I Am?!  I Am the Dog?!

Dingo Girl and I got back from Mom’s late this afternoon.  I meant to blog more while I was there but Mom was a slave driver kept me busy.  After this week, between yard work and paper work, I don’t think there isn’t a hedge trimmer I can’t master or a printer I can’t configure.  Dingo Girl did a lot of work too!  There were squirrels to chase, sticks to fetch, naps to take, and bellies to be rubbed.  Now I understand that age-old dog lament: “Rough!”

It wasn’t all work, though.  We made several trips to mecca Target.  There is no Target in New York City, but I heart Target.  I understand why all the zombies head to malls in the George Romero movies.  I know that, when I come back as a zombie, I’m going to Target!  Some people find peace and contentment in church and religious worship.  Target is my church.  The big red Bulls Eye is, to me, more beautiful than stained glass.  When the sliding doors part with their reverent “shuuuush” and bid me enter the over air-conditioned sanctuary, I am at peace.  I am at one with commerce. 

Really, what does religion have that Target doesn’t?  Need peace of mind?  Head to the pharmacy for some Valium and Ativan.  Need cleansing?  Soap is in aisle six.  Food for the soul?  Can’t see your way in this world?  There’s a Starbucks and optical center.  If you are one of the fortunate few who lives near a Target Greatland, send me your address.  I’m coming for a visit.

Returning home proved to be the only downside of our pilgrimages to the holy city.  Odd Boy always awaited us as we pulled into the driveway.  Determined that my dedication to Animal Planet would do me some good, I advised Mom to just sit still.  “He can’t see you unless you move and his memories are only two minutes long.  He’ll go away.  Just. Don’t. Breathe.” It never worked.  Mom would get blue in the face and I would start blacking out just as Odd Boy tapped on the car window, “Is there a dog in there?”

The last time I saw Odd Boy, he was particularly brilliant.  As Dingo Girl circled the bags to see what we had brought her (Woofhoo!  Target has doggie toys!), Odd Boy came up with this astute observation:

Odd Boy:  Did you ever notice how owners look like their dogs?

Me:  Are you saying that I look like a dog?

Odd Boy:  I’m just saying that dogs and their owners look alike.

Me:  Exactly what about me looks like a dog?

Odd Boy:  People go into the pet store, they see a dog that looks like them and they say, ‘That’s the dog I want.  It looks like me.’

Now I happen to think that Dingo Girl is the cutest thing evah but I don’t think that is what he was getting at. 

Once we got inside, I pulled up some pictures from last summer on my laptop.  It was Dingo Girl’s first trip to the beach.

Here’s me:

Here’s Dingo Girl:

I don’t see a resemblance at all.  Do you?  No, Odd Boy is just odd.

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Old Dog Teaches New Tricks

Dingo Girl and I are at Mom’s this week.  There are a lot of things on the agenda like showing her how to use her ATM card (we accomplished the internet and Gmail on my last trip), updating her cell phone plan, and most importantly, getting her to have some fun.  I’m trying to jump start her new persona as the slutty divorcée, but she’s resisting.  In between her volunteer work with her church youth group and caring for homebound and elderly church members, she doesn’t have much time to shop for fire-engine red teddy’s and six-inch stilettos.  I’m working on it though.  Of course, this is coming from someone whose idea of lounge wear shuns silk and ribbons for cotton tanks and boxers.  Oh yes, Mr. Dingo got hizself a practical girl! 

When I explained that I’m prepping her for life as a cougar, Mom looked puzzled at first.  After I described exactly what a cougar is, she looked at me like I had whipped a vibrator out of my purse and told her, “Here!  Try it!” Okay, maybe she’s not quite ready to look beyond southern belle right now.  I guess we’ll have to wait for the Match.com lesson until next time.

Dingo Girl loves it when we visit Mom.  There’s a backyard and trees that she doesn’t have to share with any other dog!  She likes to sit on the front porch and I join her with a glass of iced tea and a book.  It’s usually peaceful.  Usually. 

