What Are You, Blind? Then I'm Blogging for YOU Too.

I'm going to start blogging for the deaf:

FIRST OF ALL I'D LIKE TO THANK MY DEAF READERS FOR COMING TODAY. WE LOVE OUR FELLOW DEAF PEOPLE AND THINK THEY ARE JUST LIKE REGULAR PEOPLE ONLY... WHAT'S THAT?...

Oh. My producer is telling me that I don't need to yell on my blog for deaf people. I guess they must have one of those newfangled hearing-impaired Blog Reading Devices (or, BRDs for the acronymically-inclined).

However, there is another group of people I'd like to welcome to Nanny Goats in Panties and that's the blind people. You heard me (YOU TOO, DEAF PEOPLE! - I mean - you too, deaf people.)

Anyway, to all my new blind readers:

HELLO TO ALL MY NEW BLIND FANS! CAN YOU SEE ME OKAY? FIRST OF ALL, I'D JUST LIKE TO SAY THAT WE LOVE BLIND PEOPLE. AND THAT WE HERE AT NANNY GOATS IN PANTIES CONSIDER YOU TO BE JUST LIKE NORMAL HUMANS...WHAT'S THAT?

Oh. What? Them too? Excuse me, my producer has just informed me that we don't need to yell at the blind people, either. Boy, the next thing you're going to tell me is that we don't need to yell at dumb people as well.

Anyway, now that all the niceties are past us, I'd like to tell all you other insensitive bloggers how to be more accessible to the visually impaired. Seriously. You probably didn't even realize that blind people surf the internet all the time. And that's why I'm here to help. 'Cause I'm a helper.

So, according to the American Federation for the Blind, here are just a few tips:

1. If you have a blog roll, move it to your left-hand sidebar. Blind people use screen readers that begin from right-to-left and the last thing they want to do is listen to one long ass list of links before getting to your blog post for the day.
2. If you want comments, don't make them "enter characters seen in an image".  Also, if you can, label all your text entries in the comment form properly so they know what you are asking for.
3. Describe your images. In HTML, you can provide alternative text for images by adding alt="your description of the image" within the image tag. Here is an example of a properly alt-tagged image:

< img alt="blind man walks into bar" height="30" src="imgdir/blindmansbrokentooth.jpg" width="30" />


It's all about making your site more accessible. For more detailed info, you can go to the site from the AFB (American Federation for the Blind).

So if you know any visually impaired or blind people, send them to Nanny Goats in Panties. Or if YOU are visually impaired or blind, I'd love your feedback. But your Martian friends? You can tell them to forget it. We don't need their kind here, the green boyfriend-stealing bastards.

Why Are You Talking to Me?

Don't interrupt me while I'm playing Bejeweled Blitz, or else you'll pull back a bloody stump, my friend.

The little eSpouse-Neglector from Hell

Anybody who has played this insidiously addictive one-minute game on Facebook knows what I'm talking about.

Facebook also has this Instant Messaging / Chat Box thing where any of your "friends" who can see that you are online can start a chat session with you.

99.99999999999999999999% of the time, my status is displayed as "Offline", so nobody can "chat" with me. Why would I put myself in the position that is the polar opposite of Caller ID, where you can see me, you know I'm there, and I can't screen the call first? Besides, most of the time, people want to chat me up when I'm not in the mood.

Also? I hate talking to people. I'm anti-social. People suck the life out of me.

You might be asking then, why I have nearly 500 friends on Facebook.

Uhhhhhhhh....

OK, you make a good point. So I decided the other day to open up to my people. Connect with my cyber friends. Stop hating. Let the chatting begin.

And within five minutes a little box at the bottom of my screen opens up and some Random Dude has decided that he wishes to speak to Yours Truly.

RD:  Hi

Well, I'm right in the middle of playing Bejeweled Blitz, the current crack of choice on Facebook right now, so this guy is just going to have to wait. Once I realize that there is no way I'm going to beat my current high score, I abandon the game and type into the little chat box (mind you, less than a minute has passed before I respond).

Me:  Sorry, I was playing a timed online game. Hi.

