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February, 2012:

Are You A Good Hugger or a Bad Hugger?

Feb 23rd, 2012
by Margaret.
51 comments

The fabulous thing about having a laptop is that I’m peeing right now but you can’t tell because I pushed the MUTE button.

But seriously, the real reason I called you all here today is to say that there are two types of people: those that hug well and those that don’t.

A real hugger wraps their arms around you and makes it feel like they are really glad to see you. It feels warm and good like hot cocoa and wool socks in front of a stone fireplace with a fat glittery Christmas tree in the corner.

Then there are those that make a half circle with one arm around you and if you’re lucky, their hand will barely touch your back. Like you have cooties and if they had their druthers, they’d rather not have to participate in such a barbaric nasty germ-spreading ritual. They are probably the same people who would give you one of those limp fish handshakes as well.

Me? I’m a hugger. A real huggity hug hugging hugmeister. They call me Huggy McHuggenheimer. I like when people hug the crap out of me. That’s a figure of speech by the way, I don’t mean I hope that there’s a pile of poo afterwards. And I don’t want the wind squeezed out of me. Or broken ribs. I just like a good firm and friendly hug with pressure applied. A REAL hug. Not one of those mamby pamby I-have-touching-issues-so-you-get-a half-assed fake hugs.

Why is that? Are they afraid it’s too intimate? Like when it’s a co-ed hug, for example. A straight man vs. a straight woman. Is the guy afraid of feeling boobs against them? Like it’s not allowed? Is hugging too sexual for them?

Or is hugging seen as lower-class? Or blue-collar lumberjacky. It’s not sophisticated. You don’t see rich people or members of royalty bear-hugging each other. They lean toward one another and maybe purse their lips to the side while air kissing and lightly resting their fingers of one hand on a shoulder maybe.

I don’t get it. Can someone please explain this to me? Because for me, hugging is an innocent thing we are taught to do with everyone we like when we’re children.

Now, I realize there are exceptions. Like people with back problems or fibromyalgia who can’t hug beyond the limp fish level because it’s painful. Hugs should not be painful. So they get a pass.

Also? There are people I don’t want to hug. But these are the same people I don’t want to touch for any number of reasons. Primarily because they DO have cooties or a banana in their pocket or something like that.

But what’s everyone else’s excuse?

So tell me, are you a hugger? I mean like a real hug-o-rama huggity hugger? Or a limp fish? And do men have different views on this than women? What’s your hugging etiquette?

P.S. Today I am guest posting on mystery author Cindy Sample’s blog. Her latest book is called Dying for a Dance. I give a few blogging tips on her blog today and if you go over there and comment according to her instructions, you’ll be entered into a drawing for an Amazon Gift card. Wow! What are you waiting for? Check out her blog post today entitled: “Improving Your Blog: Helpful Tips and Reminders from an Award-Winning Blogger.

 

Goat Thing of the Day: Apples, Accents and Massages

Feb 20th, 2012
by Margaret.
14 comments

Still Life With Goats

Pricilla (of The Maaaaa of Pricilla) wants you to know how much she enjoys her apples.

goat, goat picture, goat eating apple

(Thanks, Patty!)

Goats in the News

Reports came in to Nanny Goats in Panties from all over this week about how goats bleat.

Did you know that goats have accents? (Thanks, Sandy!)

They really do. (Thanks, Shannon!)

No, seriously, kids grow up sounding like the other kids they hang out with. (Thanks, Erin!)

A British study found that goats can indeed develop accents. (Thanks, Pam of “Bloomers“!)

 

Goats on Video

And now, goats can give massages…

 

(Thanks, Nellie!)

 

Got Goat? Submit your goat thing.

 

Did I Ever Tell You About the Time I Met Gary Carter?

Feb 17th, 2012
by Margaret.
26 comments

It was November of 2000 in New York City. We volunteered at some Keith Hernandez benefit thing. My job was to walk around with a clipboard and collect payment information from the auction winners.

So some guy wins a Dinner For Two or whatever and I walk over and get his name and credit card info and walk back in line with the other volunteers waiting with their clipboards.

The girl next to me leans over and says, “You know who that was?”

“Who?” I say.

“That guy you just helped. That’s John McEnroe. Isn’t that John McEnroe?”

She leans toward someone else and asks her if it was John McEnroe. Then she leans back toward me.

“That must be John McEnroe. How did you not know that was John McEnroe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check your papers.”

I checked my papers.

Well, would you look at that. John McEnroe. Right there on the paper. His signature and everything. Huh.

“Yeah,” I say, “I guess that was him.”

“You idiot. How could you not know?”

“I don’t know - I wasn’t paying attention. I was just getting his information.”

“Like his name, you mean?”

“Right.”

I was an idiot. Although in my defense, it wasn’t like I asked him what his name was and he said John McEnroe and I just wrote it down and walked away. I handed him the clipboard and made him fill it out himself and then didn’t look at the name.

In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t recognize him because it served him right when I later asked for his autograph and he rejected me. Even though he had just finished giving someone else his autograph. Like ten someone elses. He pretended he had to leave and had no more time for people. So the only way I could get back at him was to not recognize him in the first place, of course.

