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December, 2008:

It’s My Blog and I’ll Cry If I Want To

Dec 29th, 2008
by Margaret.
77 comments

Nobody likes a whiner, but nothing gets my whiny engine roaring faster than bearing witness to the unfairness of life. “Living in the Moment” was never my thing and I blame my mother for that (that’s right, I’m a victim - see? I’m already whining.). She raised me to consider the consequences of my actions. And now I suffer because of it.

You wanna get my goat? Act without thinking. Let your heart rule your head. Jumble your priorities. Make use of a banana peel in a dangerous prank. Become a high-profile person and then consumed with power, sleep with whomever you wish, regardless of your marital status. Get away with murder, or worse, get a sub-prime loan on a house you can’t afford and then walk away from it, or why not even sell one of those sub-prime loans? You know, little things like that.

And then if someone wants to boil my blood until pink steam shoots out of my ears, they will enable your behavior by saying nothing (or lying for you, or bailing you out, or forgiving your debt, or refusing to allow hard evidence into your murder case because of a ‘technicality’). And now, because I’m RESPONSIBLE, I’m subsidizing your slack. Well, not YOUR slack, of course. You people are perfect. It’s those OTHER people out there that I’m talking about.

Why can’t I just relax like everyone else? Live in the moment? Let it go? Throw all my cares away?

But I digress. In fact I think I digressed before I even got started. The real reason I called you all here today was to talk about how I can never seem to find the perfect balance between over-thinking and under-thinking. For example, the last time I posted a picture of someone’s car on my blog, I forgot to blur out the license plate. And then I worried too much about it. I considered the consequences. (So I guess I didn’t digress THAT much - I’m still on the consequences thing.)

I vowed that the next time I posted a car’s picture, I would blur out the license plate, because I keep imagining myself getting into big trouble when the owner finds out and sues me for invasion of privacy. This would be an example of me over-thinking because, really, as if my puny blog is on anybody’s radar. Besides, I probably don’t have to worry about getting sued until I’m rich and famous. So, not for at least a couple more months or so.

Anyway, I still stress out about it and figure I should blur out the car’s plate to be on the safe side. But then it turns out, I’m going to be posting THIS picture of a car I saw on the freeway recently:

pink mustang
License Plate = MYPNK69

And seriously? A vanity plate is all about vanity, the whole vanity and nothing but the vanity, your Honor. The owner WANTS everyone to see it. And in the Dress-How-You-Want-To-Be-Treated Department, a pink car is not exactly trying to pass through life unnoticed. So do this attention whore a favor and NOTICE HER ALREADY! (By the way, I apologize for not risking my life further by capturing a better view of the pink wheel covers.)

Oops, I probably shouldn’t have called her a whore. I mean, I’m sure she doesn’t mind her car and even her license plate being broadcast all over the internet, but to call her a whore? Well, now I’ve gone too far and I probably will get into trouble for this. Should I take out the “whore” part? She probably won’t even read this. I mean, what are the chances? It’s not like a lot of people see this blog, right?

What if I called her an attention hog, would that be better? You think she’d mind that? It doesn’t carry the punch of “whore”, but you know, I don’t want to make anybody mad. Like last week’s post that brought in 137 F-bombs from a cowardly anonymous commenter.

How about pig? Would pig be okay?

Nightmare, Thy Name is Christmas

Dec 26th, 2008
by Margaret.
72 comments

Well thank God THAT’S over.

Christmas sucks. For me, anyway. It’s that dreaded time of year when I am forced to spend “quality” time with loved ones. Blech! Ptui! - I say.

My loved ones (and while I use that term repeatedly, I use it loosely) are a bunch of two-bit half-wits. Take my eighteen-year-old niece. She showed me this so-called “art” she created:

batman joker art

batman joker art

What a loser! I could do that. Anybody could, right? Obviously, she’s doomed to flipping burgers for the rest of her life. I fought the urge to tell her she was a no-talent hack; I figured that would just send her into yet another shrill drama queen scene that she’s so famous for.

Art, my ass.

Oh, and don’t get me started on that whole nasty train wreck of a Christmas gift exchange. A bunch of thoughtless crap that you have to pretend to be overjoyed about as you open it. For example, how about this garbage I got from my husband:

xmas presents

Now what am I supposed to say after opening this pile of dog turds? “Thank you, Honey”? “Oh, just what I always wanted, sweetie”?