One would expect the other person to either make some bad joke about online games and "What r u doin?" or some such nonsense, but not this genius. He's on it. And responds to me thusly:

RD: Hi

Brilliant, right? I mean, I have no comeback for that. So, in virtual space, stuck alone with this guy out on the balcony at the loser party with a bad drink in my hand, and in desperate need of another, I stood there, taken away from my game thinking: Okayyyyyyyyy. In fact, that's what I wanted to type - Okaaaayyyyyyy..., but that wouldn't be nice, would it. So what should I say?

Nothing, as it turns out, because this guy has the Art of Conversation down, baby. And goes on just moments later with this:

RD: I like the wii.

Step right up, folks, we have a winner! Because he has once again stumped me. What. Do you say. To that? This chat thing is tempting me to say all kinds of things that I shouldn't. So I try something else:

Me: I was playing Bejeweled Blitz.

RD: Be careful with games here. They could have viruses that could attack you.

Oh my God, this is so exhausting, but I soldier on:

Me: So I hear.

You might be thinking, boy, she really isn't helping this guy build a conversation.

And you would be right. And I really don't care what you think, because you weren't the one stuck out on the balcony with this talktard while you and everyone else were having a good time at the spinach dip and weenies table inside. I should hurt you for leaving me alone out there.

But wait, he hasn't given up on me yet:

RD: Yeah.

RD: Be careful.

So, how do you sign off without seeming like a jerk? I mean if you've been talking for like a minute at the most, when is the earliest you can say, "well, I gotta be goin', thanks for all the laughs, Chuckles"?

So I said nothing.

Another agonizing minute or two later:

RD: Well, I gotta be goin'

RD: Bye.

So, anyway, unless one of you can tell me how to be seen as online only by a select set of friends, my little trial of Facebook chat is over.









Sue Bob Davis of the Red Stapler blog was following behind two Pygmy goats (named Bunny and Kitty)  in a Studebaker at the Ventura County Fair Parade on Saturday:

Click on picture to enlarge

Warning: This Thank You letter contains scenes of a graphic nature. It has been rated PG-13 for language. Some content may not be appropriate for children.

I would like to thank DG of the Diary of a Mad Bathroom blog for this effing fabulous award:

We Have No Waiting (Or a Sense of Humor) at Checkstand #1

So I'm at the 15 Items or Less line in the grocery store. Safeway to be exact. Checkstand #2 to be even more exact. I realize I'm standing behind my neighbor. He's an old guy who I've seen several times around the neighborhood who always seems a little out of it and every time we meet, he has this glazed look on his face like he has no idea who the hell I am. So I decide not to embarass myself in front of everyone around me by saying hello and re-introducing myself for the umpteenth time only to be followed by little or no awkward conversation. And when I say he's my neighbor, I mean that he LIVES NEXT DOOR TO ME and if he can't be bothered to remember me, I can't be bothered to be remembered.

He's unloading his basket. And unloading. And unloading. I'm about to start counting his items to see if he's over 15 (because I'm impatient and bored, and I needed to be needlessly riled up), but before I could count past three or so items, some lady with the telltale green apron and name tag says to me, "I can take you over here on Checkstand #1. So I  saunter over to Checkstand #1.

Mid-saunter, I brush up against a tall stack of Entenmann's chocolate cakes, setting some of them askew. The man who has followed me to the newly opened Checkstand #1, wearing a business suit, helps me to straighten them out. I figure, we've worked together now, I should say something. Being the comedian I think I am, I say something like, "Boy, I almost went over the 15 item limit there - ha ha ha!"

He didn't even acknowledge it. All I could hear were the crickets as I waited for the belly laughter from my audience of one. My invisible Critic From Hell swooped over and enveloped me with his black cape of comedy doom. Oh the horrors!

I suddenly felt very lonely as I was transported back to my youth and remembered when the self-labeled "cool kids" looked down their noses at me to make me feel like dirt, whenever I tried to be funny. They'd toss their perfectly feathered hair away from me as if I were some crass idiot. The snobs.

My freshman English teacher chastised me on paper when I wrote a silly essay, trying to turn a dull assignment into something fun. I was taught at an early age that writing is not fun. It is a chore to be taken very, very seriously. This isn't a creative writing class, young lady.

