If You Want This World To See A Better Day

Helloooo!  Is anybody out there?  I wouldn’t blame you if you had abandoned me.  This place has been filled with dust bunnies and cobwebs of late.  But I’m back, Innernetz!  My thesis is done!  My thesis is done!  After my third and final reader signed the This Is The Best Damn Thing I’ve Ever Read form, I called Mr. Dingo with the joyous news and then promptly came home and took a seven hour nap.

I am now free to get into the Christmas spirit.  And so are you — although some of you have gone ahead and done so without me. Didn’t we already talk about this? Innernetz, you are supposed to put your lives on hold until I can catch up.  But I will forgive you, Innernetz, because I love you.  And it’s Christmas.  Christmas is all about forgiveness.  And presents.  I noticed that on my birthday, in spite of my expectations for a mailbox overflowing with birthday bounty, it was remarkably empty.  I don’t blame YOU, Innernetz, I blame my lazy, thieving postman.  I know he stole all your wonderful gifts. But this is Christmas, so, bygones.

Mr. Dingo gave me an early Christmas present this year and it really put me in the holiday spirit.  He took me to see a folk music concert.  I first fell in love with folk music during my freshman year of college.  To be more specific, it was during Christmas break of my freshman year.  You see, I wasn’t always the sharp, with it woman with terrific rain boots that you know today.  In fact, back then you could say that I fell off the turnip truck. Daily.  So when I misread the dates for Christmas break I found myself back at school a week earlier than everyone else. 

The dorm was desolate.  Well, not completely desolate.  There were the girls who always dressed as if they were going to the Renaissance Festival; complete with long flowing velvet gowns and May pole ribbons in their hair.  I don’t know why they were back early.  The family must’ve run out of mutton or something.  Oh, there were also the vampire chicks.  Yeah, sorry iGeneration, you did not invent the fascination with tall, gaunt men with a thirst for blood.  The vampire chicks on campus slept all day, took night classes, dressed in black and listened to The Cure non-stop.  That they did not volunteer to help with the yearly blood drive had me doubting their commitment to their dark lord.

One of my good college friends, Kate, found out about my predicament and saved me from being challenged to a joust or joining the ranks of the not-really-very-dead by whisking me away to her family’s beautiful farm outside of Fort Worth.  The food was incredible.  I swear I put on the Freshman Fifteen during that one week.  The music, however, was the real feast.  Joan Baez, Simon & Garfunkel, The Mamas and the Papas, you name it, they had it.  On LPs.  And although my transformation from fundamentalist to feminist and political activist didn’t take place until many, many years later, the seeds were planted. 

These are the same seeds I’m attempting to plant in the embryonic brain cells of my students.  On one of my mid-semester evaluations, a male student complained that I was a feminist.  Oh, wait, what he actually wrote was, “FEMINIST.” And underlined it.  Three times.  Although it was meant as a rebuke, I took it as a compliment.  I think he was upset because I called him out for saying that women who wore mini-skirts and tank tops “deserved what they got.” He was also a little bent out of shape when, in response to one of my questions he stated, with no irony or awareness that he is a misogynistic jerk, “Because I’m a real man!” I fired back with, “Real men are not afraid of confident women.” Maybe I should put that on a t-shirt.

Don’t even get me started on his views about minorities, gays, lesbians, immigrants, etc.  It really amazes me that in 2008, his views seem to be the norm among my freshmen students.  I have been surprised by their ultra-conservative viewpoints. It’s as if they’ve been raised sucking at the over-inflated ego and rancorous tit of Rush Limbaugh. I’ve had female students tell me that a woman could not be president because she’s, well, a woman.  In another class, I pointed out that men also face discrimination, particularly when it comes to childcare issues and paternity leave.  My class thought this was hilarious!  Why in the world would a man want to take time off to spend with his newborn?  That’s the wife’s job!  Most of them thought it was disgusting to even consider that a gay couple would adopt a child much less have issues in the workplace regarding time off to care for that child.  Sometimes I want to beat my head against a wall.  Most of the time I want to beat their heads against a wall. Repeatedly.

