Well that’s what happened to me the other day, only it wasn’t in the coffee aisle at the grocery store. It was a text message. Actually, three of them…

Oh, what a conundrum! Do I immediately let them know that they have the wrong person, thereby resulting in the least amount of stress for everyone? Or do I get sucked in by my inner smart ass and create some mischief?

I mean, this person, let’s call her LaWanda, obviously sent a potentially offensive letter to another person, let’s call her Agnus, who is apparently from Mississippi. And LaWanda thoughtlessly thought, “Oh, I’ll bet Agnus would get a kick out of this story about three busloads of Mississippi school children going missing only to be found six months later inside the the stomach fossil of a dinosaur. Haha! That Agnus, she loves a good dinosaur tale.”

But then LaWanda didn’t hear back from Agnus. And she began to wonder why Agnus didn’t at least call her to deliver a courtesy chuckle. She got nothing but crickets.

And then it dawned on her.

OMG, thought LaWanda, I plum forgot Agnus was from Mississippi. What if she knew one of those dino-abducted children? I’d better send her one of those text thingies that’s all the rage with my grandkids.

And so she did. Only she didn’t. And now poor Agnus is still mad. And LaWanda will never know that Agnus did not receive her lame attempt at an apology.

Oh, what to do, what to do.

And then it hit me.

Hey, I know! I’ll text back. Only I won’t tell her at first because my inner wise-cracker wants to play.

And so began our conversation with my response:

Oh, yes I did.

So she said:

Was that it? Was it over? It couldn’t be! The mystery remained and LaWanda still needed to settle things with Agnus, so:

I really, really hoped she had a good sense of humor because this could go anywhere and get really awkward.

Now you would think all she had to say was, “Sure thing!” or “What is it?”

Nope.

Was what my question? Did she think I was wondering how she came to believe I was from Mississippi? So now I’m (I mean Agnus is) a liar?

And who says “chest-of-drawers” any more?

And I can’t call her! Is she kidding? This was supposed to be a little silly back-and-forth thing and I’d tell her it was all a mistake and we would have a good laugh and go about our lives.

But now she’s in my bedroom?

Well, I guess I should ask her a question then. It’ll get us to the end of the story faster.

Right? Because this is a slow train wreck now. And I’m the engineer. And I should be ashamed of myself, because this is going to end in tears.

Or murder.

Or both.

Lord help me, she told me what she wanted for Christmas.

Ack!! Now I’ve gone and done it. She is praying for me, or Agnus, because of what happened in Mississippi. And she wants to hear all about the family? But she doesn’t know if Agnus likes Chinese food?

Can’t she hear by my voice that I am clearly not Agnus already?

Well, this has obviously gone far enough. The train wreck is about to commence if I don’t pull the emergency brake. Time for me to confess.

The problem is…this is a very delicate matter. I can’t just say, HAHA! — You’ve been punk’d! I was just playing a joke on you. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Because that would be mean. And I don’t want to hurt LaWanda’s feelings. It’s bad enough I’m going to Hell, but do I also have to feel bad about it and leave poor innocent LaWanda scarred in the process? I had to be careful about how I worded my next response.

There. See? It was all just a misunderstanding. Nobody gets hurt. I awaited her reply, then my phone alerted me to her answer.

I’m not sure why she felt the need to repeat herself and I had no idea what a “b & care operator” is, so I Googled it.

Google doesn’t seem to know either.

However, Agnus has not only forgotten that her actual name is Loretta, but she has also lost her damn mind because she doesn’t even know that she is Loretta. Or, I don’t know that I’m Loretta. Or something.

And this is when LaWanda decides to actually call me. On the phone.

And I don’t answer it.

And now I’m going to Hell twice.

I need to straighten LaWanda out and fast before she calls the dudes in the white coats to suddenly haul Loretta off to the crazy house.

Please let it work this time, please let it work this time…

She invented the number? The phone number? My phone number? Or did she invent the “No”, in which case she’s a lot older than I thought. Hasn’t “No” been around a while?

OK, so now I’m back down to only going to Hell once, and just for good measure…

Because LaWanda at least deserves a compliment after putting up with my sorry ass. But she had to have the last word…

Yeah thanks, LaWanda, but I don’t think that’s gonna happen now.

The post Sorry, Wrong Number (A Texting Story) appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

And yours truly secured early VIP super special, hot-to-trot, behind-the-scenes access to this Southern California-based restaurant/bar.

By law, I must disclose that the 436 menu items (plus or minus a few hundred) were put in my mouth “gratis”, but the words that follow were NOT put in my mouth. I have a monopoly on my opinion and I’ll say whatever the hell I feel (take that, Outrage Industry!).

Also? You will never hear me say, “doesn’t disappoint”. I hate that phrase.

And if I think something tastes like barf, I will say so. And I will name names if I so desire.

For example, I visited a restaurant up in Oregon recently and the food tasted, well, not like barf, but it was pretty bad. This restaurant — ironically or coincidentally or whatever — was called Salty Dog, not to be confused with today’s restaurant Lazy Dog.

So what have we learned so far? That lazy things are superior to salty things. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Now, when you first walk into this Rocky Mountain Wyoming-themed establishment, you get a feel of the wide-open spaces of the Cowboy State.

Beers on tap come from local breweries (like Track 7 and Lagunitas) as well as their own craft collaborations with Golden Road Brewery.

Lazy Dog Cocktails

Anyway, our hosts presented us with an array of beers and handcrafted cocktails (did I mention this was lunch time?).

A house beer sampler, sangria sampler, something called a Huckleberry Basil Bourbon Shrub (what is a shrub? I don’t know, I just drink them now), and this bad boy right here called a Maple Bacon Old Fashioned.

Small Dishes

Those of us still sitting upright then moved on to the appetizers:

Lazy Dog’s Housemaid Hummus with grilled flatbread

Rainbow heirloom carrots with garlic, queso blanco, cilantro lime crema, and tajin

What’s tajin, you ask? How should I know? I’m not a food blogger.

OK, you went and made me look it up. Tajin is a Mexican seasoning to enhance fruits or vegetables. There. Happy now?

With a “housemade high-altitude hot sauce”, this buffalo cauliflower was easily the best I’ve ever tasted.

Buffalo Cauliflower with “high-altitude” hot sauce, blue cheese and parsley

Because I’m no investigative reporter, I did not think to ask from which mountain the hot sauce was sourced, but it had the bouquet and spicy tones of at least 11,000 feet, so that narrows it down to just a few places, really.

But if high-altitude hot sauce ain’t your thang, you can always get the bacon candy…

Why bacon candy? Two words: Bacon and Candy

Main Dishes

I’m not gonna bore you with a bunch of pictures of the main courses we noshed on like the Black and Blue Pizza…

or the Fried Chicken Sandwich, or as I like to call it, The Tower of Cluckery…

or the bacon-wrapped, haystack onion-topped, BBQ Bison Meatloaf, for that matter…

Some of their meats comes from Durham Ranch, by the way, in case you were wondering

…no, I’m just gonna skip to the best part and show you a couple of their desserts, okay?

Lazy Dog Desserts

If you take a gander at their artsy menu…

…you may be tempted to order the Apple Huckleberry Open Face Pie with honest-to-gawd huckleberries…

… and I wouldn’t blame you, except wait…there’s more. See what I did there?

There’s more.

There is s’more!

OMG the Simms Family S’more!

Where we put the “goo” back in “good”.

If you think, for any reason, you will die this week (probably because you will be in the wrong place at the wrong time and these things just happen sometimes), then get thee to Lazy Dog STAT! Because you are not allowed to die before sinking what’s left of your teeth (from that 2014 prison stint you never shut up about) into a warm brownie with chocolate fudge, a graham cracker crust, peanut butter and fire-roasted marshmallow. Lordy, that was delicious.

In closing and in summary, I would like to thank our hosts who do good food, beer and atmosphere…

Chris Simms (Lazy Dog Founder & CEO); Paul Muller (Chief Culinary Officer); and Chef Gabe Caliendo (Co-Founder)

Chef Gabriel entertains the guests with his rendition of “Stop! In the Name of Love”. The other two “Supremes” clearly don’t know the words.

and thanks to the rest of the staff including the ones in the nosebleed section!

Not sure of these guys’ names, so I shall call them Larry, Moe and Curly.

Hey, got a dog? Bring him!

No, I’m not kidding.

