Taking the "Fair" Out of County Fair

I don't know if it's ignorance, apathy or both, but I never noticed that Sacramento had a County Fair. Maybe it's just overshadowed by the order-of-magnitude, deeper-fried State Fair in August which is located on the same asphalt jungle we lovingly refer to as Cal Expo. Or maybe it's overshadowed by the largest jazz festival in the West, originally known as the Sacramento Dixieland Jazz Jubilee, later renamed to the more-inviting Sacramento Jazz Jubilee, and renamed again this year to the more accessible (and therefore, lame) Sacramento Jazz Festival.

Nevertheless, it stands to reason that if there is a State Fair, there ought to be a County Fair here in Sacramento that exhibits stuff like livestock and pies and art entered by children who get bedecked with red, white or blue ribbons with the chance to move on to the State Fair and be judged some more.

We just went for the goats.

Do I need to rant about the fact that it was three dollars to get into the fair, but it was TEN DOLLARS to get into the parking lot? No. I don't. Because that one is too easy.

This is the entrance to the illustrious event:

(click on any pics in this post to enlarge)

You must be no more than this tall (13 feet, 9 inches) to enter this Fair. Which is discriminatory, which is NOT fair, but whatever. Rules are rules.

We made a beeline for the goats. And while I think it's a nice wholesome activity for children to learn how to take care of animals and how to compete with good sportsmanship and all that, I was not prepared to witness the manipulation of these helpless and innocent animals, such as the removing of ears, just because they are in the way, or they are inconvenient for showing or whatever crazy and heartless reason they have for such violent and atrocious acts.

While my husband kept a lookout, I shot these pictures to expose the torturers for who they are. I will bring them to justice if it's the last thing I do. I will write my congressman, or whatever it is you do in cases like these. I wanted to vomit, but I soldiered on just to see if there were other suffering animals at this event. Just what the heck kind of Fair is this? It's not fair to the goats, that's for sure.

I'm sorry to say, it didn't get much better. These beautiful furry creatures used to be much taller...

...until their legs were whacked off at the knees. Who DOES this? The mafia. That's who.

 

 

I begged the ten-year old brat who owned this cutie-pie to tell me why he was made to stand in a bucket for hours and hours and you know what that mean, little 4-H child of Satan did?

He looked at me funny. But he didn't have the nerve to stop me from taking any pictures of his crimes, I can tell you that. Also? I heard his mother call him Guido. "Guido?" she yelled from across the goat prison cells. "Come get your pastrami sandwich!"

What follows can only be described as a modern-day bout of Goaty Gladiators. I should warn you that the next picture is not for the faint of heart. Viewer discretion is advised. This is no different than throwing Christians to the lions, if you ask me. (Notice my references to historical events that occured in Rome. Which is in Italy!)

This is very hard for me to say, but this pitting of goats against chickens in a game of Tic-Tac-Toe is nothing short of heinous. How can you not compare this to the inhumanity of cock-fighting?

I'm sorry to have to be the one to introduce you to the seedy underbelly of the County Fair, and I don't know if this happens at all county fairs, or just the one in my backyard, but I for one, was outraged.

I couldn't take any more. Wracked with sobs, I moved on to the other exhibits.

Maybe I was still upset about the goats, but when we got to the rabbits, things over there didn't seem normal either. I didn't say anything, though. I didn't want to arouse suspicion of my Big NGIP Exclusive that would soon be clogging the information super highway, and eventually putting some very serious criminals behind their own sets of bars.

On a completely unrelated note, Marilyn Manson's new album The High End of Low was released today.

Things were much more colorful outside.

Whoaaaaa! Not so fast. Did you catch that sign on the Diskotek ride? Let's see if we can get Manny, our camerman, to zoom in on it for us...Manny?

Hmmmm, just as I suspected. You can't tell me this is a coincidence. What, are we supposed to think those Italians really know how to make a carny ride? Yeah, and they're real safe, too. Youse pays extra for, shall we say.....protection. An' if you gotta problem wit dat, you go to da Office of Klownland Suckurity:

The more I looked around, the more I noticed just how much real estate those Romans owned.

How fair is that?

Then we saw a couple of gum-chewing bullies in Armani suits walking toward us smacking baseball bats into their hands and we high-tailed it outta there.

Yeah so anyway I don't think I'll be back anytime soon.

Some Restaurants You Don't Go For the Food. At All.

