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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We’re Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

It’s that time of year again folks!  Yep, my birthday is upon us and I’ve already alerted the postman to expect an exponential increase in packages and letters.  You still have four more shopping days until the big day and if you are stumped for ideas, let me help you:  BLING.

Moving on to more stuff about me…every year around this time I pick a something new to learn or do in the coming year.  One year I learned how to scuba dive.  Of all the things I’ve done, this is one of those what-was-I-thinking? moments.  I can’t swim, I am terrified of fish, and I am shockingly unskilled at breathing underwater. 

Of those three things, it’s the fish that scare me the most.  I’m not talking about great whites or barracuda.  Anyone in their right mind would be scared of those.  I’m talking catfish.  Trout.  And other things I don’t know the names of because really, if I learned their names, that means that I’d just have to get close enough to identify them.  Not.  Gonna. Happen.

Fast forward to an early Spring day as I am testing my oxygen tank for my basic scuba diving certification.  It was a four-day accelerated course.  Three days of classroom time and one day of diving.  While others were concerned about dive tables, decompression sickness, imploding lungs, and exploding ear drums, I kept asking the instructor, “Are there sharks?  We won’t see any sharks will we?  What about sharks?” He assured me that there were no sharks and then proceeded to bore me with things like emergency ascents and buddy breathing.  An emergency ascent is how to get the hell outta dodge with the least amount of damage to your ears and lungs.  Buddy breathing teaches you how to wrestle the respirator from your diving buddy, steal his air, and dispose of the body before heading back to the boat.  I came up with my own little emergency contingency plan.  Shark Escape©.  Shark Escape© is when you see a shark and you stab your diving buddy with your dive knife. While he’s fish fodder you can make your getaway.  The fact that my diving buddy was my soon to be Ex made that contingency plan all the more appealing.

As we prepped for our dive on the last morning, I kept peering into the dark murky water.  A storm the previous night had stirred up the silt on the bottom making the usually crystal clear waters muddy and dark.  I don’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.  If I was going to be dragged to my watery grave in a Great White death spiral, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see it coming or if I just wanted to be blindsided.  Knowing that I was anxious about the dive, the dive master told me to stick close to him.  I thought that was a good idea except that he had so many layers of dive gear on that I wasn’t sure if my little five inch dive knife would be long enough to shank him good and deep if it became necessary to use Shark Escape©.

They eventually got me in the water We got in the water.  I couldn’t see beyond the end of my arm but dark shapes would pass by.  Some would gently tap my leg or flipper before darting away and others would hover near me, just out of sight.  After the first ten minutes, I started to relax.  While I was not as gung ho to see fish as the rest of my diving crew, I was in awe of the other underwater life and was soothed by the sound of my breathing (even if it was a little fast and anxious).  Everything else was blocked out.  No talking, no cell phones, blackberries, emails.  Just the rhythm of my breath and the soothing sounds of water currents, shifting sand, and…HOLY FUCK!!  The dive master grabbed my arm in a kung fu death grip.  “This is it!” I thought.  I let my guard down and now I’m going to be on the losing end of Shark Escape©.  He indicated that I was to look at him.  Only at him.  Which meant that as he fiddled for the underwater writing slate, I was craning my neck in every direction to see what the hell was going on.  What was that up ahead?  I could just make out some rather large shapes when my point of view suddenly sharpened.  Shiny.  Silver.  BIG!!!

The dive instructor, with catfish trout SHARK-like reflexes, tightened his grip on my arm.  I was trying to pull away but he was shaking his head.  WTF?  I looked toward the instrument of my imminent demise and easily overcame my earlier aversion to peeing in my wetsuit.  There were three of them.  The smallest one was about twenty-five feet away, close to 200 pounds and 7 feet long.  It looked like I was on the brunch menu.  The dive instructor was pointing to his diving slate, reached out his hand and forcibly turned my head to make me look at what he had written:  Not Shark!!  Tarpon.