Today, the odd boy playing basketball in his driveway (in 90 degree heat!) across the street took an interest in us.  Every single time Dingo Girl and I stepped onto the front porch, Odd Boy came over.  First, he’d stop shooting hoops and just stare.  Then, he’d wander over to the curb and wait a few seconds before sloooowly meandering across the street.  After taking time to smell the rose bushes lining Mom’s driveway, he would eventually make it to the porch.  He did this every. Single. Time.  And every single time he’d ask me, “Is that your dog?” The first time it was funny in that, “No, I’m just doing some animal testing for my radiation therapy class.  You can have what’s left of her when I’m done,” sorta way.  But after the third time it was creepy and I thought he just might have been hired by evil scientists to secure subjects for animal testing for a radiation therapy class.  And I wasn’t too sure that I wasn’t on the one on his list!

The usual social cues were not working, “Well, it was nice meeting you,” or “Have a good day,” or even, “Get out of here weirdo,” were not having any effect.  The last one was particularly ineffective, probably because I said it inside my head.  But I said it very loudly in my head.  Anyway, Dingo Girl and I left him standing on the porch. 

About thirty minutes later, Dingo Girl wanted to go out.  I grabbed her ball and we headed out the front door.  Odd Boy was still on the porch.  He was sitting on the bench I had vacated thirty minutes earlier because he wouldn’t leave.  He looked at me, “Is that –?” “Yes, we’re going to play fetch,” I said, cutting him off.  So, I threw the ball and Dingo Girl laid down in the grass.  I told her to go get it and she rolled around in the grass.  This is how we play fetch.  It’s a spectator sport for her.  I throw the ball and she waits for me to go fetch it.  It’s a whole lot of fun.

Odd Boy wandered over to where we were in the front lawn.  “Does she know how to play fetch?” Is this kid fucking with me?  Did he not just see the finely tuned team of Dingo and Dingo Girl at work?  “Does she know any other tricks?” Yes, Odd Boy, she does know other tricks.  She can take up all the room on the bed, she can eat her own food and still have room for mine, and best of all, she sheds like a mofo yet always has a full head of shiny blonde hair.  Don’t try that one at home, kids. 

Again, I said all that in my head.  What I said out loud was, “No.” But the question I was answering was, “I’m definitely cuter and more charming than that creepy little kid from The Grudge, right?”

Where were Odd Boy’s parents?  They just let their kids roam the neighborhood?  Don’t they know that’s just asking for Junior to be used for animal testing?  Well, now that I think about it, maybe they do....

Odd Boy then proceeded to tell me how to teach Dingo Girl to play dead.  Ready for it?  I need to bring in an older dog to show her how.  Yep, that’s it folks.  I need to bring in an older dog to teach Dingo Girl the fine art of playing dead.  And you know how?  I’ll tell you.  Apparently, the older dog goes up to the younger dog and demonstrates how it is done.  I’ll give you a minute to let that soak in.  Old Dog.  New Dog.  Live demonstration.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to look for the camera.  I just knew I was being Punk’d.  Alas, I was not, but I was saved by the southern belle when Mom pulled into the driveway.  Odd Boy looked thrilled at expanding his listening audience and turned to greet her with a sentence that started with, “Is this — ?”

I didn’t hear the rest because I took that moment to dash back inside.  Fetch this, ya’ll.  I’m outta here. Mom and Dingo Girl had to fend for themselves. 

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98 Degrees and No Nick Lachey

I ran a 10K today.  And oh my holy hell, did I feel every K. As Marian the Librarian and I lined up for the start, I was worried.  It was only 9am and it was hot.  Sorry, let me rephrase that.  It was only 9am and it was so hot I was sweatin’ like a whore at bible camp.  And that was just from standing at the starting line! 

When the race started there was a large mass of forward movement.  From where I was positioned, I could see the thousands of racers in front of me stretched up Central Park West like a giant centipede.  It undulated and swayed in a multicolor array of bodies, clothes, and feet.  It was at that point that I decided I was either already dehydrated and hallucinating, or I was part of something big.  I chose to believe the latter.  Did I mention it was hot?  Hotter than the hinges of Hell.