And bring him hungry, because the menu features grilled meats and brown rice for that rascally, panting furball of yours on the outdoor patio. He’s cute, by the way. What’s his name? Whose a good boy — who’s a good boy? YOU are! Oh, yes you are!

The only dog allowed inside is the one made of garbage.

Hang on….is that a 9 iron?!

Lazy Dog’s menu focuses on “elevated, nostalgic dishes made from scratch”, and I’m totally going back there because the food was that good. If you plan to go, call me, because I’m hungry. And also because bacon.

If it is against your religion, however, to step foot in Folsom, or if you are banned from crossing the city borders because of that silly 2014 conviction when the judge gaveled your ass to the hoosegow, fret not, my friend. Another Lazy Dog is opening later this year near the Galleria (that other fancy-schmancy shopping district) in Roseville.

The post Lazy Dog Comes to Sacramento Area appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

I was playing big-shot media reporter and got ultra-exclusive early access to a virtual reality military tour thingie just before the big California Capital Airshow opened to the public for the weekend (you know, the one with the Blue Angels?).

The day before, I was told that I must apply for media credentials in order to get this ultra-exclusive early access. As I filled out the online form, I knew they’d see right through my blogging ass and even though I’d already been “vetted”, no way would they let a phony like me through.

But then they did. And now here I am pulling up to the Mather Jet Center fronted with real media vans with TV logos and satellite dishes. And I walk in and get passed from one person to another and here, go put this official media tag in your car and here are your credentials and this is Jim and he will drive you out to the “launch pad”, and Jim golf-carts me across the tarmac to a bunch of tents as a Blue Angels jet is buzzing the runway and flipping around and swirling and diving and busting my ear drums.

It’s a windy ride to the Launch Pad site where Jim, who looks a little like William Devane, drops me off and now I don’t know what to do. Because I don’t see a crowd of paparazzi and boom microphones surrounding a hard-to-see VIP, slowly traveling across the asphalt like a media octopus.

This is William Devane

So I wander around the high-tech displays and eavesdrop on some Blue Angels talking to a crowd of STEM students about how awesome the US Navy is and I’ve come in near the end of their talk because kids are raising their hands to ask questions, like: “What happens if you pass out in the air?”

And I have to assume that this youth is not asking this question as a silly child looking for death-defying drama, but rather, it is because he is an intelligent student who is more concerned with terminal velocity and G-forces and the Science and the Technology and the Engineering and the Math behind the question. He is calculating the physics behind how much time a pilot has to regain consciousness and spatial awareness before splatting at 9.8 meters per second squared into a greasy spot on the desert floor.

But that’s not why I was there. I was supposed to be getting a tour, along with a mass of reporters firing questions like they do at the White House press briefings after a huge disaster.

I asked a random person in uniform, “Uh…is that the virtual reality display”, as I pointed to a big blue 18-wheel trailer some distance away.

“Yes!” he and someone else standing there said with enthusiasm.

“Um, well, I’m with the media?” I said, flashing my very important credentials.

Why don’t they give you a brown hat with a hand-written index card stuffed in the band on top that says PRESS? That’s how they should do it. Ah, the good old days.

They stared at me expectantly like “and…?”, so I took control of the situation. I confidently continued, “and there’s supposed to be a tour for us? Or something?”

So they walked me over to another guy who walked me over to a girl who explained what I was about to walk into and walked me into it.

“This is the briefing section,”she says, standing in front of a futuristic monitor. “Would you like to see it?”

She holds a dog tag in front of a panel. “Normally, each person will get their own RFID tag and it tracks your performance, you can just use mine.”

I put on headphones and the screen displays the briefing and the whole time I’m thinking, “Wow, this looks and sounds like a movie!” I felt like I was in an episode of Star Trek or Doctor Who. The new ones, not the old ones, you silly geese.

Then comes the middle section. The pièce de résistance. The magnum opus. The part everyone comes in for: the Oculus Rift. (Cue angels singing. Regular ones, not Blue ones):

(photo courtesy of Navy Partnership)

“So…” I say hesitantly as two girls clearly can’t wait to tie me up into this thing. “The thing is, I get motion sick easily and…I didn’t bring my Dramamine and…”

“Oh,” said one of the girls. “Well, you don’t have to do this.”

“No, I want to do this!” I cry, grabbing her shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. “I must do this!”

Because I am a professional. Otherwise, what does that say about my credibility and authority as a journalist if I don’t experience it myself? Don’t journalists take the hypocratic oath or whatever?

And anyway, if I couldn’t save the SEALs, the girls would rip me out of there before I got everyone killed and that’s what counted. I just didn’t want to barf all over their shiny new trailer.

So they strap me in and yell in my ear and I belt out a bunch of Sir-yes-Sir!’s and they say if I can’t take it I should just quit and I cry, “But I got nowhere else to go!!!”

Actually, it was more like they gingerly slip my arms into a vest and ask my permission to fasten the buckle at my chest and affix the VR headset as I giggle nervously. Then they place my hands on the wheel and the throttle and the next thing you know I’m in a 360-degree jungle in enemy territory piloting a Navy assault vehicle down a river with a bunch of other soldiers, taking ground and air fire, and I turn around and there’s another boat behind us and we ultimately rescue some Navy SEALs. Woo hoo!

It’s awesome.

Then they take me to debriefing where I should have received a Medal of Honor, a Golden Jungle Boat Trophy, a hero’s welcome with a ticker-tape parade down 5th Ave. and shake hands with the President. Only I don’t have my own dog tag, so I don’t know what my performance grade is. And I’m a little nauseous, but not enough to toss my cookies.

They escort me outside and down the trailer steps to the waiting Navy staff to answer any questions about the experience and the Navy itself, so I say to the guy in the white uniform, “What is the typical question you get when people do come out of this experience?”

“You’re the first one to come out of it.”

“Ever?”

“Ever. This is the display’s debut and you are the first journalist to go through it. So you get to ask the first question.”

I look around and realize the media circus I had expected was nowhere in sight. I am first! I am special! I’d better ask a question. And it had better be good. A line of STEM students began to form at the entrance to the VR display trailer. Look out, Pulitzer, here I come.

“Uh….so….okay, I see that line over there and it’s mostly boys. How many girls go into the Navy?”

“A lot. In fact, we are trying to recruit more and more women.”

We talked about how the facilities are getting redesigned to accommodate more women, including the submarines. I felt like a feminist hag asking that question, but jeez, I didn’t think I’d be the only one there and therefore had to improvise.

So how much is “a lot” of women? Currently, 18% of the Navy are women and they do indeed have a goal to raise that to 25% (it was 5% in 1978).

Then I got personal on him and asked him his name, what he does, where he’s from, what he gets out of the Navy and what their message is here at the airshow.

His name is Jim, he’s 36 and originally from Pennsylvania (Pittsburgh, if I recall, I’m not sure, I mean, who writes that stuff down?) He started out in intelligence but now manages the local recruitment effort, so what does he get out of the Navy? A career. And the Navy isn’t all about war and guns. They are at the airshow to promote aspects of the Navy people might not be aware of because most of what you see in the media is war and guns.

The majority of soldiers don’t see combat. In 16 years, Jim hasn’t seen it.

This is Jim, who told me when I stumbled out of the trailer asking “Where do I sign up????” that they wouldn’t take me because my right foot was twice the size of my left.

And I don’t mind helping him spread the word about how you can learn valuable life and career skills and get a college degree while serving your country because frankly, kids aren’t taught valuable life skills in school because schools are focusing on “teaching to the test.”

When I went to Israel, where military service is mandatory for everyone, I spoke to some young adults who appreciated the education, and the professional and personal growth they got out of it. And that’s what I see as the benefit of our own military service because schools don’t budget for classes like, How to Be a Responsible Adult, Good Manners, Team Building, Mental Health, Critical Thinking, Common Sense,… etc. Oh, don’t get me started.

So yeah, go Navy.

Hey, here’s a 30-second video you can watch to get an idea of what I saw. Sort of. If you’re at the Airshow in Sacramento this weekend, check out the US Navy Virtual Reality experience in the big blue trailer! Or if you’re in San Francisco next week, they will be at SF Fleet Week, too!
(Video courtesy of Navy Partnership)

The post That Time I Virtually Rescued Some Navy SEALs appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

Dear Friends,

I’ve had a lot, I mean A LOT of people, thousands and thousands, probably millions of people tell me that they can’t wait to make America great again and how badly they want me to build a wall.