Innernetz, let me restate the relevant facts:  200 pounds and 7 feet long.  Who the hell cares if it’s a shark (three sharks!) or not.  It could have been three goldfish!  I still wanted out of there.  To say that the next few moments were a blur is not only a cliché but oh so true.  Back on the boat, I waited for the other divers.  Did I mention that although the water temperature was 72 degrees, a freakish cold front had moved through and I was sitting topside in an open air boat, soaking wet, on a brisk 40 degree Saturday afternoon?  Good times.

My not-shark attack had come at the end of the required dive after I had completed all the mandatory tasks, so I actually passed my basic diving certification exam. I was holding my newly minted certification card in my hand as the dive master was praising all of us for our accomplishment.  In fact, we’d completed our certification ahead of schedule and he offered to take us out for an extra day in order to do some advance training in a local river.  Sign me up!  A river?  Easy peasy!  As I scrawled my signature to the sign-up list, the dive master gathered us around the video screen in our classroom.  “Before we go on our drift dive tomorrow, I’d like you to take a look at this video telling you what to do if confronted by an alligator.”

Oh Hell To The No.

So, this year I’m thinking of something a little less taxing.  Like skydiving.  I ain’t fraida no birds!

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My dinner with…

Last night I had dinner with Stoogepie of stoogepie.com. 

One of the best things to come from blogging is that I have gotten to meet so many people that I wouldn’t have known otherwise.  Including people who, like Stoogepie, if not already on a sexual predator list. probably will be someday.  You see, Stoogepie is some kind of pervert madman writer and artist.  It was with some anticipation and trepidation that I met the famous, or infamous, Mr. Stoogepie.  I took Mr. Dingo with me.  And left detailed information with family and friends if I did not text, Tweet, or call the next day.

The point of this meeting was to witness the choice of the winner of Stoogepie’s Nude MILF Sweepstakes.  Yesterday, the winners of the Blogger’s Choice Awards were chosen, so the contest ended.  Crissy won the Hottest Mommy Blogger category!  She won with 578 votes, beating Dooce by 86 votes!  Fantabulous! Oh yeah!  Who’s your Hottest Mommy Blogger?  Say her name…say it!

Stoogepie had to select a winner for better than $1,250 worth of camera gear.  And, because the asshats at Blogger’s Choice decided not to show the votes, Stoogepie needed a witness to demonstrate that he picked the winner fairly.  When I got the e-mail from Stoogepie asking me to play Heidi Klum to his Tim Gunn, I almost deleted it as spam.  The message was from Stoogepie but the subject line said something like, “Night of XXXtacy.” I opened it with hesitation – meaning I opened it at work just in case there was a virus attached – and was delighted to discover that he wanted my assistance in choosing the winner of the camera package.  Apparently, I have mentioned on my blog that I used to be a lawyer but I suspect I was also chosen for this perilous assignment because I am also anonymous and happen to live within walking distance of Stoogepie.  Then again, I’ve also mentioned that I have great ta-tas.  No, no, it’s not that; I’m convinced Stoogepie loves me for my mind.

We were supposed to meet October 16th because he expected the winners to have been announced by then.  Because that’s what the website said.  But, again, the asshats at Blogger’s Choice messed up that plan by announcing the winners after midnight.  So, Stoogepie cancelled and rescheduled for last night.

So, I waited on a street corner with a shivering Mr. Dingo.  It really wasn’t all that cold, but Mr. Dingo had been given a crash course in stoogieness the day before via Stoogepie’s latest barfably disgusting post.  I think he was a little worried.  Mr. Dingo has never been worried about my blogger meet-ups before but, for some reason, he really wanted to go on this one.  I think he was concerned that steak was not the only meat on Stoogepie’s menu for the evening.

Stoogepie approached me and I immediately knew it was him.  He didn’t say anything.  He didn’t say “hello.” He didn’t say, “Dingo!” He circled me a few times, and I could almost see a Mister Shorts style balloon over his head saying, “Well, I’ve got a contest in my shorts I’d like for you to monitor,” or something similar.  He did not look like his cartoon.  His hair is shorter and darker and his features are sharper.  Brookem, I think you have your next HOH.  He’s thin but muscular, and was wearing a gray coat so long that it looked like it had been stolen from the set of the Matrix.  In other words, he’s delish.  In that bad boy type of way.  Not a poser bad boy but a REAL bad boy.  The kind of bad boy that you just know is going to break your heart but that you will gladly wait in line for the privilege.  I’m paraphrasing a little, but he finally said, “Dingo!  You’re different from what I was expecting.  All I got right in my mind were the boots and the tits.” Then he turned to Mr. DIngo and said, “I didn’t really have a picture of you at all.  I’m Stoogepie.”