Once we got into the park the shade provided some relief.  Not much, though.  I was so glad that Marian the Librarian was with me.  Chatting with her helped distract me from the heat.  Well, it only provided a little distraction because almost all we could talk about was the heat.  And beer.  Talking about the beer we planned to chug at the end of the race was definitely helpful.  The first fluid area came none too soon.  The stampede to the water tables reminded me of the westerns I watched as a kid when all the buffalo would suddenly startle and go running pell mell toward the cliff.  I swear, if the water table had been at the bottom of a cliff, I would’ve taken a swan dive into a Dixie cup.  Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary.  In addition to the water tables, the race organizers had someone with a huge fire hose spraying water over the runners as we passed by.  Blessed brief relief!

Although I was pretty confident that the heat would take some of the people out of the race, I was also upset that some people weren’t instantly disqualified over poor fashion choices.  Now, I do not have fancy running duds.  I have running/bike shorts that eliminate the chub rub and a t-shirt.  However, I feel very strongly that if you are going to buy fancy running duds that you should buy a racer back bra to go with your racer back running shirt.  How many times do I have to say this folks?  Athlete or A-list superstar, No. Exposed. Bra. Straps!  I asked Marian the Librarian if she would mind if we picked up the pace a bit so I could issue a citation to the fashion wreck a few paces ahead of us.  She was against the idea.  I really think I need to have a chat with Obama and see if he can add this to his platform for the upcoming election. 

Things went along well for a while.  Until today, my longest run had been a little more than 40 minutes.  As we approached the five-mile mark, my race time was about an hour.  I was really proud of myself but could feel the effects of the heat and humidity setting in.  My legs felt great but I could feel my face was flushed and an overall exhaustion began to set in.  I also felt kinda dizzy.  Immediate warning sign of dehydration.  Although Marian the Librarian and I had water at every fluid station, it wasn’t enough.  It was about this time that I questioned the whole intelligent design theory.  Wouldn’t a truly intelligent design have us store water in our thighs like camels?  I mean, if my thighs are going to jiggle anyway, wouldn’t it be better to have that jiggle come from a useful function like water storage than as evidence of my peanut M&M addiction?  At the very least, there could be a place in my thighs to store M&Ms.

Marian the Librarian could see that I was faltering and kept me going with encouragement and threats.  Okay, so maybe she didn’t threaten me, but I honestly can’t tell you what we talked about the last mile.  We passed other runners who had passed out or who just plain ol’ couldn’t make it.  Paramedics and ambulances were almost as prevalent as the racers at this point.  Before I knew it, the finish line was in sight.  There were a lot of people cheering us on the last ¼ mile and it made such a difference.  Between the people at the side of the road cheering for us and Marian the Librarian telling me that she was not going to drag my sorry, sweaty ass across the finish line — Okay, maybe those weren’t her exact words; she might have said something like, “You’re almost there!  You can do it!” but I know she meant, “You’d better do it because I’m not going to drag your sorry, sweaty ass across the finish line!” — I crossed the finished line!  Woohoo! 

It was amazing feeling!  I can’t wait until the next race.  I enjoyed this race but it has made me realize that training for the marathon is going to suck like a Hoover.  Or maybe even a Dyson.  Does anyone even buy Hoovers anymore?  After beer and mozzarella sticks, our traditional post race fare, I made my way home.  Shower, nap, and mindless TV were the order of the day, although I dragged myself to a nearby salon for a pedicure and foot massage.  Heaven!  I called Marian the Librarian later in the afternoon.  While I had been basking in my accomplishment from the comfort of my couch, she had vacuumed her apartment, organized her upcoming vacation, written a novel, and developed a ground-breaking open-heart surgery technique.  It made me tired.  So I took another nap.  And then wrote this post.  The end.

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Candy Land

I am tired.  Dog-butt tired.  I have no idea what that means but it’s a phrase I’ve used almost all my life.  Maybe when Dingo Girl is dragging her ass across the floor it doesn’t mean that she needs her anal glands expressed (AGAIN!), it’s just that her butt is tired.  Too tired to lift itself off the floor.  Yeah, that sounds about right.  Now that I think about it, that’s a pretty good description of how I feel.  Too tired to lift my ass off the floor.  Thus, dog-butt tired.

