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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In Which I Rant at God and Grease the Skids to Hell

Dear God,

We have come to a cross-roads in our relationship.  It has been building for some time.  I try to believe but time and time again you let me down.  We don’t talk much anymore I know, but I grew weary of one-sided conversations.  I know that occasionally I’ll instant message you while I’m out on a run with requests like,

Dear God, please let me make it to the water fountain or at least the lake.  If I can make it to the lake I will deal with the giardia and bacteria ravaging my intestine later this evening but now, now I need some water!! Oh, and God, could you please make sure that the port-o-potty about two miles up the road has been cleaned within the past few days?  It was mighty rank the last time I used it.

You don’t respond but I take the fact that I was able to make it to the water fountain and the clean port-o-potty as a sign that you were listening. 

I will admit you sometimes listen to the BIG things.  Remember when Dingo Girl went into a seizure on the street and I thought she had been electrocuted by a stray volt from a light pole that Con Ed and the NYDOT refuse to fix or take accountability for?  Remember how I prayed and cried and rushed her to the emergency room and she turned out to be okay?  Yeah, thanks for that.  I really mean it.  There was also the time after her second knee surgery where she was in so much pain that she actually cried real tears.  I didn’t know dogs could cry tears.  I asked you for a favor then as well.  I will say that you came through then.  It was a rough night but I think you were there.  So God, I’m starting to think that when it comes to animals you are the go-to guy.  People, not so much.  You don’t really like us much down here, do you? 

Oh yeah, people will point to the wonderful things you do for us as proof that not only do you exist but that you love us beyond measure.  The whole Christ on the cross thing?  Saving us from our sins, gonna live in heaven – fantastic idea.  But Jesus Christ!  And I mean that literally, the whole Jesus Christ thing?  Brutal, man.  You would think, that being God and all, you could’ve picked a less sadistic way to save us from our sins.  We don’t need any more proof about man’s inhumanity to man; what we need is proof that you give a shit.  And if you let your own son go through that hell to prove you love us, I’m not sure that you’d do much more for me if you need to prove a point to someone else.  Hey, I just call it as I see it.

Remember when Mom and I asked you to protect my nieces and nephew while we were separated from them?  Um, based on recent things that I have learned, you must have been busy attending the kickball games between the Seraphims and the Cherubims because they were pretty much on their own.  I think you interpret your own “Suffer the little children” a little differently than the rest of us.  I can see why you might let me slip through the cracks.  I take your name in vain, I attend church so sporadically that when I walk in the pastor calls the Vatican to record the occurrence of a miracle, and I have broken one or more of the Ten Commandments.  Repeatedly.  But the kids?  Really?  What did they ever do to you? 

I would like to ask what you were thinking but when I ask the people who are supposed to know, the Creflo Dollars (What kind of name is that?  It just screams, “Send me your money so I can wear Armani in the pulpit!”) and the Billy Grahams of this world, I am told that I can’t understand the mind of God.  Gee thanks, that’s like giving me a GPS that only speaks in Japanese, a car with no steering wheel, and instructions telling me that I have everything I need to get to the Ben & Jerry’s factory where I can eat as much as I want for free but not gain any weight.  I want to get there but you are not playing fair!!!

But today God, today took the cake.  I’m not even pissed on my behalf but you have royally (being the King and all) screwed over someone who really outshines and puts to shame all the hypocrites, fake do-gooders, Jerry Falwells, and Pat Robertsons that spread your Word with their smarmy grins as they pocket the hopes and dollars of people who can least afford it.  With your man sandals (I guess we should be thankful you aren’t wearing socks with them) you have stepped on my Mom - again.  Somehow, she see’s your “hand” in everything and continues to believe you have her best interests at heart.  The only hand I see is a slap in the face for all the faith, hope and love she has lavished on you all her life.  So, while the wicked prospers – Jackass, if you are even reading this (not that you are because you could care less about Mom, me, or anything else that would cramp your new lifestyle with your whore girlfriend), this means you – Mom has been dealt another blow.  But she’s an amazing woman.  I don’t think it’s any thanks to you - although she would disagree.  She remains faithful.  And strong.

So God, I may as well sever ties with all my fathers holy and wholly.  Because for all the help I see you giving your so-called children, well, I can fuck up my life enough all by myself.  Your assistance is not required. 

Sincerely,

Dingo

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The Amazing Race

The last time I ran in downtown New York I was trying to avoid falling glass and concrete. Tripping over dropped purses and briefcases, my gait was anything but smooth.  My breath erratic, harsh, and shallow.  Believe it or not, I’d forgotten about all of that until this past Tuesday when Marian the Librarian and I got off the subway and headed to the starting line at the World Financial Center for the American Heart Association 5K.  My constant stream of chatter was due as much to a case of pre-race nerves as to the jarring influx of memories.  With all the mental jump cuts, it was almost like watching MTV back when they actually showed music videos.  While passing new stores, restaurants, apartment buildings and bars, my mind was working like a flip book; scanning back and forth trying to remember what used to be there.  My hands started to shake a bit and I wondered what would happen if the starting gun went off and I just started running, and running, and running somehow ending up in Central Park like I did almost six years ago.  I knew what would happen: Marian the Librarian would never run another race with me again.

Once I got over the initial not-quite déjà vu, the newness of the downtown area was actually stimulating.  “Fuck you, terrorists!  We’re still here.  I’m still here and I’m about to run a race.” And then Marian the Librarian said something about going to a bar after the race for mozzarella sticks and beer and my walk down patriot lane was over.  I get all fired up about messin’ with the US but I’d sell national secrets for a plate of mozzarella sticks and an ice cold Smithwicks.

I had a lot of questions for Marian the Librarian:  Will the route be clearly marked?  What happens if I lose my racing number?  Will Meredith get back together with McDreamy and is Callie really a lesbian?  While she answered all my queries patiently I could tell she was reconsidering her promise to not leave me behind and run at her own pace.  We got to the starting line, well, we got near the starting line.  There were thousands of people packed into an area the size of my bathroom.  While I am used to maneuvering around Mr. Dingo for sink space in the mornings and doing some fancy footwork to avoid stepping on Not a Dingo and Dingo Girl as they work their furry wiles to prevent our heading off to work, I was not used to the organized chaos at the starting area.  The starting line looked less like a civilized group of racers and more like a cattle call for the new Fox reality series, So You Think You Can Run?

We stood in place for at least thirty seconds after the starting gun went off.  The bottleneck gradually eased and we were finally able to run.  I was running!  I was running in my first race!  See Dingo run!  Run, Dingo, Run!  I used my Nike+ Sportband (best running gadget EVAH!) to check my starting pace.  Marian the Librarian assured me that while it seemed as if everyone was passing us by and the wheelchair and crutches contingent would soon be nipping at our heels, it was best to pace ourselves.  Most of those zooming ahead and elbowing us out of the way would soon be gasping for breath. I believed her but I still had to resist the urge to accidentally blind them with my long flowing locks nudge them back.  The whole talking while running thing?  Not a problem.  Marian the Librarian and I chatted and before I knew it a mile had passed by.  I kept checking my pace.  Wow!  I was doing great!  I was clipping along at a pace much faster than anything in my training runs.  I mentioned this to Marian the Librarian and we both attributed the faster time to the lack of hills in the race course.  Do not be fooled, folks.  Central Park has its own mountain range.  Yes, it does!  It has to, otherwise how can I run uphill both ways on both the east and west side of the park?  Somehow I never seem to be running downhill.  Just up, and up, and up.  As I’ve bitched before, I haven’t lost much weight but my calves, lord!, my calves have gained about thirty pounds of muscle.  It was a bit cool today so I thought I’d give my kick-ass and takin’ names boots one last hurrah before summer.  No dice.  I couldn’t zip them over my King Kong sized calves. So, sexy boots are out, but if you need someone to climb a building, I’m your gal.  Anywaaaaaay....

No sooner had we said, “No hills!” than the course began a gradual incline.  Are you freakin’ kidding me?  Hills in lower Manhattan?  But you know what?  I flew over those hills.  And you know what else?  We started passing some of the smart asses who had bolted out of the starting area.  I resisted the urge to turn around as I passed them and taunt, “In your face! In your face!” This nod to decorum was not because of any humility on my part but simple recognition of my limits.  I lack grace and coordination.  I am fortunate enough to be able to run in a straight line.  To run backwards, even with the incentive to serve some humble pie, would surely result in having a pie thrown in my own face.  So, I plodded on. 

It was fantastic to see the city from the street and note all the reconstruction that had taken place.  There were parks and gardens.  Stores and vendors.  Even Ground Zero had finally lost its death pall and taken on a new vivacity.  As we ran through the streets people cheered for us.  It was an incredible feeling. 

Marian the Librarian kept checking in with me to make sure I wasn’t pushing myself too hard and to discuss our options post-race.  We’d passed a bunch of bars but there were also some shoe stores that looked inviting and Century 21 (a massive designer discount store) was still open.  You know, it’s one thing to run a race, it’s another talent altogether to scope out store hours while dodging potholes and sewage grates.

As we rounded the corner to the finish line I could hear loud clapping and cheering.  As we got closer we discovered it was a group of children, probably between 7 and 9 years old, who were cheering on the runners and giving high fives.  Chalk it up to being tired or overly emotional at nearly accomplishing my goal, but I found it incredibly moving.  I nearly knocked Marian the Librarian over in order to reach the kids before we passed them.  Hey, I wanted my high five! 

And then, it was done.  I crossed the finished line.  I wanted to cry.  I felt great!  I felt light.  I felt happy.  I felt hungry.  It was time for food and celebratory beer.  Marian the Librarian is the perfect race companion.  She cheered for me and encouraged me all the way.  Although we’ll see what I have to say about her in a few weeks; at her urging I signed up for a 10K. 

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Vampires, and Zombies, and Werewolves!  Oh My!

