Toil and Trouble in Paradise

You know how when you're really in the mood for a good hot pot of witch's brew? I mean, totally emotionally invested in it, that nothing can stop you? And now your family's happiness is riding on it because you promised them you'd make the best pot of disected animal pieces they've ever had? I mean, just the thought of Dragon's blood and Toe of Frog makes your mouth water, doesn't it?

So last night, I was adding the finishing touches to my brew when I reached into the pantry for the Eye of Newt, and wouldn't you know it, the jar was empty. So I hopped on my broom, leaving the cauldron to simmer on the stove, and swept over to the local pagan grocer's only to find the following sign taped on their front door (you can click on the pic to enlarge it if necessary):



Normally, I always always ALWAYS have a potion or two on me, but I was in the middle of a quick run-to-the-store-for-this-one-thing-I'll-only-be-a-minute shopping trip. I stood at the door, at a loss for what to do. If I returned without the Eye of Newt, my warlock of a husband would no doubt volunteer my ass as a soon-to-be-burning defendant at the next round of witch trials in Salem.

I flew around town, and while other stores carried Eye of Newt, it wasn't organic. Meanwhile, I was running out of time, and I couldn't just leave the cauldron unattended for so long.

It suddenly occurred to me that Poynsetta, my neighbor, might very well have some. Turns out, she had barrels of it, but again, not organic. "Don't worry," she said, handing me her copy of Spell Casting For Dummies. "Just use this. It works wonders."

Well, let me tell you, casting spells was never so easy. I even got a little crazy with some extra ingredients. Chapter 6 on "Putting the Organ Back in Organic" was a Godsend. And the warlock will never be the wiser.

I'll Have the Short NoFoam Extra-Dry Life, Please

I don't know about you lot, but this Pasadena smoke is putting a damper on my plans for "going outside and getting some fresh air".

I know you are all wondering about another item as well, but the jury is still out on what caused the power outage in my neighborhood last night. It could have been the copious amounts of air-conditioning that L.A.'s Westside was gulping but does not typically require. One nameless theorist suggested the Pasadena fire as the culprit (although it's many miles away).

But I like the idea that the lights and the DVD player and the TV flickered off just after Phillip Seymour Hoffman's and Laura Linney's characters asked their Dad what to do if he was in a coma. My roomie and I were watching The Savages and it was a gripping scene. The three characters are in a coffee shop and the father yells, "Unplug me!" People at the neighboring tables turn their heads toward Hoffman and Linney and their father. Within seconds, our whole neighborhood was blanketed in darkness.

Perhaps we'll never know, but odds are, some idiot was talking on two cell phones while leaning over to pull something out of his ass the glove compartment and plowed into another car which, in turn, smacked into a power pole.
And walked away from it.
And did not have a valid driver's license.
Or insurance.
And will not suffer any consequences as a result of his or her bad (let alone illegal) behavior.
And will do it again in the future.
And will probably kill someone next time.

Tune in tomorrow for my lecture on Optimism: The Secret to a Long Life.
Unless of course, I should meet my demise before then, in which case, you're all on your own.

Why Can't We Be Friends?

Nobody ever talks to me at the gym. (Excuse me...the "club". According to them, I don't belong to something so common as a gym). I don't know if it's my scowling demeanor or my "Fuck You and the Horse You Rode In On" T-Shirt, but for whatever reason, I'm not verbally approachable.

However, the other day, some guy creaked over to me (he out-aged me by a couple of decades) and said, "Are you a Berkeley woman?"

First of all, what the hell kind of a pick-up line is that?

Second of all, why the hell would he think I might be a Berkeley woman? Did it show on my face somewhere? Was the question a veiled slight toward my hemp shorts? Was the fact that I'm too lazy to shave my legs all the time THAT obvious? What?

I mean, yeah, I went to Cal my freshman year, but where on my body did that manifest itself?

"Yeah, but only for a year," I said to the sexagenarian. "How would you know that?"

"Well, it says so on your shirt."

OK, first of all (or is it third of all) remember when I blathered on about how strangers will approach me if I'm wearing some big league school attire (or if they want 50 cents for the bus)? Well, here we go again.

Turns out, the laugh was on him, because I wasn't wearing a Berkeley shirt. I was wearing a Barenaked Ladies shirt, and he realized his mistake and instantly started back pedaling. I stood up and tried to engage him in conversation and he merely introduced me to his wife at the next machine. Suddenly neither one of them were interested in talking to me, even though I actually attended their damn Alma Mater! The important thing, to them I suppose, was that I was no longer wearing THE SHIRT!