I’m happy to say that the President of Lego, a very good friend of mine (he’d vote for me if he could) said to me, “Hey, I want to do what I can to make America great again.”

So I bought the Lego Corporation. He wanted to give it to me, but I said no, you’re a hard-working man and you deserve to be paid for it. So we’re gonna build a wall, which thanks to the President of Lego, a great guy by the way, is now going to be ten feet higher.

We’re opening up a factory in Detroit (and making Mexico pay for it), and we’re going to bring in new jobs to the great, great, really great city of Detroit, because let’s face it, Detroit is a disaster. A total disaster. I’m going to bring in thousands and thousands of jobs to Detroit. And Detroit is going to WIN. How many of my opponents, which frankly, I think should all just give up already, they’re losing so badly to me, I’m beating them by a LOT…how many of these liars are bringing in jobs, I ask?

Anyway, before we get started on this tremendous project, I want to give the American people a piece of the action. You can get your very own Trump Make America Great Again Build a Wall Gold Commemorative Brick.

The Trump Make America Great Again Build a Wall Gold Commemorative Brick

This is a very special brick. It’s very special. It’s a tremendous brick. It’s made of authentic virtual gold, and it’s made in America because we are going to make America great again and quite frankly, the more bricks you buy, the more jobs I will create in America, because I hate to tell you folks, but the rich need to be richer to create jobs. And don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. If they do, just punch ’em in the face. With one of these incredible bricks.

These bricks are so incredible, I could throw one at a protester on 5th Avenue and I still wouldn’t lose any votes. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone brought a brick to the GOP convention in the event I don’t win the Republican nomination.

These gold Trump bricks are a perfect addition to any home, whether you choose the Executive line for your Boardroom, or the Evangelical line-I love the Evangelicals-are they even Christian?-for your pulpit.

Our most popular line, the Bigget, comes in a boxed set of four amazing bricks to ensure that rusted out Ford in your weed-overgrown driveway stays level.

And all of my bricks, these are tremendous bricks, folks (Chris Christie has already bought a thousand for his backyard in Jersey), all these bricks come with a Certificate of Authenticity, so you know it’s a good brick.

You pay practically nothing for this brick, because I’m such a nice guy. It’s just a few dollars every month for the rest of your life, that’s it.

And don’t think the money raised from this is going toward building a wall at the border. Mexico is still paying for that wall, and they’ll be HAPPY to do it. And don’t think the money will go toward my presidential campaign. I’m paying for that out of my own pocket. No, this is a business venture, one of my many amazing business ventures, one that has made me very, very successful.

So you’re gonna want to get a LOT of bricks, believe me. A lot of bricks means a lot of jobs. And a lot of jobs will make America great again. Imagine if everyone had their own wall of Trump gold bricks…

We need to win, folks, we’re not winning any more, but if you start your own gold brick wall, we’re all gonna be winners. And we’re gonna unite the party-we need to unite the party and trust me, these bricks are gonna do just that.

So get a brick, get out and vote, and get that guy with the Sanders sign outta here. Unbelievable, this guy.

(Fabulous Trump caricature by Donkey Hotey)

The post Revealed: Trump’s Golden Build-a-Wall Make-America-Great Program appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

My mother told me that I should always carry my ID and $20.00 (which is probably more like $100.00 in today’s money) so that I wouldn’t be arrested for vagrancy. So it’s ingrained in me to make sure I never leave the house without some sort of greenery.

The other day, I’m heading east on Interstate 80 toward the Carquinez toll bridge knowing I don’t have the $5.00. I did have it earlier in the day on the way to San Francisco and paid the toll to cross the Bay Bridge, but now…now that I’m trying to get home, I only have $2.00. I debated stopping in some derelict neighborhood ATM two exits before the bridge, but figured hey, I can’t be the first person to get to the bridge without cash. Surely they must have some sort of system in place for innocent people like me. Maybe a credit card will do the trick. Who would refuse a Gold Mastercard, am I right?

I mean, the lanes might be labeled CASH, but that’s as opposed to having FASTRAK, whatever the hell that is. So CASH really means NOT FASTRAK, as in, you have to stop and pay something rather than being the privileged special people who get to fly through a FASTRAK lane without stopping.

So I pull up to a toll booth and flash my Gold Mastercard and you know what he says? Well, you know what he said: No credit cards.

I go back and forth with him in disbelief that you actually have to have cash every time you enter a toll booth. Doesn’t he know that nobody carries cash any more?

“So what do I do?” I ask him, craning my neck, looking from side to side. “Can I just turn around and come back with cash?”

He tells me no, that I will get a bill in the mail. I think that’s a great alternative, until he tells me that I will also have to pay an additional $25.00 penalty. WHAT???? And if I don’t pay that in time, I will have to pay a $75.00 penalty.

All because I didn’t adhere to my mother’s advice from lo so many years ago.

And that’s it. He hands me an information card and I drive off wondering how they will figure out who I am and where I live to send this “bill”.

The card says, and I quote:

It is a violation of the California Vehicle Code for any person to enter upon a vehicular toll crossing without lawful money sufficient to pay the prescribed tolls, or a transponder for electronic toll payment.

In my humble opinion, the California Vehicle Code can suck it.

On the drive home, I’m thinking, I’m too old to get penalized for this crap. I’d aqcuire this FasTrak thing so I can fly with the best of them through the toll area, but I figure it’s a monthly fee and I don’t travel across the bridges that frequently. Once a month, maybe. And I didn’t want some big windshield-sized square in front of my face all the time blocking my view of turkeys and small children crossing the street.

I go home and forget about the whole thing until the bill arrives in the mail days later. And when I say “bill”, I apparently mean “Notice of Toll Evasion”.

Toll Evasion? Really? That sounds so … illegal. “Evasion” makes me think of scandalous white collar crime and Leona Helmsley, for those of you old enough to get that reference.

But get this…I also see this sentence:

Is this your first violation? Sign up for a FasTrak account and we’ll waive the penalty fees.

Are you kidding me? An incentive to get a large white square in front of your face as you drive? And it comes bedecked with the FasTrak logo so you can advertise for them wherever you go, telling the world that they know you have a choice when it comes to bridge toll transponders and they appreciate that you’ve chosen FasTrak?

By the way, that’s a lie. Bridge toll payment companies are not a competitive industry. FasTrak is a monopoly in the Bay Area bridge toll arena and they can charge whatever the hell they want. (And it’s $5.00. And it’s cash. And you’d better have it on your person or you will be forever marked as a “Toll Evader”)

So it turns out you can use FasTrak like a prepaid rewards card, like Starbucks Rewards cards. But without the rewards. And no free bridge crossing on your birthday. And no 25% off breakfast days. And no free App Pick of the Week. Just a big ass white square blocking your view of small woodland creatures simply trying to live life without becoming another greasy spot on the highway rather than being able to hold up your phone for a quick bar code scan. But otherwise, it’s exactly the same.

So I fall for their monopolistic incentive and sign up for a FasTrak account, preload it with $25 and then nothing. It doesn’t say that my penalty fee has been waived. It doesn’t say if I still need to mail in a check for $5.00. It just took my money and ran.

The next day I called them and said, hey man, what do I do now? Do I still owe you money or what? They assured me everything was taken care of and I no longer owed them anything. And thank you for shopping at FasTrak, your FasTrak transponder will be arriving shortly.

Now I’m waiting for the UPS cargo plane guy to pull up today and ask me to sign for a package the size of a billboard.

UPDATE: It has arrived!

I told you it was big.

The post Bridge Tolls: Confessions of a Violator and Evader appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

But Tom Gleisner has. You know…Tom Gleisner? Award-winning writer and producer of Dreamland? You know, the Australian TV show, Dreamland? Used to be called Utopia? Until it got super famous and transported to the UK and the US? You know…the US? Used to be called No-Man’s Land (or whatever the people before us called it)? And then Christopher Columbus discovered it? And then he didn’t? You know, Christopher Columbus? The one we made a national holiday for because he didn’t discover America?

Tom Gleisner. Would you buy a used car from this man? OMG, me too!

Well anyway, I had the opportunity to interview Tom because I’m awesome, and he’s awesome, and whenever you have two awesome people one must interview the other. And when he declined to interview me (I’m still embarrassed about all the begging) I had to interview him. Er, I mean, I had the opportunity to interview him.