I think, however, it would be best to send them to Kate’s for re-education.  They will come back too stuffed on good ol’ Southern cookin’ to hate anyone except the person who ate the last piece of pecan (pronounced peh-cahn NOT pee-can!) pie.  And maybe listening to music from people passionate about equality and peace will reach some primordial part of their brain. 

Well, this post ended up miles from where I intended.  I wanted to tell you about the man at the concert who kept giving us the Stink-Eye until the usher made him leave.  I also wanted to tell you how incredible the concert was.  We sang, we drank champagne, we sang louder.  My musical tastes now lean more toward the likes of Feist, Brandi Carlile, Vienna Teng, Rob Thomas, Maroon 5, and Gavin Degraw (Innernetz, are you taking notes?) but there’s a special place in my iPod for folk music.

Classes end next week.  I’m preparing the final exams this weekend.  Maybe I should ask them only one question.  A question Yusuf Isalm (formerly known as Cat Stevens) asked back in 1974:  Oh very young, what will you leave us this time?  Then again, he’s a Muslim.  And I’m pretty sure I know what they’d have to say about that.

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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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Why Won’t She Call Me?

Hello, Innernetz!  I’m back!  I would like to say that I’ve spent the last two weeks touring the White House with the First Family-Elect and trying to help them find a suitable, non-allergenic pooch from a local rescue group but that isn’t the case.  Although I’ve eagerly offered my services via emails and phone calls, I’ve yet to receive a response. What’s up with that, First Family-Elect? Call me!

So, while I’ve been waiting, I’ve been writing my thesis. I know, I know! Raise your hand if you are tired of hearing about my fucking thesis?  Hey!  I said raise your hands, not start the freakin’ wave.  Long story short, my thesis advisor has been MIA all semester.  Emails unanswered, calls unreturned, notes left in her mailbox mysteriously never received – I think the people who run her office may be the same ones running interference between me and the First Family-Elect.  *psst!  Michelle, call me!*

So there I am tooling merrily along on my paper thinking that I had until the middle of December to turn it in to my elusive advisor when I discovered that my completed draft was actually due at the end of last week.  Last. Week.  Lastweek.  Last-week. lastweeklastweek.  A cry went up all throughout the land and there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Actually, the crying went on for quite a while.  At one point, I was worried that I was going to short out my keyboard. 

You know, when you put your entire life on hold to take care of something you expect others will as well, right?  I mean, you’d think because Dingo was not blogging that esprit de corps would mean that YOU weren’t blogging either. You’d think that you’d be home wondering why your emails were unanswered, your calls unreturned, and your cute little notes in my mailbox unacknowledged. But no, not at all.  You were all blogging.  There are over 1000 unread posts in my reader.  You are all asshats.  And I mean that in the nicest way possible.  Really. When Michelle finally invites me to a White House dinner, I will make sure to mention you all fondly as I let the crunchy caramelized crust of the crème brule we’re having for dessert melt on my tongue.

What kept me sane this past week, beside the concerned emails I got from some of you – it meant a lot to me to know that I was missed – were Mr. Dingo and Dingo Girl.  Not a Dingo was of little help.  Have you tried typing a paper with your cat lying on your keyboard or batting your hand as you type?  I think the worst Not a Dingo moments were at 3am when she’d actually yawn her Breath Of A Thousand Putrid Corpses in my face and then fall asleep in front of the monitor and snore.  Loudly. 

Mr. Dingo was a big help bringing me Monster Energy Drinks by the gallon and keeping me supplied in tissues until he decided that his life couldn’t be put on hold either and he had to prepare for a hearing.  A hearing?  Don’t get me wrong, Innernetz.  I understand that millions of dollars were at stake and that he’s a big shot NYC lawyer, but I had a paper due at the end of the week!  In the grand scheme of things, I think that I trump some corporate bigwigs, don’t you?  Where is the love, Innernetz?  Where is the love?!

