Even Educated Fleas Do It

I can't remember exactly how old I was so I'm going to go with eight, when my mother decided it was time that I learned the Facts of Life. I'm sure most parents look forward to, plan, over-analyze, idealize, fear, and dread the inevitable "talk" with their children regarding The Birds and The Bees.

But not my mom. She threw a book at me:



The problem is, this book does not tell you the alternate terms (read: street language) for where babies come from. So, when I was nine and sleeping over at my friend Stacy's house and she asked me if I knew about the birds and the bees and I said no, rather than tell me what she was talking about so that I could say "Oh THAT - I know all about THAT!", she decided that since I hadn't learned about it yet, she probably shouldn't tell me.

Of course, these people have no problem breaking your heart about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, but the good stuff? The stuff that you would want to know? Would give up your weekly allowance of thirty-five cents to know? They keep that juicy stuff to themselves.

Which means she probably told our friends that I didn't know about the birds and the bees and everybody else was probably laughing at me behind my back because I didn't know about sex. But I DID know about sex.

But, you ask, ... why is it such a big deal that everybody know that you know?

WHAT?! Are you kidding me?!? You're asking why? Well, let me tell you why!

Because THE most important thing in a child's life, her absolute highest priority is to belong, to be accepted by her peers. The first time you are excluded from one thing, a precedent may be set, you may be blacklisted at the elementary level, and the next thing you know, you will be left out of EVERYTHING!

You will be alienated. Oh no! You spent your whole grade school life networking, making sure you were included in Jamie's jacks game, or Teri's hopscotch game. You bit your nails, got anxious when  Sally, the popular girl in pigtails, looked askance at you and you wondered briefly what you could have possibly done wrong to mess up the delicate balance of 4th grade politics.

One gap in communication could ruin your entire life. You become a social pariah and unjustifiably so!

As it turns out, that's not at all what happened. My life went on happily with many friends and by junior high, Stacy became known as the school skank. Perhaps "skank" is too modern a word. This was, after all, the 70s. I believe the word used back then was "slut".

They said she had "slept with a boy". I agreed with my gossipy girlfriends that it was scandalous. I wasn't precisely sure what was shameful about it but their voices clearly indicated to me the scarlety letterness of it all. My friend, whom I thought I knew (she never told me that she climbed into bed with boys and fell asleep next to them - it sounded so daring) had passed way ahead of me on the boy tract somewhere along the line.

So while the above book was funny and educational, it was not big on euphemisms. All I'm saying is, that it would have been nice to know that "sleeping with" someone was the opposite of what it sounded like.

Before I hit puberty, my mother threw another book at me:



My mom was such a chicken. Granted, she handed me these books and told me to come to her if I had any questions, but when you are raised in a house where uncomfortabe conversation is avoided at all costs, do you think I'm going to initiate any talk about sex? Ack! No way, man! Instead, I studied the crap out of that book because, clearly, it was going to be my only source of information.

I would also like to complain about the lack of euphemisms in this book as well. Can't they just have a list at the end like an index of slang terms? You know, like:

MENSTRUATION:
1. On the rag
2. A visit from Aunt Flo
3. The monthly curse of the great red bat.
etc...

Just a quick reference page - maybe on the back inside cover. I would have appreciated that.

 

Goat Thing of The Day

These cuties were seen in Yuma, Arizona.



(Photo courtesy of Ken)

Of Bookworms and Trenchcoats

Have you ever walked down a city street late at night, alone, hearing only the click of your heels on the damp pavement, as the fog rolls in from the ocean, when all of a sudden a blogger steps out from an alley in a trenchcoat and whispers, "Psst. Hey buddy. C'mere. I wanna show you somethin."? 

How many bookworms do you know who will show you the seedy underbelly of their lair? If they are anything like Nikki Krumpet, author of Blah Blah Blah Blog, they'll pull you in, show you a little something-something, and shove you out the door - that's all you get to see, you can go home now, thanks for stopping by, leave a comment on your way out, and don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.

We are like, totally best friends, Nikki and me. There's only 451 degrees of separation between us. Fahrenheit, that is.

Nikki likes to read. A lot. Which prompted the need for her to invent ways to disguise them within her knick-knack shelves:

That picture is from her blog. You look at that and think, "Gosh, that's a beautiful bookcase. Is that blonde oak?"