Part of the reason I’m tired is these damn mosquitoes.  I just can’t get any sleep so I mainline Benedryl to stop the itching and scratching.  I eventually fall asleep but wake up groggy and irritable and remain so throughout the following day.  I know!  Me?  Irritable?  Hard to believe but true.  Just ask Mr. Dingo who, if he knows what’s good for him, will deny that I have anything but a sunny disposition. Oh wait, did that just come across as irritable? 

I think, however, that I may have remedied the mosquito problem.  After the Listerine hoax, I searched the internet for solutions.  There were quite a few sites that had organic and non-toxic suggestions.  One web site stated that mosquitoes hate peppermint, eucalyptus, and lavender.  It recommended mixing one or more of those essential oils with olive oil to keep the mosquitoes at bay.  As it happened, I had those essential oils on hand from my brief stint in aromatherapy.  I had visions of making and marketing my own body scrubs, soaps, and candles.  Unfortunately, I realized that Lush and Sabon had already cornered the market on those goodies and I’m too much of a product whore to make my own when I can just go down the street and buy it from someone else.  Dingo, keeping the economy afloat since 1969. 

So, I slathered myself with olive oil and peppermint and walked around smelling like candy.  At first, the whole covered-in-olive-oil thing seemed like it might have some practical applications for the bedroom, if you know what I mean.  But no, as I’ve said before, between Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo my apartment looks like the shag carpeting inside the Scooby Doo Mystery Machine (Oh come on, you just know that the Mystery Machine was rockin’ the shag carpeting!).  Just the other day I opened a brand new bar of soap and found a Dingo Girl hair in the box.  WTF?  So less than five nanoseconds after massaging the peppermint tinged olive oil into my skin (I was hoping the scent would quickly dissipate and be smelled only by the pesky mosquitoes, because really, who wants to smell like a Junior Mint?) I was covered in pet hair.  And I left olive oil stains in the shape of my fat, oily ass on our couch.  I thought the olive oil would quickly absorb into my dry-as-the-Sahara skin but it was not to be.  Needless to say, Mr. Dingo did not find my Bertolli laden fur coat at all appealing.  He can be so picky sometimes.

I slid into bed with visions of sugarplums and York Peppermint Patties dancing in my head, hoping for a mosquito free night of sleep.  I took a Benadryl for good measure and woke up… looking like I’d fallen into a vat of radioactive liquid.  I did not apply the olive oil concoction to my face.  My face is oily enough without me adding to its troubles.  In summer months when I lay the sunscreen on extra heavy, I get notices and warnings from Greenpeace and other do-gooders haranguing me about the wildlife that has been injured as a result of my mobile oil slick.  I’ve had one or two mosquito bites on my neck but haven’t had to worry about them being so bold as to actually bite my face.  Until last night.  I woke up this morning with mosquito bites the size of manhole covers on my face.  I look like the Elephant Man.  Money’s been tight around here lately so I’m keeping an eye on Mr. Dingo.  I am not taking his jokes to sell me to a freak show lightly.

But back to my remedy.  After the fantastic failure of the Bertolli Oil Peppermint Campaign, Mr. Dingo suggested that I go to Hammacher Schlemmer and pick up one of their indoor/outdoor Natural Attractant Mosquito Traps. It was quite the investment but if it works then you and Mr. Dingo will not have to hear me bitching about the mosquitoes again, I’ll get some sleep and all will be right in Dingo world.  If it doesn’t work, I want to return it for The Hydrofoil Water Scooter or the Mechanical Core Muscle Trainer. I don’t have the space or the place to use either, but don’t they look fun? 

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Waiting for Shakespeare

Drama, drama, drama…but enough about my personal life, I must tell you about Shakespeare in the Park.  The end of the semester was beyond hectic and oh my dear readers, I have some gems from my students’ final papers to share with you but I will save their humiliation for another day for this post is to be about Hamlet and not to be about them (see how I snuck some Shakespeare in there for ya’?).  Actually, let me revise my initial statement, while Shakespeare in the Park was fantastic, I’m going to let Sunny at CityLitNYC tell you all about that (Sunny, make haste with your Hamlet post!).  What I feel is just as important as the Hamlet review is the analysis of the show before the show.