As usual, Dingo Girl was my most trusted and loyal companion.  She always found a way to make me laugh and she didn’t seem to mind that the snot from my crying jags dried into crusty yuckiness on the back of her neck.  But her love and comic relief sometimes comes at the price of my pride. I took a study break to take her to the park on one of the nicest fall days we’ve had this year.  There was a slight chill in the air — the kind of chill that perks you up but also has you looking forward to a cup of hot tea once you get home.  Red and gold leaves were swirling on invisible currents and there was the delicious scent of roasting chestnuts in the air.  In other words, it was a perfect day to have wedding photos in the park.

I understand that Central Park is gorgeous.  What I don’t understand is how in the world people expect to have wedding photos taken in Central Park without some asshat and her dog in the background.  The afternoon that Dingo Girl and I went to the park, we passed by one of the most popular places for wedding photos — the steps by Bethesda Fountain.  When you stand at the bottom of the steps, it seems as if they lead right up into the sky.  The symmetry and the optical illusion appeal to photographers, wedding parties, and dogs who like to mind everyone else’s business.

As Dingo Girl and I approached the steps, we saw a bride and groom posing for pictures.  I really want to see their proofs because this was some fucked up shit. In one photo, the bride is lying on the steps, head in her arms, face obscured.  The man is standing but he’s straddling her as if he’s stepping over her like a piece of litter.  The photographer is yelling, “Good, good!  That’s great!” Dingo Girl and I follow all the other pedestrians to the left side of the steps to avoid being in the photos.  The line was single-file and I went ahead of Dingo Girl knowing that she would follow me.  Only she didn’t.  She decided that it was more interesting to check out the couple who were now facing the camera gripping each other as if they were trying to withstand gale force winds.  They didn’t notice that four steps above them, a 40-pound yellow dog was scooting her butt across the steps like an Atari Space Invader. 

Although neither the photographer nor the bride and groom noticed my butt-scratching dog in the background of their pictures, everyone else did and started laughing hysterically.  I called to her, telling her to get her yellow ass over to my side of the steps but she ignored me, choosing that moment to sit perfectly still facing the camera.  I hissed, whispered, and used sign language that was unmistakable to get her attention.  When she finally deigned to look my way, Dingo Girl smiled — yes smiled! — and began to scoot her butt the remainder of the way across the steps.  It would have been more dignified had I just apologized, walked over, and grabbed her by the collar.  But no, I was still trying to play it cool and there’s nothing cooler than crawling on your hands and knees across cold marble steps hissing and sputtering to your dog who is paying you no mind whatsoever.

I managed to get Dingo Girl, not because she obeyed the commands I spent months and hundreds of dollars with a trainer trying to teach her, but because once she got to the right hand side of the staircase, she walked up three steps and butt-scooted her way back to my side of the stairs.  I promptly snapped her leash on and headed for home.  She trotted and smiled the entire way. I tell you, cold marble and an ill-mannered dog will get your blood flowing.  I think the adrenaline from our outing kept me writing and typing for at least an hour.

So, my thesis draft is done.  I’m just waiting for comments and suggestions but who knows when those will come in because I think my thesis advisor has entered witness protection or something.  My final deadline is in two weeks and in that time I have to make the revisions, give it to my second reader, incorporate those comments, blah, blah, blah.  And to make it all worse, still nothing from Michelle.  Call me Michelle!  I have a non-allergenic dog that I just KNOW you and the First Family-Elect will love!

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One Of These Things . . .

One of these things is not like the other.

The Obama pictures are from Yes We Can (hold babies).
The McCain photo is from Horsesass.org.

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A Little Bit Crazy A Lot Of The Time

The first deadline for my thesis is Monday and it’s been a real bitch to finish. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer the past few days surrounded by pages and pages of notes, stacks of books, and enough Red Bull to wake the dead. 

