Rainy Days and Mondays

Forgive me for my absence, Innernetz.  I’ve been in a funk lately (two points for everyone that just started singing “Give up the Funk” by Parliament) and kicky new rain boots just haven’t been able to lift me out of it.  In fact, my kicky new rain boots mock me.  They mock my pain.  Mockers.  Mocky McMoccasins.  You see, my new rain boots are Chooka’s rockin’ turquoise Tattoo City.

For those of you too lazy to click over or who get distracted by the champagne fountain of never ending linkage on every web site, I’ll describe them for you.  What?  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.  The champagne fountain?  If you’ve ever been to a wedding with a champagne fountain you know that it starts innocently enough.  You take a glass from the top of the cascade and two hours into the wedding reception after you’ve slaked your thirst following the Electric Slide, deftly dodged the bouquet toss, and worked your way to the bottom tier of glasses, you are so drunk that you forget where you are or why your tongue is down the throat of a guy dressed in a valet parking uniform.  That’s not just me, is it?  IS IT?! 

Anyway, to prevent a linkage meltdown that will have you on some page featuring ambiguously dressed boy bands from Thailand, I’ll describe them for you.  They are turquoise.  They have various tattoo related images stamped all over them.  Oh hell, that description doesn’t do them justice.  Just go look at them but come right back.  No linky-linky!

Well?  What did you think?  They rock, right?  How could they not cheer me up, right?  Because, Innernetz, they remind me of the tattoo that I’m not going to get.  You see, I told myself that after I finished the marathon I would get myself a tattoo.  I have a cool one designed by Mr. Dingo himself.  He rocks almost as much as my rain boots.  I don’t have any other tattoos and this tattoo, this post-marathon tattoo, was going to have a lot of meaning for me.  Alas, I don’t think it’s meant to be.  My short runs (eight miles or less) have been great. I feel strong, I feel invincible!  However, for the past three weeks my long runs have been disastrous.  I’m not going to give you a blow by blow of my 14 mile run because, basically, it blew.  Determined to finish the run, I hobbled the last 5 miles.  I got to the front of my building and had to call Mr. Dingo to help me up the stairs to the apartment.  He swooped down and carried me away.  It was an Officer and a Gentleman moment.  Without all the kissing.  I can’t really blame him.  With my face red and puffy from crying and snot hanging from my nose, I made a less than attractive romance movie heroine. 

My leg was a mess.  With my knee swollen to Saturn-like proportions and unable to bend, I dashed off a poor me e-mail to Lesley, my bloggy running guru, at JustRunJustLiveJustBe.  Lesley gave me some great advice and even helped revise my training schedule.  A week to recuperate, a few fantastic short runs, new running shoes, stretching exercises, Advil, and a mental pep talk and I was on my way!  NOT.  My 16 mile run tonight was aborted at mile 9.  Mile 9!  For those of you not mathematically inclined, that’s 7 miles short of tonight’s goal and 17.2 miles short of an actual marathon.  Yes, it was my knee again.  Not only that, but in my obstinate persistence to complete the 14 miles from the week before, I think I sustained a stress fracture to my foot.  I’ve had stress fractures before.  Years of soccer, horseback riding, and lodging my size 8 ½ up people’s asses has made me thoroughly familiar with the throbbing and sharp pain associated with the injury.  In short, Innernetz, my marathon dreams are fucked.

I have only four weeks left until the marathon and it’s simply not enough time to recover.  I knew after my 14 mile run that things were not looking good and it sent me into a mild depression that I have been trying to fight all week.  I was depending on tonight’s run to give me the mental and physical boost I needed to make it to the marathon.  Instead, after having Old Man With Walker almost lap me on tonight’s run, I’ve been sitting in my nasty running clothes crying, “Why me?! Why me?!” wondering if Tonya Harding had somehow managed to whack my knee with a tire iron when I wasn’t looking. 

This past week, none of my usual storm cloud dispersers have been able to lift me out of this funk.  Not my favorite massacre scene from 30 Days of Night, not teaching, and not even walks with Dingo Girl.  For some reason Dingo Girl has decided to turn over a new paw and instead of having to beg and plead just to get her to walk around the block, she wants to RUN!  Run everywhere.  Run downstairs.  Run around the block.  Run to the park.  Run, run, run.  See Dingo Girl Run.  Run, Dingo Girl, run! 