So anyway this guy in the grocery store...it bugs me that this guy helps me with the boxes, leading me to believe that it was socially acceptable to speak to him, and then nothing? NOTHING? What the hell?

I walk out to the parking lot and drive home trying to figure out what went wrong:

Did he think I was some crazy lady who talks to strangers and would be waiting for him outside to ask him for money?

Did he not get the joke?

Did I misinterpret his trying to help me and instead it was just that he's really anal and he couldn't stand seeing the cake boxes askew and had to fix them immediately?

Maybe he didn't even hear me, but was afraid to ask me what I said because then I might get all familiar on him and try to accost him outside for money. And what's his problem always worrying about storefront panhandlers, anyway?

Or maybe the Grocery Karma God in the Sky was getting back at me for not saying hello to my neighbor. In fact I'm a total hypocrite for complaining about the guy behind me not working with me, when I can't even say hello to a guy I share part of a roof with.

Goat Thing of The Day

Thanks, June!

In Other News...

My book review for The Brightest Moon of the Century by Christopher Meeks has been published on Curled Up With a Good Book. You can read it HERE if you wish.

Thank You Letter(s)

A big THANK YOU to Sherry of My Loonyverse for these two beauties!

Well, I Never!

A wise man once said, "Some things are done. And some things have things done to them. But you can never please all of the people all of the time".

I learned that from my cross-eyed uncle when I was six years old and I never forgot it. I'd have it tattooed on my caboose if I didn't think it was such a stupid idea to do so.

But that's not why I called you here today. No, today, I'd like to share with you a list of things that I've never done in my forty-three years of life:


I have never murdered anyone. (At least not over money - I do have standards.)

I have been to Jerusalem, the capitol of many religions, but I've never been to Washington DC, the capitol of many Americans.

I have never seen a single episode of Survivor. Or American Idol. Or Law and Order.

I have never seen a ghost, a UFO, Big Foot, or a Chupacabra. (What am I doing wrong, exactly?)

I've been to Grand Cayman, but I've never been to the Grand Canyon.

I have never given birth to a child. (An ostrich maybe, but I was young and I needed the money!)

I have never kissed a girl (not that there's anything wrong with it.)

I've eaten brains and I've eaten alligator, but I've never eaten a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

I've never broken a single bone in my body. (But I did acquire my first scar through an injury that occurred eight minutes after I was born. To give you a hint, this was before they put mittens on newborns, and I scratched the crap out of my face. Wait, that wasn't much of a hint, was it.)

Lastly, and you probably saw this one coming:

I've been to Paradise, but I've never been to Me.

Goat Thing of The Day

Do you have erectile dysfunction? I'm sorry to hear that and I have nothing for you, but what I do have is the solution for all that tall grass you may be suffering from. If you don't own a lawn mower, why don't you just RENT one?

 

picture lifted stolen "borrowed" from Rent-A-Ruminant

That's right, at Rent-A-Ruminant, you can rest easy knowing a bunch of goats are chowing down on your back forty.

Thank You Letter(s)

A big bleating THANK YOU to Anna of I Hate Pink who recently awarded me the Kreativ Blogger Award, not to be outdone, or corrected by, the Outstanding Speller Award, which I did not gett.

Also? I would like to thank Preston of Me and the Blue Skies for Appreciating Nanny Goats in Panties with lots of linky love. Thanks, Preston, you credit report dot com guy crushin' on thing, you. Preston is currently celebrating his 1 year blogging anniversary (or as some blog nerds call it, Blogiversary) by running a Big Sampler Box Giveaway (I think the official name is "Out of the Box Sampler"). Click HERE to enter.

Keys: The Lost Episodes

Sometimes I feel like I've blown my literary wad, given this blog my all. I've got nothing left.

And then I lock myself out of my condo.

I never walk out of the house without having the solid feel of the keys in my hand. And last Thursday, I stared at the outside of my front door, feeling my keys very solidly in my hand. The wrong keys. My Sacramento keys. The keys that went to my Sacramento front door. And my Sacramento car. The keys that were useless to me as I stood outside my Los Angeles front door.