Yeah, it was a Charlie Brown Christmas for me. It always is. But, it’s the cross I must bear, if I’m to get into Heaven someday. And so I go on pretending to like these people and feigning gratitude to have them in my lives.

The Christmas Video They Don’t Want You to Know About

Dec 22nd, 2008
by Margaret.
47 comments

Stringed popcorn doesn’t last more than two minutes at the Nanny Goats household, let alone make it onto the Christmas tree. I’m busy stringing one end while cousin Billy Goat is gnawing on the other end. He’s such a pig.

I feel like a ten-year old at Christmas. Why? Because I have yet to figure out how to work my video camera and free video editing software well enough to produce something for the holidays worth watching. So I end up with something that looks childishly strung together on one end and chewed up on the other.

And because of this, you would think that nobody would be paying attention to the Christmas video I made of our little group outing to see Christmas lights and posted on the internet last year. Many months went by before I was accosted via email by some video hosting service who shall remain nameless but it rhymes with “BlueBoob”.

They made some outrageous claim that I was using copyrighted material and that I could get in super D duper big trouble. I mean, I know Disney can be very proprietary, but Mickey wasn’t on MY lawn with Santa lights, so why are they after me? But then I remembered I had included a song that may or may not have been “borrowed” to accompany this lame video.

BlueBoob must have realized just who they were dealing with — a silly and harmless little blogger to whom nobody pays any attention — and decided in their caustic letter to me that they would “let me” continue to keep the video up unless something or other, I don’t remember what else they said.

So, for those of you interested in catching this video before I am forced to cease and desist, I give you Nanny Goat’s Virtually Banned Holiday Music Video (less than 3 minutes) (Also? Dramamine tablets will be provided for those prone to motion sickness due to my wonky cameraman skilz):

If the above link doesn’t work, the direct video link is here. 

Goat Thing of the Day

Tracy at I Hate My Message Board showed me this picture of her son with my buddies:

tracy goat

Jenn at Of Cabbages and Kings gave me a new set of knickers. Boy, I sure am getting a lot of panties for Christmas!

Elizabeth from A Nut in a Nutshell thinks NGIP is fabulous.

Pooba thinks NGIP is exceedingly charming.

Valerie Gail at It’s a Wonderful Life - gave me the butterfly award.

Thank you, ladies - I appreciate it!

Not That I’m Bitter About It or Anything…

Dec 18th, 2008
by Margaret.
71 comments

You haven’t slept until you’ve laid yourself down on an pillowy mattress, covered in heavy blankets on a cool night, in a duplex, sharing a wall with a couple of reformed crack addicts, a few yards away from the railroad tracks. Here, I’ll show you:

fern ct

Every night, the 1:00AM Express barreled through, shaking the windows and furniture.

I got used to it. Eventually.

The reformed crack addicts, let’s call them Bubba and Charmagne, were a very nice couple who had met and fallen in love at Narcotics Anonymous. Isn’t that a romantic story?

They had a little girl, let’s call her Gwendolyn. When they first moved in, Charmagne and Gwendolyn came over to formally introduce themselves. I have this overwhelming empathy for bored children, so I scoured my childless (and therefore toyless) house for Gwendolyn and all I could find was my semi-prized Cabbage Patch Doll. This was around 1990 or so and as some of you well know, the Cabbage Patch doll was the Wii of the 80s.

My doll was named Magdelena Something with blonde hair and hazel eyes. She looked a lot like this:

She wasn’t “mint in box”, but she wasn’t dog-eared either. My hands hovered over the doll on my guest room bed, as I hesitated to allow this child to play with it. I was sure she wouldn’t rip it to shreds, but I hadn’t meant for it to be played with, really.

It’s only a doll, I told myself. It’s not like she’ll pee on it or anything. Will she? I forced myself out to the living room where they still stood there politely not touching anything. See? Everything’s fine.

I held up Magdalena and little Gwendolyn’s eyes widened. Her cute, pouty lips spread into a smile.  

Score! She likes it. That’ll keep her busy while the mom and I chat.

“Here you go,” I said, handing Magdalena and her hazel eyes, to little Gwendolyn.

“Wow.” said Charmagne. “Oh, she loves Cabbage Patch dolls. She’s never had one. What do you say?”

I stood there with a smile frozen on my face.

Oh no! It’s not a gift! You’re just supposed to play with it while you visited here. But how do I say that with out sounding like a jerk? 

