starbucks now.  I tip a lot.  Hell, it’s more like I’m paying rent.  I’m not tipping for my hot water and tea bag.  I’m tipping for a place to work, a place to think, and a place to people-watch and be highly entertained.  I love you Virginia Woolf, but you didn’t need a room of your own.  You needed a Starbucks.

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Red Read Well

First of all, I have to thank everyone for their advice and suggestions for how to deal with my back pain.  Second, Innernetz, y’all are a bunch of broke down bitches.  Herniated discs, IT band injuries, sprained ankles, sciatica, RA, damn, y’all!  Can you imagine our blogger get together?  With all the wheelchairs, canes, and walkers I’m sure we’d be mistaken for an AARP convention.  I’ll be the one on the Hoveround.  Or the riding mower.  Not only do I think I’d look good on a John Deere, but I’m rather impatient.  If any of you take too long perusing the prime rib at the buffet table, I will mow your decrepit asses down.  Don’t try me.

Anyway, my back is feeling much better.  I think some of the pain stemmed from hours and hours hunched over my desk grading the first papers of this semester.  I’m also sure that some of the pain stemmed from the full body seizures said papers induced. How does one get to be a second semester college freshman without even the most basic knowledge of subject-verb agreement?  And paragraphs, people!  Blog posts without paragraphs are annoying enough.  Five page papers without paragraphs?  I don’t have the words.  Wait!  Yes, I do.  Fucked. Up.  Five page papers without paragraphs is just fucked up.

In spite of the trauma of grading sixty, five-page papers in one week, I must say that my classes this semester are amazing.  The students are fun, enthusiastic and, for the most part, really want to learn.  I don’t have any bad kids, you know, the kind of kids that make you wish that you could just send them to the principal’s office or one of those juvenile delinquent boot camps?  Or run over them with a riding mower?

While I am there to teach them about literature and critical reading, I often use the texts as a springboard for discussions about current events, racism, classism, sexism, and about any other –ism you can name.  I try to make literature relevant, even if it means that I sometimes stand on desks and flail my arms as I face the imaginary tanks of the Chinese army.  I’ve taught Shakespeare in the dark, had them pick teams on the first day of class in order to discuss first impressions and biases, read articles to them about the genocide in the Sudan, and discussed the media circus and social implications of our fascination with Britney Spears, Branjelina, and Little J.  I take great pride in squeezing social relevance from Stephen King, William March, and Angela Carter.

The only thing that we are not allowed to discuss in my class is the train wreck that is Twilight.  Yes, I am practicing censorship.  My class is not a democracy.  It is a dictatorship.  So, no Twilight.  End of discussion.  Oh, and Twilight lovers? Don’t even think of defending it in the comments.  If you do, you should keep an ear and eye open for a John Deere bearing down on you in a haze of diesel fumes.  Don’t try me.  It’s bad for your health and the environment.

I don’t expect to change anyone’s mind overnight or even in a semester.  What I do expect is to open their minds.  I want to challenge their normal way of thinking about things.  Sometimes I think I succeed.  Sometimes, I think I fail miserably.  This failure is never more disappointing than when some of my best and brightest students write things like,

Little Red Riding Hood should have known better than going into the woods alone.  She got what she deserved.

*sigh*

Then, there’s this,

All women like to wear make-up and look beautiful.  If she doesn’t look beautiful she is not normal.  She is ugly.  Ugly people are not normal.  Women should wear make-up.

Do I even need to rant about the many ways in which that is just so wrong? 

But, in all honesty, I’m not one of those people who thinks everyone is beautiful in their own way.  Cheesy 70s song aside, I have seen some ugly people.  Not you, of course, Innernetz, you are all beautiful.  In your own way.  But, back to the non-Innernetz ugly people.  I live in NYC.  I see ugly people every day.  I don’t judge them.  I just walk on the other side of the street in case the ugly is contagious.  I kid!  I kid!  I don’t really judge people on their looks.  I’m too busy judging them on their shoes. My point is — and yes, this post does have a point — my point is that Spring Break is still almost a month away and I can hardly wait.

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Who You Callin’ Chicken?!