I wish I could highly recommend a restaurant on the long drive through California from Los Angeles to Sacramento, and if I did, it would rhyme with Sin 'N' Doubt. But there is only one of those and you have to be hungry by the time you hit that particular mile marker, otherwise you might find yourself, once again, going to Apricot Tree Restaurant even though the food is not all that.

Where is Apricot Tree you ask? I'm glad you asked, because I was just about to tell you. It is in the Fresno-ish part of California on I-5 (or "The Five" if you're from Southern California.) It's in a little town called Firebaugh - formerly, Firebaugh's Ferry. You're probably wondering why it used to be called Firebaugh's Ferry. As it happens, there used to be a ferry that took greedy bastards Goldrushers across the San Joaquin River. This was back before bridges. And sidewalks. And black presidents. Also, if any of you are punk rock fans and know of a band called the Circle Jerks, you may recall a song of theirs that goes...  "If your car breaks down, don't take a tow to Firebaugh..."

So now you might be asking yourself, why in the H.E. Double-Hockey Sticks would I stop at such a God-forsaken place? Because of the lunch boxes, of course. And if you'd just quit interrupting me and let me finish my dang story, you'd know why already.


Know what's on the menu at Apricot Tree? Apricot bread pudding, apricot milkshakes, apricot pie...it's the Bubba Gump of Apricots. Also? The Whatever Platter....whatever that is. I wouldn't order that if I were you.

But who cares about the food, I go for the sites. Here, let me show you:

 

(click on pics to enlarge)

There are all these lunch boxes that line the ceilings.

Galactica,  Astronauts, Buck Rogers, The Black Hole

  

Road Runner, Smurfs, Woody Woodpecker

 

Superheroes (I'm not typing them all out. I said click to enlarge, didn't I?)

Hundreds, maybe thousands of 'em.

And thermoses line the booth dividers:

 

 

The woman at the table on the other side of those thermoses couldn't stand it, I guess, and she came around to our table and said something about seeing me take pictures of the lunch boxes and how she had a Woody Woodpecker lunch box when she was a kid and doesn't this place take you back and blah blah blah.

This kind of thing always sets my husband and I off on a conversation afterwards about how if we approached some stranger and started blathering on about our childhood, they would think we were social misfits or completely crazy. This woman, we thought, was just being nice....or was she? You know, Coalinga  State Hospital isn't too far down the road...{BONG! - cuckoo!... cuckoo!}

Anyway, up near the front, encased in glass, are the special collector's lunch boxes, like these here:

 

Partridge Family, Star Trek

  

 Action Jackson, Emergency!, The Jetsons & Evil Kneivel

Porky's, KISS, and ???

And if that doesn't burn your wickie, you can waltz on over to the gift shop and buy yourself some of this crap:

Tut Bust, anyone?

Cause you know, they only have this stuff in Firebaugh, so you HAVE to buy it NOW.

Or perhaps a pelican cookie jar is more up your alley...

And if you still have room for fun, you can always throw a few quarters (or is it dollars now?) in this:

That's the Apricot tree, 150 miles south of Sacramento (and San Francisco) on I-5. Just keep your eyes peeled for this sign:

 

And then look for the orange pyramid with the fountain out front.

And expect food not quite as good as Denny's.

And I can't tell you whether or not to order the "Whatever Platter". It might be best to stick with something apricotty. People seem to LOVE the apricot muffins and apricot pie, but you are kind of risking your life by ordering any type of meal. Reviews vary widely.

Thank You Letter(s)

While the rest of you are wagging your fingers at me in disapproval, SOME people are rewarding me for my smart-ass, juvenile-at-times, silly behavior. Take for example, Cari over at Not Quite a Fairy Tale. I get all silly up in her comment section and win some yummy Seattle goodies. I have no idea what I've won exactly - I guess I'll have to call Johnny so he can tell me what I've won (You know, as in, "Tell her what she's won, Johnny!" ... Ohhhh, did you hear that? That was the death knell of the game show.)  So, thank you, Carebear! MWAH!!

What Happens When My Inner Child Gets Ahold of the Camera

Today I am the featured guest on Ann's Rants: Confessions of a Work Week Widow for Free Association Friday, but before you click over there (and I think you should because I'm just a barrel of laughs, although I'm far too humble to ever say such a thing), I wanted to show you this picture I took when I was ten years old the other day, as evidenced by the description in the upper left quadrant:

I didn't know sperm had eyes, did you? I guess that's why it's the ..... Seeeeeecret of the Deeeeeeep.