Nikki has something like twelve million books brilliantly stashed away in the nooks and crannies of her home, but you'd never know it, because she's so adept at blending everything together. Each piece complements its neighbor.

Inspired by Nikki's Martha Stewart ways, here is one of my furniture pieces dedicated to displaying my Spongebob Squarepants curios:



If you walked into my house and saw this, just try to deny that the first words out of your mouth would be, "Gosh, is that the 2004 Limited Edition Paper Spongebob Pop-up?"

You didn't even notice the books, did you? That's because of the mad camo skillz I picked up from good ol' Nik-Nik.

Anyway, thanks for stopping by, that's all you get to see, you can go home now...etc.

Goat Thing of The Day

Thanks, Ken!

So Nice, They Published It Twice...

So yeah, one my posts was such a runaway bestseller, that it has gone into a 2nd printing. It's entitled "Found: FatCatchers Diary Discovered In the Garbage Behind Weight Watchers" and you can find it on the latest edition of MidLifeBloggers. The direct link to the post is HERE, and if you missed it the first time around and you're Jonesing for more Nanny Goats comedic brilliance and can't wait for the next regularly scheduled NGIP installment, then walk, don't run to MidLifeBloggers!

And could you pick up a bag of Cheetos on your way over? We're running low on snacks.

Not sure if you want to leave the confines of this blog to read my stuff on another blog? Well does this photo teaser help any?

Say No to the Year of the Ox

I don't even have an ox, do you? You do? Well I didn't ask you, did I? I did? Well, is this your blog? Okay, then shut up. Now where was I? Oh right...

January 26 kicks off the Year of the Ox. I say we kick it to the curb. I mean, there are plenty of other nouns worthy of Year-ing. And many are more prevalent than a silly fictional blue animal that accompanies a giant man with an axe.

I submit we petition for a new New Year object. It's been the same 12 animals in the Chinese Zodiac rotation and it's monotonous. Don't you think it's time for a change? Here are some suggestions and please save your questions until the end. I can't have you interrupting me all the time:

Year of the Jennifer

Jennifers are more prevalent than oxes (oxen? oxi?)... at least in the blogosphere.

Bartender! A round of links on me for all the Jennifers in the blizog hizouse!

Jenn Thorson at Of Cabbages and Kings
Jen of Happily Ever After Land
Jennifer Harvey of Thursday Drive
Jennifer of Amongst Other Things
Jen at Red Head Ranting
Jenners at Life With a Little One and More 
Jennifer D at Playgroups are No Place for Children. 
Jennifer Lawson of The Bloggess
Jenny at Bits & Pieces
Jen W of Serenity now
Jen Warren of TuTu's Bliss
Jennifer of Tales From Our Crib

...just to name a few.

Year of the Goat

Yes, there is already a Year of the Goat, but the next one doesn't happen until 2015, which is after the End of the World in 2012 (please see my previous post regarding the upcoming apocalypse). Why can't I have one more Year of Me before we all bite the asteroid dust? Also, I currently share my year with the Sheep and the Ram, and quite frankly, I think I deserve to have my own year.

Year of the Indecisive Garden Gnome

If I had a nickel for every one of these on my lawn, I'd have three dollars and forty-seven cents. It would have been $3.55, but Indecisive Garden Gnome Gomer and his partner, Stan, had an unfortunate meeting of my anger management issues and the next door neighbor's pink flamingo collection.

Year of the Yo-Yo

I just like how this sounds.



I realize we're creatures of habit and just who do I think I am, an insignificant American, trying to muck up thousands of years of Chinese Tradition, but I don't have an ox, do you?



(Paid for by The Goats Against Year of the Ox)

Apocalypse Now?... What About Now?... How About Now?

The thought of a large asteroid plowing into Farmer John's cow patch (or whatever it is that's supposed to happen in the year 2012) and wiping out the earth's population doesn't bother me. Why? Because after I die, nothing matters any more.

Plus, that would be a relatively painless death and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's pain. And lots of it.

Pain is the initial reason I didn't want to have kids. I passed out in my 9th grade sex education class when they showed a film strip (that's right - I said film STRIP, remember those?) of an OB-GYN exam, so how could I survive a watermelon coming out of my hoo-haw if I can't handle a picture of a doctor's hands getting all up in there?

