I'm a Marching Lumberjack and I'm OK

Our band uniforms were heavy-duty green canvas-like lumberjack pants. Or were they Park Ranger trousers? I think we had to go to the hardware store to buy them, sneaking over to the nuts and screws aisle to try them on. Or maybe it was Sears.

By the way, lumberjack pants? So not sexy.

Also? Yellow band T-Shirts with the words "March or Die" on the back. Suspenders were also mandatory and they encouraged "flair". I wore a rainbow set like Mork from Ork and covered them with outrageous buttons and pins. We had to hold onto our yellow hard hats during certain moves or else they'd fly off.

Yes, in 1988, I was a band geek for Humboldt State University. My college volleyball career eligibility was used up and I had to find something to do to keep me off the streets. A fellow Sacramento Youth Band member, who was now in the university band, convinced me to sign on, so I dug up my flute and piccolo from their blue velvet-lined coffins and joined the Marching Lumberjacks (motto: Kiss Our Axe).

I hated it.

Which is too bad, really, because they look like they are having a good time. Totally non-conformist. Right up my alley, really.

This one time? At band camp?

Band camp was a weekend in August at a real campground, somewhere deep in the forests of Humboldt County. I was nervous about the rumors of pot pizza with 'shrooms, and hash brownies, afraid they'd force feed us for some hazing ritual and I'd wind up stoned and alone with the gnomes. I'd be high, high up in a redwood tree, hallucinating with the rest of the recruits.

If you messed up a parade drill you had to tilt your head back for a mystery concoction that was poured from a "boda bag", a tilted teardrop-shaped linen canteen thing. The Axe Major approached you with a bag in each hand and ask you if you wanted alcoholic or nonalcoholic. Then they squirted something nasty down your gullet. You wanted to be first, because the reactions from mistake makers before you only made you more afraid the awful sauce.

You know how when you expect Coca Cola and you accidenatally drink root beer and it totally freaks your taste buds out? So you're about to drink something nasty and it's not going to be anything you expect which makes it even harder to figure out what it is because fear and mystery liquid make for a strange cocktail indeed. In my case, it was Shasta Diet Chocolate soda.

Ick! But also: Whew!

Two of us were allowed to wear green lumberjack shorts at performances because we "had the legs for it". The other "Gam Girl" was a fellow piccolo player with big beautiful blond curly hair, who I befriended out of desperation. We even went to the mall one day and shared an ear piercing, each getting one hole in one ear (I've been lopsided ever since, having added a third hole to my right ear). But after college, I never saw her again and now I have this extra stupid hole in my ear. And now, it feels like a forgotten one night stand after a drinking binge. Or like waking up the morning after with Sharpie evidence all over your face. I mean, this ear piercing was supposed to MEAN something, like blood sisters. Every time I see that hole, I think of good old whats-her-name.

Anyway, the Marching Lumberjacks' big night was when UC Davis' band came up for the football game. Our scatter band would deliver a huge halftime show of scrambling around to spell: H. S. U. That was it. That was the show. Three letters. We weren't big enough or disciplined enough to pull anything serious off, so we went for humor. Kind of like this blog, come to think of it.

After the game, while the football fans filed out of the bleachers, we launched into the much-anticipated Battle of the Bands, which consisted of us on our side of the stadium wheezing out our songs and alternating with UC Davis belting out their virtuosos from their side of the stadium as we exhausted our musical libraries. The winner of The Battle was determined by who ran out of songs first.

We lost.

Every year, from what I've heard. I was only a member for one season.

My experience was depressing. I think I felt superior to "those yahoos" who were just in it for the sillyness and the pot. We weren't nicknamed Marijuana State University for nothing, you know.

But I entered that whole adventure depressed. It was merely a band-aid covering a gaping wound. I missed being part of a volleyball team and felt left out while my sporty friends continued to be eligible and play. I thought this "band thing" would cheer me up, fill that void, but it didn't, really. Which is too bad. They were funny. But I wasn't in the mood for it. Not even when, at the end of the season, I was awarded with a handmade plaque. This wooden award was adorned with a cotton ball wrapped in pantyhose with a small string dividing it in half and glued to the base, so that it looked like, you know... a butt. A tiny little butt. It was the Cutest Butt award or something like that.

In a different year, that award would have moved me to tears. Someone took the time to make me a thoughtful award and I dismissed it. That's right, I poo-poo-ed a Butt award.

