They Prefer To Be Called "Little Bugs"

Yes, we went to Hawaii last month, but that was for my Dad who walks real slow, is virtually blind from diabetes, and masticates for a minimum of a hundred minutes at each meal. And then has the audacity to complain (jokingly... sort of..) about how there wasn't enough food.

I left Hawaii after ten days of that, craving an ocean view room where I could hang out on the lanai all day and watch for whales. Where we could jump into the car, grab a bite to eat, and pay an outrageous amount of money for a meal. Did I also mention that my Dad is cheap and refused to pay more than $10 for a cheeseburger? The deal was, he would pay for lunch and we would pay for dinner. Of course, he never balked at the bazillion dollar steak and seafood dinners that we paid for, but if anybody wanted $11.95 for a burger, they could go jump in the lake.

So anyway, this sequel to Hawaii was our anniversary vacation that started out as a trip to New York and moved quickly westward back to the volcanoes in the Pacific. We reserved an ocean front condo, first class plane tickets, the works. It was just my husband and me. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?

Well, obviously I wouldn't be standing here telling you anything if it was without one epic fail or another. You would have said, "So how's your trip?" and I would have said, "Fine" and that would have been the end of it.

But no. I'm here to tell you, we check into our room and the landlord has an urgent message for us to call her. She proceeds to tell me that the pond down the way was infested with midges (little mosquito-looking things without stingers) and she thought the first wave that ended 2 days prior was it, but now there's this new wave, and if we didn't want to stay there she would understand and she was going to call me earlier but she thought it was over and we could think about it and let her know. Oh, and there's a bottle of wine in the fridge and a Shop-Vac on the lanai.

Because midges, apparently, are hard on vacuum cleaners.

At first the midges didn't look like they'd be a big problem. But they had just vacuumed (er, Shop-vacked) the whole place down before we showed up. We decided to give it one night and see.

The next morning, it was obvious that you couldn't very well suck up a million midges and be done with it...

 

It was also clear that midges are hard-core partiers who drink too much, pass out at whatever midge bar they're inebriating themselves, and leave the mess for everyone else to clean up...

We didn't dare lounge on the lanai. Walking to our car called for full head-to-toe net protection, which we had failed to pack. Did I also mention that the pool was closed for renovation, and the tennis courts were currently being used as a parking lot?

I realize it's a quirk of mine, but I'd rather not inhale seven midges with each breath I take. And yes, everyone needs a plague now and again to strengthen their character and all, but I'd rather enjoy it for free.

So we drove all over the island looking for alternate accommodations - miles and miles away from those midges and their parents and their parents' parents.

We went north, young man. And we found a place that was cheaper, bigger and better. This place is perfect. Well, almost perfect. I mean, the sunset view from our lanai is beautiful, although the ocean tends to list a little...

and there is the occasional sea monster...

But you can't have everything, and when God takes a whiz in the morning, it doesn't look half bad...

 

 

Goat Thing of the Day

Two bucks duke it out....or do they...? Ask Priscilla!

Who Needs Tomorrow?

I met my main dude thirty years ago, when I was a wee freshman in high school. He was a sophomore. We sat in the same classroom where we blurted out things like "Wo ist Monika?" and "Guten Tag!"

We were straight-A nerds before straight-A nerds were cool. (Wait a minute - I said that like that was a good thing. Why don't I just put that KICK ME sign back on - sheesh!) Now, where was I? Oh yes, dating myself. This was back before schools replaced hallway storage containers (called "lockers") with metal detectors.

Anyway, we passed notes back and forth in class that surpassed the usual "Isn't our teacher a dork?" variety. They were twisted random stories created by us alternating sentences. (And it only took me twenty years to figure out that the whole writing thing was my calling.)

He introduced me to AC/DC and Van Halen. I introduced him to Steve Martin and Levi's 501s.