Anyway when it was all over, a group of us walked to a nearby bar for a drink and somebody in the group told us that two famous baseball players were going with us. They told us their names and that they were awesome and a bunch of other sports-related statistic impressiveness.

I had no idea who they were.

 

gary carter, gary carter photo

Me, Gary Carter and my friend, Meg.

 

But we drank and hung out with them and posed with World Series rings and I knew that I had to take pictures because … well, because they were famous and somebody would be impressed even if it wasn’t me.

bobby ojeda, world series, world series ring

Bobby Ojeda and me and his World Series ring. (Nov 2000)

 

===

I bring this story up because Hall of Famer Gary Carter died yesterday, February 16 at the age of 57.

Here’s an article from ESPN.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Pavlova-Style (Recipe)

Feb 14th, 2012
by Margaret.
11 comments

Mmmm, don’t you wish you had one?

heart pavlova, pavlova photos, pavlova meringue, valentines day desserts

Did I mention that cherry pie filling is one of my favorite food groups?

My friend Tonia made this heart pavlova for a recent Valentine’s Day thing. Actually it was an anti-Valentine’s Day thing. She’s a fabulous cook, or baker or whichever you call it. Is there a difference? Is there a huge outcry if you don’t use the right word?

By the way, those of you with 2012 NGIP Goat Calendars can also see Tonia’s contribution for the month of July.

Also? It’s neither pav-LOH-va, nor pav-LAH-va. It’s PAV-luh-va.

You’re welcome.

Here’s the recipe that she used (from the Taste of Home website):

 

Ingredients

  • 3 egg whites
  • 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
  • 3/4 cup sugar
  • FILLING:
  • 1 package (3 ounces) cream cheese, softened
  • 1/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
  • 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1 cup heavy whipping cream, whipped
  • 1 can (21 ounces) cherry pie filling

Directions

  • Place egg whites in a small bowl; let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes. Add cream of tartar; beat on medium speed until soft peaks form. Gradually beat in sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, on high until stiff glossy peaks form and sugar is dissolved.
  • Spoon meringue onto a parchment paper-lined baking sheet. Using the back of a spoon, form meringue into a 9-in. heart shape, building up edges slightly.
  • Bake at 275° for 1-1/2 hours. Turn oven off and do not open door; leave meringue in oven for 1 hour. Remove from the oven; cool completely.
  • In a small bowl, beat the cream cheese, confectioners’ sugar and vanilla until smooth. Fold in whipped cream until mixture is well blended. To serve, place heart on a serving platter; fill with cream cheese mixture and top with pie filling. Yield: 6 servings.

Nutritional Facts 1 serving (1 piece) equals 426 calories, 20 g fat (12 g saturated fat), 70 mg cholesterol, 103 mg sodium, 59 g carbohydrate, 1 g fiber, 4 g protein.

Peepholes. People Who Need Peepholes…

Feb 13th, 2012
by Margaret.
20 comments

I could keep going and say that people who need peepholes are the luckiest people in the world except that people like me who until yesterday needed a peephole was an unlucky member of those people.

Wait - what?

You longtime readers of Nanny Goats in Panties may recall a solicitor who came to my door and suckered me out of $75.00 for a magazine subscription. A magazine I never received. Let me mention their names again because they are still on my list of wrath sufferers: Universal Subscription Service. Those scam artist bastard bozos. It’s because of them that I can’t afford to open the door any more.

Anyhow, we’ve lived in our current residence for five or six years and the one thing I’ve longed for like a bacon-wrapped ice cream sandwich is a stinkin’ hole in the door through which to recognize potential baddies. We get more unwanted doorbell ringers than wanted ones, and because I’m such a nice guy, I go into a self-induced crisis every time someone who darkens my welcome mat wants to sell me something whether it’s candy bars to keep them off the streets or saving my Hell-bound soul with a ten-minute diatribe and a tri-fold pamphlet.

But what if my door knocker is the UPS lady who needs a signature? I have to answer the door, lest she send my Barnabus Collins melodramatic-blood-sucking vampire action figurine (collect all 10!) back to the manufacturer and I have to order it all over again.

The doorbell will ring and I’ll tiptoe to the door and softly plaster my ear against it, hoping to overhear a recognizable cough or something that will reveal whether it’s friend or foe. A minute later, I will hear a big truck engine turning over and — OMG it’s the UPS lady! — and I will tear the door open and chase her down the street like a banshee in my tattered bathrobe, my slippers slapping on the asphalt, hair curlers flying everywhere.

It’s all just so vexing.

The last time some brochure-pushing religiophites came to my door, they asked if they could pray for me and I said yes, you can pray that God provides for me a peephole so I can avoid unwanted visitors. And by golly, it worked!

Some tool-bedecked dude came over this weekend (some tool-bedecked dude who stared at my ass, according to certain other household members) and in less time than it takes for another unwanted visitor to persuade me to subscribe to Suckers Monthly, we had a beautiful, lovely, glorious peephole.

Behold!

door photo, door, peephole

 

So knock yourselves out, you lucky people, because now?

Wait for it…

♫

You can ring my bellll-lll-llll. Ring my bell. My bell.

♫

peephole, view through peephole

 

 

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