I had always felt like I never fit in and was bored at the party and left early, missing my award, so somebody gave it to me later. Oh sure, I feel bad about it now, and I guess they must have tried to make me a part of their group, but I didn't feel it. In fact, looking back on it, I was a total jackass.

How did I get out of my funk? I got a job as a high school volleyball coach at Eureka High School the following year. I was a "credible" volleyball person again.

But I still have the "Cutest Butt" award and the suspenders with "flair" in a box somewhere. It's a bittersweet memory, but a memory nonetheless.


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Goat Thing of the Day

Hey, did I show you my "Congrats for getting canned!" gift that my husband got for me?

I know!

Vote For The Goat

If you didn't vote for me in the last week for Humor Blogger of The Year, now's your chance. This penultimate round ends soon. Just click on this link or the logo to the left and vote for Nanny Goats in Panties under the Personal Life category. At press time, I've fallen to 3rd place and only 1st place goes to the finals. So please...Vote for The Goat! (No registration required)

UPDATE: Dang. I lost this last round, but you can still hit the link and vote for another blog in the final round!

At the Intersection of Homelessness and Vanity

So I'm at the hair salon, getting my hair all salonned, when a strange man appeared outside, repeatedly thrashing at his head.

 

"Oh, he comes here all the time," said my hair salonner.

Turns out, this homeless guy is vain as all get out. He pretends the tree is a mirror and he primps and coifs and combs for long stretches of time.

 

I wonder how much he charges for a partial highlight. You would think the girls inside would feel threatened by the competition. Instead, they have nicknamed him Blanket Boy, although I'm not sure why.

Blanket Boy, Blanket Boy.... Is it some Michael Jackson reference? Maybe he sings while doing his hair.

Oh well, I guess I'll figure it out eventually.


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If any of you didn't vote for me last week for Humor Blogger of The Year, now's your chance. This penultimate round ends soon. Just click on this link or the trophy logo to the left and vote for Nanny Goats in Panties under the Personal Life category. At press time, I've fallen to 3rd place and only 1st place goes to the finals.So please vote for me!

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Coincidentally, this guy is also nicknamed Blanket Boy. Again, not sure why.

 

Picture drawn by Allison Jae

Of Lollipops and Near-Death Experiences

What do you do when you're in your cubicle on the 12th floor, after everyone else in your office has gone home for the day and you are trying to suck air as if your life depended on it? You don't even know what just happened, only that you can't breathe.

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As I sit in front of my computer, sucking on a Tootsie Pop, I accidentally inhale some orange flavored spit and my throat closes up. While panicking, I try hard to inhale through a pinprick-sized air hole in my throat, producing a weird sound that resembles radio static.

I figure if I'm choking on something, I could just pass out and then my throat would relax - something I'd heard in a First Aid class if the Heimlich maneuver didn't work. I can't do the Heimlich on myself, because, well, there is nothing to maneuver. Just sugary orange saliva.

But what if my throat doesn't relax after losing consciousness? I'll die. Still, I swivel my chair around and bend over, so that if I do pass out, I'll be closer to the floor already and maybe I won't hurt myself too much on the way down. Meanwhile, the pin hole radio static continues as I try to breathe.

OK, I haven't passed out yet, but I still can't get any air. I can't call 911 because what would I say? Nothing. Because I'm choking. And even if by some fancy schmancy techno thing they figure out where I'm calling from, I'm imagine them stumbling into our office building and asking the guard which desk a certain phone number might be located, the guard looking it up, the guard walking them to the elevator because he has to swipe the key card to allow them access to my floor, and before they reach my desk, I'm on the floor doing a weird yoga looking headstand crumpled against the side of my desk because I overshot the estimated trajectory of my fainting out of my chair. And I'm dead anyway.

So THAT isn't an option.

What does this choking session clock in at so far, thirty seconds maybe?

How could I be choking on my own spit? As a last ditch effort to avoid dying and/or passing out, I try to cough and a bunch of air goes through, opening up my throat a little. Just enough to choke and cough and get in some air to choke and cough some more.

When my body settles down some, I break out in a shaky, clammy sweat. I don't feel so good.

Then I hear the voices on my speaker phone and I remember that I've been on a conference call for the last three hours from a production problem we are all working on. A couple of colleagues are on the floor below me and others are in offices from the east coast.

I think, Oh my God, I hope they didn't hear me. I must have sounded like a freak. I check the phone. Whew! It's muted. They didn't hear a thing.