It was either that, or the goiter nobody seems to notice until I stand up.

Finally, Some News To Get Excited About

Yesterday, while walking my ostrich, Sheila, I discovered a new newsstand. That's right. A newsstand that was news to me. It was one of those indoor magazine stores, Newsbeat or something, near Pete's and Peet's, and the urge to check the inventory for literary magazines overwhelmed me, so I tied the Feathered One to a bawling youngster outside and darted in.

Sacramento is not exactly known for its literary prowess, but this place carried more than the average Borders, which bordered on refreshing. And before you start snoring at the thought of all those obscure words, let me also inform you that this spacious and family-friendly place of business carried more than just your average lunch break reading material.

Say, for example, you're surfing working at your desk and it's 2pm. Time for your afternoon break. You've got 20 minutes to run down to the newstand and grab a mag, and oh, I don't know, some anti-masturbatory cream. And not just any anti-masturbatory cream, but the fast-acting kind. The current stuff you use can't keep up with you - you smear it on, and before you can say, "Oh God!", you're smoking a cigarette.

Well, have I got news for you. Lookee what I found there:




Oh, don't worry. If this New and Improved product still isn't up to your speed, they sell cigarettes, too.


...IN OTHER NEWS ...

My review of Tara Yellen's After Hours at the Almost Home has been published on Curled Up With a Good Book. Click here if you wish to read it.


...IN OTHER OTHER NEWS ...

The Princess and The Pea has been kind enough to add Nanny Goats In Panties to her blogroll. The Princess, a new addition to the Midlife Bloggerettes, explores the "Foibles & Fables on Being Female". It feels like a nice morning chat over coffee and you feel like you've walked away having learned something.

Peet and Repete Are In a Boat

If you blink in Sacramento, you can miss spring entirely. This desert city that ironically boasts the most trees in the world, flips from winter to summer before you can exclaim, "What a nice day."

So it was in awe that my friend and I walked around the city after a late breakfast, only to be assaulted by corporate expansion gone awry. I give you Exhibit A:



Just because Starbucks and McDonald's (the Starbucks of hamburger joints) sees fit to open up stores across the street from each other, I was dismayed to find out this unforgivable sin didn't stop with them. Shame on you Peet's. Or Pete's. If that is indeed your real name(s).

Actually, I have a good mind to lease a 3rd corner here, open up a gardening store and call it "Peat's".

IN OTHER NEWS....
Nanny Goats In Panties debuts on BlogHer today. In the forum introductions, I noticed that the prevailing tone seemed to be somewhat timid, so I decided to bust in like a loud obnoxious Neanderthal. Perhaps the others will think "Uh oh, there goes the neighborhood." What do you guys think? Too pushy?

There's Never a Hoodlum Around When You Need One

One of our favorite restaurants in "midtown" Sacramento is a place called Ink. Here's what you see before you walk in:



We heard the place was owned by a tattoo artist and was frequented by hordes of bikers late at night, but the heathen crowd wouldn't start showing up until around 10 or 11pm. The food is awesome (and OMG you simply must do the Sliders) so we always sneak in at our senior-citizen-like early bird time of 6 or 7pm.

When you're dining at Ink, the rich red and black interior allows you to imagine the place teeming with black leather vests with big hairy arms covered in scary tattoos.

Look at the ceiling...



And this wall decor reeks of artistic creepiness:

And you get the full effect in this picture:

OK, forget you see the quaint middle-aged women lunching over their tuna salads. This place could be really mean. Those women have a row of tattoo vials inches from their faces! How frightening is that? Oh, the debauchery!

So, we made sure to tell our friend Terry, who had never been there before, how this place is just crawling with bikers late at night.

Carissa, who lives in the neighborhood and frequents Ink more than we do, pishaw-ed at us. "It's not bikers. It's just college students. And they're loud as hell waking up the neighbors when they leave at 3 in the morning."

I coulda sworn somebody told us it was bikers. Well, at least the owner owns a tattoo parlor, hence the name Ink. At least I think that's what I heard once.

Anyway, part of the purpose of our get-together was to introduce Carissa to Terry because Terry was thinking of buying in the neighborhood and who else to advise her but someone who knew a little something about the area. Like, the fact that it's now biker-free, apparently.