“THANK YOU!” said the little girl.

Say something! Maybe, “Well actually…”, or “Oh, I just meant…” No, that won’t work. Hurry! You’re going to lose if you take too long!  

I looked at little Gwendolyn’s arms tighten around the doll as she buried her sweet little face in Magdalena’s blonde yarn of hair. Gently, through semi-gritted teeth, I said:

“You’re welcome.”

Goat Thing of The Day

Midlife Slices gave Nanny Goats a Christmas gift the other day.  It’s a Gift card!

That’s FIFTY-SEVEN pairs of panties, ladies. Also? She sent me a catalog for me to peruse from the privacy and comfort of my own home:

And the best part? Now Nanny Goats can lounge around the house all day for FIFTY-SEVEN days in a row. Without doing laundry. Woo-Hoo! Thank you, Midlife Slices. You rock!

Confessions of an Eavesdropper

Dec 15th, 2008
by Margaret.
64 comments

While modern technology has ostensibly made our lives easier, it has also created many opportunities to ruin our lives. With just one click.

Oh sure, it’s funny when it happens to somebody else.

My friend, Ingrid (not her real name), was driving around in her car when she called.

“Hello?” I said.

I knew it was Ingrid (still not her real name) because of Caller ID, but she didn’t say anything. At first.

I could hear that airy windy sound when someone is clearly in their vehicle with the windows rolled down.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Oh, nice.” she said.

Huh?

“Now why do you have to piss me off like that? No. No. Excuse me, sir, I was there first.”

Was she talking to someone in her car?

No. I was in the midst of finding out that my friend Ingrid talks to herself. A lot.

“Come onnnn! That’s right, just pull out in front of me. It’s not like my time is more important than yours. Clearly you are in much more of a hurry than I am.”

Now, when you come to the realization that your friend’s phone has mistakenly dialed your number, shouldn’t you hang up? I mean, you could be wasting their monthly plan’s precious minutes.

On the other hand, you could find out some seriously private personal information. What if she says something about you?

I had another friend (let’s call her Hortense) who accidentally called me while talking to her husband in the car. I grabbed a diet soda out of the fridge, made some microwave popcorn and settled onto the couch with a blanket for some great juicy conversation. But after about 35 minutes, I was BORED. Plus the music on their radio sucked.

But that kind of behavior is so wrong. Are you justified in listening because they’re the ones who called you in the first place? It’s not like you asked them to call you and then leave you hanging.

What if you hang on for sixty minutes eavesdropping and then they get their bill and they don’t remember talking to you for an hour. In fact they haven’t talked to you for months. What the heck are you going to say to her if she asks you about it? Play dumb? Like you both were unaware that your phones were connected?

I can just see the innocent look on your face, too. “You don’t remember calling me? Oh really? Well, I don’t remember answering. Huh. Gosh, that sure is weird.”

Or what if she decides she has to make a phone call and she grabs her phone and sees you’ve been sitting there on the line for 20 minutes? How are you going to explain THAT?

Anyway, back to my friend Ingrid, who was heard (by me) to say: “Yeah, I’d like one Filet-O-Fish sandwich and a large order of fries.” And then I listened to her pull up to the first window and pay for her meal. And then I listened to her pull up to the second window to pick up her meal.

I know. I’m a bad person. I’m certain I will pay for my transgressions.

I have yet to decipher all of my new iPhone’s bells and whistles. When I least expect it and I’m in full trash-talking mode, karma will bite me in the nether regions and place a call to the object of my derision. I’ll be in the car with my husband talking about Mildred (not her real name) and how she married an idiot and I give it six months and what does she see in him and God knows what all else when I’m on that kind of a roll.

And because I’m a complete dunce about all those fancy schmancy cell phone applications (or, “apps”, for the lingo-savvy), I will not have installed Eavesdropper 2.0, alerting me with a ringtone snippet from Marvin Gaye’s Heard It Through The Grapevine, that someone is listening to my conversation. Mildred will send me a Twitterrific direct message with a heinous virus rendering me mute and sickening everyone in the car with me. It won’t be pretty, I can tell you that.

Since necessity is the mother of invention, what I really need is a voice-activated application that automatically bleeps out gossip-mongering if my phone makes that dreaded unauthorized call in the first place. Then we’d all live happily ever after.

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Goat Thing of The Day

I would like to thank Leslie from Stethescopes and Stillettos for surprising me with this the other day:

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