Also, I don't know about you, but I don't do so well with torture, either. Don't hire me to be your spy. I'd sing like a canary the second my kidnapper opened his ribbed aluminum case of shiny blades and corkscrews. Hell, I start to confess about my poor flossing habits as soon as my my dental hygienist swings the tray of torture in front of my face. You know, the neatly lined up stabby pokey devices? They may as well start the tape recorder right there, 'cause I'll tell them everything!

Would you expect me to protect my country when I'm accosted and taken behind enemy lines if I have to fast forward through the slow slicing scenes of 24?

But anyway, I didn't call you all here to discuss my weak knees. I was talking about the End of the World.

So, I'm okay with dying because of the earth acting like the Ford Pinto of planets in the event of a giant asteroid on one condition: everybody else has to die, too. It wouldn't be fair (although with my karma, it would be typical) if I had to give up the rest of my life while a bunch of jackasses got to keep living. Call me competitive, but if other people got to live, or WORSE, if I didn't die, but got MAIMED by an alien visit gone awry, that would totally piss me off.

And if a bunch of A-holes survived whatever catastrophe, do you think that would teach them a lesson about living a better life? Heck no. It would enable their bad behavior. Jerks.

Oh sure, maybe at first they'd be all, "Oh I'm just lucky to be alive. Maybe this is a sign that I've been given a second chance at life. To do something good for my fellow man."

But it wouldn't be long before they forgot all about their promises to God and they'd be selling the movie rights of their close brush with death and get right back to taking life for granted. Idiots.

And boy, would I be super angry if I got annihilated by a fireball because here I am, scrimping and saving for retirement and for what? Nothin', that's what.

So if this 2012 alien/asteroid/whatever thing is going to happen, I want to know now so I can blow my wad. Of dough, that is. But once again, with my luck, I'd splurge like there's no tomorrow and then 2012 would come and go like all the other Doomsdays and then I'd have to get a job as a Wal Mart greeter until I'm 100 because there will be no such thing as Social Security and Medicare to carry me through my Autumn years, all because a bunch of prognosticating bozos promised that this time, THIS TIME it would be different. Morons.

This whole End of the World issue is exhausting to debate. I mean, do I live it up for the next three years, maybe travel the world before it's blown to smithereens? Or do I ignore yet another Chicken Little prediction and grow into an old and bitter cantankerous woman chasing robot children off my lawn with a broom?


(Photo courtesy of Flickr)

Nanny Goats Creates Frenzy at L.A. Landmark

Here's what I don't get: You haul your ass down to Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles, taking your out-of-town visitors with you, to show off an historic landmark - The Hollywood Sidewalk of Stars, or whatever it's called (don't ask me, I just live here.)

But you're walking...

 

and you're walking...

 

Who ARE these people? They take the 'Fame' out of Walk of Fame! (Oh, yeah...that's the name of this place)

I say that last one was made up! Lurene Tuttle? Really?

Anybody remember that M.A.S.H. episode where they made up a guy named Tuttle? Had everyone convinced the guy existed? Hot Lips thought she was in love with the guy - that they dated!?

Well if this so-called Tuttle can get a star, why can't Nanny Goats get one?

But then I heard that you can BUY these things. So you know what I did?

Yep!




Yeah, you probably caught the frentic paparazzi scene on Showbiz Tonight last week when they unveiled this baby. The Walk of Fame Chairman thanked me for classing up the street with the mere presence of my name. Because EVERYBODY knows who I am, right? Unlike these bozos:

 

 

I can't believe they allow fictional characters. That's right! I'm talking to YOU, Johnny Depp!


So anyway, the next time you're in Los Angeles cruising Hollywood Boulevard, be sure to keep an eye out for my star. Just look for the long line of fans wearing Souvenir Goat Head NGIP Gullible Stalker Chrome Dome Warmers (only $75.00 USD) and waiting for hours just to catch a glimpse of their idol's piece of cement.

Up next, I'll be purchasing a spot on the Senate floor Academy Awards nomination list for best picture: Nanny Goats in Panties Brokeback What You Did Last Summer.

Goat Thing of The Day

Meet Pricilla:

She is the spokesgoat for Happy Goats Soap. She pushes products made from her milk, such as the I Love My Goat Soap.

You can also visit Pricilla at her blog called The Maaaaa of Pricilla.

Wanna Say Something Nice about NGIP?

Hey if you like Nanny Goats in Panties, and if you have a minute, could you jump over to my Humor Bloggers profile and add a complimentary sentence about this blog? The profile link is HERE. No registration required.