So, that’s where I am these days.  It’s not like good things haven’t happened to me this week.  The Cougar came for a visit, I got a gift certificate to a fantastic spa, blah, blah, blah.  I didn’t want to write a whiny post but that’s just where I am right now.  I feel defeated.  I feel like a quitter. 

And now Dingo Girl needs to go for a walk run.  It’s raining.  And my new rain boots are still mocking me.

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Catatonia is not a Eastern European Country

In the midst of all the gimmicks and ridiculous rah-rah Spirit Club Drill Team Cheer Squad bullshit that the administration at my Institution of Higher Learning wants me to shovel down the throats of my students, I sometimes actually get to teach.  Sure the pom-poms get in the way and I haven’t perfected my back handspring, but I love teaching. It’s the only job I’ve ever had that has me looking forward to every day. Well, except for one summer when I worked at a video store.  The Pizza Hut across the parking lot was undergoing extensive renovations and the summer sun glistening off the sweat-slicked abs of the construction workers was enough to make the daylight shunning goth chick I worked with fight for the afternoon shift.  I’m not sure if she was motivated by lust or the fact that all the heavy lifting they were doing made blood pump through their carotid arteries like a vampire’s wet dream.  Yes, we had binoculars.  Yes, we used them.  Ahhh… summer….

What was I saying?  Oh, yeah something about loving to teach. Anyway, although I taught class this summer I didn’t have anything to write about because, except for two plagiarists (I’m resigned to the fact there’s going to be at least one fucker every semester who wants to play chicken with me and Mr. Google), they were awesome.  Truly something to cheer about.  Give me an “A”!  Give me a “W”! Give me the rest of the word without having to spell it out!  I could write odes to this summer class; their hard work, curiosity, vision, and drive to succeed is every teacher’s dream. In fact, only three weeks into the Fall semester, I’m beginning to wonder if the summer class was just that, a dream.  I know I’ve lamented the apathy of the younger generation before.  I didn’t think there was anything worse than apathy.  That, dear Innernetz, is incorrect.  You know what is worse than apathy?  Catatonia.

Catatonia is worse than apathy.  While the Head Honchos want to me to get the students fired up about inconsequential matters – anyone care for a I Heart NY pin? – I’m trying to get them interested in ANYTHING beyond their tiny little spheres of existence.  There’s a whole world outside their 18-year old, two and a half pound brains and I want them to grab it by the balls and make it scream!  But you know why they don’t?  You know why they say they are not going to vote, that they can’t be bothered to learn about the issues that affect them, that they don’t get involved in their communities, that they don’t protest against injustice and social inequality?  Because they don’t believe that one person can make a difference.

WTF?

I asked them if any of them had ever heard of the Unknown Rebel at Tiananmen Square.  Blank stares.  I refused to admit defeat at the hands of ignorance.  “On June 5, 1989, over a million students, teachers, and workers, ” I started in a low quiet voice.  I wanted them to have to lean forward to listen.  I wanted to have their undivided attention.  And I did.  By the time I was impersonating both the Unknown Rebel ("and he stood bravely in the face of certain death") and the tank drivers ("and they moved to the right but the rebel blocked their path") my shirt was untucked, my shoes were off and I was gesticulating wildy.  After my triumphant finish with a flourishing, “AND THE TANKS TURNED AROUND!” The room was silent.

A lone hand at the back of the class was raised. “Yes?” I responded secure in the knowledge that I had made my point.  “Did it change anything?” It was my turn to be silent.  I thought about it for a minute.  I thought about how sometimes big changes come about in small increments.

“We don’t know yet.”

Class dismissed.

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Update to the Naked MILF Sweepstakes:

Thanks, Innernetz!  Crissy has made it to the first page of the Hottest Mommy Blogger Page!  We only have a few hundred votes to go before Crissy has to post her ta-tas on her site wins wins and has to post her ta-tas on her site!  If you haven’t taken a look at the bribe Stoogepie has offered as incentive to vote,you are missing out on a fantastic opportunity to win:

Sony DSC-T300 Cyber-shot® 10-Megapixel Digital Camera - Silver — list price $499.99
Sony LCS-THM/B Genuine Black Leather Case — list price $49.99
Sandisk 4GB Memory Stick Pro Duo — list price $39.99. 
Photoshop CS3

Wait! Photoshop wasn’t included in your earlier post about this contest, you say.  Right-o, my observant Innernetz.  I talked to Stoogepie about his lame assed prize package and said that a REAL prize package would also include Photoshop CS3 because that’s what I would want to win.  Somehow, Stoogepie absconded with the goods found one lying around unopened and unused at work and is throwing that into the mix as well.  Yes, you can win a camera, a carrying case, a memory stick, AND Photoshop CS3.  All that, for the person whose vote is chosen at random by Stoogepie after the contest ends on or around October 16, 2008. 

