After the KISS, They Wanted to Rock and Roll All Night

I was never going to get married. Or have kids. I'm 1 for 2 so far and it looks like that whole childless strategy is going to pan out. The thought of planning a wedding makes me want to take a nap, so when it was my turn, we eloped. I don't know whether to admire or shake my head at all the women out there willing to go to hell and back to have the "perfect day". But stress themselves out they do and without them, the rest of us wouldn't have such events to attend. And criticize afterwards.


So we're at this outdoor wedding the other day with MrMudPuppy playing the role of best man. It's an uncharacteristically gorgeous and cool 74 degree day in the foothills above Sacramento. I can't imagine the Farmer's Almanac predicting anything below 95 degrees at this time of year. A perfect day for a wedding.


Behind The Headquarter House, wooden stairs and hills lead up to a plateau of green grass with a gazebo. Coincidentally, the last time MudPup and I were here, back when the place was a restaurant, we celebrated our own engagement. You don't see the railroad tracks behind the row of nearby trees, but just as the reverend announced the Mister and Missus, a freight train roared by, violently vibrating away any sentiment our hearts held moments before. But this was a Rock and Roll wedding, 80's metal making most of the play list, so this was merely viewed as perfect timing.

At the beginning of the reception, we formed a two-line gauntlet and each member of the wedding party was introduced. They came through us, slapped our hands, acting like the rock stars they were. I was scrambling my brain trying to think of something crazy fan-like thing to do when the MudPup was introduced. I had too many underthings on blocking any quick panty removal to toss his way, so I did the next best thing...

Van Halen's And The Cradle Will Rock... erupts from the speakers while the DJ introduces MrMudPuppy to the cheering crowd. When he enters the gauntlet, I jump into it and run toward him frantically waving my arms and screaming like a properly obsessed fan. I plant a big wet one on his lips like a teenage girl who has rushed the stage and is about to be hauled away by security. We spin around - I see cameras everywhere capturing this Rock and Roll moment - and he struts down the rest of the gauntlet. And for some reason I'm giddy with excitement, having slobbered all over my husband in public.

For the lead-in to the garter toss, the groom disappeared head first under the bride's dress, lingered a little too long as if he'd gotten lost in there, and then jumped up producing a rubber chicken. He dove back in and began pulling out a string of flags that ultimately ended with the garter tied at the end.

As the bride and groom made their grand exit to the limo, we blew bubbles.

A playful wedding for a playful couple. It was perfect.

Kind of blows the wind out of this cynic's trash talking sails.

So, what's the coolest or most unusual thing you've seen at a wedding?

* * *

Nanny Goats Shout Outs

A big THANK YOU to The Learning Curve for linking to my Timeshare post. And for complimenting the story. And for mentioning Nanny Goats In Panties near a picture of some hot looking Laker Girls! Methinks he likes the ladies in uniform. The Learning Curve is also a member of the Sacramento Top 25.


And another shout out to After The Dust Settles who has generously added Nanny Goats to her blog roll. You have GOT to check out her pigs. A fabulous gift idea, if you ask me.

I'll Take "Weeks" for Ten Thousand, Bob

Today's blog is brought to you by the word: timeshare.

For those of you who don't know what a timeshare is, here's a brief primer, which some people pronounce "primmer" - why is that? First an advertisement appears before you as if by relentless and incessant ALLCAPS magic for a FREE TV, or a FREE DINNER CRUISE, or something else that turns out to be CRAPPY, but it's free. All you have to do is sit through a 1 hour presentation. You think, hey, I can do that. So you sit through a 2 or 3 hour presentation and then get pressured to buy a ten thousand dollar timeshare and you ultimately give in because they make it sound so cheap at 99 dollars a month for 37 years and even though the timeshare you buy is in Dusty Shithole, Kansas, you can simply exchange it for a week somewhere way more fabulous. And you have to buy the more expensive VIP red time slot so you have "more exchange power". Then you go on the crappy dinner cruise, which is really a couple of watery screwdrivers and some cold cuts and stale bread, and come back home seasick and ten thousand dollars in debt.

