I’ll Give You Descriptive Language!

I am feeling a little bit overwhelmed, under the gun, and out of sorts.  Summer classes ended last week but I haven’t finished grading for my summer students because I’ve been working on syllabi, lesson plans, and reading for Fall classes that begin this week.  I didn’t intend to leave everything until the last stressful minute and the whys and wherefores of how I came to be sitting at my desk at 10:30 this evening with Mr. Dingo looking for dinner and Dingo Girl doing the pee dance and tugging on her leash by the door are irrelevant.  What is relevant is that I am trying to figure out how I’ve been to meeting after meeting after meeting at the school this last week and not-a-one of them has been informative in any way.  Sure, I’ve learned how to use technology in the classroom and can now include the new grading rubric that that the school is so gung-ho about, but will someone — ANYONE! — tell me why I have a sixty-page handbook for English Composition that includes nothing about what they actually want us to teach these kids?

In this desperate hour, I say “fuck ‘em.” I’m going to teach what I want.  What is English Composition about if not how to communicate with someone else?  So, this semester I’m going to teach my students important things.  Things that are applicable to their everyday lives.  For instance, in the analysis portion of the class, the kids are going to learn how to give directions like a true New Yorker.  This skill is particularly important when sending out invitations to a rave or a top secret sample sale that you want all your homeys to know about.  It’s also important that you can communicate this information in less than fifty characters because your Sidekick or cell phone screen will only display messages the length of the fortune in your cookie from Happy Fun Szechuan. 

I think teaching them to use language that describes or explains how to perform a task is going to be the easiest lesson.  Just this week I heard a young ‘un go into great detail about how to perform a seemingly complex task.  The first student was telling her friend how to stop his two-year old sister from dropping his cell phone down the toilet.  What follows is — no kidding — a near-perfect transcription of their conversation.

Young ‘un #1:  You just beat ha’!

Young ‘un #2:  Beat ha’?

Young ‘un #1:  Yeah!  Dat bitch mess wit my shit, I’d just beat ha!  Bam! Bam! (slamming fist into palm).  You have to teach them ‘spect and discipline.

Young ‘un #2:  No shit, mothafucka!  I’m gonna beat ha’ when I get home!  Hey, when you gonna see you kid?

Young ‘un#1:  Tomorrow.  I gots to wait until my moms gets off work so she can take me to her daddy.  She live wit ha’ daddy.  Man, these supavised visits suck. 

Young ‘un#2:  Yeah.  Dat suck.  So, anyway, when I gets home, I’m gonna beat ha’.

Young ‘un#1:  Yeah, beat ha!

Now, see?  That was descriptive language to describe a process.  If they had written that conversation in my class I think the grading rubric would give them an A.  An A+ if they gave a presentation complete with Michael Jackson impersonations and demonstrative visual aids such as “Bam! Bam!” (slamming fist into palm).

No Fs this semester.  If one of my students doesn’t get it, I will just beat ha’.  This system is so versatile.

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New Addition

We have a new addition to the Dingo family.  No, not that type of addition.  For the love of Todd, people!  Don’t you think I would’ve said something if Mr. Dingo and I were expecting?  Something like, “Save Me!” or “For Christ Sake, How Did This Happen?!” No, our new addition is of the feathered variety.  I’m just going to lay it all out there.  It’s a pigeon.  Now before you get your panties in a bunch and revoke my New York City citizenship, let me explain. 

Like all TRUE New Yorkers, I hate pigeons.  But this pigeon, well, he’s special.  You see, being a runt, his mama kicked him to the curb, which in this case, means our terrace. And there he sat looking up at the nest where his Mama and his fat fuck of a brother sat eating and lounging in pigeon luxury as he cried out, “Cheep, cheep, cheep!  Mama, I’m hungry!” and “Cheep, cheep, cheep, Mama, I’m scared!” It tore my heart out how excited he would get when his Mama would come out of her pigeon penthouse (the abandoned air conditioner unit from the apartment upstairs) only to have her ignore him and even chase him away.  I am tearing up thinking about it right now.  And so, I decided to feed him.  At least give him a chance to grow up to be the ugly, disease-infested vermin he was meant to be.

I refused to name him until I was sure he would live.  Having a dead baby pigeon on our terrace would be bad enough, having a dead baby pigeon that I named and anthropomorphized would be worse. 