A Quick THANK YOU

Thanks to Last Shreds of Sanity for giving me the lemonade award.

Honky Without the Tonk

My husband called me a "honky" the other day, which set me off into a fit of guffaws for more than one reason. First of all, I don't think I'd heard that word for over twenty years.

I can't remember exactly how my husband used it, something about "you honkys ... blah blah blah". He's half-Asian and was saying something about some childhood racial issue and I guess that was the best word he could come up with about us "whiteys".

After I got up off the floor, I told him that he couldn't call me a "honky" because only black people could say it. My vast knowledge of the word comes from growing up on 1970s television so as far as I was concerned, George Jefferson OWNED that word.







This whole "honky" thing led me to recall that there was another word reserved for black people's exclusive use. Which in turn led me to wonder if it's horribly offensive to say "honky" nowadays.  Would anyone under the age of twenty-five even know what the word is?

Maybe a word's offensiveness scale is determined by the images and feelings it conjures up when uttered. To me, "honky" does not conjure up hate, violence, slavery, war, and rap songs. The images that come to my mind are The Seventies and The Jeffersons and a certain Saturday Night Live sketch. For me, it represents comedy. But then I was raised to avoid conflict and confrontation, so maybe that taught me to find the lighter side first in everything.

Research indicates that its origins were meant to be derogatory, but perhaps over time it sort of lost its heft. 

Also, the word "honky" just sounds funny, almost silly. Doesn't it sound like a cross between "honk" and "donkey" to you? If someone called you (or someone you know) a "honky" today, would you be offended? Or would you crack up like I did?

Should I have been offended? Am I just an ignorant "cracker" who should be angry, rather than amused when hearing such a word?

With the exception of bigots and hate-mongerers, we all learn at one time or another in our lives that it's not okay to use the N word (see? I can't even say it when writing objectively about it, it's badness is so drilled into me.) I learned this at the tender age of seven or so when I presented my mother with a black jelly bean and announced, "Look Mom, a n----- jelly bean!"

Nothing burns into your brain stronger than the look of horror on your mother's face.

"Don't you EVER...," she death-threatened me with her tone of voice, which conjured up images of the wooden spoon that lay on top of the piano in the living room and was reserved for disciplinary purposes. I don't think I ever saw that kind of reaction from her before that day or since. I must have shocked the hell out of her, such vile filth spewing from her darling daughter's mouth.

But "honky"? I choose to find "honky" funny. Unless you gasp in horror, in which case I will clam up and vow never to utter the word again for as long as I live.

My Name is Margaret and I'm a Utensilaholic

Some of you caught my juxtapositional photo the other day when I showed you a container of nasty ass food on my brand new counter in my L.A. condo. That counter was the result of a recent kitchen remodel.

Yes, in spite of living in two different cities, I held my breath, gave my keys to the contractor, left LaLa Town, and hoped for the best. Luckily...

BEFORE:




AFTER:




However, I returned to L.A. on December 30 with a nasty cold (as I pictorially mentioned in this post) and had 24 hours to unpack dishes, wash it all, refill and reorganize the cabinets and clean all the dust from the remodel.

Why does remodel dust feel the need to travel throughout the whole house and cover EVERYTHING, even when you cover it with all that plastic stuff? You know that thin sheet stuff you get at the hardware store to prevent the dust covering EVERYTHING? You know... this stuff?



Anyway, I was rushing around because I was hosting a New Year's Eve Party. While unpacking, I realized I had these:



It's moments like this that make you realize things about yourself. I already know that I can stand in front of the giant utensil wall at Bed Bath & Beyond like a humble worshipper in awe and gaze at the hundreds of goodies before me, completely mesmerized and overwhelmed. But what I did not know was how many times I'd be taken in by a meat pounder, when I don't recall ever even using one.

Also, my taste in meat pounders has clearly changed over time. (Those who wish to take this sentence out of context and make a juvenile joke out of it, may do so in the comments section.)

In any event, I obviously have a problem. But the yellow pages do not produce a very long list of Meat Pounders Anonymous groups, or Utensils in General Anonymous groups, for that matter. So if you have a local chapter in your area who is willing to take on a new member remotely, I am in need of a sponsor.

Goat Thing of the Day

Mike pointed me to the Silly Goats Farm website where they have the cutest kids!

 

Awwwwwww!

And from the What Else Department...