That's right, I was relieved that no one heard me dying, because oh my God, how embarrassing would THAT have been?

Now, I am not prone to drama. Nor am I a hypochondriac. So when I saw my doctor and told him what had happened and that I couldn't breathe and he said, "Well, if you couldn't breathe, you would have died", I felt somewhat belittled.

This heartless bastard, who is lucky if he sees me once every two years, sent me home with an asthma inhaler, because apparently, if you find yourself in a situation where you can't breathe, just use this inhaler, which by the way, I don't know if you know this, but inhaler usage (and I'm getting this information directly from the instructions) requires INHALING!

As weeks, then months went by, I assumed it was an isolated incident, although I could never bring another Tootsie Pop to my mouth.

Fast forward a year and a half to this past July. I woke up at 5am with a closed-up throat, unable to breathe. I don't know about you, but I'm kind of sleepy and disoriented at 5am. Plus, I hadn't fallen asleep that night until 3am, so I was extra disrupted by this disturbance.

I was in L.A. when this happened, so I was by myself. Again. Wait, that's not true, I have a roommate, although I'm not sure I was aware of it at that moment. At any rate, I was alone in my room.

I remembered the last incident and told myself to cough. But I hesitated. What if it didn't work this time? Then I'd be all out of options.

By the way, why can't our brains work this fast, say, when we are on Jeopardy!, and you need that answer (e.g. What is a sperm whale?) before everyone else? That thing, where time slows down, and you can think of thirty-seven pieces of information or have debates with yourself, and it feels like five minutes have passed, but you know you can't hold your breath that long, so it must have been less than a minute? Yeah, THAT thing. What is that?

I weighed the pros and the cons, and the pros won. I coughed. Then I went through the choking/coughing thing again until I was better.

Well, I decided that was NOT OK and went on an internet research rampage to find out WTF was going on. It turns out, I'm not the only one this has happened to. It also turns out that this happens to people who have acid-reflux, which I had been ignoring, not realizing it's a CONDITION that you should DO SOMETHING ABOUT.

Acid reflux is not some rare tropical disease about which DOCTORS would be ignorant. Why couldn't my doctor (who, if I have anything to say about it, is no longer my doctor) have known this? At minimum, why couldn't he have taken enough of an interest to find out?

Actually, the Internetz also told me that the throat-closing thing can be exacerbated by asthma, so my doctor who has no soul, knew a LITTLE something, but still...how do you use an inhaler when you can't breathe, I ask you?



Goat Thing of the Day

Hey, who wants to see a funny little 2 minute goat movie that TravelSavvyMom's Jamie Pearson made?




Click here if the embedded movie above doesn't work.

Sacramento is The City of Trees (So Quit Saying It's Paris!)

Sacramento has more trees than you can shake a stick at. Why, every day, someone, somewhere in this city is barking up the wrong one, that's how many we have. Allegedly (or should I say, Allergy) Sacramento has the most trees per capita in the world. How many trees do we have, you ask?

The most. That's how many.

How do we know we have the most? Why just take a look at this:



Oops! Wait, let me do that again. OK, take a look at THIS:




See? It says so right here on this alien spaceship. So it must be true.

Not many people know this story, but that spaceship landed here one October evening in 1996. Little green men came out and said, "Take me to your Cedar."




They robot-booted into our neighborhood and fell in love with the foliage. They said to me, "This is amazing! We love your city! We declare it the City of Trees!"




I said, "Well, you're lucky to catch us in the Fall. And actually, we already ARE the City of Trees. Ever since we beat Paris hands down in the 1965 Per Capita Tree-Off. But thanks just the same. That's very nice of you."



They wrapped their arms around the trees and kissed the bark with lips on the sides of their head, so it looked as though they were listening to the bark. They thanked us for the tour of our neighborhood, shook our hands, gave us candy, abandoned their spaceship and said something about hitchhiking to Area 36 or Area 64 (I can't remember the name of it) somewhere in Nevada.



And now, whenever I lay me down to sleep, visions of tree-hugging aliens dance in my head.



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Hey could you all do me a solid and click on this link (or the logo to the left) to boost me up in the Sacto Top 25 list? Just a click, nothing else.

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Hear Ye, Hear Ye (or is Here Ye, Here Ye?)

Thank you, Suzy at Hollywood: Where Hot Comes To Die for bestowing upon me the Power To Schmooze Award. (Trivia Question: Which episode of Seinfeld did Suzy appear in? For the answer, go to her website here.)