Don’t ask me how Mr. Dingo got him to eat.  It was a Christmas miracle fluke.  It took a while but once he realized that the crumbs Mr. Dingo and I spread before him like a sumptuous buffet at The Luxor was food, he began to eat with relish.  In fact, if Mr. Dingo and I are a late with his breakfast or dinner, he bangs on the terrace door with his wings until we come out.  So, he’s going to live and I decided to name him.  Innernetz, I’d like to introduce you to McJagger.

Dingo Girl has learned that she is to chase all pigeons except for McJagger off the terrace.  McJagger has no fear of Dingo Girl or of me and Mr. Dingo.  He often hops onto our laps to make sure we really are out of bread and not just putting one over on him and he’ll dart toward a piece of bread to get to it before Dingo Girl does.  And Not a Dingo?  McJagger is not afraid of her either – bravado or stupidity, I’m not sure.  Mr. Dingo and I make sure we leave the terrace door cracked open enough to give her a peek at her foster brother but not enough so that she can pounce.  And pounce she would.  She eyeballs him through the door and licks her lips.

McJagger’s next obstacle is learning how to fly.  He doesn’t fly.  He flops.  He executes leaps worthy of Michael Jordan (without the grace and style) before landing in a hail of feathers and fluff.  But he doesn’t fly.  He crashes into walls.  He falls off the banister.  He hops around the terrace like one of those wind-up chicks and Easter eggs that are popular every Spring.  Mr. Dingo has pulled off the miracle of teaching McJagger to eat.  I’m waiting to see how he teaches our newest addition how to fly.

I started this post with the intention of writing about my encounter with the hostile Pigeon Lady that menaces the neighborhood and ended up introducing you to our newest family member.  I’ll write about Pigeon Lady another day – if I’m not arrested for grinding her bones to meal and feeding them to her feathered legions first.

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At Your Cervix

I got a letter from my ob/gyn yesterday notifying me that it’s time for my semi-annual poke and grope.  I like my ob/gyn.  She’s funny, pretty, and best of all, she doesn’t pressure me to pro-create.  And since she can actually find my cervix, I will continue to see her twice a year.  What?  You’ve never lost your cervix?  You’ve never been a little absent-minded and left your cervix in the back of a cab or perhaps accidentally dropped it in the mail slot while mailing your electric bill?  Um yeah, me neither, but that didn’t stop my first doctor from asking me, “Where’s your cervix?” I looked at her to see if she was kidding.  She wasn’t.  “Well,” I said, “You were the last one to see it, you tell me!”

After more hemming and hawing on her part and oooching and owwwing on mine, she decided to bring in the head doctor, well, not the head doctor.  I do have issues but those issues would increase astronomically if my therapist started poking around my nether regions.  This doctor came in wearing one of those headbands with a mirror attached to the front and a flashlight.  A flashlight?  With all the high-tech gadgets sitting in the exam room, the best they could come up with is a miner’s hat and a flashlight?  I was getting a little nervous that there would be a knock on the door and seven tiny men with pointed hats would come wandering into the room singing an annoying ditty about going to work.  Given my relationship with little people that is not a scenario I envisioned ending well.

The head doctor asked me all kinds of questions like:

Have I had this problem before?  The only problem I could see was the fact that two doctors with umpteen medical degrees between them can’t find something that I’m sure was there the night before.  Should I call Mr. Dingo to verify this?

Is my pelvis tilted? Only on the dance floor after several Jack and Diet Cokes and some really bad 80’s retro music.

Have I had children? WTF?  Did they not read my gazillion page medical history?  No, I have not had children. Why?  Are they prone to taking cervixes and hiding them in their diapers or something? Just another reason why I am not going to pop one out.  Apparently, they like to hide internal organs!

After the exam room became too small for all the doctors and nurses who gathered to look at the wonder of science that is my hoo-ha, we decided that I should go see a specialist.  I don’t know if there’s anything worse than having someone look at your hoo-ha as they shake their head and mutter, “We’d better send you to a specialist.” And you know how I KNEW my cervix was where it was supposed to be?  Because upon hearing those words, it shriveled up in fear and ended up somewhere near my throat.

So, I went to see the specialist who, without any flashlights, miner’s caps, search and rescue teams, or CSI crews, was able to find my cervix right where it was supposed to be.  And I’ve been going to her ever since.