I would like to thank to My Loonyverse for the Proximidade Award.

And thank you to Mom To Bee who gave me the Lemonade Award. Sweet!

And Boy, Are My Arms Tired. No, really.

Ever since I began dating this dude who had the audacity to live four hundred miles away from me, I have been traveling back and forth between Sacramento and Los Angeles. That started sometime in 1998. I have been ignoring listening to phrases like "seatbacks", "tray tables" and "upright position" on a more-or-less weekly basis for about ten years.

I'm not much of a proactive, take-charge-of-my-life kind of person. Wanting the easy way out of making a decision about my life, I decided to assume that Fate would dictate who would have to cave and move to the other person's city. What I failed to anticipate was that Fate would take her sweet ass time about it. It was a staring contest of wills and Fate blinked first. Woo hoo! I won! I think.

Fate either lost the contest or finally decided to step up and be a man this past year and inform me that I would be the one caving. Why? Because I'm the one who got laid off, and both sets of parental units require our physical proximity and assistance in Sacramento. (Curses to our strong sense of familial responsibility!)

Oh, well. My crotch hurts from riding the geographical fence for so long anyway. Plus? It's kind of a time hog. Like commuting, only the freeway isn't a parking lot at 30,000 feet. (Yet. Give those corporate fat cats time though, right?)

Living in two cities does not a simple life make. Sometimes you can't keep up with everything: the dust, the mail, who's sleeping with whom in the condo building. And good luck trying to get anything remodeled.

During this week's stay in Los Angeles, I found a container of ... stuff, in the back of the fridge:



I'm estimating a probable shelf hang time of 4-6 months, so my question is: Should I serve red wine or white wine with it?




Thank you Muse-Swings for my latest bestowance:

It's Snot 2008 Anymore

How was my New Year's Eve Party, you ask? Fantastic, but now it's back to the drugs:




I don't get sick that often and when I do, the symptoms can differ from the previous snork fest so that every time I go to the medicine cabinet at the onset of a cold, any drugs I do find are expired. Also, living in two cities, doubles the likelihood of numerous expirations.

But this raises the question: do drugs really expire? And when they do expire, do they turn into poison, or do they just become less effective? Or is it all one big conspiracy from the pharmaceutical companies to get you to buy more drugs than is necessary? Like those jokers at the lube shop blowing hot air about how you HAVE to change your oil every 3 months or 3,000 miles. They're lucky if they see me twice a year - greedy bastards.

Drugs have a long, long list of horrible side effects including death and 4+ hour erections. And that's when they are taken within the designated date range. But what happens when you take an out-of-date pseudoephedrine tablet?

At 2am the other night, it felt like my throat would crack from the dryness if I wasn't allowed to fall asleep with my mouth closed. I rolled out of bed in search of relief and found some Actifed decongestant pills that had been stored for God knows how long in my desk back at the office and were still in the packing box when I was laid off in November.

When you buy drugs it seems like the expiration date is YEARS away. But the very next time you get sick and grab it again, it's expired. And this Actifed didn't disappoint. The expiration date (or expiry date, for some of you non-US readers) was August 2008.

August 2008? That's like coming up to a traffic light when it's yellow and almost red. Do you take your chances and gun it? Or do you stop and wait the longest possible time for the next red and be miserable until it's your turn again?

Actually, that was a crappy anology. Forget I said that. I'll save it for another, more appropriate time.

Anyway, I wasn't about to go looking for a 24-hour drugstore just to avoid Mouth Breather of the Year. Not when I could risk my life taking this barely expired little white pill.

So I pressed that little pill through its packaging, laid back with my Skeptics Guide to the Universe podcast and waited. The next thing I knew, I was breathing through my nose again and falling fast asleep. Ahhhhhhh.

But I didn't do this just for me. I did it for you, my dear readers, and pretty much all of mankind, really. I'm keeping you all safe from the possibility of keeling over from any long-in-the-tooth cold remedies.

It's a service I provide with pride. And phlegm. So now because of Nanny Goats in Panties, you can look forward to your next cold feeling safe in the knowledge that your congealed cough syrup is just fine. Spit out the chunks if you must, but the rest of it is perfectly harmless.

And in these tough economic times, isn't it a good thing to know that you don't have to throw your money down the drain for so-called "fresh" medicine, when stale, out-dated drugs work just as well, if not better? I mean, wasn't penicillin discovered from a moldy petri dish or something?