This award was given to me by Under The Big Blue Sky who loves this blog. Yay!

And my favorite Doggy Blogger, Dennis the Vizsla Dog gave me the Marie Antoinette Award.

I'm honored and flattered and grateful for these awards. Thanks heaps!

You're Twittering Me from WHERE?

So this morning I see Lori (aka 'nelsoneroni') from Parking Lot Mamas on Twitter (a web tool that allows you to instantly send messages - tweets - to your social network) and she tells us she is in the dentist chair waiting for her novocaine.

We've come a long way from hunting and gathering dinosaurs when we can talk to 147 people (or however many "followers" we have on Twitter) on our phone while we sit in a chair in anticipation of getting stabbed with numbing needles.

Of course, being the smart ass that I am, I couldn't resist responding:



I mean, can you imagine? You're legs are hoisted high in stirrups with the gynecologist in you up to his elbows and all you've got is a couple of paper sheets covering everything but your hoo-ha, and your phone.


@crazyperson: Thank GAWD Dr. has small hands. Cold, but small.

@crazyperson: Dr. is hawt. Am wondering if I shaved enough.

@crazyperson: Handsome, small-handed Dr. wants to know if I have any kids. RU kidding? Can't you tell? You're right there!

...and so on.

But anyway, that's not why I called this meeting. If you had read the agenda, you would have known that Item 1 on the agenda is "Crickets". Because that's what I got for my OB-GYN comment from the Parking Lot Mama.

So now I'm worried that I completely offended her. I mean if you read my comment without any humor, it could come across as very snide, or as a put down. I mean, who am I to get all snarky on a woman who, as far as I know, is nervous as hell because she's about to have her gums sliced open, or her teeth drilled or whatever. She could be very vulnerable and I go in there and poke at her and jibe, when she's just looking for tea and sympathy. Oh my God, that's it, isn't it? I'm a bad person.

That's the problem with written communication: people read something the wrong way and that's it. You are unfollowed: With this iPhone, from the gates of Hell (aka the dentist chair), I unfollow you. You suck. Don't you ever twitter a message to me, @crazyperson, again.

So do I make it up to her and go and comment on her last 3 month's posts? Is she really that upset with me? Did my tweet really go over like a lead balloon?

Or was it the gas in the dentist chair that rendered her unable to say anything. Or SEE anything! Maybe she didn't see my snide remark! Maybe she'll never see it. Maybe I totally got away with it and she's still following me and all is well.

Oh, but what if she comes here and sees what I wrote? Oh no! Now I'm a bad person again - GAHHHH!!!!! I can't win. Well, I mean, really, what are the odds that she'll even see this post? HA HA! I bet she can't even read! Oops! Who said that?

Well, I appreciate your attendance at this meeting. Any questions? ....  I said, Any questions?

Could you stop surfing on your phones for one second and tell me if you have any questions?

{SIGH} Meeting is adjourned.



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Goat Link of The Day

This photo speaks for itself. Thanks to Heather from the Fergie Sims Family blog for showing me this pair of cuties!

I May Be Unemployed, But I've Got Big Plans

Welcome to my first week of unemployment! After being wait-listed for eleven long months, the repairman finally came by to fix my Wayback and Forward Time Traveler 6000. Some jerk stepped on a butterfly last year and everyone's time machine went on the fritz. Why is there always one guy who has to blow it for everybody?

Anyway, I jumped in for a quick ride into the future to check my diary. I wanted to know how my life of unemployment would go.  Here are the first few entries:


November 17, 2008: Woo Hoo! Don't have to go to work today. Suddenly, I love Mondays. OMG, now I can do everything I never had the time for: go to the gym, work on my novel, learn Spanish, learn the piano, see my friends, read all my books...I can't wait! I'm just so excited at the thought of getting everything done while everyone else is at work! Did I mention that I love Mondays now?

November 23, 2008: After blogging yesterday, I got all caught up in an internet surfstorm, which pretty much blew the day away, so I didn't make it to the gym. I don't like going after 4pm, when it's crowded, but I'll get there eventually. It's just a matter of scheduling. Plus, I still have to find my membership card. Found a Netflix movie underneath a pile of bills, though. I forgot all about Netflix. So I watched a movie and ordered a pizza. Have you ever had the stuffed cinnamon cream cheese rolls they have at Big Fat Pizza Guys? OMG, they're to die for!