For all my bitching and moaning about money and financial woes, I finally found a bank I can trust.  To lose my money.  And by losing, I mean making.  Stoogepie has opened a bank (NSFW) and I’m going to scrape all my pennies together to give to this lost cause. In a few weeks I’ll be a millionaire!  Thank you, Stoogepie!  I already have plans for all the money I’ll make.  First, forget paying my credit cards and student loans.  That’s not how real bankers spend money that’s not theirs.  I’m spending my ill-gotten gains on a vacation.

In the almost five years that Mr. Dingo and I have been together we’ve only taken one vacation.  A few years ago Mr. Dingo and I went to Niagara Falls for my birthday.  I wish I was blogging then.  The trip was truly snarktastic.  While I had a good time, it was mostly because Mr. Dingo is my best friend and hanging out with him after I’ve imposed a Blackberry ban is a rare treat.  I was impressed by the sheer power and beauty of the falls but my god, people!  I don’t even know how to describe the casinos, Ripley’s Believe-it-or-Not museums, and souvenir stands where you can buy a silk screened t-shirt to commemorate your visit, but I’m sure it outranks the horrid Jelly Shoes on the Tack-O-Meter.

The best part of the trip, however, was the haunted house.  There are several haunted houses in Niagara Falls but I’m talking about the Nightmares Fear Factory.  I know I’ve said it before, but I am a big chicken. That talks smack.  I’m a big, smack talkin’, chicken.  Mr. Dingo and I passed by a few haunted houses that had children and families coming out of them.  I’m sorry, but if a kid emerges from a haunted house with a smile on her face, it’s not for me.  Side note:  My college sorority hosted a haunted house every Halloween for a charity.  We participated by dressing up, taking tickets, drinking in the parking lot, and acting as tour guides.  It was a family friendly haunted house.  Really, what the fuck is that?  You either want to be scared or you want to go to Disneyland.  Anyway, we were instructed that if a child came through and yelled “Friendly Ghost!” we were to cease our wails and moans and hand out candy.  Um, right.

I am a purist.  A zombie is not going to hand out candy.  A zombie is going to eat your hand.  Like candy.  Sometimes I we didn’t exactly adhere to the rules and frightened the shit out of the little shits that came through.  Those little brats had their revenge though.  We had to spend the rest of the Halloween season working in a urine soaked haunted house.

Whew!  That was quite the digression, wasn’t it?

Anyway, Mr. Dingo and I found a haunted house in Niagara Falls that made you sign waivers and HIGHLY advised pregnant women and people with heart conditions to forgo the entertainment.  There was even a “Chicken List” of all the people who chickened out, yelled “Chicken!” and had to be escorted from the haunted house.  Yes, it was the adult version of “Friendly Ghost.” Oh, puh-leeze!  I couldn’t throw my entry fee at them fast enough.  Mr. Dingo asked me if I was sure.  Sure?!  Hell Yes, I was Sure! Cluck-cluck-I-ain’t-‘fraid-of-no-ghost!-cluck-cluck!

Less than five minutes after we entered the haunted house Mr. Dingo was trying to coach me out of a corner where I had curled up into a little ball, hands over my eyes, refusing to move.  I am proud to say that I didn’t yell “Chicken.” I am less proud that the zombies, ghosts, and ghouls that inhabited that house may or may not have had to work the rest of the evening in urine soaked darkness. 

Needless to say, I had lots of fun.  It was so much fun, in fact, that visiting a haunted house is our yearly tradition for my birthday. 

Oh wait, what was I talking about?  Vacation!  The fact that I need one is evidenced by my inability to stay focused and offer a post that is both relevant and timely.  Make sure you come back in a few days when I discuss memories of Fourth of July and Memorial Day.

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It’s Like A Bad Rockwell Video

Are you tired of my excuses for not posting?  Well, only that one excuse – the thesis.  Are you tired of it yet?  Yeah, me too.  So we won’t talk about it, shall we?  Okay, since you asked, just one more thing:  It’s almost done!  It’s been approved by my first and second readers and is on its way to my third and final reader right now.  Knowing that the deadline is rapidly approaching, I wanted to nudge my third reader a little but not seem overbearing.  I left her a nice little note with my draft that says, “Thank you for your time.  If you do not approve this thesis, I WILL CUTCHU!” And there’s a smiley face at the end.  Do you think the smiley face is a bit much?  Too in-your-face maybe? 