That’s why I decided to take a mini-study break and use the Green Tea Calming Face Mask that I had been saving for just such a stressful occasion.  The woman on the box looked happy and calm.  I wanted to be happy and calm!  As my face was on its way to happy calmness, I saw my hair in the mirror. Dear god, this fall weather is wreaking havoc on my hair.  I needed a hot oil treatment.  But not just any hot oil treatment.  I remembered reading about a super-moisturizing-organic-whisk-together-shit-you-have-in your-kitchen-hot-oil-treatment.  But since I never have time to actually finish an entire magazine article, I wasn’t sure if I need to include olive oil and avocado and egg and mayo and honey.  I figured a lot of moisture is better than none and whipped up a foul smelling brew with all the ingredients I had on hand.  Mr. Dingo decided that it was time to say good-night and ran to bed. 

So, with the entire contents of the Whole Foods produce section composting on my head, and a Calming Face mask drying into a Google Maps image of Death Valley on my face, Dingo Girl decided she needed to go out.  Thinking that the Chinese Food I fed her earlier must not agree with her, I threw on a hoodie and sunglasses before we had a Def Con 4 situation on our hardwood floors.  I was confident that I was sufficiently incognito to take her for a quick walk down the street.  After all, who’s out at 2am, right?  I’ll tell you who.  Everyone.  Everyone had decided that one of the coldest nights we’ve had so far was a fine night for a leisurely stroll.

Dingo Girl’s urgent need to poo dissipated as soon as we left the apartment.  She suddenly decided, like everyone else on the street last night, that near-arctic temperatures provide a delightful backdrop for window shopping and unhurried wandering.  I was afraid that I would run into someone I knew who would either run in horror or ask me to explain my Halloween costume.  The great thing about New York, however, is that no matter how out of place you think you are, there’s someone else more fucked up than you.  Last night was my lucky night.

As Dingo Girl and I walked down the street we passed a old man in a trench coat and tube socks.  Tube socks like the hipsters now wear thinking that it’s retro when it’s actually just stupid.  Trench coat and tube socks.  And a fedora.  But only the brim.  Yes, the top of the fedora was missing so the brim of his hat surrounded his head like a monk’s tonsure.  Well, Dingo, you ask, how do you know it was a fedora if the top part was missing?  Oh you sneaky Innernetz, Dingo can’t slip one past you, can she?  I didn’t know if it was a fedora but I do like typing that word.  Fedora, fedora, fedora. 

Anyway, as we passed by this man he yelled out, “Fuck you!” I turned to tell him that I wished him a good night and that I hoped the blessings of the upcoming holiday season descended upon him like cherry blossoms in spring. He yelled, “Fuck you!” again.  Now I realized he wasn’t talking to me.  He was talking to a taxicab on the street that was bleating its horn like a Jeopardy game show contestant on meth.  They made an odd musical pair.

Honk.

Fuckyou!

Honk.

Fuckyou!

Honk.

Fuckyou!

The man never broke stride and was oblivious to the stares and shocked looks he was attracting as his tube-socked, trench-coated, fedora-brimmed self walked down the street.  The scene took on an added element of ridiculousness when both the cab driver and Fedora man increased the tempo of their night music.

Honk. Fuck.

Honk. You.

Honk. Fuck.

Honk. You.

This continued until the man turned the corner.  A woman who might have been a man wearing a red-sequined evening gown under a pink fur jacket, but also wearing tan construction boots and a utility belt complete with foot-long flashlight attached, was standing at the bus stop where Dingo Girl decided she needed to make her night deposit.  She turned to me and, looking directly into my moon-colored hardening-face masked oliveoilavacadoeggmayohoney hair treatment hoodied person, said, “Can you believe the freaks that walk the streets around here?”

“No, m’am,” I said, my face mask cracking a little around the corners of my mouth.  “No, I can’t.”

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