But that’s not all….oh, no, my pretties.  Stoogepie is also offering a prize for the BLOGGER who pimps this contest and whose reader is the lucky bastard who claims the prizes listed above.  You know what the pimp gets?  Guess.  No, really.  Guess!  Okay, I’ll tell you.  The BLOGGER who pimps the contest and whose reader wins the camera/Photoshop package wins:

Sony HDRTG1 Handycam – list price $899.00.

That is just too fucking cool.  I want it Innernetz.  I want it bad.  So go vote.  Because you are not apathetic or catatonic.  Your vote can make the difference.  Your vote can make Dingo oh so happy.  And isn’t that what life is really all about?

Go see Stoogepie’s post for all the details.

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Crissy’s Boobies

I have several people to thank for awards I’ve received over the past several weeks (ahem, months) and I also want to whine and cry about a knee injury that’s going to have me off my feet and on ice packs and vicodin Advil for a week.  But you know, this blog isn’t all about me.  No, no really.  It isn’t.  It’s also about you, dear Innernetz!  You’ve been with me through thick and trying to be not so thick, in sickness and in health, outrages, plagiarists, and the general craziness that is my life.  I thank you.  To show my appreciation I am participating in a multiblog contest that is about rigging winning a contest.  A contest within a contest, how very Edgar Allan Poe, don’t you think?

Many of you know Crissy, The Queen of Fucking Everything.  For those of you who don’t, you’ve been missing out on one of the funniest bloggers around.  Crissy doesn’t pull any punches.  She may fart, plan the demise of cute garden-devouring critters, save drowning children, and plot to serve peanuts to her daughter’s pre-K class, but what Crissy doesn’t do is pull punches.  Oh, and she’s hot.  Hot.  Hot.  Hot.  And this is where you come in Innernetz.  Crissy is in the running for The Blogger’s Choice Awards Hottest Mommy Blogger and I want her to stomp Dooce into the ground win.  Now, before you get all misty-eyed thinking that I am oh so wonderful to pimp my bloggy friend, I have to tell you there’s an ulterior motive.

You see, several months ago Crissy made an offhand remark on her husband’s photo blog that if she won Hottest Mommy Blogger she would post a naked photo of herself on her site.  Now, tell me, when has a mommyblogger been such a ho so much fun? 

Get to the point, you say.  What’s in it for me, you ask.  Damn, Innernetz!  You are so impatient!  So here it is… you can win a Sony DSC-T300 Cyber-shot® 10-Megapixel Digital Camera - Silver — list price $499.99, A Sony LCS-THM/B Genuine Black Leather Case — list price $49.99, and a Sandisk 4GB Memory Stick Pro Duo — list price $39.99.  Yes!  All of that!  For one of you!

Ahhh, now I have your attention, don’t I?  All you have to do for a chance to win all this loot is to vote for Crissy for Hottest Mommy Blogger. How easy is that?!? Stoogepie originated this contest so check out his site (he’s an artistic genius) for the official rules.  BUT because this is a multiblog contest with several bloggers being Richard Gere to Crissy’s Julia Roberts, if you win this contest because you read about it on MY site, I get something too!  See, we’re all winners here in Dingo Land.  Vote now!

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I Should Run With A First Aid Kit

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because, well, it just sucks.  Trying to fit it into my schedule has meant running in 80-degree heat and pouring rain.  But, on a good note, I bought new running shoes!  They’re the same brand as my old shoes but instead of the run-of-the-mill (what the hell does that mean anyway?) blue and white, I got silver and yellow!  Oh yeah, I’m looking like Flash Gordon these days.  Although sometimes I wonder, if I looked like Commissioner Gordon would Christian Bale come rescue me around mile 12 when I’m floundering and my pace has the waddling, decrepit gait of The Penguin instead of the breezy gazelle like leaps of a jogger? 

Mr. Dingo mocks my running belt, which holds 40 ounces of water and fruit-punch-flavored Gator-Aid, four packs of energy Gu (delicious Vanilla Bean), keys, and my homemade emergency contact information card.  Well, it’s not really a card.  More like a post-it note with my name, address, and a message that says, “If my prone, desiccated body is found sprawled on the side of the road, please touch up my hair and make-up before contacting the media.  Oh, and call Mr. Dingo.” But the running belt really is cool, if a bit heavy with all that liquid.  In fact, although Mr. Dingo mocks my belt, he admits that there may still be enough room between some of the water bottles to attach a grappling hook and a flashlight that would emit the Bat Signal.  He laughed but I am scouring the internet for just such a thing.