I feel as if I’ve been in a bubble the past few weeks.  A bubble occasionally burst by important stress relievers like pot excessive amounts of booze Grey’s Anatomy and Top Chef.  Unfortunately, my social life has been very limited.  I’ve seen the laundry guy and Bean, the Mexican food delivery dude, but that’s about it.  With Mr. Dingo working so much, Dingo Girl has been my connection to the outside world.  We’ve spent so much time together that I’ve started to sniff people’s butts in greeting rather than go in for the obligatory air kiss.  You’ll have to forgive me for another Dingo Girl post because right now, folks? It’s all I got.

Anyway, taking Dingo Girl out for her frequent constitutionals is sometimes the only thing that gets me away from my paper and out of the apartment.  For those of you who don’t have a dog in the city, let me tell you, you will be amazed how your circle of associates and psychopaths expands when you walk your dog.  Everyone knows Dingo Girl and wants to pet her.  Dingo Girl, however, is like her mama.  She’s a snob.  If you smell like patchouli, or wear socks with flip-flops, or push a shopping cart laden with bells, wind chimes, and questionable organic matter, she gives you wide berth.  Sometimes, however, interacting with the crazies of this world is unavoidable. 

There’s this one guy who acts as some sort of security guard for the store on the corner.  I say he acts like a security guard because most of the time he’s in front of the store smoking and drinking coffee.  He always says hello to Dingo Girl.  Hearing her name, she’ll pause and in the brief millisecond before she realizes that it’s Creepy Security Guard Wannabe and that he’s one of those people her mama has warned her about and she should run, he engages me in chit-chat.  I would love to ignore him and breeze right by, but my gnarly New York City exterior belies my Southern Girl Heart.  I just can’t be rude.  It’s like the Eleventh Commandment or something: “Y’all, Don’t Be Rude”.  It comes right after the Tenth Commandment: “Eat Grits, Y’all.”

I can’t say exactly what it is about him that gives me the creeps.  It might be his knock off Members Only jacket, or how he pops the collar of his security guard shirt, or it just might be that he monitors my every activity.  Every time I walk by he has something to say.  Something beyond the normal, “My, Dingo, you look stunning today.  And smart.  You look incredibly smart. ” See, that type of normal stuff I’m used to and can smile graciously while offering to sign an autograph or two.  Creepy Security Guard Wannabe, however, notices odd stuff. 

“You’re carrying your backpack on your left shoulder today. You usually carry it on your right.”

It’s true.  I do usually carry it on my right shoulder but why does he know that?!

”You look good in blue.”

Innocent enough, right?  Wrong!  My black coat was buttoned up and I was wearing a lavender scarf.  If Creepy Security Guard Wannabe has X-ray vision, I may have to buy lead underwear.

But perhaps the eeriest comment of all:

“I noticed Mr. Dingo leaving the apartment this morning with suitcases.  He must be going on a long trip. Do you like to be alone?”

That is just fucking creepy.  I didn’t think anything of it (other than the creepiness factor) until later that evening.  The night before Mr. Dingo left on his trip we watched The Strangers.  I don’t want to give the story away so let’s just say that it’s a scary-assed story about a home invasion.  But merely saying it’s about a home invasion is like saying Saw is about a man who liked puzzles. 

So there I am that evening taking a study break and playing tug-of-war with Dingo Girl when she suddenly stops and perks up her ears.  I didn’t hear anything and after a few seconds she went right back to playing.  The next thing I know, Not a Dingo comes barreling out the bedroom past me and Dingo Girl as if Curiosity is chasing her with a sickle.  Now, my back is facing the bedroom.  The moment I see the blur of fur and claws that is Not a Dingo run past me, Dingo Girl sits straight up, growling, hackles raised, death in her eyes, and looks behind me.  Toward the bedroom.  *cue horror movie music*