Anyway, please go over to Ann's Rants, where today, hilarity ensues. Why? Because I'm on it. If you can't trouble yourself just now, then at least set your TIVO, because you don't want to miss it.

CLICK HERE to see my guest spot over at Ann's Rants.


So Nice They Posted it Twice

Ann's article featuring Yours Truly has also been published over at Humor Bloggers Dot Com!

The Eye-Five. And Other Drive-By Shootings.

Driving to Los Angeles from Sacramento is like being hung by your fingernails for six hours, minus the joy.  

If you're from Sacramento, the infinite swath of asphalt is called I-5. If you're from Los Angeles, it's called "The" 5. If you live in both cities, like me, you spend many years being overly self-conscious while debating the use of a definite article. Eventually you pronounce ALL freeways using your L.A. words because L.A. is so hip, they must be right.

Regardless, that long-ass southbound trip becomes all about driving as fast as you can and avoiding this:

somewhere along I-5

The speed limit is 70mph on most of I-5 The 5, which means you can go at least 75 before turning on your police radar. You don't want to go so fast that this happens:

[This is where I would have inserted the picture of a terrible accident where I saw a car on its side, but I couldn't grab my camera fast enough. Sorry. I did capture another accident later though, if that helps.]

Did I mention how long and boring this drive can be? Four hundred miles of more or less this:

btw, you can click on any pic to enlarge

You sing to yourself. You do glutes exercises. You think you can't drive any further before going crazy and wonder how much longer and you pass a sign that tells you:

 

And you drive and you drive and you drive some more. You search for radio stations, most of them are of the Spanish Mariachi flavor. You contemplate life. You drive with your knees while eating your Drive-Thru cheeseburger. You think you are never going to get to the Grapevine. You stop for gas. Again. You eat candy bars to kill time. You pass fourteen thousand rows of asparagus growing in the endless flat dusty bowl that is the Central Valley of California. Hours later, you pass another sign:

 

You are bored bored bored bored bored.

Then a fire truck whizzes by you and you see smoke up ahead. Yay! Some excitement. It takes at least five miles to reach it, plenty of time to grab your camera and take a couple of shots as you drive by.

 

woo hoo! A fire in the median!

 

You try to get one last shot in the rear-view mirror, but being the idiot photographer that you are, you don't realize that the camera focuses on the mirror, not the object reflected:

Oh well, nice camera though, right? Why thank you! It was gift from my husband for Valentine's Day last year. That's why it's red, see, because it was for Valentine's Day, isn't that cute?

Anyway....

Everyone has that one landmark on the map that designates the start of the "home stretch". The point at which, you think, OK, it's not long now. I'm practically home. For me it's this:

Not the grey car, silly. Magic Mountain. Geez, do I have to spell everything out for you? By now it's just a hop through Valencia, a skip across the Valley, and a jump past the Getty Museum into the Westside.

Home at last, home at last, thank God almighty I'm home at last. Yeah, there's nothing like a cold drink to greet your road-weary soul. I walked in the door, approached the refrigerator and noticed a small black stain on the floor formed by some blackish fluid dribbling from the bottom of the door. Hmmm, that's strange. Then I opened the freezer, when what to my wondering eyes should appear?

wtf?

I can only guess that some elf got locked in there while I was gone and created an ice sculpture while waiting for my return to let him out. Either that, or the fridge is on the fritz. {SIGH} I noticed the door shelf (the one right underneath the ice dispenser) was filled with water.

Did you hear that?  My freezer has WATER in it! You know, water? As in, not ice?

And yes, the refrigerator side isn't working either.

{SIGHHHHHHHH} 

So, the fix-it dude is coming on Wednesday between 11a and 3p. Or on Thursday between 8am and 11am. I'm not sure which one it is because for some reason two customer service people called me to make appointments after I made a service request via the home warranty website. I tried to talk to a human being but she just kept repeating the same thing over and over without actually answering any of my questions:

"Yes, I can make an appointment for you on Thursday."

"But I already have an appointment for Wed."

"Yes, I can make an appointment for you on Thursday"

So if I had to initially complain to a website, then make two appointments with machine-like humans, will a robot show up to fix my refrigerator? This should be interesting. I've never seen robot butt-crack before. I'll be sure and get a shot of THAT for you.