On top of that debt, you pay a "maintenance fee" of eight hundred some-odd dollars a year, which is more than many people pay for a week's lodging. So in case you haven't been doing the math, that's 10,000 smackers, plus the cost of financing those 10,000 smackers which on most loans would be another 10,000 smackers, plus the cost of lodging for a week, all so you can go on vacation somewhere and stay for free!

Now, you also have to pay an exchange fee with RCI or somebody for maybe $100 every year for the privilege of never getting the location you want when you want it. After a few years of aggravation, and perhaps some conclusionary analysis that the scoundrels oversell these imaginary pieces of property and that RCI is just another TicketMaster, where you're forced to pay a virtual scam artist/business model genius middleman to get in the way, you sell your schrewd investment for a cool $2,000.

THAT is a timeshare.

A certain member of my family, let's call him Dad, owns (and I use the term loosely) one of these cursed vacation-weeks-on-paper. He owns in Lake Tahoe, but we wanted to go to Hawaii. When I couldn't find one single condo in Hawaii for the next 13 months on RCI's lame online website, I called them up, because surely, I must have been doing something wrong. Some girl from India told me that Hawaii was indeed booked up and I asked her when the next anything from Hawaii was available.

"I can't look it up that way," she said. "You have to pick a location and specific week that you want."

Grrr...

"I want Hawaii in November."

"There is nothing available at that time in that location."

"Really?"

"It's a popular place. You have to book that way in advance."

"Like how way in advance?"

"Two years."

Did I mention that we have the VIP red time slot? If you want to make customer service laugh condescendingly at your feeble attempts to demand some level of importance, mention that you have the VIP red time slot. You know, for more "exchange power".

Since I can painstakingly look up more unavailable places all by myself online, I thanked her and tried to hang up, but not before she tried to sell me a 5 year renewal to RCI (because she could gladly help me with THAT transaction). Her lame online system must not have informed her that we just did one of those renewals the last time I was accosted after calling them a month ago.

Timeshares are great, if only for the guy that invented the concept and for the people who sell them. But unless you buy the very unit you wish to stay in during the same week every year, or you like to take the kids to Dusty Shithole, Kansas every year, save your pennies.

What about you? Any of you with a timeshare nightmare? Or are you one of the lucky ones that gets what you want out of it? And what do you know about Ocean City Maryland, because there's a bazillion openings there.

* * *

Nanny Goats Shout Out

Sue Doe-Nim (and her vagina) gets a big shout out for adding Nanny Goats and Panties to her blog roll. And if you don't get the vagina crack (oh, that might not be the best choice of words), check out her blog post from last Wednesday regarding such things. It's wickedly funny. And then read some more. She'll crack (good word choice this time) you up.

Hide The Clarinet Player!

Memorial Day Weekend in Sacramento brings the biggest (their words, not mine) jazz festival in the west. That's right, when we are not busy making names for ourselves trying to yank "under God" out of our daily pledge to the flag, we bring together the world's best jazz bands to Old Sac (not Old Town, you Pasadenians) and its nearby environs. And in celebration of this musical extravaganza, do you know what I do? That's right, I stay the hell away from it because my God, the crowds.

When I was a kid, it was called the Sacramento Dixieland Jazz Jubilee. Now it's called the Sacramento Jazz Jubilee. Why? Because apparently, now it's sans dixieland jazz. Which as far as I'm concerned is a crying shame. I for one, do not like standard jazz particularly, but I love dixieland jazz. It's so bouncy and happy and New Orleansy. I mean, who can listen to When The Saints Go Marching In without tapping at least three of their feet? I will listen to NPR all day long, until that blasted "trad jazz" crap comes on. Then I ferociously spin the dial over to some golf station. You know, because I'm lookin' for something that MOVES me.