I freeze.  Just freeze.  And I whisper to Dingo Girl, “You are not about to tell me that someone is behind me, are you?” My rational self is saying that no one is in the apartment.  My irrational self is saying that, somehow, Creepy Security Guard Wannabe scaled five flights on the front of a building that faces a busy street and entered the apartment through a locked window.  That would not be the astounding part.  What would have amazed me is if he had managed to climb through the window without knocking over the stack of books, laundry, and moldy coffee cups on the nightstand.  So, I did what every horror movie heroine does.  I pretended that all was right in the world while saying oh so nonchalantly, “Well, Dingo Girl, I guess it’s time for your dinner.  I’ll just go into the kitchen….” Where I immediately grabbed the biggest knife I could find and huddled against the kitchen window.

Yes, I realize there are several things wrong with that scenario.  One, my back was against the kitchen window.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  Everyone knows the bad guy is going to reach through the window and grab me.  Two, there’s not a clean dish in the house.  The knife I grabbed was crusted with whatever I had for dinner the night before.  My intruder was more likely to die from botulism than blood loss if I ever got within stabbing range.  Three, my study break was over and I had to get back to revising my thesis.  So, with knife in hand I braved the living room once again where I found Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo asleep on the couch.

Bitches.

It seemed that Creepy Security Guard Wannabe was somehow thwarted in his efforts, but there’s always tomorrow.  I just know that he has a cellar somewhere and wants to add me to his collection.  I watch all the serial killer movies, I know how this stuff works.

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Human Beans

I spent my birthday on the couch with a nasty cold that’s still lingering.  Lots of coughing, sniffling, “poor me” moaning, and napping.  As I’ve mentioned before, I never have nightmares about the vampires, zombies, and post-apocalyptic literature I teach.  Unless I’m sick.  When I’m sick, the monsters come to play.  This weekend, I dreamt that I was a zombie with a penchant for chocolate-covered caramels.  While there’s nothing frightening about chocolate covered caramels, the scary part was walking into a candy store and having people run from my dead oozing flesh.  Damn it, my zombie money is as good as everyone else’s!  What’s a zombie gotta do to get some service around here!  I also dreamt that my students were vampires.  That’s actually not far from the truth.  One class in particular makes me feel as if they’ve sucked the life out of me. 

Anyway, this weekend was a great time to sit on the couch and catch up on some blog reading and commenting (if I haven’t gotten to your blog yet, I’m coming!  My Google Reader runneth over).  At one point, after the Nyquil had kicked in and I started to feel I had some fight in me, I engaged in a particularly, let’s say, vibrant discussion on another blog about the role of racism in this election (Hint:  It’s a BIG factor).  You should know that I was right and everyone else was wrong.  Okay, I’ll be fair, there were a few others who were right as well.  But I was more right.  Anyway, another commenter made the very astute observation that we all carry prejudices and biases with us whether we choose to acknowledge them or not.  At first, I was offended by this.  I am not a racist!!  I’m voting for Obama! Some of my best friends are…oh, wait….

A few weeks ago, Mr. Dingo was doing some home repairs and needed a special whozawhatsit to finish the job.  After a quick search online, we found the part on sale at the local Home Depot.  I dragged myself on down to the store leaving Mr. Dingo cursing and sputtering under the kitchen sink.  As I wandered around, a nice Indian guy in the Home Depot apron approached me and asked if I needed help.  I told him what I was looking for. He said that they had it in stock but that the manager had the key to the display case and he was at lunch at the moment.  So, I told the gentleman that I was going outside to make a call (I had to call Mr. Dingo to let him know that the cavalry was going to arrive at least 45 minutes later than expected).  The guy promised that he would hold the item for me. 

***15 minutes later***

Me:  Hi!  We just spoke a few minutes ago, you’re holding the whozawhatsit for me. Is the manager back?

Nice Indian Guy:  I’m sorry, Miss, I just came on this shift.  I don’t know what you are talking about.

Me:  We just spoke 15 minutes ago, you said that you didn’t have the key to the display case that has the whozawhatsit but…

Nice Indian Guy:  That wasn’t me…and we don’t have a whosawhatsit in stock.

Me:  What?  We just spoke!  15 minutes ago!  You said you had it in stock.  You had to wait for your manager.