I don’t know how Shakespeare in the Park is done in other cities but here in NYC the tickets are free. Yes!  It is possible to have fun in NYC without spending a dime.  The catch is that they begin giving the tickets away at 1pm for same day performances.  You can’t get tickets ahead of time for later in the week.  You either get them that day or you go away sad and lonely to watch a terrible Netflix movie that neither you nor Mr. Dingo will admit to putting in the queue.  Really, Talladega Nights:  The Ballad of Ricky Bobby?  I absolutely refuse to take responsibility for that atrocity being in my zip code much less my mailbox.

Shakespeare in the Park is very popular here, even more so when there are big name stars in the performance.  This year’s Hamlet featurs Sam Waterson (every time he appeared on stage I heard the Law & Order “dun-dun” sound in my head), Andre Brougher, and Lauren Ambrose.  Sunny and I knew that we would have to get in the ticket line early.  Early means 8am.  Yes, you read that correctly.  8:00 in the morning.  Did I mention that the ticket office doesn’t open until 1pm?  That may sound crazy to you but during very popular shows, people camp out the night before.  We figured it was the day after the opening so the line wouldn’t be too bad.  We agreed to meet at the theater at the crack of dawn. 

Standing in line for Shakespeare in the Park tickets is always an event.  It is verboten to get out of line for any reason except to use the bathrooms – oh yes, they have line monitors.  Think of them as underpaid customs officials.  Do not piss them off.  Anyway, people bring food, board games, books, sleeping bags, all kinds of things to pass the time.  I packed accordingly:  exams to grade, water, food, books, and a towel to sit on.  I was prepared to spend my five hours as productively as I could.  What I did not bring were items sufficient to launch an Arctic expedition.  The day before was hot.  HOT!  So I wore a t-shirt but layered a sweatshirt and a light jacket over it.  I just knew that as the morning wore on I would be peeling off the outer layers.  Oh, how I wish that were true. 

Sunny and I had perfect timing as we arrived at the line at the same time.  We rolled our eyes and made snarky comments about the couple several spots ahead of us who were bundled up in their sleeping bag.  “Tourists,” I muttered under my breath.  Sunny laughed and we got in line.  And hypothermia immediately set in.  Day-um!  It was cold!  Not only were we in the shade but an errant El Nino wind whipped through the park numbing our extremities and freezing the snot running down our noses.  Fortunately, Sunny grabbed a light sheet from her bed before heading out to the park.  Being the good friend that she is, she shared it with me.  It was either that or I was going to have to pull a Han Solo and use my light saber on the guy next to us and use his steaming carcass to keep myself warm.  It was a twin sheet, however, and as much as we maneuvered and wrangled, we could not keep our feet and our heads warm at the same time.  It was also an impediment to people watching. 

And oh, the things we saw while standing in line.  Wait, did I say standing?  What I meant was, in between jumping jacks and running in place to keep ourselves warm, we saw some bizarre behavior.  I won’t regale you with the entire five hour freak show that crossed our paths but I do have to mention one woman who captured our hearts.  We called her Aerobics Lady although we weren’t sure if her physical exertions actually qualified as such.  How best to explain Aerobics Lady?  Well, she walked backwards.  While slapping her stomach and her back.  Remember as a child, when bored out of your skull because all your friends went off to a great summer camp (and you were stuck at home with your brother whom you would later disown), you would twist your body while your arms loosely flapped around your torso (like that center piece of the washing machine during the wash cycle) while waiting for the mail truck to come because that was the most exciting part of your day?  No?  You went to summer camp?  Be-otches. 

Anywaaaay, she walked up and down the line slapping herself silly for about twenty minutes.  I think this was a regular occurrence with her because you could see the faded patches on the stomach and back area of her 1980s denim shirt.  Either that or she compounded her looniness by wearing stone-washed denim.  The cheap kind.  The kind you made yourself.  With bleach.  Did I mention that her hair looked like Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos and she was sporting glasses that would make Larry Holmes jealous?  And this woman was a machine.  You got out of her way or you were steamrolled.  She had a path and she would not deviate.  Babies cried.  Dogs ran away in fear.  Even the line monitors stayed away from her.  While others were warned that if they didn’t return to their place in line they’d lose their spot, they steered clear of Aerobics Lady.