I wasn't sure if the girls were going to get along. I mean, not that they weren't both perfectly nice people. But haven't you ever introduced two of your friends wondering if they were going to hate each other? I mean, what if the conversation just stops and we all sit there awkwardly and I have to strain to keep it afloat until the check comes. Like, "So, how about that polygamist thing, huh? That's a real corker."

What if Terry were to blurt out her hatred for egg salad sandwiches, how you'd have to be an idiot to like them, and Carissa responds with, "I happen to like egg salad sandwiches." Man, that would sure be uncomfortable.

Or what if Carissa gets a little too vociferous about her plan to impregnate herself with an alien baby and can't wait for the pitter patter of little green feet, and Terry hauls off and smacks her one for "considering such an unethical and heinous idea".

Oh, what was I thinking bringing these two women together?

As it happens, I never had a chance to introduce them.

Why, you ask?

Because as soon as Terry arrived and sat down next to Carissa, she slipped seamlessly into the non-stop conversation, like jumping onto a moving trolley. I couldn't get an introduction in edgewise. And after a couple of beers and albino cosmos, this architect and this attorney, two professional single women, strangers to each other not two hours ago, are bombarding us with stories regarding the ways and means of various and multiple objects that prisoners shove up their asses, including but not limited to: cocaine, razor blades, and gang-coded notes. They were a musical duet, sing-talking in harmony, criss-crossing over and under each other, coming at us like two intertwined machine guns.

After dinner, we walked past the Condos in Question on the next block, chattering away. At the point where we all had to walk in different directions to get to our cars, we began our good-byes. MrMudPuppy and I were done with ours, but they had quite a ways to go, so we just left them standing there, allegedly "wrapping it up".

That was a couple of days ago. You don't suppose they're still...?

SPEAKING OF beers and cosmos and all things alcoholic, merlot mom, a kindred "spirit", has been added to the blogroll of Midlife Bloggerettes.

And This Was the Self-Serve

Stopped by Tiffany's Jewel & Fuel last night to pick up a 3.5 carat diamond-encrusted something-or-other and fill up the tank. The purveyor was handsome, but I think he took advantage of me as I was vulnerable. I managed to snap a picture of him, just as I pulled away. Isn't he luxurious?

I think I pulled a hamstring bending over for THAT one.

Here's the thing. Earlier that evening, I went to great lengths to avoid the $5.00 parking garage for dinner and found parking on the street. I grew up where you simply did not pay for such things. I believe complimentary asphalt is somewhat of a birthright.

But I'll apathetically splurge on gas. Why? It must be that I work from home, so I spend much less on gas per month than the poor sods who commute every day.

My father bemoaned the cost of asparagus but wouldn't think twice about losing a couple hundred bucks at the Black jack table.

Does anyone else out there wanna fess up to wacky priorities when it comes to the green?

What's the Matter With You People?

While shopping for perfume today -- I was looking for something reminiscent of seaweed or algae with a real swampy finish -- I noticed they were having a fire sale on domain names. I pessimistically checked the availability of nannygoatsinpanties.com and would you believe it wasn't taken? I mean, how stupid is everyone? Am I the only one who thinks the name is so common, that everyone would have had one by now? There it was in the bargain bin, reduced several times, oppressed and deprived of its rights. I said 'No one puts baby in a corner' and grabbed that bad boy for 10 bucks.

And now it's mine, all mine!

And you can't have it, because I took the last one.

Now, aren't you all ashamed of yourselves?

Step Right Up Folks, and See the Moon!

So we went to the erstaz Tower Records downtown (arguably the first location) which is now called R5 (and was opened by the same guy who founded Tower Records). A few days ago, some dude was beginning a mural on the side which now looks like this:



You can see the tower of the Tower Theatre in the back on the right. Anyway, after corrupting our ears with many decibels of Death Metal at the listening stations and perusing potential Satanic tattoos, we walked outside where two guys were waving us over to them. "Hey, come look at the moon."

It was now dark outside (I guess we were in the store for a while, judging by the pic above). There were two short and fat telescopes parked on the sidewalk, one was pointed at the moon and another was pointed at a couple of stars.

This is where adult jade sets in and instructs me to walk away from these carnival hawkers, because there is NO WAY two guys would set up telescopes for people to experience fun and not want something, right?