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I Kick Ass and The World Finally Knows It

There’s nothing like coming off a mishap filled week like last week to find that you’ve been awarded the Kick Ass Blogger award by not one, but TWO bloggers whom you admire to boost your spirits.  Well, there is, but I didn’t come home to find Christian Bale naked in my bed so I’ll take what I can get.  Hint to the blogosphere:  if I ever get another blogging award, please make sure it includes Christian Bale naked in my bed.  Or at least in his Batman costume.  That man certainly can fill out the Kevlar, no?  Oh, and I’d appreciate it if Mr. Dingo is on a business trip at the time.  So, thank you Ms. Catalysta and Dirty Laundry Diva for the awards.  It made my week.  Mr. Dingo suggested that I should contact one of you and give you the option to bestow the award on someone else.  I was like, “Screw dat! Dat bitch is mines!” It is no coincidence that I also say that to all the johnny-come-lately Christian Bale fans. 

I love blogging so this award really does mean a lot to me.  I’m going to have my tech person, Mr. Dingo, set up an awards page so that you can go visit my award any time you want and longingly caress the screen.  I’ve met some great bloggers online and even one in person (hey, when are all the New York Bloggers going to have a meet-up?).  Y’all have been with me through thick and hope-to-soon-be -thin, zombie invasions, mosquito infestations, and student cluelessness.  Thank you so much. 

This is probably a good time to open up the blog for questions.  No, not your questions.  My questions.  Day-um, y’all!  Dingo can’t just give her life info away.  She has to remain a woman of mystery and keep stringing you along so that six, seven, or twenty years from now you are still reading just to find out what makes Dingo tick. 

Here are some questions I have for you:

• Why does butter taste so good?  I am not a discriminating butter fan.  I just love butta!  From Land O’ Lakes to Mrs. Butterworth, I love butta!  But some people, people who like to ruin all my fun, insist that asking for a double dose of movie popcorn butter is going to be the death of me.  To that I say, if you think that is going to be the death of me, then you haven’t seen me drive.  So, really, if it’s so bad for you, why does butter taste so good? 

• Why do women with really bad weaves insist on wearing their hair in ponytails? Isn’t the point of a weave to fool people into thinking that you look more like Faith Hill rather than Chucky?  If your weave is pulled into a tight ponytail I can see where your fake hair connects with your gnarly scalp.  You aren’t fooling anyone. 

• Is the gas crisis causing cutbacks in soap production?  As far as I know gas and soap are unrelated.  In fact, there is no reason that rising gas prices should effect my fellow subway riders.  I know that gas prices are high but are we reduced to making choices between soap and filling up our gas tanks?  Shouldn’t taking the subway mean that people are actually saving money?  Rising gas prices and rising temperatures do not mix.  It’s like oil and water.  Paris and Nicole.  McCain and the White House.  Jack Daniels and Coke.  Oh, wait.  I like that last combo.  I’m wondering if it’s only the people who used to drive but now take the subway that just stink.  You tell me.  Have you cut back on buying soap?

• Why do people who tie their dogs up outside of Starbucks get upset when I pop into the coffee shop and say, “Is someone in here the irresponsible and neglectful owner of the dog that is tied up outside in the heat/cold/rain and susceptible to any crazy person or vicious dog that walks by?” I mean, I’m just checking.  I want to make sure the dog is not abandoned.  That’s a good thing, right?

So, those are my questions for you, dear readers.  I’m going to go bask in my Kick Ass Blogginess now but before I do I need to choose five bloggers to receive this award.  Here are da’ rules:

• From your list of hundreds in your reader somehow choose five other bloggers that you feel are “Kick Ass Bloggers”. 
• Let ‘em know via : - your post. b) an email c) Twitter d) blog comments … that they have received an award.
• Link back to the person that awarded you (ME!) and also www.mammadawg.com.
• Visit the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ, to get codes, sign Mr. Linky then pass it on!

I know some people have already received this award so I’m going to spread the love and give it to people that haven’t gotten it yet – or if they have, they are slackers and haven’t posted about it.  Soooo, without further ado, Mrs. Chili at The Blue Door, Lara at Red, Red, Whine, Crissy at Crissy’s Page, Meg at Golightly, and (Day-um!! Only five?) Mel Heth at Life According to Mel Heth, come on down!  You are all Kick Ass Bloggers. 

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All That Glitter

Is it possible to ask for a do-over for an entire week?  No, really, I need to do this week over.  Whom do we talk to about this? 