Since my running schedule has changed, I haven’t seen the usual freak parade.  Mr. Jazz Hands has been absent but he could just be off mourning the closing of Rent.  OLWW hasn’t been seen for weeks.  She probably finally succumbed to heat stroke.  In her place, however, is some guy who looks as if he was trying to get to the Bingo tournament at the Home for the Aged and Infirm but made a wrong turn at the cafeteria and ended up at the hilliest part of Central Park.  Unlike OLWW, his walker is motorized.  He just can’t seem to find the speed controls.  The last time I passed him going downhill, his walker was about three steps too far ahead of him.  He had a panicked look as his sweaty, gnarled fingers began to slip off the handles.  I would’ve offered to help (Shut up!  I would have!  Maybe.) but just then his walker decided to veer off to the right into the curb effectively stopping his downhill plummet.  I figured if he was still there on my second lap I’d steal his walker because by then I’d need it I’d offer some assistance. 

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, that I’ll stop to help a dog but I won’t stop to help another human being.  I suppose this isn’t the time to mention the guy who had a dufflebag and picnic basket precariously attached to the back of his bike.  As he slowly pedaled up the hill the picnic basket would swing widely to the left.  And then widely to the right.  The guy looked like a tightrope walker as he swayed back and forth trying to keep his balance.  All the other runners gave him plenty of room because it was just a matter of time before he fell over.  And he did.  The picnic basket spilled all over the road and the dufflebag made a loud CRACK! sound.  Oh!  Did I mention that there was also a little girl strapped into a child seat on the back of the bike?  And I do mean strapped.  In lieu of a seat belt the guy decided that duct tape was an appropriate restraint.  The little girl wasn’t hurt so I didn’t stop.  No, really!  She wasn’t hurt!  In fact, she was laughing so hard she was crying. 

The fact that I was close to tears myself made me a little less open to whatever terror she was feeling.  Brat, you don’t know the meaning of terror.  Terror is having already gone eleven miles with your legs aching, blisters forming, and knowing that you have two more miles to go.  That, my dear whiny kid in your Hello Kitty bike helmet, is terror.  Pick up your spilled apples and smushed PB&J and shut up.  Get back to me when life gets really hard and then we’ll talk.

So, the marathon is a little over a month away.  Mr. Dingo and I have made our reservations at a cute little bed & breakfast.  I don’t know how much I’ll be able to enjoy either the bed or the breakfast as I’ll be too nervous to eat and then too sore to care.  I’m excited though.  I never thought I’d be able to get this far and I don’t think I would have if it weren’t for Mr. Dingo and you, my dear Innernetz.  I keep thinking of the great party and all the gifts and money you are going to shower me with when I complete the marathon.  Gifts + Money = motivation.

I’m right about the gifts and money, right?

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Outrageous! (NSFW)

It’s not very often that I am outraged into silence.  In fact, Outrage and I are old friends. Our get-togethers are spontaneous.  Just last week during one of my training runs in eighty-degree heat I spotted numerous other runners with their canine companions.  While such a sight would ordinarily turn my bitter, black, little heart to mush, the sight of faithful but overheated dogs with tongues touching the ground vainly trying to keep up with their oblivious owners made me angry. Before I knew it, Outrage decided to join me on my run.  She’s very outspoken and often after she unleashes her vitriol on the deserving imbecile, I slink away wishing that she had more tact.  But this time, when I saw a beautiful Chocolate Lab stumble to the ground with his eyes rolled back into his head, I let Outrage have her way.  Running over to the poor creature (taking two nanoseconds to stop my Nike Sports Band – hey!  I’m in training!) I doused his head and neck with water from my water bottle.  I poured more water on his chest and belly and called for other runners to immediately hand over their water as his owner stood by dumbfounded and useless.  While I channeled my inner St. Francis and Florence Nightingale, Outrage channeled nothing.  She has no inner bitch to channel.  She’s all bitch and all business.  Outrage gave the owner an earful about heat, running, dogs, selfishness and stupidity. 