I know a lot of people are of the opposite view, to whom I say: DIXIELAND-DIXIELAND-DIXIELAND. And it's because of you anti-dixites, that MY kinda music has been scraped from the playlist like the charred part from toast.

Now for all I know I'm talking out of my ass, assuming dixieland jazz is all but eradicated from the event, but when I looked at the genre of bands (traditional, zydeco, blues, etc.) guess which category was NOT on the list! So, while the Black Tuesday Jazz Band claims to play dixieland, they are listed under "classical". It's like: "OK, you play dixieland jazz? Well, we can't really put you under that, because we don't want to scare people. We'll just see who comes in and then see how it goes. You know, AFTER we get their $100."

So Dixieland jazz has been relegated to the underground. How do you like that? Secret handshakes and passwords and sunglasses and trenchcoats and "Pssst, c'mere buddy" and twenty-dollar bill-slippin' to the man in the know just to find out where you can get you some o' dat. Because as you know, you can never quite get rid of all the burnt bits, no matter how much you scrape.

May The Peace Be With You, Luke

You know those people who say "I can watch such and such a movie over and over because I see something new everytime"? Do you know why they see something new every time? I will tell you why. It is because they can't keep their big trap shut during the movie. They will buy the movie on DVD even though they've already seen it in the theatre, pissing the rest of us off who want to see it only once and want to hear every damn word the FIRST time. I pay gobs of money to see it in the theatre and for some crazy reason, expect people to shut the hell up so I can hear it. And I expect them to turn off their damn cell phones. But I guess that's like paying gobs of money for a house and expecting the neighbors to take care of their damn lawns oh don't get me started.

Anyway, my niece and I went to the movies the other night to see Death Note, which was playing all of two days (at 7:30pm only) here in Sacramento. I didn't know much about the movie, only that it was a Japanese animation movie and as it turns out, I was even wrong about that: it was live action.

As we walked toward Theatre 2, we passed a couple (or maybe they were just friends but that's not the point) who reeked of nerdiness. They were hunched-over, unkempt mouth-breathers with odd conversation oozing from their pie holes. They took turns growling and screeching and the girl said, "I like to freak people out," in a sort of Beavis and Butthead tone of voice. "It's like, my hobby."

We grabbed two seats inside and the place was full of Beavis and Buttheads, dweebs of all shapes and sizes. I was easily the oldest person there. There was a festive buzz in the theatre. These kids were FANS. A girl in the back proclaimed to all of us that it was her birthday and did people get all smart-assy on her like I expected? No, they shouted "Happy Birthday!" Someone else walked up to the front and announced something that people applauded, but I had no idea what he said.

Geeks to the left of me. Geeks to the right. I thought, This must be what it's like to go to Comic-Con or a Star Trek convention.

The first trailer came on and everyone cheered. It was an ad for an upcoming movie based on another Japanese comic book (excuse me, graphic novel [excuse me again, manga]): Bleach.

Then a commercial for some other Japanese comicy thing came on and more people cheered. The girls were woo-hoo-ing between each trailer, like giddy school girls. In fact, it seemed like there were more girls than guys in the theatre.

And then something wierd happened: the movie started and everyone shut up. For the WHOLE MOVIE. And the movie was actually good. A good premise, a good story, intriguing characters. Unfortunately, this was only Part 1, but it was still good and didn't leave me totally hanging off a cliff. And...AND...not one cell phone rang out.


So I guess if you want courteous neighbors who mow their lawns and say, "After you" at the grocery store and wave you on at 4-way stop signs, move to Nerdville.


* * *


Nanny Goats Shout Out

Nanny Goats would like to thank Tammi over at Love The Eclectic Life for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll. She's a blogging SAHM who's new to the SAHM scene and the blogging scene, so go over and say hi and tell her Nanny Goats sent you. I'm hoping she regales us with what's got to be a large mental library of retail nightmare stories.