November 28, 2008: Yesterday was Thanksgiving. All that family time kind of got in the way of my movie watching. Finished all the Thanksgiving leftovers by lunch, so now in quandry as to dinner. You know, I'm really enjoying this Netflix thing. I spent all day today adding movies to my queue and watching the ones I had at home. I figure if I want to be a writer, I need to get a real sense of story and watch lots of movies. So I upgraded my membership to "5 out at a time". I got to practice some Spanish today when I ordered from the Taco Bell Drive-Thru.

December 5, 2008: Cancelled gym membership. It's too expensive for someone who doesn't have a job. I'll just walk or something. Netflix is taking longer to turn around my movies, so I upped it to "8 out at a time". Also, I've got hulu.com for while I wait. Did you know they have practically ALL the 1970s TV shows?My unemployment checks are finally getting processed. The only thing is, I have to go in to their office every Monday to pick up my check and answer some questions. Whatever. As long as I get my money.

December 10, 2008: Sat at the piano today, but couldn't hear what Whoopi was saying on The View, so I'll practice later. Man, it's amazing how you can get lost in a sea of movie choices on Netflix. I was just checking to see if they had Police Academy 12 and all of a sudden, they're all: "If you liked all 47 seasons of The Simpsons, you might like..." and then you're doing nothing but adding movies to your queue all day. Thinking about upping my membership to "10 out at a time". Do you know how hard it is for me to work on my novel while watching Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure? No matter how many times I've seen it?


December 15, 2008: Looked at my pile of books today and couldn't decide which one to start. They're all so long!!! So I watched a CSI: Miami marathon while playing on Twitter. Ran out of cheese puffs. Discovered the wonder of grocery store delivery. This last Monday, Tamika, the chick at the unemployment office asked if I had looked for work in the last week. Was she kidding? I told her I was on vacation, lady, I need some time off! She said that wasn't the right answer. What does she know?

December 20, 2008: Tried to go out for a walk today, but it was way too cold for my very first day of working out. I need to be comfortable if I'm to have any incentive to exercise at all. Didn't feel like facing the mall crowds for Christmas shopping, so I bought everything online and had it shipped to everybody. I'm thinking I'll just stay home and catch up on my Netflix movies instead of going to Christmas family stuff. I don't really have anything that fits anyway and Aunt Sally is such a prude about dressing up for dinner. I mean, it's not like I have a job and can go running out to buy a new outfit every time I put on another 20 pounds.

December 24, 2008: Did you know that the maximum number of movies you can have in your Netflix queue is 500? What kind of crap is that when there are over 70,000 titles to choose from? Had to upgrade membership to "15 out at a time", just so I wouldn't keep bumping up against the 500 maximum. Plus, I can get through them really fast now. I bought another TV to put right next to the other one, so I could watch two movies at a time. While I was waiting patiently for the mailman today (I tend to pace on the front porch until he shows up), I saw him drive by and slow down just enough to chuck my movies out his window onto my driveway. What the hell is his problem?

December 31, 2008: I've given up trying to squeeze into my sweatpants. OK, they ripped. I've fashioned a house coat out of the red satin bed sheets I got from cousin Velma twenty years ago during her "sanguine" days. Mailman left a note yesterday saying I would have to go to the post office to pick up my mail. Resorted to Netflix's Intant Watch feature, which streams movies right to my computer. I may have to buy another computer so I can still Twitter while watching my movies. On Monday, Tamika, the chick at the unemployment office, said that my house coat would not be appropriate for a job interview. I said, well then, it's a good thing I don't plan to go on any job interviews. I don't think she understands my level of commitment to get through my Netflix queue. GAWD, I hate Mondays!

*

And that was all I saw. Who knows what happened after that?

Sometimes it's a good idea to see what your future holds so you can do sometehing about it now. So I ran out to Big Momma's MuuMuus and bought one of every size they had. Because red satin? I don't think so.

And for those of you who were wondering, yes, time travel machine repairmen have butt cleavage, too.

Nation's Unemployment Rate Increases by .000001% Today

Five months ago, my employer threw my job across the country like a stick and asked if I wanted to fetch it. I said, "No thanks" and today marks the end of my 16 year stint with them. I decided to take this as a sign that this is the time for me to plunge into the deep end of the pool; get out of the technology and securities industries completely and become a writer for real.