We then went to his apartment, which was-oh-my-fucking-god: spacious, lots of art, lots of books, a fireplace in the living room and the kitchen (yes, I asked to see the kitchen), and the most beautiful coffee table I have ever seen.  I tried not to gape like a tourist in Times Square.  Sadly, I didn’t see the Stoogepie pig.  Or his cat for that matter.  He also had the biggest flat-screen computer monitor I have ever seen.  And given from what Stoogepie has said about his extracurricular activities, it was notably free of, ahem, let’s say, debris. Mr. Dingo’s monitor envy was thinly concealed.  Stoogepie said something like, “Well, you know what they say about dudes with big monitors....” Mr. Dingo laughed nervously.  Mr. Dingo has a 17” monitor.  The whole night was like that.

Stoogepie wanted to get right down to business.  There were 578 votes cast.  He went to random.org and chose a number between 1 and 578.  The number was 277.  He had printouts of the first eighteen pages of votes, so he flipped to page 14 and the winner was Soapbox.  (If it had not been in the first eighteen pages, he would have had a problem, but intended to email to Blogger’s Choice to ask them to tell him the username.) So, we had chosen a winner and it was all perfectly legal.  It was easy.  But the night was still young and the wine was flowing.

For dinner, we went to Uncle Jack’s in Midtown, a fancy schmancy steakhouse, but Stoogepie was treating. Gun running and drug smuggling must be really lucrative.  We each ordered a steak and then Stoogepie ordered stuff for the table, including wine and seafood and Kobe beef.  I had never had Kobe beef before.  It’s ridiculously expensive and I have to admit, it tasted like hamburger to me.  It’s tender all right, so it had the consistency of potted meat food product and it disintegrated in your mouth.  It had the texture of Spam that had been put in a blender and then pushed through a sieve.  Mr. Dingo, however, liked it and, overall, the food was great.  The wine was great, too, and I had way, way too much.  Not enough to enter Ben’s contest perhaps—because, as NPW and blakspring can tell you, I’m a lightweight—but enough so that being with Stoogepie while also feeling like a rich kid’s birthday piñata might have been a mistake. Because Stoogepie, in case you don’t follow his website, can be nauseatingly explicit.

Truth is, Stoogepie is really funny in person, especially after a little wine.  After about the first bottle, he looked across the table at Mr. Dingo and said, “This is always awkward.  Do I raise the possibility of a threesome now, while you have time to mull it over, or do I wait until you get to know me better, but forcing you to make a snap decision?” Mr. Dingo just stared past him blankly, his mouth agape, Kobe beef semi-dissolved, until I started to laugh.  I think Mr. Dingo shaved about a year off his life just then, though.  Then Stoogepie proceeded to shave a year off mine.

I consider myself a pretty well-rounded person, and I don’t mean just my ass.  But Stoogepie is positively a fount of disturbingly funny knowledge.  About bondage. And domination. And bizarre sexual practices. And pornography and biblical tales of people killing other people so they could collect their foreskins.  For instance, did any of you know that Sir Henry Norris, alleged lover of Anne Boleyn who was executed with her by Henry VIII, was also royal groom of the stool?  And did you know that the groom of the stool’s job was to wipe the king’s ass?  Yes, look it up.  I did after dinner.  According to Stoogepie, “I would kill my wife if she screwed the dude who wiped my ass, too.  Show a little discrimination!  At least screw around with the royal piss aimer or the royal wanker.” The Kobe beef was tasting nastier and nastier.  And Stoogepie carries a little notebook with him, often illustrating these glorious stories as he goes.  It was like a game of Pricktionary.  Not everything he says is dirty.  We did talk a good deal about politics.  If you haven’t read his political posts because the sex and blasphemy posts have gotten your internet privileges banned at work, find a computer in a library somewhere and read President Sarah Palin, Modern War Toys, and No Country for Young Men.  Warning:  Electoral Buttplugs may get your ass banned from the library.  Politically we agree on most everything, but Stoogepie had his own take on some things:  “People really need to think about what a Palin presidency would look like, because McCain is at that age when dying does not even qualify as a turn of events.”