Tom and Working Dog Productions created Utopia, then changed it to Dreamland (because Americans can’t handle the truth!), then Netflix bought it and launched it in December, which means it’s available for streaming RIGHT NOW! Dreamland is a bit like The Office without the documentary interview bits. The New York Post called it “one of five Australian TV shows to binge watch.”

It’s a comedy series set within the Nation Building Authority, a fictitious government organization responsible for overseeing major infrastructure projects. The series explores the collision between bureaucracy and grand ambitions. It’s not as excruciatingly boring as I just made it sound. In fact, it’s painfully funny.

And thanks to Tom’s good sportsmanship and put-up-with-me-ness, he answered my ridiculous questions. Let’s say we were lounging on leopard sofas sipping Cool Ranch Dorito Mai Tais on a sun-drenched veranda somewhere in tropical Papua New Guinea (because he had a meeting to get to, so I got stuck with all the traveling.)

. . .

NGIP: So, Tom…can I call you Chuck?

Tom: Sure, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll answer to it.

NGIP: Thanks, Chuck. So, Chuck, Utopia/Dreamland is a Logie Award-winning Australian television series. Logie sounds like something that would fall out of your nose. Unless it rhymes with “emoji”, in which case, it just sounds like something Olympic. Regardless, are your Logie awards equivalent to our Emmy awards here in the U.S.? Because we have Emmys falling out of our noses like mad over here.

Chuck (formerly known as Tom): Our television awards, the Logies, were apparently named after one of the inventors of TV, a Scottish engineer by the name of John Logie Baird. There’s a fact you’ll never need to draw on again. There’s actually quite a strong U.S. connection with the Logies because, over the years, we have invited numerous American stars to attend our awards ceremony as guest presenters. Of course, when I say “stars”, these have tended to be of the slightly B-list variety. Think someone who played the butler on The Nanny. Or Lee Majors from The 6 Million Dollar Man - several years after the series was axed. That said, we have had some genuinely big names present awards, including Michael Cole from Mod Squad who, in 1973, became the first person to say “shit” on Australian TV. The high-point of U.S.- Australian relationships came in 1979 when Muhammed Ali (yes, the boxer) somehow agreed to present a Logie. Things went well until the host (inadvertently) referred to him as “boy”. And somehow lived to host the telecast the following year. The major difference between our Logies and your Emmys, apart from the quality of the gift bags, would have to be credibility. The Emmys are peer voted. The Logies are decided by readers of TV Week magazine. I think you get the idea.

NGIP: Why did we (the U.S.) get Dreamland instead of Utopia? I feel like America got screwed by the UK here, Chuck. Am I wrong?

Chuck: I think there were two other “Utopias” going round. One is (or was) a UK science fiction series. And then didn’t you guys make a short-lived reality TV a few years back called Utopia? 15 people were sent to a remote location (Iowa from memory) where they had to form a society. Don’t think it lasted long - but I guess Netflix wanted to avoid any potential confusion. Hence Dreamland - which was always one of our alternative titles anyway.

NGIP: I was a government employee myself for several years and can appreciate the observational humor here. In fact, Chuck, it’s almost too painful to watch it hits so close to home. Did you write this from personal experience?

Chuck: Neither Rob, Santo nor myself have ever worked in a government office but we know enough people who have. The levels of bureaucracy are insane, everyone seems to have a job title that means nothing (“Head of Deliverance”?) and everything that is designed to make the work day more efficient seems to involve the exact opposite. It’s a hell of an environment to work in - but pure gold for comedy writers.

NGIP: As you know, we Americans are gun-toting, xenophobic right-wingnuts. Why would we be interested some foreign import such as Dreamland? Is it anything like Crocodile Dundee? Because I think that’s the last thing we watched over here and we liked that one.

Chuck: I’m afraid the series is genuinely lacking in terms of traditional Australian elements. There are no kangeroos, crocodiles or members of the Hemsworth family to be seen. But hopefully the humour is universal. And the frustrations of office life seem to know no borders.

NGIP: My “Netflix Streaming” queue is at something like 350. Where would you put Dreamland in that lineup if you were I?

Chuck: I would definitely move it into the top ten, somewhere between House of Cards and the last Republican Presidential debate.

NGIP: I’m only halfway through Season 1. When do the goats show up? I was told there’d be goats.

Chuck: May have been a typo. Or false advertising. I’m pretty certain we do have a frog in series one but I realize that’s small comfort.

NGIP: I have this great idea for a Utopia/Dreamland episode for next season: This crazy woman in a goat costume arrives at the offices of the Nation Building Authority with a really bad Australian accent, greeting everyone with “G’day Mate” and loudly craving “Shrimp on the Barbie”. Tony and Nat hate her because she is clearly not an Aussie and she’s horribly offensive about Australian stereotypes, but everyone else in the office, including Rhonda and Jim, love the idea of a goat-themed campaign for the next “project” and start broadcasting a name-the-goat contest. On the day of the contest the goat dies in a freak accident on live TV and the Prime Minister (played by one of the Hemsworth brothers, now that you mention them) tearfully declares it a national mourning holiday. What do you think?

Chuck: It’s definitely got potential. The struggle will be finding a goat capable of doing an Australian accent. There’s probably an animal casting agency out there somewhere, but I’d have to check.

NGIP: Speaking of animals, how many pet koalas do you have?

Chuck: I hate to burst your bubble but koalas are actually the worst pet in the world. Despite their cute and cuddly demeanour they bite, scratch and pee on everything. And, to really top things off, 90% of Australian koalas suffer from chlamydia. Enough said.

NGIP: Speaking of next season, will there be a Season 3?

Chuck: We are currently tossing ideas around. Which is a writers’ expression meaning “to procrastinate over lunch”. But we have loved writing Dreamland and would enjoy the chance to keep the series going.

NGIP: When was the last time you ate a vegemite sandwich?

Chuck: A few weeks ago. You know, I reckon every nationality is entitled to one seriously weird foodstuff. The Scots have haggis, the French snails, you guys eat whipped cream from a can… Is a sour, black, yeasty sandwich spread really all that bad?

. . .

And then his phone rang and he jumped up and ran out the door. That silly Chuck, such a busy man. Feeling lucky for getting even those ten minutes with him, I ordered another Mai Tai (Nacho Cheese this time) before the plane ride home.

I want to thank Chuck for taking time out to speak with me about Dreamland. And if they go back to calling it Utopia, I’ll go back to calling him Tom.

If you have Netflix streaming, check out Dreamland. I don’t mean to sound philosophical, but searching for Utopia will get you nowhere.

Here’s a clip:

The post Dreamland. Utopia. One of Them Is on Now on Netflix. appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

(photo by Takayuki Suzuki via Flickr)

Have you ever fancied yourself a race car driver? You must have, because I see you weaving in and out of lanes on the freeway, cutting me off, stealing my right-of-way at intersections, doing doughnuts in the Krispy Kreme parking lot…. That’s not you? Don’t you drive a beat-up, brown Dodge with a “Real Men Do It Fast and Get It Over With” bumper sticker while your rusty tailpipe drags a bunch of sparks behind you? Are you sure? Huh. I could have sworn that was you. I even yelled your name once and you waved and smiled and flipped me the bird and everything. Now I’m going to wonder what other “real man” is out there tailgating the crap out of me.

But that’s not why I brought you here. No, today I am going to evangelize your ass.

I’ve never been to Austin, Texas, before. And I would never go to South by Southwest (SXSW) because… crowds. So instead, I’m going to Circuit of the Americas (COTA - say, does everything in Austin have an acronym?) this week to attend a Formula One race where there will only be 47 million people – far less than SXSW.

Now you might be asking yourself, what the hell is Formula One? And you would be right, because until it was forced upon me, I took no notice of it either. And by forced, I mean every time I walked through the living room, there it would be on the television. My husband tried to convert me and I resisted until one day, I decided to watch this horribly boring looking sport. But then something happened. It grew on me. I was inexplicably drawn in. Then I was hooked. Now I salivate when the opening theme music comes on and Leigh Diffey begins to speak.

And if I may put more words in your mouth, two additional questions you’d pose would be:

1) Is that like NASCAR?

and,

2) Aren’t you American and female?

I can’t BEGIN to tell you all the reasons I, an American woman of a certain age, could possibly look forward to a sporting event involving cars. I’m not into cars, really. But I do like me some F1. That’s what we fans call it: F1. It’s short for “Not NASCAR”.

Okay, I’m kidding — I actually CAN tell you all the reasons I’ve become an F1 fan. Or five of them, anyway.

Five Reasons This American Middle-Aged Gal Loves Formula One

It’s not NASCAR

Formula One is the Kate Middleton of auto racing. It’s world famous, fashionable and sophisticated. It’s sponsored by Rolex. And judging by its manners, it was raised right, too. But it doesn’t exclude. It’s also more popular than NASCAR, if you would open your Budweiser-bloodshot eyes and cross the pond for a minute. It’s among the top five most popular spectator sports in the world. Nearly every race driver, including those in NASCAR (or drag racing or Indy or whatever), wants to drive a Formula One car.

The racing season takes you all over the world. It is not xenophobic. They do not drive around in circles all day long. (They drive around in crooked circles, which is different).

The track varies with each race. Sometimes it’s on coastal city streets (like Monaco or Singapore, where the rich and famous watch from their diamond-encrusted yachts). Or in the forest (like Belgium or Germany, where rich and famous woodland creatures watch from their bark-encrusted treehouses). Others have dedicated tracks (like Abu Dabhi and Circuit of the Americas, where Saudi Princes or Hollywood Royalty watch from their caviar-encrusted VIP boxes).

Formula One race in the streets of Monaco – (photo by Pat Guiney)

The F1 commentators do not say “Y’all” and “Ah’ll tell ewe whut” as they scratch various parts in their overalls. F1 commentators say, “Indeed” and “Thanks, mate” and “would you like a cup of tea?” and “After you. No, after you.” It’s all very evolved and Britishy.

It Has Personality, Character and Accessability

Lee Diffey, David Hobbs, Steve Matchett (and Will Buxton not pictured because he’s always down in the pits.)

The British and Aussie boys behind the mikes explain some of the rules so newbies like me can get drawn in to the action, like a story. You know what’s at stake. They wave you on over and ask you to sit down with them and watch the race.

They catch you up on the latest news. They crack jokes, have nicknames and tease each other.

Before each race they play an “essay”, a narrated montage of sorts, by Sam Posey that is topical, geographical, and sheer poetry.

Last year, NBC Sports took over the broadcasting of F1 from the Speed Channel, opening it up to more Americans.

F1’s Popularity is Growing in the U.S.

Americans are slowly working their way into the sport, but I totally beat them to it. The relatively new Circuit of the Americas track in Austin brings the Formula One race to the United States. And this year, Manor’s Alexander Rossi (who hails from Nevada City, CA, a mere 60 miles from my house, so I’ll just figure out a way to take credit for that, too) gives us an American driver for the first time in years.

Next year… Haas F1 racing will give us an American Team. Let’s hope this all sticks. Yes, I’m aware that Gene Hass owns a NASCAR team, can we not talk about that? Actually, let’s talk about that. Since NASCAR fans know who Gene Haas is, that brings a new awareness and potentially a new audience to Formula One.

F1 has a Dramatic Narrative (read: soap opera)

Oh my Lord, the drama. The “silly season” stuff: Which driver is driving for which constructor next year? Whose contract is up? And then there is the other silly season: Who just got married? Who isn’t getting paid by their employer? Whose house just got robbed? Who got fired? Which city fell off the calendar this year? Who didn’t make it to Q3 today? Which constructor’s freight was held up at the airport because of nonpayment? Which driver said something snarky on the radio to the pit crew for all the world to hear? What team is accused of cheating? And pray tell, what color will Will Buxton’s pants be this week?

F1 is sexy

There are the cars. Gentlemen…

Ferrari at the 2015 Singapore race. (photo by Tecnica)

And then there are the drivers. Ladies… (and at least 10% of the gentlemen…)

from Lewis Hamilton’s Instagram (@lewishamilton)

from Carlos Sainz Jr.’s Instagram (@carlosainz)

from Nico Rosberg’s Flickr page

Every week my husband would ask, “So, who’s your favorite driver?” It took a couple of years before I finally proclaimed that it was Valtteri Bottas, Number 77 of the Williams Martini team.

from Valtteri Bottas’ Instagram (@valtteribottas)

Why him, you ask? Because Valtteri Bottas can grab the bull by the horns, get off to a good start and really hug the curves. He’s also a pretty good Formula One driver.

Yes, there are more pics for the girls than the guys, but we have to wait in way longer lines for the bathrooms, so now we’re even.

Oh all right, don’t get your panties in a bundle. If it will shut you up this should appeal to everyone…

from Nico Rosberg’s Instagram (@nicorosbergofficial) - photo by Tom Koenig

So anyway. Austin (or, “ATX”, as the hipsters call it). This week. There’s a possibility I’ll meet some Formula One-related people. Maybe my favorite driver. Maybe the commentators. Who knows? Whatever I can do without appearing too obsessive, stalkerish or nuisancy.

But enough about social disorders, lack of borders and restraining orders, I have to go pack. Toodles!

This blog post was brought to you by the letter “F” and the number “1”.

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My one sentence review (in addition to the one before this) would probably say that it’s all action, no talk, no character development, minimal plot, but my god if you haven’t seen a good car chase scene since The French Connection and you need a good feminist twist on what is usually a predominantly male theme and even though the cast is 12 million guys and 6-10 chicks half of whom are scantilly clad and you wouldn’t mind seeing Charlize Theron with half an arm hold her own against Tom Hardy, well then….this movie is for you. And even if you think you don’t want to see this movie you should because of the feminist angle and because….seriously ladies, Tom Hardy.

photo by Greg Williams via Tom Hardy Variations

Coincidentally (or ironically, I never know when to use ironically correctly), we saw Mad Max at the Century Theater whose famed domes are now being demolished so it was a post apocalyptic scene inside AND out.

Also? You may have to see it to get this thing I made:

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Because I live in Parched City, California, I know you little nanny goats have been dying to ask me what I’m doing to save water. Well, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing, what matters is that everyone else is doing it. And I’m here to tell them what for and how to. Did you know we’re suffering from the biggest California Drought ever (if you don’t go back more than 1200 years?)

When it’s yellow, let it mellow

Put a brick in your toilet tank

Stop shaving in the shower

Scrape dishes instead of rinsing before washing

Don’t throw ice cubes in the sink

Don’t use your garden hose to water your lawn

Make Your Own Water

Report Leaks

Make Your Own Rain

And Another Thing

Talk to People (Bonus Tip)

- - -

If you can’t tell whether I’m kidding or not about saving water during this California drought, you aren’t well informed enough about water conservation and should visit Save Our Water for the reel deets, yo.

(Photo lifted from NBC News)

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Have I ever told you how much I hate vegetables? I hate them THIS MUCH!

That is, until recently. Something happened that has caused me to eat more vegetables in the last three weeks than I have in my entire life. Stuff I’ve never heard of, seen before or even knew existed.

I had 27 meat tenderizers but never owned a garlic press.

from a previous post entitled My Name is Margaret and I’m a Utensilaholic

Why no garlic press before now? Because I didn’t know what one was or how to use it. Or how to take garlic apart. Or how to cook it. Or anything!

So what happened to me? I found vegetable Jesus.

I was down and out on my luck, eating back-alley pizza for breakfast and half-eaten Hostess Cherry pies for lunch. I was unemployed and living in the gutter with one hand out and the other clenching a brown paper bag concealing a bottle of whatever flavored McDonald’s milkshakes I could find in local dumpsters.

Then one day, I heard some lady preaching about how the fruits and vegetables of our ancestors are much different than what we eat today. How we’ve domesticated all the medicinal benefits of food in favor of asthetics and taste and consistency. I was hooked. I bought the book. I highlighted sentences. And then I went shopping.

Who the hell knows if I’m shrinking cancer tumors or preventing cardiovascular disease and diabetes. All I know is I have learned how to make vegetables not just unyucky, but actually tasty. And it only took half a century. Well, almost. I probably shouldn’t be walking around declaring that I’m fifty years old, especially since it’s still a precious few months away, but who cares, really.

I even signed up for a weekly CSA box. Except I’m experiencing such an extreme veggie makeover that I’m disappointed if they give me the green kale instead of the red kale. Or mostly white carrots instead of purple carrots. And they don’t have hard-necked garlic??? Are you kidding me? With Gilroy, the garlic capital of the world, practically right around the corner? Like a true born-again evangelist, I’m a veggie snob. Hallelujah!

If I can get my lazy ass out of bed early enough, I will have to check out the farmers markets around town, because we are not just THE capital (capitol?) of California, we have recently declared ourselves the Farm to Fork Capital of the U.S. Or the world. I forget which. Anyway, surely I can expect uber-fresh and purple veggies from this Farm-to-Fork capital, right?

I would start my own garden except that we host many critters under our deck that would say, “Martha! They’ve just opened up a Hometown Buffet next door-grab the kids we’re going out tonight!” We’ve got birds and squirrels and skunks and they would tell all their friends at Happy Hour down by the river to come over to the All You Can Eat, dine and dash establishment in their backyard. No thank you.

I never ate vegetables before because I figured, why eat nasty or bland or bitter food if I was potentially wasting my time? I assumed our vegetables had no more nutrients left in them, and I wasn’t going to eat them in the off chance they were healthy. I wanted guarantees. And this book does that.

What book am I talking about that I’m not getting paid to endorse?

It’s called Eating on the Wild Side: The Missing Link to Optimum Health by Jo Robinson and it’s awesome. Full of information like which varieties to shop for, how to store them at home, whether or not to cook them, and what all the health benefits are for each one. For example, did you know that you should let garlic sit for at least 10 minutes after you’ve pressed it before cooking it, or else you lose most of the health benefits?

Look, I’m lazy. And this book convinced me that even I can eat better. I don’t need to go out and buy all kinds of kitchen equipment (I don’t have a food processor or a pressure cooker or a double boiler or a Vita-mix, although I would really like one of those.) The only thing I bought was a garlic press. In fire engine red.

I’m so excited about this whole venture that I want to start a website that helps people who hate vegetables learn to like them through education and tasty recipes. I want them to know how to get the most nutritional bang for their buck and not wasting their time eating the ones that just take up space in our lives. Like iceberg lettuce. Stop eating that crap. It’s a pointless vegetable if there ever was one.

The problem is, ihateveggies.com was already taken, so I’ve put together an exploratory committee to do some research and I think I found the perfect domain and you may see it coming soon to an Internet browser near you.

Did you also know that cooking potatoes, then chilling them for 24 hours before you eat them (you can reheat them) lowers their glycemic levels and doesn’t spike your blood sugar as much? I know! You want to hear something more crazy? I had vegetables for breakfast. Breakfast, people! Can I get an amen?

Yes, that’s purple cauliflower. Who knew THAT existed?

When I win the award for Best Veggie Hater in a Leading Role, I will be thanking my husband for allowing me to stink up the house and myself with all the garlic and onions. After I thank the academy and the vegetable Jesus, of course.

The post Vegetable Evangelism appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

We brought five coupons with us to the store and when I asked what we could use them on (because the fine print said Keurig products were exempt) she said, “everything”.

“Everything?” I asked, and she nodded patiently like this customer did not comprehend the word.

Enter the “moral dilemma” because: do I point out that the coupon says “no” to Keurig products? Or do I defend myself in court later by saying, well, this long-and-dark-haired chick works here, she’s the professional. She should know. I’m sure they went over this in BBB Orientation and included it in the corporate Welcome Packet.

And then the prosecuting attorney would say, “Ignorance is no excuse for the law, Nanny Goats!” And then my boozing, Bozo-lookalike attorney would scream from across the courtroom, “Objection, your honor! Irrelevant!” And then the judge would say, “Overruled”, and turn to me and say, “Where did you get this Bozo?” and I would say while wringing my sweaty palms, “Errrrm, Craigslist?”

It’s like when the cashier gives you too much change. Do you say anything? Or do you figure you get screwed over so much in life that it’s finally coming around; this extra five bucks is payback for those times when someone shorted me because I never pay attention or count the change when someone hands it to me, I just assume they can count, it’s part of the job description, they had to pass some test upon hiring, right?

Besides, Bed Bath & Beyond has a precedent of ignoring the coupon rules anyway because you can use expired coupons. Like, really expired. Like, last night I handed her a couple that died in 2013. Which is what my online classified clown of a quack lawyer would self-righteously bring to the attention of the sleepy jury to get me off.

The sheets we purchased at Bed Bath & Beyond were a sort of royal egg blue which, after they were put on the bed, looked horrible with the other colors of the bedclothes. I wanted chocolate brown sheets, but the old man said no because it’s harder for him to see fleas. Or earwigs. Or mouse poo. Or maybe it was bedbugs (which, just so you know, we don’t have, but he would never know that if he couldn’t see them either way and plus, in a marriage you have to pick your battles).

Also, who are we trying to impress with our bedroom? No one would know that we lacked interior decorating skills unless I idiotically posted a picture on the internet announcing that our sheets don’t match our comforter.

Man, this coffee is good. I think I’ll go make another cup.

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If it’s not too late to declare my New Year’s resolutions, I’d like to name them here. In addition to the Word document boiler template called “New Year’s Resolutions” that provides the 3 default items, I am adding one more item:

• lose weight
• eat better
• exercise
• make a podcast about aliens

I will call my podcast The Alien Degenerates Show and open it with pop music expertly mixed by my sidekick, DJ Memphis. I will dance to the delight of my live Google Hangout audience and then do a couple of quirky, self deprecating jokes followed by interviews of various aliens of ill repute.

Everybody knows that podcast audiences have no interest in boring goody-goody aliens, they want to see the dregs and baddies of extraterrestrial society who only want to ruin our lives and possibly end them. People want nasty beings with pus oozing out of their dark almond-shaped eyes and glinting scalpels at the ready.

My bucket list of alien degenerates includes the likes of Joel Grey, Jennifer Grey, Zane Grey…you know, all the Greys.

I will intersperse these interviews with golden nuggets of alien trivia in the form of a pop quiz with our audience and give away spaceship rides and private tours to Area 51. Questions like: What was used for the slime on the aliens in the movie, Alien? Answer: K-Y Jelly.

I know!

And then I will end my podcast with famous alien recipes where DJ Memphis will don his mother’s famous red chef’s hat with the ET casserole patch sewn on the front. DJ Memphis and I will take to the studio kitchen and prepare one of Mommy J Memphis’s favorite dishes of the week like Abduction Pancakes (yum!), or Dark Almond Surprise. My mouth is already watering!

So, if you know of any aliens interested in being on the show (or in one of our recipes), please let us know in the comments. Also, what’s #4 on your New Year’s resolution list?

(Image by Stefan-Xp)

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But that’s not why I brought you here today. Today I want to talk about real men.

Real men make things. They make things. With their hands.

“Make” is a wonderful and creative word. It applies to artists and craftsmen and TV shows. Some TV shows value making things so much, they put it in their name: How It’s Made, to name one.

How It’s Made reveals how all kinds of things are built, manufactured etc. Everything from pencils to super cars.

I don’t watch it but I can’t help catch parts of it now and again because my husband likes to stare at it for hours and hours. And whatever channel it’s on (Discovery? Science? The Dirty Hands channel?), holds marathons of the show. All. The. Time.

The men (and women) in this show are actual people doing their job. They are not pretty or skinny like Hollywood. And they have real work hands with greasy fingers and scuffed nails.

Oh, there it is. Right there on the screen. The Science Channel. Duh.

Meanwhile, the show is sponsored by such products as Sears Craftman tools where not-real men tell you how awesome these tools are. Tools that go around corners and shoot laser beams and make coffee.

And the guy in the commercial who is “allegedly” using these Sears Craftsman tools? Not an ounce of pudge or speck of dirt anywhere to be found.

This guy wouldn’t know a hammer if it hit him.

Commercials are supposed to relate to their audience, so I figure the advertising wizards assume that a good portion of their target market consists of yuppie weekend warriors, he-man wannabees with the meticulous fingernails of CEOs and the hair of underwear models.

It’s like these commercials are the romance novels of bathroom breaks.

Or something like that.

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So anyway, after my recent bout with anxiety for many, many weeks and much research and much meditation and cutting out the sugar and the caffeine and the chocolate, and lots of walking and reading books on how to cope with anxiety, and talking to others with similar experiences, I’ve learned there are different types or levels of anxiety and many different ways to alleviate or cope with it and it’s different for everyone.

For me, it’s drugs. Drugs, I tell you!

I was hoping to do it without pharmaceutical intervention but all the non-drug solutions didn’t make a difference. I literally documented every hop, skip, and jump, and my body’s response to it and what works and what doesn’t.

And what works is the drugs.