Thank You Letter(s)

Thanks goes out to Hammy of The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas for the Honest Scrap Award. Have you noticed that if you say it fast enough it sounds like Honest Crap? Hey, what a great name for a blog!

The Best Little Cathouse? Why, Heck Yes.

After a visit to the Circus of Misfit Animals that is my father's house, I have decided to open a shelter for off-kilter four-legged friends. I will call it The Nanny Goats in Panties Institute for Retarded Pets and Waffle House (because in this economy, you gotta have a backup plan).

Why am I using the word "retarded?" Because calling them morons or idiots is just plain mean. I don't mean "retarded" in the derogatory sense; I mean it in the literal sense, so look that up in your Funk & Wagnalls.

And I'm not talking about physically disabled kitties like Ringo, the one-eyed feline, who has no trouble swinging it with the ladies. No, I'm talking about a cat named Fred who is currently squatting at my Dad's house.

Ladies...?  Meet Fred:

This poor homeless cat who has already sent two of the other residents to the vet, is currently locked up in my father's bedroom, with occasional daily privileges to the rest of the house when the other wounded-but-recovering residents are outside. I forget his story about why he is there or, I don't care or, whatever. And I don't know if he is actually retarded, but he's cross-eyed and that can't be winning him any prom dates now, can it. If you were a cat, would you date this guy? No, of course you wouldn't because you're a vain fur ball and looks matter! And if you look retarded, you are not getting any.

On the other hand, Ringo whom some of you met and fawned over last Fall, is like Sylvester Stallone after a boxing match.

He wears his missing eye like a war-torn battle hero. Whereas Fred:

Fred looks like the guy in Accounting who lost his job long ago but still shows up anyway so they transfer him down to the basement and he wants to know whatever happened to his stapler.

Yeah, THAT guy.

Thank You Letter(s)

First of all, I would like to thank Google who has decided that Nanny Goats in Panties should be the #1 (NUMBER ONE!!!) search result for "Sacramento Humor Blog". Woo Hoo! I should also note that it is the #1 result when you enter Nanny Goats in Panties, or does that go without saying? I always forget whether or not I should point out the obvious.


And I really appreciate Heather of Nobody But Yourself totally adoring me and stalking me in her post, Things Which Are Thingish.

A big THANK YOU to one of my longtime bloggy friends, Jan of Jan's Sushi Bar for bestowing this pretty thing on me.

I would like to thank Gladys over at Gladys Tells All for the Lemonade Award. Thanks, Gladys!!!

And thank you to Jan at Jan's Place for the Lovely Blog Award. Which is....lovely!

Oh Yeah? How Long Has It Been Since YOU Took a Bath?

I haven't taken a bath since the sixth grade which, I realize, sounds gross and all but you're my peeps and I figure I can tell you just about anything (except for that thing last year with the cop and the algae and the 437 rolls of bubble wrap - I'm not ready to talk about that yet.)

Anyway, some Frenchy frog blogger named Sheila (Ma Vie Folie) who makes natural bath products out of her garage or something sent me a boatload of products with a note attached that said: "P.U. You stink!"

Well. Of all the nerve.

Also, while it's true I haven't taken a bath since the sixth grade, it's not like I haven't taken a shower since then - sheesh!


Is it just me, or is it fun to get stuff in the mail? It's me, isn't it. You probably hate getting stuff. You guys are all givers, right? Not me. I take, take, take and take some more. My middle name is gimmegimmegimme.

So I tried the Orange Dreamsicle Lip Balm. I liked how the smell/flavor wasn't overpowering enough to knock out small pets or the guy next to you on the subway, but enough for me to get a good whiff. And the balm is kind of soft, not like those mini-candles they sell at the impulse item section at Walmart. In fact, if I were the PR guy, I'd start an ad campaign with the slogan:

Try our balm. It doesn't scrape the crap out of your lips! 

Catchy, right? And that's just off the top of my head.

I also tried the Mmmm Cheesecake! Lip Balm which had a little more punch in the aroma department, but if you like the smell of coconut (or at least I think it was coconut, it might have been pantyhose, I always get those two mixed up), then you'll love the cheesecake flavor. Also? This stuff is even better than that Chicken Poop Lip Junk that I mentioned last year.

After seeking therapy over my childhood traumas surrounding bath tubs (my grandfather died in a tragic accident when he and I raced in the 1st Annual Downhill Bathtub Race of 1977 at the Cliffs of Dover), I decided it was time to get right back on that horse. Albeit thirty years later.