Monday got the week off to a great start. I managed to ignore the snooze button on my Talking Al Gore alarm clock ("Time to wake up and contribute even more to the destruction of the planet") to stumble out the door for an early morning run.  I managed to knock an entire minute off my three-mile run!  While basking in the heat, humidity, and painful glow of this milestone during my post-run stretch, I noticed a flash of white down by my little girl bits.  Huh? I had worn my black running shorts so the flash of color took me by surprise.  It didn’t take Horatio Kane to figure out that I’d committed a fashion crime.  My running shorts were inside out.  So while I was burning up the miles, the white cotton crotch sewn into my shorts was burning the corneas of my fellow runners.  Tell me, who in the world makes black running shorts with a white cotton panty?  Who!?  Some of you may be asking, “Who wears their running shorts inside out?” To you I say, shush and get back to your spreadsheets and donuts.  You shouldn’t be reading blogs at work.

The rest of the week fell into a familiar pattern:  I dropped my make-up brush into the toilet. Twice.  After spending hours preparing for class, I left my lesson plans, attendance sheet, and Red Bull at home. The lesson plans and attendance sheet were trivial matters compared to the distress of not having my liquid energy.  I put my hand through a hole in the poopy bag while picking up Dingo Girl’s evening offering and got a handful of recycled dog food organic waste dog shit. And that was just Monday.  All week long, I felt as if I were the subject of a Punk’d all-Dingo special.

But Friday finally rolled around.  Marian the Librarian and I had an appointment for a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, that is if your idea of Ladies Who Lunch consists of cold pints and plates of fries.  And if that is not your idea of a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, then la-di-da, look who’s puttin’ on airs!  After pounding down a few brews we stumbled into Sephora.  It wasn’t our original destination but the sign outside advertising a free color consultation and make-over was a sign from the Make-Up Gods that we dared not disobey.  It was fate.  It was destiny.  It was the signpost leading to another disaster.

Marian got whisked away by an edgy platinum blonde with asymmetrical hair and a fun, hip vibe.  I was corralled into a chair by a woman whose sole experience with make-up application consisted of painting the detached Barbie Styling Head she got for Christmas with a floor mop.  Side note:  Did you know that they now make the Make Me Pretty Talking Styling Head?  Is it just me or does everyone else find that unbelievably disconcerting as well?  There’s nothing like trying to put glitter on your doll’s eyelids while she’s sassing you about how Glitter Glam Green is sooo not her color and did you make sure to moisturize first?  Shut up, Be-otch!  Anatomically Incorrect Ken is going to be here in ten minutes to take your disembodied self to the prom and you want to be ready, don’t you?

Okay, okay, where was I?  Oh yes, as I was leaning back in my chair futilely telling Commandant Clueless that Glitter Glam Green is sooo not my color.  She kept telling me to lean forward and to stop squinting.  I couldn’t help it.  The way she wielded that make-up brush I thought for sure I was going to lose an eye.  And she used enough frosted shadow to make me look like a three-tiered Betty- Off-Her-Crocker cake.  Between glimpses of myself in the mirror, I tried to make a run for it but she body blocked me.  I think I still have bruises. 

Realizing that resistance was futile, I humbly submitted to her will.  Forty-minutes later, she was done with my eyes.  Forty-minutes!  I asked about concealer and mascara to complete the look.  The sigh she gave me made me feel as if I’d just asked her to donate a liver to the Pâté Makers Association. Just then, Marian the Librarian appeared at my elbow.  She. Looked. Stunning.  Now, Marian the Librarian is a pretty woman in ordinary circumstances but her make-up person had accentuated her natural beauty.  She looked like she wasn’t wearing any make-up at all.  I can only imagine all the horny kids coming to her desk at the library asking for assistance.  “Excuse me, Ms. Marian the Librarian.  Can you help me?  I’m looking for Looooooove.” And then Marian the Librarian, who takes no sass from anyone and who has an incredible right hook, would knock them into the reference stacks.  They’d feel as if they’d been hit by Cupid and go away happy.

Marian the Librarian took one look at me and said, “I like it.  It’s summery.” I think it was because my face looked like a bowl filled with tropical fish.  Commandant Clueless looked at me expectantly.  Um, did she really expect me to buy any of this crap?  I didn’t buy any make-up but I did buy a nice face wash and travel chisel to help remove the layers of spackle.

I should’ve ended the evening right there and gone home to console myself with Grey’s Anatomy re-runs.  Dr. McSteamy, with all his plastic surgery prowess, would make things okay.  Hell, as surreal as my day had been, he might have even reached through the screen to tell me how to fix the hot mess on my eyes.  But no, I headed to H&M where I tried to fit into clothes made for people as thin and boobless as a Barbie Styling Head. 

But the day and the week wasn’t a total wash.  I got home to find out our A/C was on the fritz and the make-up soon melted right off.  Thank heaven for global warming.

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