The MudPuppy walked over to one of the telescopes like a hypnotized child. I stood by while alarm bells rang in my head screaming things like: "NOOOO! Move away from those con-men. They are going to try to sell you something! Where's the cash? Does he have cash in his wallet? Oh my God, he's going to give them all of his cash for some scheme they're running and I'll end up on some Dateline NBC special: "Astronomers Gone Bad", crying my eyes out looking just off camera at the invisible interviewer and whining between the tears, "I couldn't stop him! I tried, oh how I tried."

"Hey, Margaret, check this out!" he says, interrupting my 15 minutes of network fame.

I stiffly walk over like what I'm about to see is going to be a big scam and I'm not going to fall for whatever it is they're hucking. I peek into the viewer.

"Oh my God!" I say. It's the moon! And you can see everything. The craters, the shadows, the lines. Wow! The vortex sucks me over to the other telescope and I see Saturn! A little tiny white sideways Saturn. With the rings. You can actually see the rings. Oh sure, you've seen it on TV loads of times, but I was actually looking at the actual Saturn! Was that.. "joy" I felt? In any event, it blew my mind.

I gathered my wits and asked one of the guys, "So, what are you guys doing here?", getting ready to hand over my purse and jewelry.

"Showing people the sky," says the telescope guy.

But, But, But....that sounded....so.... benign. So philanthropic. So open source, if you will. I mean, providing something, and not bumper-sticker something, or key chain something, but something really cool, man something, on a public sidewalk for free? I couldn't believe it. Where were the pamphlets? Where were the donation forms?

I said something again, but in retrospect, it was rather stupid and so, Dear Reader, I eagerly share it with you: "Why aren't you up in the mountains or some place where it's darker?"

"Because," he said, "then the only people we could show this to is other astronomers."

He gets points for even dignifying my idiotic question with an answer.

We walked away with our clothes and money intact. I was mystified because we didn't get swindled or bait-and-switched or anything. I didn't even think to take a picture of them or the telescopes, so you fellow skeptics would believe that such a thing occurred. I couldn't shut up about it all the way back to the car.

It's a shame that telemarketers and pan handlers and valet parking attendants (oh, don't get me started about those lots that are free by day, but suddenly a $10.00 valet sign pops up out of nowhere at dusk so someone can park your car 10 feet away!)...it's a shame they have influenced us such that we assume everybody is doing whatever they are doing for the money - specifically, YOUR money - and not for the simple act of sharing something other-worldly.

Tidying Woes

Every six months or so, we clean the house whether it needs it or not. Some people call it "vacuuming", or "doing the dishes" and claim to do it every week. We laugh at their silliness that we refer to as "spring cleaning".

I don't know which moron designed this faucet, but I'll bet it was someone who never cleans the house -- can I get an Amen?





I will further submit that the yahoo who selected and installed this menace is also guilty of never cleaning a bathroom. So that means that this PAIN-IN-THE-ASS piece of plumbing blew past at least two people who never had the foresight to think about how in the F^$#KING HELL a person is supposed to clean the blasted thing.

Did I mention that between the L.A. and Sacto residences there are FIVE sets of these little bastards?

ON A MORE PLEASANT NOTE:
Jan's Sushi Bar, a pretty purple blog, has been kind enough to include Nanny Goats In Panties on the site's blog roll. I think Jan may very well have the largest selection of Croc's outside of California.

Starbucks Spreads Its Legs for Old Times' Sake

Starbucks is going old school for the Coffee Experience: sex, sex, sex. Pictured at right is my coffee cup today. You can click on it to go a bigger version (that is, if you want to see through the eyes of a mermaid gynecologist). This is the original logo (1971-1987), featuring a split-tailed baubo siren, butt-nekkid, except for the crown. Donning a pose most middle-aged women couldn't attempt without pulling something and winding up at the ER, trying to explain to the nurse that she "fell down the stairs".

The last time this logo graced these cups, angry mothers and feminists protested, telling the company execs that their kids were asking why her legs were spread. So what, in this increasingly protesting, easily offended nation, are they thinking?

Here's what I think they're thinking: CEO Howard Schultz, having recently returned from retirement, is shaking things up. Remember the free coffee the other day? $1.00 cups of coffee before that? Starbucks closed for a few hours one day to "retrain" their baristas. There was talk of getting rid of the breakfast sandwiches. This has to be part of that campaign to bring back the Coffee Experience.

And who the hell am I to talk like I know about such things? Well, let me tell you, nosey. Having read and reviewed a book that was the Fast Food Nation of Starbucks, I learned a little something. You'll see the link for Starbucked in my Book Review section in the sidebar. And next time you'll think twice before questioning my authoritahhhh!