We were "just friends" for much of that time, although there was a brief period where we crossed the friendship boundary. He says I was his first crush. He remembers precisely which song was playing on the radio when we first kissed in my 1973 motel-soap-colored Datsun 710: (I'm The One by Van Halen).

He asked me to his Senior Ball. He came over to my house to pick me up and while pinning on my corsage, my mother snapped this shot:

Then we went to his house where his mother cooked us a candlelit dinner. After dessert, it was off to the ball.

"We've Got Tonight" was the theme and we no doubt slow-danced to that song. Hell, I don't remember, ask him.

He took me home and then I never saw or heard from him again...

...Until about fourteen years later after somebody invented the internet and somebody else forwarded a joke to the both of us and he saw my email address and said, "Hey is that you?"

(Okay, there's way more juice to that part of the orange, but I'm saving it for when my scandalous memoir comes out and hits the NYT best seller list, so don't worry, you'll read about it eventually.)

We gabbed on the phone for a couple of years until we were both single and then HOOKED IT UP, BABY!

I told him a month after that that he was the one. A few months later he got down on bended knee and presented me with a rock (the sparkly kind, not the Charlie Brown Christmas stocking kind).

He said my mother gave him her blessing way back when and since she's gone, I couldn't confirm it, so I just took his word for it.

When we told my Dad and stepmom about the engagement, they didn't care if we had a big wedding or a small one, but they just wanted to be there. So we said, "Hey, we're going to Hawaii in a few months, what about just doing it there?" and a wedding was born. My father gave me away and served as best man, my step mother was the matron of honor and that was the extent of the guest list.

That was nine years ago today. We are currently back in Hawaii celebrating what they said would never last. Those silly prognosticators.

Also? Yesterday as we drove to Lahaina, we heard Bob Segar sing "We've got Tonight" on the radio. No lie.

Goat Thing of The Day

The Purple Goat Lady is having babies...

A Post About Nothing

Your phone rings. Caller ID says it's Umbert. You think, Jeez, that's the third time he's called today. Ugh, better answer it.

You: Hello?

Umbert: Hey, whatcha doin'?

You: Nothing.

Umbert: ...

You: You?

Umbert: Oh, nothing.

And that's why you never answer the phone when Umbert calls. I mean, he's a nice guy and all, but he doesn't add anything to your existence. In fact, he can really suck the life out of a conversation.


Or how about when you're walking down the hall at the office and Stan from Marketing says, "Hello, how are you?"

You: Fine. You?

Stan: Fine.

And that's it. Stan looks like he wants to say more, but can't think of anything, so you keep walking because you don't want to get stuck in a meaningless conversation and you've got way more important things on your mind. Like how you have to go to the grocery store to get some cheese because you're sick of tacos without cheese for dinner. And how you have to get proper cat food for Xavier because he's probably sick of cheeseless tacos as well.

An hour later when you're getting your fourth cup of coffee, you pass Stan from Marketing again and he says, "Hey, how are you?"

You: Fine.

And you already asked him how he was doing before, so why should you ask him again?

You decree right then and there that coworkers should only say hello once. After that you should just half-smile past each other in silence the rest of the day.

Another hour later, you have to pee so bad you walk briskly to the little girls room and that's when Stan from Marketing says, "Hey, what's the status on the Smith-Johnson report?" and there's no short answer. Do you say, "Look man, I gotta pee." or do you squirm while delivering a quick summary of the damn Smith-Johnson report? Sure, it's your fault for waiting so long, but you were on an endless conference call, and you set the phone down on your desk, thinking you could sneak down the hall and get back before anyone could notice.

And now here's Stan the Office Obstacle.


You think you maybe need different people in your life. (♪ Peoplllll... people who need peoplllllll...♪)

You go to a social network event to meet some of these so-called people. And the whole time you ask yourself if you really need more people in your life.

Don't you have enough people already? Aren't you sick of people? You're always saying you're not a people person, so what are you doing hanging around talking about the weather and the economy and March Madness with these people for?