When the slap happiness stopped, Aerobics Lady decided to feel up a nearby light pole.  I was already feeling the ill effects of the weather but watching an 80 year old woman pole dancing almost made me hurl my granola bar.  I don’t think she intended it to be a pole dancing exhibition so I will just say she was admiring the texture of the light pole, lost her balance and struggled to right herself.  For 15 minutes.  Sunny is a great person and she has a good heart.  She made all kinds of excuses:  Aerobics Lady was trying to stay fit and limber, she was lonely and the line was a captive audience, whatev.  But when I asked Sunny to explain the shiny spandex leggings she was at a loss.  And rightly so, you can never, ever explain shiny spandex leggings.  You should not wear them in your house, you should not wear them with a blouse, you should not wear them, oh no m’am, no spandex leggings, Sam I am. 

Aerobics Lady stopped her gyrations for a few moments around lunch time – lunch being 10am for those of us who had been there for hours.  Believe it or not, there’s a deli that will deliver if you tell them where you are in the line.  After several hours in line you tend to bond with the people around you, particularly if they have warm weather gear they are willing to share.  Or if they are cute.  Or if they share your amusement about Aerobics Lady.  But particularly if they are cute.  So we went in on an order with several people in line around us.  Lunch was a jolly affair of hot chocolate, coffee, and other winter time treats.  We probably would have broken out into Christmas carols but the sun, the sun!, decided to make a guest appearance.  We could see it basking lazily on the boulders just across the path from us.  Line monitors be damned!  We headed to the rocks and lay down on them soaking up the reflected heat while giving praise to the sun god.  We had to take turns to make sure we didn’t lose our place in line so while Sunny was absorbing heat, I was doing the Electric Slide and the Cotton-Eyed Joe to generate enough heat to keep my water bottle from turning to ice.  I was tempted to use the exams I brought with me to start a small bonfire but then I wouldn’t have anything to make fun of in a later post.

After lunch Aerobics Lady needed a nap.  As Sunny and I sat in line warming ourselves with thoughts about what good friends we were to stand in line to get tickets for her Boyfriend and Marian the Librarian, Aerobics Lady took up residence on the rocks.  And didn’t move.  After about ten minutes of no movement whatsoever, I asked Sunny if Aerobics Lady was dead.  I was willing to get out of line to sun on the rocks to prevent frostbite but not to go see if the 80 year-old denim and spandex legging pole dancer had ceased to breathe.  Sunny, being the kind person that she is, decided to make the call.  She went over to Aerobics Lady’s boulder and stood behind her watching for signs of life.  I don’t know which was more bizarre, Aerobics Lady stretched out, mouth open, spandex shining in the sun, or Sunny standing there watching her like some creepy stalker.  Don’t give credence to anything Sunny says about this incident, particularly if she says I advised throwing rocks and sticks at Aerobics Lady to see if she was alive.  Sunny is a great friend but she lies.  Lies, I tell you!  When Sunny gave me the a-okay that Aerobics Lady was breathing and got back in line, I was relieved.  I love Sunny, but I wasn’t going to miss that night’s performance of Hamlet to bail her out of jail for stalking old people in the park.  There are some things that you just can’t ask of a friend.

The line opened at 1pm.  We had our tickets by 1:10.  I went home to nap.  There’s nothing like shivering for five hours to make you tired.  Later that evening we met up with Sunny’s Boyfriend and Marian the Librarian who raised their eyebrows at our paraphernalia.  We warned them to dress warmly but they mocked us.  Sunny and I had come prepared.  I had a stadium blanket, a jacket, my winter coat, a large scarf, and cookies.  The cookies were to make sure we had enough calories to burn to stay warm.  By the intermission, Marian the Librarian and the Boyfriend were snuggled in our blankets and we were all one big warm family. 

We saw all the people we stood in line with earlier in the day including the Sleeping Bag Tourists and our Lunch Time crowd.  Aerobics Lady was nowhere to be found.  She’s probably still sleeping on the rocks.

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