As I handed the owner a half-empty water bottle so that I could put my ear against her dog’s chest to make sure he was still breathing she actually tried to take a sip of water.  Outrage put the kibosh on that,“Put that down!  That is not for you, you ignorant twat!  That’s for your dog!” The ignorant twat complied.

With a stern warning that the dog needed to get to the vet pronto because he was still in danger from heat stroke and a threat that if she ever saw the owner running with that dog and no water she would report her for animal cruelty (Outrage got the dog’s license number off his tag), Outrage let the humbled and embarrassed owner go on her way.  I stopped Outrage in time to prevent her from slapping the dumb bitch upside the head.  Outrage sputtered and griped through the next half-hour of the run and then just as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.  It was a beautiful day, a great run, and Mr. Dingo had promised that when I got home I was in for one of his incredible massages to ease my aching joints and muscles.

So this week has been somewhat of a surprise to me.  Outrage has been by my side but she has been silent.  Sure there have been things that have pissed me off this week.  The clusterfuck that was the first week of school, the fact that our power went out on Saturday afternoon and neither the landlord or the super contacted us until THIS MORNING! come to mind immediately.  But the truly outrageous happenings have had me walking around in a fog.  I didn’t want to write.  I couldn’t sleep.  Reading, with my mind and emotions in turmoil, was futile.  And what has Outrage been doing?  She’s been wringing her hands.  She’s been saying that nothing will, or can change, there’s nothing we can do, blah, blah, blah, blah.  She’s been a great big whining pussy.

I’m sure you have been outraged this past week as well, right?  Surely, the criminalization of dissent that occurred in St. Paul has you frothing at the mouth.  You don’t know what I’m talking about?  I don’t blame you.  The mainstream media has been sickeningly silent on the unwarranted and often warrantless raids leading up to the Republican National Convention.  Other bloggers have written about it in great detail and I urge you Google and to read about American citizens (including the elderly and the very young) peacefully exercising their right to dissent and being hauled away in handcuffs, unreasonably detained, and in at least one case tear-gassed by the KGB Gestapo St. Paul police force.  Allegations that the police are lying about the items found in the protesters homes and vehicles are making the rounds of the blogs but not CNN, FoxNews, or my local networks.  What?  The police lie?  You mean like how the police brutally injured a Critical Mass rider (yes, they are annoying and a pain in the ass, but still) stating that the cyclist tried to run him down until video aired showing that the cyclist was blindsided by the policeman? You mean those kinds of lies? What can you expect when our highest penal authority lies about weapons of mass destruction?  Yes, “penal” still makes me giggle like a fourth grader but what doesn’t make me giggle is that our highest penal authority is a real dick. 

The mainstream media doesn’t have the balls to air the violations of our right to protest and the independent media has been prevented from doing so.

But should we be surprised?  We’ve condoned torture, kidnapping, and unlawful imprisonment.  We’ve authorized unlawful wire taps, denied people the right to confront their accusers and we’ve made a sham of our Constitution.  Outrage doesn’t know where to direct her rage.  How can you bitch slap the violation of our principles when those violating those very principles are the same ones who took an oath to protect them?

All this outrage with no outlet has made me tired.  Outrage is begging me to turn on the TV, tune into something trashy and mindless, and drop out of this whole mess.  She doesn’t have the energy to muster pointed, snarky responses about McCain and Palin’s convenient use of choice as it applies to real or hypothetical unplanned pregnancies in their families as they deny choices to everyone else.  She doesn’t have the energy to gnash her teeth at McCain’s obvious disdain for women and his belief that we will vote for anyone with a va-jay-jay.  By the way, if you are voting for Palin because she has a va-jay-jay and you wanted Hillary Clinton in office you need to do your homework.  Sarah Palin is no Hillary Clinton.  If you vote with your va-jay-jay mark the date on your calendar because if anti-choice, anti-gay, anti-equal pay, anti-marriage equality McCain and Palin are in office, they will do their damnedest to make sure that your va-jay-jay vote is the last thing that you ever do that doesn’t require the approval of some white male.

I’d better go.  Outrage is getting nervous.  She keeps thinking that she hears jack-booted thugs coming up the steps to the apartment.  Hell, she may be right.  So, if you don’t hear from me again my dear Innernetz, I will send you a postcard from Gitmo.  And remember, don’t take your dogs running in hot weather.  Because if I find out that you do, after my waterboarding for being a subversive – which, since Bush and McCain don’t consider it torture, I must assume it’s one of the many luxurious spa treatments offered to political prisoners – Outrage and I will hunt you down and bitch slap you.

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