Bill Gates Owes Me

Daylight savings time.  I did a Google search to find out who decided that it was in the best interest of everyone involved to rob me of an hour of sleep.  The first Google entry says Daylight Savings Time Help and Support Center.  I am not a pleasant person when I’ve been short-shrifted some sleep and I am going to be an absolute monster for the next two weeks until my body and my mind get on the same schedule.  I need all the help and support I can get.  I expected an advertisement for melatonin or one of those daylight alarm clocks that wakes you up by simulating the effect of sunrise.  (I’ve always wondered how a snooze button would work on one of those clocks.  Do you tap a button to create a ten-minute solar eclipse?) Instead of taking me to anything even remotely useful, the link was to a Microsoft Web page.  Really?  I type in “Daylight Savings Time” and Bill Gates is the first Google entry?  Wikipedia, you let me down.  And damn you Bill Gates!  As if that stupid talking paper clip isn’t enough, he’s now cornered the market on DST.  Is there anything that man doesn’t own?  Whoever said that you can’t buy time never met Bill Gates.  Okay, how much is it going to cost me to get my hour back?

If we’re going to spring forward tomorrow, as my first-grade teacher liked to say, I guess it’s also a good time to do some spring cleaning.  Dingo Girl and I had a fantastic walk in The Ramble this morning.  The Ramble is my favorite place in Central Park.  With thirty-eight acres of hills, streams, paths, trees, flowers, and wildlife, The Ramble is as far away from the city as you can get while still being in the city.  It is the Calgon of New York real estate.  Remarkably, although I was less than a five-minute walk from Broadway on the West side, not a single city sound interrupted this morning’s walk except for my heavy stalker-like breathing as I dragged myself up yet another hill.  I have gotten out of shape in the last year.  Wait, let me rephrase, it’s not that I’ve gotten out of shape as much as I’ve acquired a new one.  A rounder one.  That I wear over my old one.  Muscle and abs have turned to mush and ass.  In spite of my labored breathing, I came home refreshed and Dingo Girl came home tired — chasing squirrels is exhausting work!  It seemed like a good start to Spring.  I was determined that the brisk walk up and down the hills would kick-start a new exercise and eating program for me.  Not only do I want to be healthy and live to a ripe old age but, as an added incentive, Mr. Dingo and I are headed to Vegas at the end of May.  I want to be ready to sit by the pool at the Bellagio in the same pink and more pink string bikini I wore five years ago.  I could fit into it now but I would look like one of those pork loins wrapped with kitchen twine.  I would be stretching the limits of the spandex and I wouldn’t want to injure anyone standing near me if my pink bikini decided to blow. 

All the optimism came to a crushing halt after a trip to the grocery store.  Gummi Bears, Mike & Ikes, and Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies are not exactly low-fat fare.  But it was yummy.  Never, never shop on an empty stomach.  So tomorrow — tomorrow I say! — I start a healthy eating plan.  It can be done and I will be the one to do it!  After I finish the cookies.  And, yes, the gummi bears, the Mike & Ikes, the ribs….  Oh, did I mention that we had ribs for dinner?  Anyway, after everything else has been consumed, I will be ready for my new body.  Dear, dear, dear readers, it would not hurt my feelings in the least if you submitted my name to the people at Extreme Makeover. 

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Doodle Dee Dee

Dingo Girl loves stuffed animals.  Dingo Girl loves stuffed animals that make lots of noise.  Dingo Mama and Mr. Dingo are about to go insane over her new favorite stuffed noise maker, the Deedle Dudes Cow.  Here’s a picture of this oh-so-wonderful toy. 

And while a picture may paint a thousand words, it certainly does not do this toy justice.  You would think that a toy cow would moo.  But not Deedle Dudes Cow.  Oh no, not this cow.  This cow has forsaken the pastoral, rustic moo for a more techno sound.  Listen to the audio clip below to share our pain, because you know, I’m all about sharing. 

Speaking of sharing, I will send a Deedle Dudes Cow to the first person to submit a comment telling me about your bundle of joy’s most annoying toy.