I thought I would share with you the goodbye letter I sent out to my colleagues yesterday. Just a couple of quick explanations:
1. T+3 and Y2K were two big projects in the technology and securities industries.
2. Jeff Ries is a derivation of the name of the firm for which I worked.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who designed software in the securities industry. She analyzed data and code for sixteen years for some totally global guy named Jeff Ries whose favorite musical artist was Sting.

 

The princess saved the world from disaster during the T+3 scare while simultaneously getting her Series 7, all with one hand tied behind her back. Later, some time around 1999 or 2000 she again saved humanity from the great Y2K threat. During this sixteen year campaign, Jeff and the princess fell in love. But times were hard and although Jeff had strong feelings for the princess, he heard Sting's melodic voice inside his head, singing, "If you love somebody, set them free. (Free, free, set them free)". So Jeff set the princess free, giving her a $25.00 Starbucks card as a token of his love.

 

The princess cried and cried. Her heart was broken. But then one morning, the sun broke through the clouds, bringing chirping doves and a brand new day. She donned her crown and went to Paris and Cuba to follow in Ernest Hemingway's footsteps, hanging out in romantic cafes, making fabulous artsy friends, and writing the great American novel. She became disgustingly rich and famous. You've probably heard of her.

 

Every once in a while, Jeff still thinks of the princess. And every once in a while, the princess still thinks of Jeff.

 

THE END

 

So anyway, tomorrow (Friday) is my last day. The Jeff Ries community has been my family and home since 1992. Thanks for all the memories, you guys. I will miss you. Keep in touch, my email is [...]

All the best,
Margaret

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The last I heard, people were emailing it to their friends and family. I hope that means I really do have a chance at this writing thing.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go freak out while sorting through the vagaries of unemployment. It's kind of a new thing for me. It feels like the last day of school before summer vacation.

Like It? Too Bad You Can't Have Any.

Thanks to a new thing called WiMax, if you live in Baltimore, MD, you can now surf the internet from your laptop while riding on your donkey. Well that's just great. Because are they going to be rolling this service out to Sacramento or Los Angeles any time soon? No.

So how does this news help us? It doesn't. We will continue to ride our donkeys without the benefit of such fancy schmancy internet service. We will be losing market share in an extremely competitive environment on our donkeys as we travel back and forth to business meetings, trying to land that merger deal with the picky client who only drinks skinny no-whip lattes, while stupid Baltimoreans have already sealed it while on their donkeys before they even get to the office.

Stupid Baltimoreans.

BaltiMORONS, I say.

Well, who needs it anyway! It's not like I wanted it. In fact, if we're not going to get it, I don't want to hear about it. I do not need this kind of information shoved in my face. What is this, grape juice? It's sour. Take it away.

"Hear ye, hear ye! We are making hot fudge sundaes for everyone! It's all-you-can-eat sundaes day and night. We're open 24 hours. It's so convenient. It's so yummy. Come and get it!

Except you."

Well, they can kiss my lily white frackenweiler. I'm not interested. And you know why? Because it costs like $35 per month for the service. Now, if you are already paying monthly fees for interent service for, say, two different homes AND your phone, why would you pay again? Besides, that's what FREE Wifi is for.

Also? I can get free mobile WiFi anytime I want. I just have to ride the LAX Flyaway shuttle all day. Here's me and my laptop while cruising down Sepulveda Boulevard coming back from the airport:





At four bucks a ride, it's faster than the bus, about forty bucks cheaper than a taxi and you get free internet access - woo hoo!


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PLEASE VOTE FOR ME!

The competition is getting fierce for Humor Blogger of the Year Award. This is a new round of voting. Voting is now by category. Nanny Goats in Panties is in the Personal Life category. If you voted for me before, it's time to cast a vote again. If you haven't voted for me before, please do it now. Just click on the button below and vote for Nanny Goats in Panties. No registration required. Just one click. Thank you so much for your support.


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I am honored to receive the Kreative Blogger Award from Carrie at Oikology 101. And if you don't know what Oikology is, you have to go over and find out.

Does Not Play Well With Others

When Nigel approached me last weekend at the annual Tarts and Vickers party to ask me if I wanted to participate in a game with the rest of the group, I was suddenly debilitated by a twitch in my left eye. I summoned my driver, Worthington, and he whisked me home to my oxygen tank, where I gulped for my life.

I grew up playing games. I played Monopoly, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, and all those board games with other children. As I grew into adolescence, I played Canasta, Spite and Malice, Boggle, Scrabble and other brainy games with my mother.