Nice Indian Guy:  M’am that wasn’t me.

Okay, folks, one thing you need to know about Dingo – do NOT “M’am” me.  You also need to know that despite all evidence on this blog to the contrary, sometimes I can get completely irrational and act like an ass.  I know, I know!  I hope it doesn’t change your opinion of me, but there it is.  I am sometimes an ass.  This was one of those times.

Me:  Did you think I wasn’t coming back and sell it while I was gone? 

Nice Indian Guy:  M’am, I didn’t sell anything.  We didn’t talk.  Maybe that was someone else.

Me:  NO.  I specifically remember talking to YOU.

Nice Indian Guy:  Maybe it was Nice Indian Guy Number 2. (turning to the next aisle).  Nice Indian Guy Number 2, do you remember helping this young lady?

At this point, my “Oh Shit” meter began clanging like Big Ben on New Year’s Eve.  As Nice Indian Guy Number 2 came around the corner I realized that not only had I been an ass, but that I had been an ASS.  You know what made it even worse?  The Nice Indian Guys didn’t look anything at all alike.  The guy that I had actually spoken to was my height and wearing a white pinstripe shirt.  The guy I had waved my racist banner in front of like a NASCAR flag, was at least 6 feet tall and wearing a green polo shirt.  Did I say that I was an ass?  I just wanted to say it again, just in case you missed it the first time.

I was mortified.  For all my talk of seeing people as “people,” that morning, all I saw was skin tone and ethnicity.  No, no, don’t try to tell me that I just made a mistake.  It was more than a mistake.  While it may not have been racist in that I had some Nice Indian Guy stereotype, it was racist in that I didn’t see these two gentlemen as individuals. It was a “they all look alike” mentality. 

That morning, I was forced to confront the biases I carry around with me.  But fate wasn’t done bitch slapping me yet.  That afternoon I had another foot in mouth moment when our food delivery guy showed up with our enchiladas, tacos, and burritos.  Our nickname for Dingo Girl is Bean, and she also has the title of Official Greeter of the Dingo Household — especially if she thinks there is food involved.  So, when the buzzer rang and the Mexican delivery guy began to come up the stairs to the apartment, I didn’t want her running downstairs and getting in the way (or getting to my taco before I did).  I opened the door and said “Wait right there, Bean”.  The delivery guy said, “Okay,” and backed down a step or two. 

I was confused by this and didn’t connect the two until I told Mr. Dingo what happened.  “I think Dingo Girl scared the delivery guy even though I told her to wait —” To say my stomach dropped when I realized what had happened would be an understatement.  I turned to Mr. Dingo, “Did I just say, ‘Wait right there, BEAN?‘ Did the Mexican delivery guy think that I was talking to him?” I think this was worse than that morning’s gaffe.  “Please, please tell me that our delivery guy did not think I just used a racial slur.” Mr. Dingo was no consolation, “Yep, I’m pretty sure he thought you were talking to him.”

What kind of world do we live in where people are accustomed to racial slurs and have internalized them so much that our delivery guy would think that I would say something like that?  And just accept it!  He was gone before I even realized the misunderstanding and could apologize.  He should have punched me in the mouth!  That would have taught me!  Or at least he could have pulled a McCain on me and said, “At least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt!” That would have made me realize that I had just unwittingly insulted him. Okay, at least he should have said, “I’m sorry, but did you just call me ‘bean?’” so I had a chance to explain that I had not and so that he, too, could realize what a fool I had just made of myself. 

It doesn’t really end there.  My penance has been to tip well every single time I have Mexican food delivered.  Yes, I could just tip that delivery guy really well one time and explain the confusion, but who am I kidding?  Every time I have Mexican delivered, I say to myself, “Is that Mr. Not-A-Bean?” And I have no idea.

So, that’s liberal guilt in action.  That’s why my Mexican food deliveries are more expensive than ever before.  And that’s me admitting that, yes, we all carry prejudices and biases with us all the time.  They are always just waiting on our lips like a herpes flair-up. 

I am working to recognize and exterminate my unwitting prejudices.  In the meantime, it’s good to deliver to Dingo.

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