You come home exhausted and swear off people from now on. You go to work the next day and nobody says hello. They avert their eyes when they swish past you in the hallway. Your phone doesn't ring all morning and the Smith-Johnson report is done, so you have nothing to do right now. The company doesn't allow personal internet surfing, so you twiddle your thumbs until lunch. No one seems to be around to go to lunch with so you walk to the roach coach and get a greasy taco (with extra cheese, because you forgot to get cheese while you were at the dang grocery store the night before) and eat it alone at your desk.

Your phone rings after lunch. It's your boss, Mr. Peabody, calling you into his office.

He never calls you into his office.

As you approach his door, you notice the blinds in the window are closed. You brace yourself for "the talk". How times are tight and there's nothing he can do and good luck. You figure out that that's why nobody would talk to you today. Because they knew.

You knock.

Nothing.

You knock again.

Mr. Peabody:  Come in.

You:  {gulp}

You open the door and the entire office yells "SURPRISE!". They present you with your favorite birthday cake: chocolate.  Everyone pitched in and gives you presents including a gift certificate to your favorite restaurant: Pedro's Taco Emporium and Cheese House. While everyone is munching on cake, you find out that Violet who only sits two cubicles away loves all the same Hitchcock and Scorsese movies you do.

Stan from Marketing says, "I've been busting all day! I couldn't even talk to you - I was so afraid of blowing the surprise." 

You discover that Stan was in the Peace Corp, that he saved the lives of many children.

You never knew Carmen was so funny and she wants to be a writer someday, just like you.

Mr. Peabody asks you to stick around while everyone else leaves his office. He tells you that the Smith-Johnson report was outstanding and that he's giving you a raise. He also offers you a promotion to their satellite office where you would have the whole office to yourself since everyone else there is constantly traveling.

You look at the pile of chocolate crumbs that used to be the cake and the splayed presents. You see the gorgeous view from Mr. Peabody's office of the harbor and the blue ocean behind it.  You recall that last joke Carmen made that had you both in hysterics.

Mr. Peabody: What's wrong?

You: Nothing.

Mr. Peabody: Are you okay?

You: I'm fine....You?

Who Wants To Spoon?

You know those self-serve yogurt places like Big Spoon Yogurt? Those places that look like this?

 

...where you grab your own size cup, be it Piggy, Extra Piggy, or the Super Oinker. Then you pick a flavor of yogurt and yank down the dispenser that poops out chocolate or vanilla and because you are five years old, you either giggle with your cohorts, or you stave off that gag reflex and remember the time when you were a kid and your cat left a stinky pile on your bedroom carpet because little Fluffy didn't approve of the lackadaisical litter box cleaning schedule.

Then you shuffle over to the soup tureens full of caramel topping or pineapple sauce or cherry pie filling and ladle to your heart's content:

  

Then you waddle over to the buckets of chunks and throw on things like brownies, or oreo cookies, or Snickers Bars:

Then you grunt your way over to the candy and cereal aisle..

 

where you can choose from such goodies as:

or some of these:

Also, you can't decide among the gummy lions, or the gummy tigers, or the gummy bears (oh my!) and you're so overwhelmed with gummy brains that you look down at your concoction and realize you should have snatched a bigger cup. 

You wipe the drool from your mouth as you roll over to the weigh station and balk at the cashier's demands for an outrageous amount of coin for what you considered "just a few things" on your cup of poop.

Yeah, that place. 

You know what I hate about places like that? What really gets my goat? It's when you're plopped down at a table, snarfing down your Matterhorn and you gaze, heavy-lidded on a sugar high, at the people lined up for the register with their yogurty inventions and there's that one guy who can't wait to pay for his pile and starts to pick out things and EAT THEM BEFORE PAYING FOR THEM!  

I just want to get all Gomer Pyle on his ass and scream "Citizen's Arrayest! Citizen's Arrayest!"