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Craptacular

I haven’t posted much this craptacular week.  Certain family situations had my hackles raised and claws drawn.  I might let you get away with a minor slight against Texas, but don’t mess with my Mama.  The helplessness of not being able to do anything for her but offer words of support angered me almost as much as the jackass that’s making her life difficult right now.  That the jackass happens to be another family member doesn’t help matters.  Maybe one of you out there is wondering whether I’m referring to you.  Well, if you have to wonder… So, I spewed enough acid in my potential posts to peel multiple layers of polyurethane off my hardwood floors (at one point when I was writing, Mr. Dingo mentioned, quite spontaneously, that he had never liked the monsters in Aliens).  And then I deleted my words in case there was a possibility that I would have to eat them later.  A few days before posting my first blog entry last month I read Julie Pippert’s post about How To Talk About Other People On Your Blog.  It was a thought-provoking post about how we blog about our personal histories and the people in our lives.  I’ve since printed out her Seven Guidelines and have it taped by my desk until I can make it to the tattoo parlor to have them etched into my forearm.  Even if I’d never read Julie’s post , I hope that I would’ve deleted my angry rants before posting them, but it’s nice to have a reminder for those times when the angel on my shoulder is taking a day off and the devil is dancing up and down on the SUBMIT key.

In other crapitudinous news, Dingo Girl decided that the dog food and copius table scraps we usually feed her just weren’t good enough.  She decided to go for “the other white meat” and took a chunk out of a friend of ours.  Just because I cracked a lame but somewhat racially charged joke about it, believe me, it’s nothing to laugh about.  Having your dog bite someone is intolerable.  The fact that we live in NYC and a simple walk around the block puts us in contact with mouth-watering hordes at roughly every mealtime makes the situation all the more dire.  Beyond the scrumptiousness of this particular friend — whom Mr. Dingo and I have often commented would go well with a nice Chianti, lightly dusted with rice flour and quickly sautéed with cherry tomatoes and a light cream sauce — we don’t know what triggered her bite.  She hasn’t been feeling well lately and has been unusually skittish during our walks.  She constantly looks over her shoulder as if she’s being tailed and will dart away at the slightest sound and unexpected movement.  When this first began to happen, I thought, “She has those keen dog senses!  She knows something I don’t!  We had better run!” And the two of us would bolt down the street together screaming, running from nothing in particular.  Today, a guy wearing a hockey mask carrying a machete dripping blood could suddenly appear behind us causing her to freak out.  I would ignore her warning with a yawn and sigh.  She has set me up to be one of those stupid, oblivious people in horror movies!  Well, anyway, her skittishness has made me wonder what she gets into during the day when I’m at work.  Maybe The Vampire has recruited her into his secret agent network or something.  Or maybe she watches Nancy Grace on CNN all morning and has come to realize that evil lurks around every corner, but all we can do about it is cry and cry.

Up until now I’ve taken Dingo Girl on shopping expeditions.  That’s one of the great things about NYC.  Most stores allow canine companions and many have water bowls at the door and delicious treats behind the counter.  Among Dingo Girl’s favorite shopping haunts are Home Depot and Bed Bath and Beyond.  Dingo Girl is all into the DIY thing.  And if shopping for my DIY efforts isn’t enough to satisfy Dingo Girl’s appetite for treats, my execution of the actual DIY labor may distract me long enough so that she can sneak into Not a Dingo’s litter box for a feline fudge brownie.  Yum.  Often, though, we work as a team.  I create while she destroys.  If I get new curtains, that means she can lay on the old curtains and chew on the hardware.  If I buy new pillows, that means she can rip up the old pillows.  This may not sound appropriate to you, but that could only mean that you have never experienced it.  You see, together, we are the godlike creator/destroyer.  We are the Phoenix, rising from the ashes we fashion.  We are Shiva.  We are Bob Villa!

I spent two days calling trainers/behaviorists who work with aggressive dogs.  That was one of the hardest things to overcome — the label of “aggressive dog.” One trainer understood my qualms about labeling Dingo Girl and rephrased it, “so you have a dog that has exhibited aggressive behavior.” Yes, that’s more like it, though I prefer to think that she was inappropriately confrontational or unnecessarily argumentative.  Maybe the ultimate irony is that she now gets a trainer because she had a fit of rebellion, lashing out at authority in the form of a pulpy little human hand?  Well, after a lot of research and calling around I found someone I trust to help us.  This particular behaviorist doesn’t come cheap, but the cheap ones all asked if Dingo Girl bruised easily.  Really, for what we’re paying this behaviorist, I think Mr. Dingo and I should get to bite her.  We’ve just finished paying Dingo Girl’s surgical bills and thought that this month would be the month we get a little cushion.  Instead, this month is the month that Mr. Dingo and I have to decide who is going to sell their kidney.  I sold my soul last month, I think it’s Mr. Dingo’s turn to put up. 

So, those two things are what drove me into writing reclusiveness last week.  I didn’t know how to write about them and I was throwing myself a pity party.  Be glad I didn’t invite you to the party.  It was a last minute thing and all I had on hand were feline fudge brownies.

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