And I had to meet a guy in thirty minutes. A guy whose phone number was inside my house. A writer guy I met a couple of weeks ago and arranged to interview for my blog. I had to get to this meeting.

Panic-ridden adrenaline rushed through me, overwhelming me. I haven't had that feeling since I screwed up some production data at my ersatz Tech job. But there was a little silver-lined voice in the cloud of my head saying, Hey, when this is all over, you're so totally blogging about it.

At that moment, however, I was a bit immobilized, and kind of freaking out, because I always worry that when I agree to meet someone somewhere, and then I die before I get there, who is going to tell that person I'm just not going to make it that day? After wrapping my car around a squirrel, will some wayward stranger be conscientious enough to search my dead body for my schedule and follow-up on my appointments? No. If anything, they would steal my cellphone. And my laptop. And my limited edition Spongebob Squarepants car seat covers. Jerks.

So now this guy was going to think I'm a total flake and refuse to take my calls.

Crap!

And you were going to be so impressed, wondering how did I nab this guy for an interview, and I just blew it.

I looked at my keys and realized with some relief that they included the car I drove down to L.A. in. I could still get to the interview, and worry about the rest afterward. But then I realized I couldn't get into the garage under our condo building without my OTHER L.A. keys.

Crap!

You're probably saying, well, don't you have spare keys somewhere? Yes. Yes, I do. My husband in Sacramento has an extra set. My roommate, who moved out last month and left them in the kitchen drawer for me, had an extra set. My next-door neighbor had an extra set until four days before this fiasco when I asked her to return them because I'm in the middle of preparing to rent out the place, so why would I need extra keys at this point, right?

I knocked on my five neighbors' doors to see if anyone was home at 1:30 pm on a Thursday, thinking they could let me into the garage. No such luck. I called a neighbor down the street and fortunately she was home and drove me to Starbucks up the hill on Beverly Glen Drive near Mulholland Drive.

"You wanna check and make sure he's here?" she asked as I got out of her car.

"He might not be here yet, so go ahead. I'll be OK."

Whew! At least I made it to the meeting on time. Only now I was a nervous wreck and could only think of my problem - how was I supposed to have a decent conversation with this person?

While I waited, I made a million phone calls including:

1.  Any and all of my five condo neighbors (because I also needed to get back into the locked entry gate to reach my front door).

2.  My husband who was 400 miles away and having some personal crisis of his own which meant that neither one of us was any help to the other.

3.  Tracking down a locksmith (and let me just thank God right now for the iPhone and Google Maps, because Starbucks does not have Free Wifi if you happen to be traveling around with your laptop).

The rest of the story is boring, except for the part where my interviewee doesn't show up, so now I'm wondering if I have the wrong day, or if I was supposed to call to confirm, or a hundred other reasons of how I screwed up. Essentially, I was in no condition to conduct any kind of interview. It would probably have gone something like this:

Me: So, do you know any good locksmiths?

Him: Uhhhh.....

Me: Can you give me a ride home? I mean, I know it's out of your way, but I'm sort of stuck here.

Him: Can we talk about my book?

Me: How could I be so stupid - GAH! Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!

Him: I'm not sure you should be drinking that triple shot thingy -

Me: I'm a good person, you know? I'm a responsible person! Oh, there's another guy leaving now - (calls out to other guy) EXCUSE ME SIR? CAN YOU TAKE ME HOME?



My obsession with getting back through my front door was just too all-consuming, and this large double cappuchino I was guzzling wasn't helping matters any. I began to hope that this guy wouldn't show up. I rocked back and forth, mumbling "Serenity now!" to no effect. And what is the proper gutteral response to people who can't stop staring at you with dropped jaws anyway?

After half an hour of waiting and asking two people who slightly resembled him if they were indeed him, you know, just for good measure, and in my state of mind could very well have been him, I only met him once before after all, I called my neighbor to bring me back home. The locksmith showed up right after I arrived, and one of my condo neighbors happened to get home from work early to let me in the entry gate. Ninety-five seconds and ninty-five bucks later, I was back in my house again.