When I was in high school and college, I competed in track and volleyball. I continued to play competitive volleyball indoors as well as on the beach in Southern California until after 20 years, my shoulder said, "Okay, that's enough for you, pal. You can sit out the rest of this one."

All this boring-ass history of my game-playing to demonstrate two things:
1. I am not afraid to play games.
2. After all those years of playing and learning how important it is to play by the rules, I'm competitive and anal as hell.

This is why party games are EPIC FAIL for me. It's not that I can't stand to lose. I've ridden that bus so many times, I have a lifetime pass. It's that I can't stand cheaters. I can't relax and enjoy myself if people are drunk and cheating and winning unfairly. They think they are just goofing off and who cares who wins and they just want to have fun. I call it breaking the rules. And anybody who has the audacity at this moment to interject with the asinine "but rules were made to be broken" has seen too many movies and does not value their nose bones.

I fly off the handle - internally, of course - if someone talks out of turn during Pictionary. You have to DRAW the picture. You can't TALK when you draw the picture. It says so in the rules. Your team is supposed to LOSE if you talk while you draw the picture! And yet, nobody else seems to care. Meanwhile, my adrenaline is inducing a cornary in my veins as I bite my tongue about the unfairness of it all.

"Stop it!" I want to scream. "Stop it, all of you! You're nothing but a bunch of anarchists, barbarians and game heathens!"

No, if you ask me to play anything with you involving a group of people, it is best if I just go watch the fireplace while everyone squeals in delight in the other room.

Also? No, I will not be your ringer for your volleyball team at your picnic on Sunday. You are a bunch of booze hounds who stand around on the court with fifteen people on each side, throwing the volleyball back and forth over the net with no referees to call major illegal ball handling every three seconds. You've got a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. You are not playing volleyball. You are playing some bastardized version of kindergarten soccer and you have no goals. Or rules.

I must have rules, people! I must have order. I must have rigid lines to follow and I will not tolerate disrespectors who stray from them. Otherwise, you know...I'm not going to have fun.

What Happens When We Take it Outside

When I reach a point where I don't want to the leave the house because I'm afraid that my neighbor, old man Warner, will shoot me for hammering on the wall all night, or the old lady behind me in line at Kentucky Fried Chicken will stab me in the back for repeatedly backing into her and stepping on her sandaled toes... you know, when I feel the world is against me for no good reason, then I know it's time for me to get out in the real world to restore my faith in humanity. Too much talking-head, fear-mongering television will brainwash you to the point of going fetal. And sometimes we need to be reminded that people are kind and generous in real life.

However, when I decided to take a stroll along the Redondo Beach strand on a warm and sunny day, I was shocked and dismayed at this display of flagrant disregard for others.



I mean, here it is, eighty-some-odd degrees outside. This flag-wielding, America-loving guy is loaded down with everything he owns. Probably homeless. Can you see what's going on here?



I'm a tax-paying citizen like everyone else, but when I see this kind of thing in public, I just want to throw up and start petitioning for change. I mean, what kind of thoughtless individual leaves their straw sticking out in the path of a fellow human being, which will surely send the poor bum and his stinky, moldy luggage, sprawling onto the ground, right into the path of a bicyclist (some distracted idiot talking on his cell phone and not watching where he's pedaling), resulting in the smelly hobo's death?



I don't need to see that. I'm trying to get away from that. I want to witness some compassion. So I headed down to the pier in search of some frickin' serenity.



At first, the lapping of the water against the boat instilled in me a sense of peace...until I got a closer look at what was hanging off the mast:



Since when was publicly hanging a kidnapped woman an OK thing to do? I called out to her and she didn't answer, no doubt because she feared for her life, and I didn't blame her, because look what I saw on deck!




That's right! She was being held hostage by a Pirate/Buddhist consortium of Pacific Rim thieves. I ran to a phone and called 911. I screamed about how a bunch of treasure-hunting, eye-patch-wearing monks had kidnapped a beautiful heiress. I was panicked, but I advised that they would soon be hearing from her captors regarding a ransom demand. The next thing I knew, the place was swarming with cops.

I was then cuffed, read my rights and hauled off to jail. The joke's on them though. I was almost immediately transferred to the Laughs and Giggles Funny Farm where the starchy-dressed staff has been nothing but kind and accomodating.