To Believe or Not To Believe

Sometimes, when I'm smearing motor oil on the laundry, slicing burnt spam leftovers for a late night snack, or just generally pissing away my life that is statistically more than half over, I fantasize about getting one of my essays read on NPR's "This I Believe". I'm not sure why, exactly. It's just one of those "Wouldn't That Be Cool?" things.

Then there are the times that the fantasy becomes a potential reality and I think I should write and submit something. But what? Everyone else on that show seems to have some Chicken Crap For The Soul inspirational-type positive thing to say along with some amazing or tragic story to go along with it, while all I ever do is complain about general consumer fiascos and therefore search my non-tragic life looking for crumbs (like, ohh -! I got my first allergy shot yesterday. Woe is me. See? I got nuthin'.)

What could I possibly have to say that would make it past the slush pile? Climbing aboard the self-destruction bus, I vascillate between hope and despair.

In the back of my mind, I know I'm going to sit down and inventory my experience and produce something that "I Believe", and try with all that I have to be sincere about it (because my brain instantly goes to such things as: "I believe people suck", or "I believe my goldfish has been sneaking into the medicine cabinet while I'm at work").

So, I give myself a pep talk to "Get that ball and really fight!". I listen to a bunch of I Believe podcasts, only to be deflated when I realize that the essays are either writtten by English professors, or semi-to-fully famous people. (How am I supposed to compete with the likes of Yo Yo Ma, or an astronaut who has recorded his essay from the International Space Station? Christ!)

Still, that little cockroach of a pest over my shoulder persistently tells me to try anyway.

Even if my essay is rejected from NPR, I believe it will still find a home, whether it's in another obscure online non-paying litmag, or right here on this blog.

Come Early, Come Often

This early edition of my Tuesday morning post has gone to press now in order to notify y'all that Starbucks is throwing free cups of coffee at their customers tomorrow (Tuesday).

So you know you have to hit one on the way to work, hit another at lunch, and swing by yet another after work, and then for a calming after-dinner drink swing by another because you know, it's like those Starbucks are on every corner. If they were snakes they'd bite you!

Obama Bo Bama Fo Fama

Today I pulled up behind a big black SUV (in retrospect, probably American made) with 2 bumper stickers. The sticker on the left said "OBAMA". The one on the right said "SUCKS". I was so dumbfounded that someone would stick anything on their nice new looking vehicle - I mean, what are they going to do with it after November? Throw the whole thing away and buy a new pick-em-up truck? I was equally dumbfounded that someone would slap these things on their vehicle and drive around town with them where people these days could just pull up next to the guy and "put a cap in his ass", as it were.

Of course the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. "Obama Sucks" is about the stupidest political statement you could make. It's a fairly unreasoned argument for one thing. Only an idiot would blurt out such a comment without corroborating evidence. So, clearly, the guy is an idiot. Every once in a while, I forget my own wisdom that explains all idiotic behavior: If they could get a clue, they already would have.

Initially, I gave the guy the benefit of the doubt, like the stickers were some inside joke I wasn't aware of, because it was so over-the-top. I thought he had to be kidding, right? I came home and Googled "Obama Sucks Bumper Sticker". Well, that was a mistake. It just exposed me to many many other idiots that I'd just as soon not know exist: and not just the racists, but the dummies with keyboards sans 3rd grade English. I get all worked up when I see such ignorant vitriol and I want to go out and shoot every one of them. I can't seem to get past the seething hatred I have for such people, I can't dig down deep and conjure up any sympathy for these bastards. They are the reason for everything that is wrong in this world. And they must die.

If I were king, I would paint everyone purple, enforce a dress code of Spandex burlap (that's breathable, of course, for those really sweltering summer days), and divert all space exploration funds into inventing a lie-proof lie detector so we would never need juries, or Death Rows, or anything else that just wastes everyone's time and money because of people's lies. God I hate politics!

Oops! Gotta go. O'Reilly's on.

Go Big Blue!

First, a moment of silence for one of Hollywood's screen legends. A man who brought Ben-Hur to life. A man who spoke those immortal words on screen that I'll never forget: "Damn you....something something". I'm speaking, of course, of Gern Blanston. I mean, Charlton Heston.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled posting...

I'm one of those people that blends into a crowd unnoticed. I can shop at the same place forever and noone will recognize me from one visit to the next. In fact, I've been passing through the same Southwest terminals at SMF and LAX nearly every week for the last 10 years and no Southwest employee ever recognizes me. Why? Because everything about the way I look is average. Imagine how frustrating it is, however, to visit the same restaurant over and over with no recognition, only to have my husband walk in with me after 6 months of no-shows on his part and have people greet him like a long lost friend. I suppose if my lily-white ass was a tall mean-looking Asian ass, people might remember me better, but come on already.

This is leading to something so bear with me.

While blending into crowds, I tend to wear plain old ordinary clothes: Jeans and a sweatshirt - my uniform. I've worn sweatshirts for about 137 years with nary an utter from my fellow humans. However, I recently acquired a UCLA sweatshirt and now I get somebody talking to me every day I'm out with it. Nobody gave a Sherlocked shit about my Humboldt State or Sac State outerwear, but when I don the Bruins garb, I get the attention I finally deserve. Everybody has something to say to me when I'm wearing the Blue. Today, on the plane, as I was winding my way down the aisle, some guy in Row 3 wanted to know who was winning the game. And then had the temerity to give me grief for not knowing. I guess that'll teach me not to go out uninformed.

By the way, UCLA lost to Memphis tonight. Does that mean I can't be seen in this sweatshirt now? Does this also mean I should hit the Ivy League online clothing store and load up on a whole array of conversation starters?

...IN OTHER NEWS...

So one of my new best friends, Karen, over at Midlife's A Trip has been so kind as to link to Nanny Goats In Panties in the Midlife Women Blogger's section of her site. Thanks, Karen! May the pixie dust of a thousand fairies be sprinkled on your soul.

Nanny Goats Soars in Popularity

Some of you may be wondering what the hell kind of website this is. It's scatter-brained and unable to make up its mind in the template department (by the way, didn't we see this one already?)

It's a book review site. It's a self-absorbed personal essay site, where the author goes on and on about nothing. It's a bird. It's a plane.

Actually, it's been recently dubbed as a site where you will find "humorous commentary on just about anything". How cool is that? I'm quoting from a website called Between Us Girls whose owner, Lori, maintains a healthy dose of articles on a variety of women's issues regarding physical and emotional well being. Check it out, man. I mean, woman.

Yesterday, I bemoaned the fact that I had no blogger friends. And then just like that, BLAMMO!, I'm drowning in them. In fact, I'm lousy with bloggerettes now. Our mission statement has something to do with midlife, and I'm not sure where the company's headquarters is, but I know somehow it's all ByJane's fault why we've come together. I suspect we will keep each other company in the blogosphere and promote each other's websites. So, at some point you will begin to see a list of fellow midlife bloggerettes on the right (or left, depending on my mood) sidebar.

Nanny Goats Wins Yet Another Award

OK, widgets. Make way for my new badge of honor:

As awarded by ByJane, this award was founded by Kayla over at Project Mommy. I gave my acceptance speech over in ByJane's comment's section, so I won't bore you with it here. Needless to say, I was booed off the stage by the orchestra's swelling of Exodus. But don't you worry about me, I didn't take it personally. This alleged non-meme dictates that I anoint others.

Well, this is where my pitiful past rings my doorbell, hides under my bed, and slinks between those two too-small interview suits in the closet. Haunting me. I'm one of those blockheads at the bottom of the pyramid- er, network marketing hierarchy - as I have virtually no blogger friends.

Did you ever sell Amway or Cutco knives or MelaLeuca or whatever and you got to the point where you were asked to write down the phone numbers of ten of your friends and you were supposed to make appointments with them to SELL to them? I get sick just thinking about it. I really hate selling - my Cutco career lasted 4 days. And I really really don't like thinking about that part of my life. I get an icky loser feeling and want to run away.

Here's the thing: I have a long Christmas card mailing list. I have lots of "friends". My day job is in the IT industry. And I'm a writer. And a blogger. So you'd THINK that combination would add up to lots of blogging friends. Nope, apparently my friends have better things to do than dick around on the internet.

I only know two bloggers who qualify for Blog Awards. One who rarely posts and has gone a bit MIA and one who awarded my blog as Excellent. (By the way, thanks for the award, Jane - you make up 1/2 of my blogger community)

And the Excellence in blogging awards go to:

ByJane

Southern Pride

So congratulations to the big winners and I've once again turned my branch of the network tree into a lifeless brittle twig that will probably be struck by lightning.