I haven't locked myself out of the house since college, when one morning around dawn, I lethargically crawled out of bed, thinking I heard my cat, Rufus, screaming to come inside. I walked out the front door of my apartment, which locked behind me and did I mention that I only slept in a T-Shirt? As in ONLY a T-Shirt? As in, Nanny Goats in no panties whatsoever? And of course that day, my roommate wasn't home.

Why can't I ever lock myself out of the house so that all I have to do is knock on the door for someone to let me in?

Call me a wimp, but I don't think I should live in two cities anymore.

Hey man, could you all do me a solid and click on this button to boost me up in the Sacramento Top 25 rankings? Just one click. Nothing else. Thanks, man.

Goat Thing of The Day

Pamela from My Thoughts Exactly pointed out this ad shown on Womples.com.

Free Wink: Hostage Crisis Update

Wink's return is allegedly imminent. It has been more than six weeks. Terms were discussed. Papers were signed. My friend is just waiting for the green light that is the phone call announcing Wink's return. There is more to the story, but right now, that is all I can say.

(Wink's Hostage Story)

Dog Gone It: A Bark For Help

You know the evil stepsisters in Cinderella? The ones with control issues, who are mean, and quite possibly ugly? Did you ever wonder what horrible childhood they must have had in order to be so evil, because their behavior just doesn't make any sense?

Some of you may remember my talking about Wink last July:

I went on and on about how well taken care of she is.

Five weeks ago, Wink escaped into the neighbor's yard through a slightly hidden portion of rain-damaged fence. The neighbor's yard has no fences, so she started shuffling off to Buffalo. She got picked up (probably for hitchhiking) and is currently being held without bail at a Save-A-Mutt shelter by Cinderella's proverbial ugly step sisters. They refuse to return Wink to her rightful owner. Why? They are claiming that Wink is not being properly taken care of. They say they are going to find a "better" home for her and give her to someone else.

The ugly step sisters' original story was that my friend was showing improper care because this incident happened before. And it did. Once. Over a year ago.

The Save-A-Mutt shelter had one of those lo-jack chips installed upon adoption and listed themselves as the primary owner and refused to list my friend as primary owner. It's been FOUR YEARS and they still refuse to make her the primary owner. (WTF?)

The police say they cannot do anything about this kidnapping because it is a civil matter, not a criminal matter as there was a contract for this adoption.

After my friend got an attorney, the evil stepsisters at Save-A-Mutt changed their story to claim Wink showed up dirty with matted fur and while they were at it, made other false accusations.

Does this look like an unkempt dog to you?


New Years Eve 2005-6


New Years Eve 2008-9


I've only allowed two dogs into my home and Wink is one of them. Wink is the least neglected dog I know. Wink accompanied us to lunches and dinners at restaurants that allowed dogs. Wink has been to my New Year's Eve parties. (Quiet, calm, New Years Eve parties with six to ten people, lest the "rescue" operation try to turn my parties into some debaucherous affairs.)

Her groomer has written a letter to testify to Wink's care. Her groomer! You know, the person who cleans her and trims her fur on a regular basis. Fur that is too short to be matted, by the way.

It has been five weeks since Wink was "rescued" by Save-A-Mutt. Needless to say, my friend is distraught. I want to alert the media. I want to call Ellen. I want Prince Charming who has the other glass slipper to get over there already and save the princess. I want to help, but I don't know what to do. I am writing a letter to Whom It May Concern to tell anyone who can read that this dog is the least neglected dog I know.

What power and control issues do the people at Save-A-Mutt have that have convinced themselves they are somehow "saving" this dog? We are not talking about a pit bull who has mauled someone. We are talking about a poor defenseless one-eyed ball of fur who needs her mommy!

We have to get Wink back. I've been trying to fix her up with a one-eyed cat for months, and this will ruin all that hard work.There is no way a guy would want a girl who is labeled "homeless".

And what if the evil step sisters find another home for her? Can you imagine?

Do you know where my friend first discovered Wink and fell in love with her and made the donation and signed the papers and took her home and fed her and groomed her? That's right, Save-A-Mutt.

What is wrong with people?

Boy, I sure hope this horrible story has a happy ending.

Why I Will Never Own a Pink Cadillac

The richest people in the world are good salesmen: Donald Trump. Leo Iacocca. The Sham-Wow guy.