Really, I haven’t felt like talking much since dinner.  Mr. Dingo and I have hardly anything left to talk about.  We covered it all.

Stoogepie never did cough up his real name but the waiter happened to let it slip when he returned Stoogepie’s credit card.  “Thank you, Mr. ____,” he said.  I just about flipped out.  That’s like knowing James Bond’s real name!  Oh wait, James Bond is 007’S real name, isn’t it?  Anyway, I am sworn to secrecy or Stoogepie will kill me.  And I’ve seen Stoogepie’s collection of play toys.  There will be no killing me softly.  As a result, that’s all I have to say about my dinner with Stoogepie.

Oh, wait!  One more thing.  He didn’t advertise it or promote it in any way but Stoogepie won second place as the Hottest Celebrity Blogger in the 2008 Blogger’s Choice Awards!  He got beat by some woman named Rosie O’Donnell.  Who the hell is that?

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The Bare Facts

Two weeks.  It’s been two weeks since I’ve been running.  In that time I’ve made up for my lack of lower body work by working other parts of my body.  Lifting Oreos, spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s, and candy corn has built my upper arms.  And lower fl-abs.  And hips.  Yesterday I realized that I didn’t want seven months of work and 15 pounds lost to go to waist so I started running again. 

In the weeks leading up to my knee injury, my passion for running had started to wane.  I was more concerned about miles, pace, and whether my running shorts were giving me a wedgie that would look unflattering in the pictures at the finish line than about my feet pounding the pavement and the zen effect of emptying my mind of everything but breath and movement. 

This injury has actually made me not just step back but step off the running track and reevaluate my goals.  My goal was to get healthy.  Check.  My goal was to lose weight.  Check.  The marathon was incentive.  It was not my goal.  Although when we added the stay at a cute bed and breakfast the weekend of the marathon and the potential of the bright shiny medal when I crossed the finish line, running the marathon became the goal.  And you know what these past two weeks have taught me?  Fuck that!  Yep, fuck that.  I run because I’m a runner.  While I do hope to complete a marathon someday, if I don’t, I am still Fan-fucking-tastic! 

So, I ran this weekend.  A measly mile.  Just one mile.  But I felt great.  My knee felt great.  I wanted to run more but I didn’t push it.  My sports doctor said I could run three to five miles without causing any harm but my sports doctor is an asshat.  Really, the bitch didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.  The visit did not begin well and I think that may have clouded her judgment.  My appointment was for the midafternoon.  I was working on my thesis which is OH MY GOD DUE IN THREE WEEKS when I realized that I must have slipped into a black hole, or fallen asleep at my desk, because one minute I was taking notes and the next, I had twenty minutes to get to my appointment. 

There was no time to shower or shave my legs, which hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a Gillette since my bikini wax a few days earlier.  Yes, I like to be as hairless as possible before getting my bikini wax.  For some reason, I think the absence of hair on other parts of my body will somehow negate the horrifying effect of the Chewbacca growth sprouting from my hooha.  Lisa has never commented on the silky smoothness of my legs but –what?  Yes, Lisa and I are on a first name basis.  Look, if someone is applying hot wax to your nether regions and pulling your hair out by the roots, you are either on a first name basis or you have a gimp mask and a safe word if things get too out of hand.  Anyway, Lisa has never commented on the silky smoothness of my legs but I know she must talk to her co-workers once I leave.  I can just imagine them gathering around the water cooler with their plastic cups sticking to the wax remnants on their hands as she says, “You know that Dingo, she gets as hairy as a Tribble if she misses an appointment but DAMN if she doesn’t have the smoothest silkiest legs that have ever brushed against my forearms!”

Anyway, there was no time for hair removal as I dashed out the door.  Twenty minutes later I’m in the exam room waiting for Dr. Asshat to enter wondering if I had time to use the sharp, unidentifiable medical utensil on the counter to scrape my legs to baby smoothness.  As I was pondering the benefits of using foaming hand sanitizer as shaving lotion, one of the assistants came in and placed a folder and a tiny blue square of tissues on the counter.  She told me to take off my clothes from the waist down, leaving my underwear on.  Um, remember when I said that I hadn’t shaved in a few days?  Yeah, I’ve been so busy that 5 minutes to shave was a luxury I didn’t have.  Hours to do laundry? Fuggedabouddit!  Yes, that’s right.  No laundry.  No underwear.  Basically, I was to strip down to my t-shirt and the skin god gave me.  With dry, scaly, stubbly legs.  Shoot. Me. Now.

Let’s recap, shall we?  No shower.  No shaving.  No underwear.  It couldn’t get any worse right?  Oh, come on now, folks!  This is Dingo we’re talking about!  Of course it could get worse!

As I knelt to take off my shoes I realized that I had worn my old running shoes.  The shoes I had already logged 250+ miles in.  To say that they stunk would be too kind.  They reeked.  They smelled like dead things.  Dingo Girl has tried to bury them more than once and Mr. Dingo refuses to be in the same room with them.  But they are soooo comfortable I can’t get rid of them. Anyway, when I removed the Shoes of Death a mushroom cloud of funk filled the room.  I frantically tried to open the one window in the room but it was painted shut – a fact that would soon be remedied as the paint started to curl and peel when the Aroma of Death hit it.  But I didn’t have time!  I could hear Dr. Asshat outside the exam room door flipping through my charts.  Her hand was on the door knob.  Quick!  Quick!  Do something! 

I didn’t want her to come in as I was standing bare assed by the window so I leapt onto the exam table with a loud crash as she walked into the room.  I don’t know what hit her first.  The sight of my bare ass sliding across the table or the Aroma of Death.  She had a look of terror on her face and I think the only thing that kept her in the room was her Hypocratic Oath, which at the time sounded something like “DAY-UM!” I sat hunched over in a C-shape on the table trying to hide my girl bits when Dr. Asshat politely demanded asked if I would like a robe.  “Yes!  Yes! Thank you!” I responded with relief.  Then she went over to the counter and handed me the tiny 5 inch square of tissue the assistant had laid on the counter.  Turns out, it was not a pile of tissue but a pair of nylonish boxer shorts.  How was I to know that minuscule piece of fabric was for me to wear?!  I put on the shorts and the consultation began.

With that inauspicious opening, did the exam really have a chance in hell of going well?  No.  No, it didn’t.  I won’t go into detail about it but let’s just say that Dr. Asshat earned her name.  To be fair, I know that as soon as I left she was telling the rest of the office about me, Patient Bare Ass.  I’m supposed to go back for a follow-up visit in three weeks but I think I’m going to make an appointment with someone else. 

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Ditto

When Dingo Girl and I got back from her walk this morning, a woman with a CSI: NY hat was walking out of our building.  Two things came to mind.  One, did Mr. Dingo finally snap and kill our annoying upstairs neighbors?  Two women moved in about a week ago and have already wormed their way into the darkest, crankiest part of my heart.  They are recent college grads – I know, I did reconnaissance when they first moved in – who apparently majored in walking around on hardwood floors wearing steel stilettos, with a double minor in high pitched squeals and drunken stumbling up stairs.  You probably met many women just like them on your campus.  You know, the ones seeking an MRS degree whose sole purpose for being in college is to graduate to a white gown and veil.

My second thought was that the nosy neighbors in the building across from us called Crime Stoppers.  Because they are nosy.  And they watch all those crime shows.  I know that because I can see their TV from my terrace.  Hey!  There’s a difference between reconnaissance and nosiness.  Reconnaissance is when I ask questions and peek through curtains.  Nosiness is when everyone else does it.  Anyway, one of these neighbors may have been able to peak into our window to see the No Man’s Land that is our kitchen (because no man has been in there to do dishes in ages – no woman either) and mistakenly assumed it was a crime scene. 

Dingo Girl and I made our way upstairs.  There was no crime scene tape and unless there were dead bodies under the piles of laundry, everything seemed to be customarily out of place.  In a few days, when the radiators start pumping thermonuclear heat, if the smell of decomposition fills the air I will have to take a look at the misshapen lump under the largest pile. 

The sorority party upstairs must abate before midnight — or at least during Grey’s Anatomy on Thursday’s — or there will be two misshapen lumps under the dry cleaning.  Their presence just adds one more con to the pro/con list Mr. Dingo and I compile every year at lease renewal time.  For all its faults, I like this apartment.  I don’t want to move.  I think I like this apartment even more because I don’t want to move.  No, not “I don’t want to move” but “I don’t want to MOVE!” Moving in NYC is about as painless as passing a kidney stone.  And expensive.  A one bedroom in a walk-up, no doorman, safe neighborhood, close to mass transit, dog-friendly, with appliances from this century will cost, at a minimum, $2500.  Add a broker’s fee of 20% of your entire year’s rent, a security deposit, first and last month’s rent, movers, blah, blah, blah, and it often ends up being cheaper to stay right where you are.  And buy ear plugs.  So, I think we’re going to stay in this apartment.  That’s the apartment hunting advice from this jaded New Yorker.  If you can tolerate where you are, stay there.  Believe me, the bar for what I can tolerate is pretty low.  I’ve lived in some pretty intolerable places.

When I first moved to NYC umpteen years ago to work for Pathetic Air Lines, I had grand dreams of the ultimate apartment.  I lived in Ft. Worth at the time.  I had a 980 sq. ft. two-bedroom apartment in a gated community, a beautifully landscaped pool, concierge service, a double balcony, and beautiful views of a field of wildflowers.  For that, I paid the outrageous price of $405 a month.  It was crazy to spend that much money for an apartment in Ft. Worth but I thought it was worth it.  So, during training, when four of my flight attendant buddies and I discussed where we would live once we got to New York and how much each of us could afford to pay, I said, “Well, I paid $405 for an entire apartment in Ft. Worth.  I suppose I could spend about $200 a month.” Mind you, many of us had spent much of the early 90s watching Demi Moore make ugly pottery over and over again in her New York city loft apartment.  Hey, if she could live in that loft on what an artist makes, well, so could we.  Especially if there were four of us to foot the bill. 

We scoured Bed, Bath and Beyond and The Container Store for fun and unique ways to decorate our yet to be rented crash pad.  By the way, does anyone else think the phrase “crash pad” is highly inappropriate for people working for an airline?  Anyway, we wanted the apartment to be walking distance from Central Park.  With a terrace.  And a laundry room.  And a gym.  And a doorman.

We didn’t end up near the park.  We didn’t even end up in Manhattan.  We hadn’t planned on landlords telling us that they don’t rent to flight attendants because we would just get pregnant and walk out on the lease.  We hadn’t planned on New York City being so damned expensive and our paychecks being so damned small.  We made just over the qualification for welfare. 

No loft.  No pottery wheel.  The only ghosts were the ones left behind by whatever crack deal had undoubtedly gone wrong resulting in the vacancy.  My first apartment in New York almost made me turn tail and run back to Texas.  It didn’t have a lock.  We had to place a chair against the door to “lock” it from the inside.  It had a gas stove with two burners that you had to light with a match.  Roaches and other multi-legged critters would run from the burners when the flame ignited.  I think that might have been one of the landlord’s selling points.  Pet-friendly, because believe me, those motherfuckers were the size of the cats that scratched at our windows at night to get inside.  Apparently, the mice in our apartment were tastier than anything they could catch on the street.  I lived in that apartment for three months before having enough money to move up in the world.  I moved in with seven other women into a two-bedroom town house.  I was lucky.  I got a top bunk and paid $500 a month for the privilege.

So, annoying noisy neighbors upstairs?  That, that I can tolerate.  And I’m sure they’ll provide tons of blog fodder in the months to come. 

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