Some day I hope to say “no” to drugs. But if I’m right and this whole out-of-the-blue situation is simply my brain boarding the hormonal roller coaster known as perimenopause, then it’s a temporary thing and I can eventually go off this medication.

Also? Why doesn’t Microsoft Word recognize “perimenopause”. And for that matter, why don’t any of the self-help books I read that describe all the causes of anxiety recognize perimenopause as one of them? This sounds like a call for a public awareness campaign. And it should start with a letter to all the spell checkers. I just need a mascot (what do you mean, “Ewwww gross”? This mascot wouldn’t look like an irregular menstrual cycle. How would you even design that kind of costume? Why are you “ewwwing” again?)

Anyway, if you ever experienced the long periods of paralyzing fear and high anxiety that I did, you’d understand why I was desperate to stop it and this was a situation that screamed for better living through chemistry.

I’m back to my old self now and can go to the grocery store all by myself, anxiety free.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the cemetery…you know, for a friend.

image source

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Okay, it’s official. I’ve become one of those people that won’t shut up about their health problems (oh, my aching back!). To wit:

Shortly after my anxiety and panic attack mini-series, I was prescribed this drug, that drug, and the other thing. The other thing was a heart monitor that I have to carry around for 30 days and I’m on the home stretch with only one day to go. It was given to me in a very attractive Iron Man lunch box.

The contraption consists of a necklace whose large boxy pendant swings around and slaps on your chest all the time and requires a AAA battery that has to be changed nearly every day and if you don’t pay attention to the battery level, you wind up getting rudely awakened by a “BEEP-BOOP-BOOP” at three in the morning and you have to replace the battery right then and there or else you are serenaded by more beeping and booping.

The batteries they give you are some cheap ass generic brand that don’t last as long as, say, what the Energizer bunny would provide, and the reason I know this is because they don’t give you enough batteries to last the month and so you have to go to the store and buy real batteries (like Energizer) and then suddenly the batteries last twice as long.

So, what you do is, before you go to bed you put in a new battery, and then when you get up, you observe you still have 80% battery left, so you exchange it with a previous partially already used battery so that it runs out and beep-boop-boops during the day. It’s all very scientific and mathematical and probably too complicated for you to understand.

So anyway, from the boxy pendant protrudes three wires with red, black, and white electrodes at the end that you snap onto three separate electrode pads that are placed on three geographically-specific parts of your body. The first bag of pads were great and stayed where they lay, but now that I’m near the end, I’m using this other bag of cheap ass pads they gave me that have trouble staying put and the monitor screams when one of the electrode pads falls off. (Did I mention there is also a monitor? Yes, it’s like a clunky cell phone that you have to keep within a certain distance of yourself and recharge so often I just leave it plugged into the wall all the time unless I leave the house. If you leave the house and forget to bring your monitor with you, your boxy pendant goes “BRAP-BROP-Boooooo”, until you turn around and go back home and grab your monitor.)

So anyway, these slippery electrode pads occasionally slip off and the monitor (which is plugged into the kitchen wall) starts going “BREEEEEP-BREEEEEEP!” And you run to the monitor to see what’s wrong and the screen says, “The red electrode has been disconnected” (it’s usually the red one that falls off) and it gives you the option to push “SILENT” on the touch screen, only no matter how much you touch it, it doesn’t respond (I know, like your wife - haha - yes, you’re very funny - can we get back to me now, Mr. Interrupter?).

So now I have to whip up my shirt which requires running out of the kitchen because we have no curtains in the kitchen and you never know who could be Peeping Tomming and I have to fish around my shirt for the red wire only to discover that the electrode pad for the red wire is totally stuck to the inside of my shirt. It has no problem sticking to my shirt but can’t seem to stick to me.

So I’ve incorporated Band-Aids into the mix.

They actually call this contraption a heart event monitor because it’s supposed to catch what my heart is doing during an “event”. If an “event” happens, you use the touch screen to report it so they can zero in and know where to look on the timeline to analyze your heart rate. Just before getting the monitor, my heart was racing and I had a tachycardia event. In the almost 30 days since using the monitor? Nada.

In the morning, when the normal bedroom alarm clock goes off, I roll over, and the monitor starts screaming that one or more electrodes has been disconnected and I’m fumbling around trying to unpeel several adhesives pads off of my shirt, check what color the wire is, so I know on which part of my body it belongs. Meanwhile, my husband joins in on the beeping and booping as if it’s become an earworm for him.

“Breeeep breeeep. One or more of your electrodes is disconnected…,” he says sleepily.

“I know! I know!” I say, fiddling with my boxy pendant and wires trying to plug myself back in like a 1940’s Lily Tomlin telephone switchboard operator.

Did I mention Thursday is the last day I have to wear my necklace that came in the Iron Man grey lunch box? Life won’t be the same without it.

Thank God.

The post I’ve Got All the Bells and Whistles appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

Invariably, I squat down and look intently at whatever was on the bottom shelf as if seriously contemplating grabbing another 14 pints of Americone Dream. Hmm, Cherry Garcia or Americone Dream, I just can’t decide, so I’ll just stay down here for a few minutes until I figure it out. Also? What the hell is wrong with me? Go away you scary awful feeling, you. Clearly my plan worked, as no one asked to assist me and I never lost consciousness.

But it kept happening.

But only at the grocery store.

And then it began happening everywhere I went.

And then I couldn’t leave the house.

So when my husband said hey, do you wanna go to the mall—

“NO!” I screamed. “I mean, I think there’s something wrong with me.”

I confessed and suspected that I must have been having panic attacks. Constant 24/7 high anxiety with periodic panic attacks. And heart thumping. Rapid heart thumping.

Why is it always a Friday night when you realize something is wrong enough to go see a doctor? And on Labor Day Weekend for that matter, so it’s even longer before you can see your doctor?

A couple of advice nurse phone calls later led to the suggestion that I try see my doctor on Tuesday morning.

Four highly anxious, try to deep breathe, very long days away.

Apparently either anxiety is a very low priority, or they are not allowed to tell you that you can go to the damn Urgent Care Center and get DRUGS for it. And at that point, I didn’t know you can go to the damn Urgent Care Center and get DRUGS for it.

So, naturally I asked the internet what to do and ended up barely making it to a tea shop and some other place for “alternative” anxiety remedies. I drank lots of passion flower tea and tinctures with very little result. Tried wine a couple of times but I can’t drink more than a glass so it just sort of made me feel….winey.

By then I had lassoed my husband who was not allowed to leave my side for any reason whatsoever. On Saturday, he called the Urgent Care Center who said I could come in but if my racing heart was a concern they’d send me to the ER. If my heart seemed ok, they could give me something for the anxiety. Or I could just go to the ER, but the thought of leaving the house to go somewhere and sit all panicky for 8 hours…I couldn’t make myself move to do it.

But, the Urgent Care Center said they were empty and this is the first time I hear that something can actually be done and be done NOW about the anxiety (as long as I wasn’t having something like a heart attack-you know, one of those five-day-long heart attacks where you can pace the house like a crazy person wondering if you’re having a heart attack.) I was going crazy with the anxiety and would have done ANYTHING for it.

Except leave the house.

Here I was one mile away from relief and I couldn’t bear the thought of going somewhere.

So I sat on the couch clinging to my husband all night trying to distract myself with CNN and other shows that do nothing but talk about death and dying.

The next day, Sunday, I’m gulping down passion flower tea, and swearing off white food, and trying to exercise even though it makes my heart go pitter patter too much, and asking the internet what could possibly be causing this horrible mental state I’m in. The Perimenopause internet Guru says to diet and exercise to help balance your hormones, but Anxiety internet Guru says panic attacks and anxiety come from some childhood trauma and I couldn’t think of anything, unless you count the time some kid hit me in the head with a baseball bat or I fell off the monkey bars but I think they were talking more about psychological trauma.

I’d never been prone to anxiety or panic attacks before which was also supposed to explain my problem.

My husband shook his leash at me and tried to reach the logical part that was left of my brain and said as gently as possible “you are going to be scared here or at the urgent care center, so if they can help you, you may as well be scared there.”

I decided if I could take a shower, I could make it. (Did I also mention that I was getting panicky in the shower too? WTF?) But I couldn’t leave the house looking like a mangy stinky rat with 2 or 3 days worth of bed head.

So, I silently cursed my fear with an F-bomb and took a shower while my husband stood guard.

I then paced the house for a few minutes talking myself into going and said “F^&* it, let’s go!”