I play with finger paints and string all day. They don't let us watch television, which is fine with me, because now I'm with my people. My community is where I live, not where the reporters race to every day. And it is in my community where my faith in humanity has been restored.


* * *

And just when I thought every other blogger was named Jennifer (that's right, I'm talking to YOU, Jennifer), along comes the attack of the Kirstens. First, Kirsten from Suburban Psychosis tagged me with one of those "Six Quirky Things About Me" memes, and then Kirsten over at The Soccer Mom Files presented me with the Superior Scribbling Award.

Thanks for the linky love, ladies!

Can Goats Get Catty? Yes We Can.

I'm not bitter or anything, but I think the deck is stacked against you if a beauty pageant is hosted in a foreign country.

While I was honored to have participated as America's representative in the Most Beautiful Goat Competition held this past weekend in some middle eastern country, I found their integrity regarding pageant rules dubious at best.

First of all, this one fellow competitor (as we were not properly introduced, I will simply call her 'Ho-Bag') shook her fuzzy tush at the judges during every portion of the pageant. Now, everyone knows what a prude I am, so my ruffled 100% organic cotton nanny goat panties covered me from head to hoof. And of course you all know by now the controversy over underage goats slipping past the International Goat Beauty Pageant Qualification Committee.

Anyway, this adolescent slut galloped off the stage and as she passed me, I was all, "everyone knows you use double-stick tape" and she was all, "Yeah? Well your friend, Billy, told me you were a lousy bleater".

So I kicked her. Right in the thigh. And she cried, "Why ME? Why ME? Why, why, why?" She wailed and belly-ached like a kid.

Bitch still walked away with first place.

Here she is shaking her thang at the judges one last time during the finals:

(Photo courtesy of Reuters via Telegraph) 


I'd like to thank Eve and Kat for sending me the information on this event and I apologize for the lack of camera coverage when I briefly took the stage for the talent competition  (I eat a full-length trench coat in under a minute), but I think I had already been herded out of the arena by the time the above photo was taken.

10 Alternative Uses for Shelf Liner

Earlier today, while I was licking chocolate pudding off the kitchen floor (don't judge me, you do gross stuff, too) I happened to catch a peek at both my dining room chairs and the cabinet floor under the kitchen sink.





Holy peaches and blueberries! They have the same pattern. Why hadn't I noticed that before?

Have you ever bought way too much shelf liner, or halfway through your WhatWereYouThinking project of lining each and every shelf in the kitchen and bathroom, you just sort of lost interest, vowing to come back later and finish it, but never get around to it? And then 7 years later, you find the leftover shelf liner in the closet, but you don't have the heart (or the ethics) to throw it away?

Does your shelf have too much shelf liner?

Well, it's a good thing you came by Nanny Goats In Panties today, because for you, I channeled my inner Martha Stewart and will now demonstrate ten creative alternative uses for that roll of floral or plaid source of inner nagging.

1. Spruce up your ugly, outdated counter top with this handy water jug cozy.

2. Spruce up your ugly, outdated floor tile with this trash receptacle decorative wrap.

3. Give your vacuum cleaner that much-needed pizazz to compete with the noisy motor that sends the kitties (and the silverfish) scattering.

4. Tuck away those inappropriate videos behind this artful coverpiece. For extra wholesome kudos, place a bible on the top to keep that cover from accidentally slipping off when Father Murphy comes round for tea. 

5. Nothing says, "Come on in and sit for a spell" more than this adorable toilet seat lid cover.

6.  For a festive look, have your maid include this fruity TP roll touch-up during her daily rounds. Keep extras in the bathroom drawer in case Uncle Charlie who is famous for helping himself to the decorative bath soaps stops by.

7. You know how they have seat fillers for the Academy Awards so the theatre doesn't look empty while celebrities are back stage? Well, now you can use towel fillers while your launderess is busying herself with the washing machine.

8.   They say it's the window treatments that sell the house. Well my realtor says that, anyway.

9.  By now, you should be getting to the end of the roll. If you have some shelf liner left, and still can't bring yourself to throw those silly scraps away, try tying a fun little bow onto the toilet flush handle. This is great for the potty-in-training kiddies who can't reach that high.

10. Still have some left? Great! Take a couple of strips out on the town in your favorite dancing shoes! Don't be surprised if you are approached by many admirers asking you where you got that awesome footwear!

Anybody whose atrocious math resulted in overbuying shelf liner to the point that you still have it coming out of your ears, I have two words for you:  cigar bands.

You're welcome.