And while we're on the subject of bath issues, I'm afraid to take a bath alone. I want my privacy, but if I slip in the tub, I don't want one of my neighbors breaking down the door wondering what that awful smell is and discovering my naked, partially decayed body in the bathroom. How embarrassing. And what about when the cops arrive...

"What's that smell?" Cop #1 would ask.

Cop #2 would plug his nose, "Rotting corpse?"

"No," Cop #1 would say, sniffing the air like a mouse, "I believe that's mocha mint."

Anyway, as I stepped into the bathroom to prepare a nice hot bath, I discovered a spider on the wall - Eek!  How am I supposed to relax in the aroma of Creamy Mocha Mint Latte knowing one of Charlotte's cousins is hanging around waiting for me to fall asleep open-mouthed in the tub? And why is it that spiders only seem to appear AFTER you've taken off all your clothes?

So I hairsprayed the little guy to death.

I brought a book in with me, thinking that I would get bored just laying there in the tub, doing nothing, staring at the tiles, mentally developing my ToDo list, calculating how many more moving boxes I'd have to buy, what I plan to donate to Goodwill, which stuff is going to Sacramento with me, how will I find a mover to move just a few large things 400 miles, finding a handyman to fix all the broken stuff, researching for a property management company... you know, normal every day stuff.

I climbed into the salt-infused bath and breathed. I closed my eyes and took in the minty mocha aroma. Thirty minutes later, with the water cooled, the book untouched, and the ToDolist uncontemplated, I emerged a new woman, totally relaxed. After drying off, I felt my skin. It was so smooth, not like after lotion, but something else. Needless to say, I couldn't stop touching myself (or is that not needless to say?)

Also? The thing I like about the bag for these bath salts is that it's resealable. I don't know, maybe it's just me, but I love things that are resealable. They make my day, that's how much they mean to me.

I've never done a home facial mask thing and had no idea what to expect, but all I had to do was mix a teaspoon of water with a teaspoon of this green powdery stuff and smack it across my face for a few minutes.

Oh! And take a picture, of course:

 I see this picture and think Halloween. Or Viet Nam.

But, I gotta say, after I rinsed off and dried, I kept feeling my face all night because it was smooth and tight and clean.

So, thanks for the stuff, Sheila, and if the rest of you are curious about all of her products at Aventine Hill Bath Emporium, check it out!

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a bath. And kill a bug.

Free Wink: Hostage Crisis Update

Wink has finally been returned to her rightful owner. And let me just be Paul Harvey for a second and give you the rest of the story of how this egregious travesty went down:

Wink was discovered just a couple of hours after she got out of her yard. Animal control picked her up and called Save-A-Mutt. Why? Because they are listed as the primary owners on her LoJack chip thingy and refused upon adoption to have it otherwise. It's been four years and they still won't transfer primary ownership to the actual owner.

For unknown, unjustified, and undocumented reasons the people at Save-A-Mutt kept Wink and accused the owner, my friend, of neglect and improper care. They claimed she was matted and dirty when they got her. They claimed to have taken her to a vet who said she had gingivitis and an ear infection. However when pressed for pictures or documentation to prove these allegations, they were unable to do so. Yet, they refused to return Wink to her rightful owner.

Initially they said they would find a more suitable home, but then lawyers got involved and seven long non-Wink weeks went by before a bitter and reluctant Save-A-Mutt rep agreed to return Wink TO HER RIGHTFUL OWNER. But...she had a list of demands including but not limited to:

1. Wink must see a vet at least once a year.   (She already does.)

2. She must be groomed at least every other month. (She already does. In fact, she missed her last 6-week appointment and numerous bath appointments because Save-A-Mutt held her hostage FOR SEVEN WEEKS)

3.  Save-A-Mutt must be allowed to inspect and check on Wink after one year to ensure she is being properly taken care of. If they believe Wink is being neglected, they have the right to take her away.


I don't know what misguided, low-self-esteem, overcompensating, bitterness issues these people have, but to use my friend as a scapegoat was hateful and hurtful. And makes me want to say mean things. As I understand it, it was really just one person who was causing all the trouble. 


So if you want to "sick your dogs" on someone, or give them a piece of your mind, you can contact them at the email address on their website.  WHICH SUCKS BY THE WAY. I'm just saying.