Which is why I'll never be rich. The thought of selling anything makes my fingernails itch and my sphincters cringe (and for you scatalogical readers, there is more than one).

Complaining to you about telemarketers is like a stand-up comedian who says, "Take my wife, please." Who hasn't heard enough about that already, right?

So anyway, I hate telemarketers. And it's not like I'm without compassion. I had a job in college where I had to beg university alumni for donations over the phone. Which might be worse because I was asking them for money for NOTHING. They wouldn't even get a subscription to Popular Mechanics. I didn't want to sell and they didn't want to buy, so why were we even both on the phone, wasting precious lifeblood and energy that should be spent loving our brothers or something? No, instead we're both just making each other uncomfortable. And for what?

Even when I fervently believe in the product, which is what is supposed to be the key to selling, I don't want to sell it.

I am, however, happy to convince you to buy a product that I believe in, as long as I'm not getting paid for it. Maybe it's because I wouldn't fear rejection.

Or maybe I truly believe I'm doing you a service. I'm giving you something. Maybe I've had some epic consumer product experience and I must share it with EVERYONE I KNOW: What would it take for me to get you into a chartreuse fur-lined filing cabinet cover TODAY?

I sold Cutco knives. For four long one-hour demonstrations. And I'll bet some of you sold them, too. Even celebrities have sold them. I recently heard Michael C. Hall (Six Feet Under, Dexter) tell some talk show host that he sold them before he was famous (GASP! Does this mean I'll be famous someday?)

I sliced the leather demonstration strips ("If it cuts through this leather, think how it will cut through steak, even if it's leather - ha ha!!") and sold my parents a set of steak knives. I cut a penny into a corkscrew with the Cutco Scissors for my grandmother who escorted me into her kitchen to show me the forty-year old knife set she already had (which turned out to be Cutco, actually).

But I hated trying to sell a product that required you to make your potential customer fork over the names and phone numbers of ten of their closest friends. And I hated the fact that these poor knives were being sold under the MLM model, which reeked of Amway, Herbalife, etc.

But now, I've been "selling" their product ever since I quit more than twenty years ago. My parents swiped my demo set. I kept asking for the full kitchen set for Christmas every year until I got it. And I still tell people about how the handles are so ergonomic for your hand compared to other knives, and how they are made of the same material as bowling balls, and how the tines go all the way down through the handle with three rivets. And that Double-D patented edge that never needs sharpening.

See what I mean? Totally selling it right now.

Beggin' Strips

OK, so Suzy nominated me for two Blogger's Choice awards and I will take all the votes I can get for either the Best Humor or the The Blogitzer (Best Writing). Or both. Your choice. You can even vote for me if you've already voted for someone else (like Suzy, for example). And let me just apologize right now for your having to register your fake name and least used email address to register to vote.




      

Thank You Letters

Today's Thank You letter goes out to Lisa at I Didn't Get The Message who mentioned Nanny Goats in Panties in her post Life in the Audi Lane.

I would also like to thank the lovely people over at HowToMe for mentioning my post, Ten Alternative Uses for Shelf Liner in their article: How To Repurpose Shelf Liner.

They Prefer To Be Called "Little Bugs"

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

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

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

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

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

Because midges, apparently, are hard on vacuum cleaners.

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

and there is the occasional sea monster...

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

 

 

Goat Thing of the Day

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

Who Needs Tomorrow?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goat Thing of The Day

The Purple Goat Lady is having babies...

Friends, Romans, and Commenters, Lend Me Your Ears

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

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

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

Oh sure, at first I was all:

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

But then I was all:

Awesome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least I hope I would.








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

Thanks Roxanne!

Duct Duct Juice

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

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

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

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

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

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

So the guys went to work:

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

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

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

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

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

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









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

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









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

Thanks, Hussy!

Love Thyself. Just Not in Front of Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACK!

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

Nude beaches are nonsexual, my ass.

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

Even Educated Fleas Do It

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

 

Goat Thing of The Day

These cuties were seen in Yuma, Arizona.



(Photo courtesy of Ken)

Honky Without the Tonk

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

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

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







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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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




Thank you Muse-Swings for my latest bestowance: