As I Was Saying

I Got Nuthin’

2010-07-15T00:50:01-05:00

La Loco Laundry

2010-06-11T05:13:00-05:00

Classes are finally over and I’ve been grading finals and trying to catch up on all the things I’ve put on the back burner — hell, more like an unplugged crock pot — for the past month. Like laundry. When I find myself spritzing my jeans with Febreze, it’s time to suds the duds. But, Innernetz, I really, really hate going to the laundromat. I’d rather take a kindergarten class on a field trip to the DMV after giving them jellybeans and espresso for breakfast.

I Didn’t Have To Go To Starbucks For This One

2010-05-18T17:49:00-05:00

The semester is almost over, thank dog. I am worn out. Two of my classes have been engaging and fun. One class, my mouth breathers, have required every bit of patience — well, let’s just say that their ignorance is like a BP oil spill: the stupid won’t stop pouring out and, I swear, it’s not my fault! I’ve had writing workshops, peer reviews, and intensive one-on-one writing sessions yet I still receive papers with insightful pronouncements like:

“Being a Christian has the promises of eternal salvation. One day, when you kick the bucket, you will go to the city called Heaven. Except, maybe not. You might go to Heaven. Unless there isn’t really a Heaven. Then you will just be dead. So sad. So very, very sad. But this book isn’t about Christianity its about anarchy and there all going to hell anyway.”

Like A Rock

2010-04-27T01:58:00-05:00

*cough* *cough* Day-um, y’all, it’s all dusty up in here! It’s not that I’ve forgotten about you, Innernetz. I’ve missed y’all tremendously, but if I didn’t focus on the freelance writing, copyediting, and tutoring jobs I rustled up for some extra cash, I’d instead miss things like electricity and food. The past month was an exhausting pattern of workworkworkworksleepwork. I’m not complaining — well, yes I am because that’s what I do — but this last month has been full of the suckage and no bloggage.

Thanks for Nuttin’

2010-03-03T04:54:00-05:00

Hola, Innernetz! I know, I know, I promised to announce the winner of the Nobel Works Cards Giveaway ages ago, but things got a little busy around here, what with dodging bullets, intercepting gang communications, and negotiating a hostage release or two amidst all the other opportunities for community involvement my new slayborhood presents. Actually, I’ve been curled up on the couch nursing my aching ovaries with a heating pad and Super-Extra-Strength-This-Had-Better-Work-Or-I’m-Going-to-Punch-Somebody-Midol. Normally, my ovaries only ache (in a good way) when I see pictures of puppies. Or cream cheese frosting cupcakes. But over the past two weeks my normal PMS symptoms have been exacerbated by the stress of living under the clamorous womb weasels upstairs. My ovaries staged a revolt. Bitchiness, Moodiness, and Irritability joined the insurrection. But, I have figured out how to deal with abdominal anarchy: naps. Naps are the way to deal with your painful monthly visit from Aunt Flo. It’s like every other family get-together. Excuse yourself during Thanksgiving dinner and hibernate until January 1st.

Call Me Dingo Fierce

2010-02-08T20:48:00-05:00

Things have pretty much sucked since my last post, Innernetz. With so much going on it’s been difficult to write with blinding tears and snot running all over the keyboard and whatnot. Everything I wrote sounded like, Waaaaaaa! Waaaaaaaaa! Moving sucks! Waaaaaaaa! I hate living in the ‘hood! Waaaaaaa! We’re broke! Waaaaaaa! See how boring that gets after a while? I tell you waaaaat, I was sick of myself. I needed something to take my mind off of my pathetic pity party and the unsettling feeling of just seeing my new neighborhood on Cops.

And Then . . .

2010-01-06T05:02:00-05:00

Christmas blew like an enthusiastic whore with razor blade braces. As I was shopping among the holly jolly holiday lights at Victoria’s Secret and deciding between the comfortable cotton jammies and the brittle acrylic slip that looked as if it had been Bedazzled by blind kindergartners, ~~Bob Cratchit~~ Mr. Dingo was in a nondescript office holding a slip of another sort. It was pink. Yes, the Tuesday before Christmas, Mr. Dingo lost his job. We’re fucked. The holidays have been spent deciding whether our bed will fit under one of the city’s main bridges and scouring the internet and classifieds for apartments we can afford with frequent flyer miles and an adjunct teacher’s salary (Hahahahahahaha! *wipes tears from eyes*). We eventually nixed the bridges because there’s no Innernetz. In spite of all the hype, there are no habitable bridges on the Information Superhighway. I can live without cable, and electricity, and running water. But who can live without Innernetz? I love you, Innernetz. I really do. I also love writing comments I never post and sending emails I regret ten seconds after cutting the umbilical cord. Besides, there’s no Starbucks under any bridges in New York City. Not yet, at least. Still, having investigated the bridge option, I now know where all my Starbucks Friends come from.

Cookie Monsters

2009-12-18T05:53:00-05:00

Ooooh, holeEey niiIIIght—

A clatter from the kitchen interrupted my shower serenade and made me drop my ~~microphone~~ loofah. What the —?! Another crash, followed by what sounded like someone digging through my breakfast cereal looking for the prize. Ha, ha muthafucka! I already took out the prize! It was a Lego toilet or something. And Dingo Girl already chewed it into a pulpy wad of plastic! You FAIL, chump!

Furby

2009-11-23T17:23:00-05:00

So, there I was at Starbucks, grading papers and trying to ward off an Overused Comma coma with a Cranberry Bliss bar, when Tiny Bladder at the next table asked me to watch his stuff for the millionth time. I rolled my eyes, stuffed a chunk of Cranberry Bliss into my mouth and said, “Dude, I don’t care how cold it is outside, no one wants your dollar-store notebook and the ratty goddamn trench coat your mama obviously dressed you in.” Somehow, through the crumbly brown sugary goodness that fell from my mouth he heard, “Sure! No problem!” Then he dashed off.

My Fat Mouth

2009-10-29T12:50:00-05:00

Quick Update: I forgot to tell you, I did another post at The Greenists.

Christmas came early to Casa de Dingo in the form of a 246-page glossy magazine. Although I try to camouflage my fashionista aspirations beneath sweatshirts, tattered jeans, and slept-in pony-tails to avoid the ravenous paparazzi waiting to plaster my face across the latest copy of Useless and Oh no, not her again magazines, I cannot deny my love for Vogue, Marie Claire, Elle, and InStyle. I consume them from cover to cover, ripping out the perfume inserts and rubbing them all over my body like poor woman’s Febreeze. Except for the Prada Milano perfume insert. It makes you smell less like Febreeze and more like the sticky stained carpet in a whore house.