Now Hear This:

An essay of mine entitled "An Open Letter to My Fat Cells" has been published over on MidlifeBloggers.com.


Awards Section:


I would like to thank Brandi over at Just a Day With The Fam for bestowing upon Nanny Goats in Panties the Lemonade Award.

Thanks, Brandi!

Friends, Romans, and Commenters, Lend Me Your Ears

I come to bury the myths of Disneyland, not praise them. (and thus ends the Shakespeare references)

I have experienced something infinitely more powerful than finding that secret Club 33 thing which pervades the air like a teenage campfire urban legend.

I have cut to the front of the line through the use of the almighty wheelchair.

Oh sure, at first I was all:

What? You mean the whole family can escort this disabled person to the front of the line, bypassing all the suckers standing there bored out of their minds, paying hundreds of dollars to spend 95% of their day waiting in line, 3% eating crappy food, and 2% enjoying whatever they just spent a hour waiting in line for (although, they're probably pouting because they didn't get the seat they preferred)?

But then I was all:

Awesome.

My friends, I haven't been back since that heavenly day so many years ago. I can't go back. I've tasted the sweet nectar of the No-Waiting Experience. And I've been spoiled forever.

I saw the secret inner workings of hallways and doors I never knew existed. The Space Mountain people made us wait in line (since a wheelchair could navigate through the first part) until we reached a particular door. Then they escorted us through the door, down some long white, 2001:A-Space-Odyssey hallway, around a corner, up an elevator, and suddenly, we were standing (one of us was sitting, of course) on the exit side of the Space Mountain ride. I was giddy with privilege.

The next set of cars pulled up, people got out, and then we picked our seat, getting in from the wrong side, averting our eyes from those who had been waiting their turn and had to wait a little longer now because of us. It felt dirty. It felt wrong.

It felt incredible. We were VIPs, man. It made up for every time I ever had to wait in line for anything my entire life up to that point.

It's like when you're on the freeway and you switch to the slow moving right-hand lane that has to exit to another freeway (like the 405 North to the 101 South), and you crawl, and you crawl, for like, two miles and just before you reach the off ramp, some jerk comes along who has been flying along in one of the left lanes and swoops into your lane in front of you. You want to shoot him, right?

But being that guy, that day, was unbelievable. We took our time eating the crappy food at lunch. We walked around the park at a leisurely pace. I think I even saw love in the air.

I was on some crazy Hidden Mickey and other Disneyland trivia hunt, so we searched for mouse ears and discovered the Evil Queen who periodically peeks out of some window. We relaxed and enjoyed Disneyland instead of fighting the throngs and mobs.

And that's just it, I don't like throngs and mobs and I don't know if I'll ever go back to Disneyland because of that. If you can guarantee short lines, then I'll think about it. Like, maybe you'll say that Superbowl Sunday is the best day to go, or New Years Day (because everybody is either hungover, at the Rose Bowl Parade, or watching the game at home). I remember going to Marriott's Great America on a very uncrowded Mother's Day. (I don't know what it's called now - AT&T Rides and Such? TimeWarner's Rollercoaster Park? Viagra Mountain?)

Why was Mother's Day so sparse in the park? Maybe no one would want to be seen at a theme park on Mother's Day. Like it's a sin or something. Like people should be ashamed of themselves, goofing off playing on the rides all day - you should be home spending time with your mother, you selfish wanker!

Of course, Disneyland has gotten wise to those who travel in large packs to Disneyland and "claim" one of them is unable to walk. After all, you merely ask for a wheelchair; they don't ask you to prove that you need one. 

The happiest day of my life was at the Happiest Place on Earth. But that was several years ago. And each subsequent new attraction they build has more wheelchair access in their lines, so that disabled people have to wait with the rest of the commoners.

So maybe the Era of the Wheelchair is over at Disneyland. That blessed wheelchair access (or, WAC) ruined the chances of my returning because, you know, once you go WAC, you never go back.

Unless someone can get me into the mysterious, secret and maybe even made-up Club 33. I think I could make an exception then. Yeah, I'd be strolling along New Orleans Square, sneaking past all the suckers - I mean, Guests. Or, maybe I'd slip through some secret door behind Sleeping Beauty's castle, or climb down a rocky underground passageway beneath Tom Sawyer's Island, provide my name to the Cast Member Guy at the Door with the List, and I'd be in! And I'd be doing whatever it is that the make-believe people do at Club 33 and even though it was totally "legit", I'd feel dirty and wrong.

At least I hope I would.








I would like to thank Roxanne over at It Really Is All About Me who gave me the Lemonade Award.

Thanks Roxanne!

Braja, Get Well Soon

For those of you who haven't yet heard, our good friend Braja (from the blog LOST and FOUND in INDIA), her husband (Jahnudvipa), and their taxi driver were in a horrible accident.

Braja's friend Paul (Prananatha das) will print out all the comments on her Wednesday post and read them to her when he visits her in the hospital on Sunday. Wish them well, pray for them, send good thoughts, whatever is in your heart to give.

Lisa at I Didn't Get The Message is hosting a moment of silence on Saturday at noon, wherever you are in the world.

Updates on everyone's condition is being posted HERE.

Dear Braja:


Get well soon, my beautiful friend. I look forward to when you can call me "Panties" and leave me one of your fine, wise-ass remarks again. The sooner, the better.



Love,
Margaret

Duct Duct Juice

Junk mail pisses me off, unless it suits me. I thumb through the thirty-some-odd coupons in that blue direct mail envelope that arrives every Wednesday, ignoring all the plastic surgery and dry cleaning ads, and once in a great while a gem is revealed.

The recent remodeling in my condo seems to have created a post traumatic dust disorder. Maybe it's just me. Maybe you are supposed to dust your house every thirty minutes. Nevertheless, that coupon advertising air duct cleaning for $49 sounded pretty good to me and my lazy ass.

I imagined a couple of guys coming over and blocking all my air vents and hooking up a vacuum to one of them and just sucking the crap out of it, ridding all my ducts of remodel residue. They'd be in and out in half an hour; I'd be dust free in no time.

My utopian dream came crashing down within the first five minutes when Horhay showed me cakes of black soot in the furnace and wanted to clean it for $479. "Oh, you HAVE to clean this," he says.

Well, I did what any independent woman who can decide what she will and will NOT do when confronted with such statements.

I ran to the phone and called my husband. Because after owning this condo for 11 years and never having the furnace area cleaned and being shown black sooty fingers wasn't enough for me to say, "Gee, maybe it's time I had that nastiness that's blowing through my house removed." I had to have a man tell me to give the OK.

So the guys went to work:

I wasn't interested in making sure their claims were credible, but I guess Horhay took pride in his integrity and insisted I see what was behind the main air intake vent:

Horhay melodramatically explained that this is where the blower gets its air from, still trying to justify my paying him over $250 an hour to dust and vacuum. Yeah, whatever. I just wanted to see the coupon-initiated forty-nine dollar massive suck already.

Then he pulled out some things that were stored in the furnace area, left behind by some previous owner:

I'm thinking orange juice and empty paper towel rolls.

When they finally finished with all the superfluous soot and plaster removal (boooooooooooring!), I eagerly watched as they prepared for the big Whoosh! air duct cleaning.

Imagine my disappointment when they merely stuck a vacuum tube about a foot into each duct. I mean, this is what I called them out for in the first place. Jeez, I could have done that and saved myself $49. Live and learn, I guess.









I would like to thank Sparky of RedBirdAcres for bestowing on me the "Antique Laundry Machine About to be Touched Down Upon by Tornado" award.

I think it's obvious why I deserve this one, don't you? Thanks, Sparky!









Also, a big fat grateful THANK YOU goes out to The Hussy Housewife for acknowledging my street cred by giving me the Slang Word of the Week award which is usually held over at Humor Bloggers Dot Com, but this week it was awarded on Hussy's blog.

Thanks, Hussy!

Can't Get Enough NGIP? Here, I'll Fix That For You

So there's this funny blog called Ann's Rants: Confessions of a Work Week Widow. And maybe I'm not one to talk, but just what the freak does that blog name mean?

Anyway, she's having a blog post resurrection party over at her place and today she has kindly featured one of my little tomes entitled "A Small Case of Attempted Murder". So traipse on over there, say hi to Ann, and cuddle up with a nice (albeit short) murder mystery.

Your Kids Are Missing Out on the Good Stuff

What a travesty that some school in Florida can't even afford toilet paper. I mean, how much can that cheap-ass bark-flecked flexible cardboard scrap cost? They can bail out greedy corporate bastards, but they can't let a kid wipe it after a pee?

When I was a child, students who lived far enough away rode in yellow army tank-like vehicles called SCHOOL BUSES (after they did their morning chores feeding the dinosaurs). They were provided by the school district and they were FREE. Children piled onto the bus, fighting over seats, often ripping a shirt or two. Girls walked down the gauntlet between the seats while boys lifted up their dresses and pulled the pig tails of those who sat in front of them.

In high school, I took the bus to school and every day, we'd yell in unison "Turn! Turn! Turn!" to the bus driver because we wanted her to take the short cut home instead of the school mandated route. One day, after we'd boarded the bus after school, the vice-principal came on board and lectured all of us and threatened us with severe punishment, like, one hour in the stockyards.

But these days, kids don't enjoy this fringe benefit. Because the schools can't AFFORD it.

When I was in junior high, we had this class called P.E. It's where children ran around outside. It's also where this bully kept accusing me of staring at her. "What are YOU looking at?" she'd hiss at me. Actually, P.E. was good for me because I sure ran a lot.

When I was in elementary school, they had just invented these things called sidewalks. And we used them to WALK to school. Eleven blocks for me. Each way! Teachers would pin permission slips or other notices to our clothing so we could wander home looking like morons who couldn't be trusted to deliver the information to our parents.

But by walking to school, children got EXERCISE. For FREE! No expensive uniforms or equipment required. No league fees to pay. No fundraising for parents to bother their coworkers with.

If you don't walk to school, how can the school boy you're crushing on walk you home? How can you sneak cigarettes from your negatively influentual friends? And there's no chance of peeing your pants if you don't have a nice long peepee-dancing walk ahead of you. (Oops, did I just confess that out loud?)

Parents: don't you see that by driving your kids to school, you are depriving them of these sacred experiences?

And another thing: we never studied for federally mandated exams. We just learned stuff. And we were never left behind.

Without the unnecessary task of meeting administrative standards we had time for things like art (where kids could eat paste), and music (my flute teacher was an alcoholic), and nap time (my teacher, Mr. Stanley, poked me in the chest one day for talking to my neighbor instead of lying quietly on my towel).

So yeah, why can't the school districts afford THAT anymore?

Call me conservative. Call me traditional. But I believe the day we make our kids bring their own toilet paper to school is the day we've lost our priorities in public spending. Of course, I suppose if they have to pee their pants on the way to school, they've got protection.



Abigail from Piece of Cake is walking for MS. She can tell you why she's walking HERE.
If you've got an extra few bucks (no amount is too small), please consider a tax-deductible donation to help her reach her goal of $2500. Her direct MS donation page is HERE.

'Dude Walks With Cars' is neither Aerosmith, nor Native American

Yesterday I had lunch with awesome funny gal, Suzy Soro, author of Hollywood: Where Hot Comes to Die. What does that even mean? Does it refer to all the delusional people who comes to Hollywood for fame and fortune, only to end up on the corner of Loser Street and Crack Boulevard, peddling what's left of their good looks in torn fish net stockings, or standing on street islands advertising a lack of residence, or worse, selling Star Maps?

We met for lunch at Buddha's Belly in West Hollywood, whose food I would love to brag about, but as soon as you found out I was an investor, you'd go: "Oh, yeah, I'll be going there REAL soon", so ask Suzy, she'll tell it like it is, man.

Suzy, whom you must never call 'Sue' while shaking her hand, lest ye pull back a bloody stump, was trading wit barbs with our waiter, Matt. Did I mention Suzy is a stand-up comedian?

Here's a picture of our illustrious server:

You can also follow him on Twitter. Best to do it now, too, because when he becomes a famous movie star, good luck getting him to follow you in return then. This would also be your opportunity to ask him about his orange hat. That's Matt Kawczynski. Rhymes with Ted Kaczynski. (Not sure if he changed the spelling to avoid the association.) The same goes for me, by the way. (The Twitter follow, not the unabomber uncle relation).


So anyway, I'm driving back to my place in L.A. and while waiting for a light to turn green, this guy walks past my car with a sign advertising his lack of residence.

I don't know about you, but it really bothers me when a dude walks with cars. It seems so pushy and I don't respond well to pushy. I lose my compassion and want to yell things like, "Hey, if you can stand all day in the middle of traffic, you can stand all day in front of a grill, pal!"

Maybe the pay is better on Beverly Blvd, but if he came to L.A. to live out his dream and failed, and he wants to work on the street holding a sign, he can do something more respectable like, I don't know, sell STAR MAPS.

Goat Thing of the Day

Hey, did y'all hear about the magic goat that was arrested for armed robbery? He is accused of stealing a car.

How silly is that? Everyone knows goats only steal tractors.

(Thanks, Cakelet!)

Love Thyself. Just Not in Front of Me

I'd say it's been at least twenty years since I caught someone ruining his eyesight (aka masturbating). I can only assume that the internet has something to do it. At least for that exhibitionist guy one night in 1988 who turned the flashlight on himself in his car as he drove next to me on the I-80 freeway. I mean, why risk your life on the road, when you can visit Rosy Palms and her five sisters on a webcam for all the world to see? It's hands-free, but it's not. How Zen.

My college friend, Angela, was in the car with me at the time, and we discussed at length the coulda-shoulda-wouldas of the incident, because no matter how much training you have, you're never prepared to react appropriately when some yahoo hitchhikes to the sky. We decided that we should have pointed and laughed. As if that would make a pervert see the error of his ways and stop tickling his pickle in public.

In fact, my increasing paranoia over time has me convinced that nowadays, if you laugh at a guy who shuffles his iPod in front of you, he'll shoot you. Then who's gonna pick up the dry cleaning?

I went to a hippie college on the coast whose culture espoused organic and natural living, which included nude beaches. Those of us who balked at nudity were chastised for our immaturity and close-mindedness. "Nudity isn't sexual," they'd proclaim, "it's natural."

So one day I decided to check out one of the hidden, "natural" places. I walked down to the beach to find a lot of tan naked people lounging in chairs, some of them even playing and running around in their birthday suits.

I tried not to act like a prude, but I didn't have the courage to strip off in front of a bunch of strangers, so I found a semi-private area behind a huge log, and daringly removed my top. I was topless! Yay for me and my bravery! But there was no way I was going bottomless. When it comes to nude beaches, I have, you know, standards.

So I relaxed on my towel, listened to the crashing waves, and worked on getting rid of my tan lines. The sun was warm and I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I felt like I had accomplished some great feat, like an acrophobic who has skydived to face his fears. I stood up and just on the other side of the log was a bearded, skinny hippie, stretched out on his towel, doing hand-to-gland combat.

ACK!

I hunkered down, threw on my shirt, grabbed my belongings and ran back up to the car, never to return.

Nude beaches are nonsexual, my ass.

For all I know, people don't get "trigger happy" these days, but if you're going to do it around me (and this includes you too, ladies), at least ask first, because you know, I have standards.