At the Urgent Care Center, Ron fills out paper work and I start to cry. This is like the second time Ron has ever seen me cry in his life. I’m like baseball and as you know, there is no crying in baseball.

They call us into a room and asked me what the problem is and I start crying all over again, so Ron had to explain everything. Of course they asked me things like has anything happened in your life recently blah blah blah. No. No. No. My blood pressure is normal, my heart rate is relatively normal. End result: they gave me drugs (generic Ativan) and I felt a million times better within 30 minutes of taking it.

I didn’t feel awesome, but I felt better. And dopey. And much calmer.

I don’t go to the doctor very much and I don’t have a lot of drug experience and I didn’t know you could just walk into a place and say “I need drugs for my anxiety” and boom – you have drugs for your anxiety. (OK, it’s not that easy, but almost…)

That pissed me off. I could have had relief so much sooner! Those days of anxiety are hard to describe other than to say that it’s the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. The fear that I was going crazy and that it would never end, the vulnerability that I couldn’t take care of myself, the racing thoughts of doom and despair. It’s outright paralyzing.

So Tuesday after Labor Day I went to see my doctor who gave me a bunch of tests, so more waiting for results, so more on-again-off-again anxiety, crying, etc., until they decide it’s not hormonal and he prescribes generic Lexapro.

So now I’m waiting for THAT to work. Impatiently waiting. It’s been almost two weeks and I’m in a better mood, I can walk around the block, I can focus on some tasks again, but I still can’t go to the grocery store. The freakin’ grocery store, people!

And if and when this drug takes full effect and I’m all better, I’ll be trying to figure out an exit strategy. Find the root cause of the anxiety and panic attacks so I can ultimately get off the drugs. I mean – no more wine, according to the warning labels - WHAAA?????. Right now my question is, is it perimenopausal? Or did something traumatic happen in my childhood that involved a menacing monster shower head roaming the aisles of the produce section attacking customers like Godzilla that will only reveal itself through regressive hypnotherapy?

The post Anxiety, Panic Attacks and Tears, Oh My! appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

OMG - me too!!

But that’s not why I brought you here today. No, today I have a bit of news.

When I contemplated teaching younger folks how to write better, especially when it comes to blogging, I thought, Who in their right mind would buy what I’m selling?

And don’t you have to belong to an elite club or sleep with the right politician, or have an “in” with the Textbook Association of America, or have won a Nobel Peace Prize to get a textbook published and distributed to schools?

Then a homeschooling friend of mine told me that homeschool parents can choose whatever resources they want to teach their kids. And some public school teachers are allowed to provide additional learning tools to complement those “required-by-the-Textbook-Association-of-America textbooks.”

So I wrote a book. And today, I’m launching it, or dropping it, or whatever the cool kids are saying these days.

It’s called Adventures in Blogville: A Creative Writing Guide for Teens.

170 pages of essay-inducing hilariousness.

I hope.

Teenagers often feel like their voices aren’t heard, and blogging is a great way to validate and empower them.

This book isn’t just for kids, though. I’ve been told that adults can use the book as well because it teaches concepts about how to make your writing and blogging more compelling. It’s got some of the same concepts as my previous book, Sticky Readers, but it’s structured in a lessony-type format with assignments and everything! And it’s family friendly — not one F-bomb or prostitute can be found in its pages.

Oh! And it has awesome and silly illustrations by Quinnzel, whose art was recently displayed by BBC America at Comic-Con in San Diego and was more recently displayed on the Doctor Who World Tour.

I know!

I would tell you how awesome Adventures in Blogville is, but I’ve paid people to tell you instead. Well not so much “paid” as shoved my book down their throats and then shook them by their collars and asked them what they thought about it and you can see what they said on my very own special super exciting book page (I don’t want to give it away, but scroll down to the part that says “Praise for Adventures in Blogville.”)

Anyway, if you happen to know any homeschoolers or educators in your circle of fellow humans, mention Adventures in Blogville! I would appreciate it, and my starving orphan hamster would appreciate it.

More info about the book and where to get it.

Or just go straight to Amazon already!

The post White House Dinners and..oh, I Wrote a Book. appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

But that was in May, you cry. And I don’t even live in Sacramento, so how the bleepity bleep can I see this “performance” of yours, you continue to whimper?

My, what a drama queen you are. And a whiner.

But! Cry no more, my little nanny goats, as there is now video evidence of said performance and you can see it right now! Yay!

Link to video on YouTube

Heck, you can see the whole darn Sacramento show here.

You can even check out all the other 31 cities for 2014 here.

The post A Humorous Take on Bullying appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

Anyway, as I’m bouncing from one familiar face to another, tasting wine and bacon-wrapped shrimps on sticks, there are people here who feel important because they were on a guest list and the place which grandly opens the next day is closed to the public.

Now, this other thing that’s about to happen happens all the time and I’ve never thought twice about it, but this time it is obvious and I do indeed think twice about it.

I’m walking through the crowd and I see a guy turn toward me and look at my boob. Well, actually, he’s looking at my name tag, I think. He could have been looking at my boob, I suppose, but usually if someone looks at your boob, they look at both of your boobs, so their eyes are more centered between them and since my name tag was conspicuously dangling off of the edge of my right boob like a “Hello My Name Is” pasty and his eyes were definitely on THAT boob, I assume he’s looking at my name tag.

Anyway, not the point — the point is, he was looking at my name tag. Just long enough to read it and know that he doesn’t recognize it. He doesn’t even bother to look at my face. All he cares about is my name and whether I am an important person, which he has immediately decided I am not, because he clearly doesn’t recognize my name and he instantly dismisses me with a turn of his head back to his circle of people.

My first thought was, What a jerk! Because my name tag doesn’t say [insert famous name here], you won’t waste your time introducing yourself so you can “network” with me about whatever the hell it is you do? I’m not important enough to further your career? You can’t even dismiss me with a little direct eye contact? I’m not even worth a quick glance of possible recognition? You ass!

Am I over analyzing this? Should I spend any more time worrying about these weenies who brush me off so quickly and who would probably have been a waste of my precious time to talk to anyway, because this guy was clearly selfish and nothing more than a what-can-you-do-for-me kind of guy?

I’ll have you know that I’m an important person. You should want to get to know me. I am awesome. I have things to offer. I am a person you should totally want to meet, gosh darn it! I know people! I have influence! And if you’re just going to assume I am a nobody, you better think again, Mister. And go to hell, while you’re at it!

I don’t know. Maybe he was looking at my boob.

The post Of Name Tags and Boobs appeared first on Nanny Goats in Panties.

I am your host, Suzy Tiptoes, and on today’s program, we’re going to tell you how to get your 10,000 steps in while traveling.

First, fly somewhere. Anywhere. Make sure your flight connects to another one via the Dallas Fort-Worth airport with a five-hour layover.

Second, fly American Airlines because they are the ones who will admit you to the Admiral’s Club just by flashing your Platinum American Express card.

Third, when you land in Dallas, go straight to the Admiral’s Club with visions of sitting on your ass for 5 hours and eating all the free cookies and diet soda you can choke down.

Fourth, when you flash your AMEX card at the guy to get in to this horribly exclusive club lounge, find out from said guy that they no longer accept AMEX as free admission. Instead, what’s accepted is some new top secret black Citibank card that you’ve never heard of.

Fifth, walk dejectedly through the length of the C Terminal back and forth and back while dragging your luggage behind you. Look what happens when you do that:

What also happens is you get to do what’s called “seeing the sights” of Texas. For example, who knew that the Lone Star State’s runway models were such big cows?

You can also stand outside this store and sing Karaoke at the top of your lungs and test Pee Wee Herman’s theory about what happens when you do that:

If you’re from California, you can stare at this sign all day and wonder how is it, during the current rise of the outrage industry, that nobody has sued this establishment because they were deeply offended by stereotyping:

I can’t decide if this is ironically funny, or one of those “Ellis Island” or “Cake Decorating” type mistakes where someone is ordering the sign over the phone and the guy on the other end of the line was on his first day of the job.

Anyway, after you’ve walked the length of the terminal 3 times and gotten your 10,000 steps in and you still have 3 hours to go, peruse the Wall of Thanks and set yourself down a spell in the nearby rocking chairs, because boy howdy, your dogs are tired.

That’s all for today’s program. This is Suzy Tiptoes saying, Exercise is Futile, y’all!

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