Last night Mr. Dingo and I watched 30 Days of Night.  I loved it.  I’m not really into the whole vampire thing, but these vampires scared the living crap outta me.  Stephen King Salem’s Lot and Bram Stoker‘s Dracula bored me.  Yawn.  Snooze.  The 30 Days of Night vampires?  Oh my holy hell, I had a kung fu death grip on Mr. Dingo throughout the entire movie.  People often ask me if I get nightmares from watching horror movies and reading horror fiction.  Actually, I don’t.  I scare myself enough in broad daylight.  No nightmares necessary. 

Mr. Dingo likes to remind me of the early morning hours about two years ago when he got a 4:30 am call from me.  I was wrapping up a week-long visit at my Mom’s house.  Mom had already left for her shift at the hospital when I got up to pack for my flight back to NYC.  My old bedroom had already been converted into Mom’s sewing room so I was sleeping downstairs in what we call the dungeon.  A dark, windowless room right next to the boiler room.  Yes, the Princess had been demoted.  Anyway, it had been years since I was alone in this house and the night/pre-dawn noises were eerie.  Every little noise made me jump and I just wanted to get the hell out.  Although the news lately had been filled with the unexplained surge in home invasions, I was not fearful of the living.  No, I was sure that the noises I was hearing were being made by… zombies.  Yes, zombies.  My rational mind knew that there was no such thing as zombies and that I was going to finish packing my bags and be back in New York in time to complain about rush hour traffic. My irrational mind, my sleep-deprived 4:30-in-the-morning mind, was having none of that.  So I did what any sane woman would do.  I called my boyfriend. 

Mr. Dingo answered the phone understandably alarmed at receiving a call so early.  Something had to be wrong, right?  Right.  I was about to be devoured by brainless, soulless creatures.  I swear, I was!  I could hear their footsteps on the stairs! 

Mr. Dingo:  Are you okay?

Dingo:  No.

Mr. Dingo:  What’s wrong?

Dingo:  Zombies.

Mr. Dingo:  What?  It sounded like you said “zombies.”

Dingo:  I did.  I think zombies might be trying to get into the house.  Did you hear that?  Oh my God, and I smell something funny, too.  Smells like… zombies.  Will you stay on the phone with me until I leave for the airport?  I’m almost ready.

And he did.  And the zombies did not get me.  We He likes to laugh about that every now and then.  In fact, we he laughed about it last night as we were watching 30 Days of Night.  The vampires were only scary on the screen.  Besides, I had nothing to fear from these vampires.  The mosquitoes have already sucked all the blood from my body.  In fact, I am an empty, bumpy shell just rattling around the apartment.

Anyway, as I was showering this morning I heard the door to the bathroom open.  Mr. Dingo had already left for work and Dingo Girl, well, she hears water running and she’s hiding under the bed.  Occasionally she’ll come into the bathroom when I’m in there but that’s usually only when I’ve snuck in there to eat a Snickers bar in peace.  My God, can’t a woman eat a freakin’ Snickers bar without having to share?  Does it matter that she bought it for Mr. Dingo and left it on his desk?  I say, if the Snickers bar goes uneaten for 15 minutes a day after I place it on his desk for him, he forfeits all rights to said candy bar.  I’m sure there’s a law about that somewhere.  And after all I’ve done for Dingo Girl, you’d think she’d have my back.  But nooooo, the bitch (because she really is one) wants the Snickers for herself, even though I’m the one who went through all the trouble and made up the law.  But I digress…

When I heard the door open, I knew it didn’t sound like Dingo Girl but I called to her anyway.  You know, using that stock horror movie voice that rises with uncertainty at the end of the sentence?  The voice that lets the audience know that the lone girl in the shower is very well aware that the intruder in the bathroom is not the Snickers seeking faithless faithful family dog but a VAMPIRE!!  Yes, when Dingo Girl did not answer — not even in Dingo-speak — and when I saw a large, dark shadow fall upon the shower curtain, I just knew I was about to be devoured.  My mind raced to all the things I had at my disposal to defend myself from the Undead. 

Shaving cream?  The fact that I use Kiss My Face shaving cream was reason enough to reject this notion.  No, stay away from my face, you harbinger of the apocalypse.  Besides, I don’t shave my face with this shaving cream.  It should be called, “Kiss My Legs.” Anyway, it did not seem like a good weapon against the undead if they were well-groomed.

Razor?  I’m a klutz.  My razor has a safety blade.  Unless he’s afraid of a close shave without all the nicks and gouges of a regular razor, I was outta luck.

Shampoo?  Conditioner?  My God, what was I going to do?!?  Can you moisturize a vampire away?  You know, dead, flaky skin and whatnot?

Realize please, that these thoughts took place in a matter of seconds.  Not enough time for Rational Dingo to kick in.  But just enough time for Mr. Dingo to throw back the shower curtain with a vampire roar.  And then laugh at my deer-in-the-headlights look.  And then slink away at my you-are-so-dead-look.  As soon as I could move and speak I gave him a piece of my mind.  He was all wide eyed innocence as he explained that he was not feeling well on the train so he came home.  Although we’ve done our best to eschew traditional gender roles, I’ve instituted a new law.  It’s on the books right under the Snickers Rule.  Whenever he comes in the door he must announce, “Honey, I’m home!” And bring me a Snickers.

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