... and one more thing....if you haven't clicked the Top 25 logo, please do so. The rankings have reset and I'm back at the bottom. Actually, clicking here will do the same thing.

And How Was The Weather In Your Neck Of The Woods?

Because it was a little windy over here yesterday.

I mean, it's no Coloradan tornado or anything, but...

Giant Metamorphosis

I was nearly mauled by this monster yesterday while deforesting the back forty:

(Click on pics to enlarge, unless you scare easily.)

Those logs he towers over may look like mere pine needles...


But do not be fooled by the optical illu- ... oh wait. Those are just pine needles.



But that would mean that this thing is ...less than half an inch.

huh.

Well, now I feel silly for even bringing that up.


And speaking of nonsequitors, Nanny Goats In Panties would like to thank you all for kindly clicking on that Top25 logo on the left each visit. It's keeping NGIP at Number 3!

And speaking of websites that cater to midlifers, a big shout out to Allison over at WomenBloom and a heartfelt Thank You for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to the blog roll on the Ask Allison Blog, as well as a mention in WomenBloom's latest newsletter! Thank you , Thank you, Thank you! WomenBloom inspires and supports women to make the most of midlife, so check it out!

There Once Was a Man With A Bucket

We here at Nanny Goats In Panties take pride in delivering prompt and frequent posts. We believe in quantity, not quality. And we understand that that is what our fans have come to expect. Which is why we sincerely apologize for not posting for the last 2 days. Nanny Goats has been busy tearing up mail into tiny pieces and eating it resulting in a tummy ache.

However, if you feel you've been neglected, you may apply for a pro-rated refund of your subscription cost, no questions asked.

So the other day as I was minding my own business in L.A. ('cause if you don't mind your own business, they shoot you), throngs of people began pouring off of busses and onto the sidewalk near the intersection of Sepulveda and Santa Monica Blvd. (And by the way, you can click on any of these pictures to see a larger version)

Who are the Janitors For Justice you may be asking right about now. Well let me tell you. These are dirt-hating people who are obsessive about cleaning. They must clean. All the time. It's all they think about. It's in their blood. Why else would they call themselves Janitors For Justice?

Some of us may think they are wierd, but they simply can't help the way they are. And just because they are different than us is no reason to discriminate against them. I mean, I personally can't stand cleaning (see previous post regarding bi-yearly dishwashing). But these guys? They love love LOVE it! And they want to shout it out to the world.

At first I thought, What are the Janitors For Justice doing outside? I didn't think they ever went outdoors. They are always indoors. Cleaning stuff.

Then I saw that they were simply organizing into a mass sanitation frenzy. They walked across the streets, picking up garbage, sweeping in each others' wakes, creating public awareness of their quirkyness. I couldn't understand everything they shouted, but it sounded like, "We are janitors! Down With Grime! Tote That Garbage! Lift That Pail!"

This woman began mopping up the gutters and the street...

These guys were so clever. I thought they were drums, but then they turned them over to reveal soapy buckets of water to scrub the sidewalks! Isn't that great?



Another fantastic thing about this group is that they are equal opportunity employers. For example, they don't discriminate against short people. In fact, Arturo here, has been a janitor for 18 years, and has risen to JFJ President, which is why he leads the group in this clean-up parade below.



I think this event was a combination Janitor Clean The Street/Biker Show...



Bikes of all shapes and sizes were there. This one's for the ladies...

Wocka, Wocka, Wocka!
L.A.'s Finest. Or is it Bravest? Or is it BestDressed? Oh, I can't remember now.




Anyway, if you're looking for a new purple T-Shirt and ruffled-skirt-over-sweat-pants number like the runway-ready outfit above, one that is snazzy enough to stop traffic, find out where the Janitors for Justice shop, because clearly they all frequent the same boutique.

So, as you can see, Nanny Goats isn't just about fine recipes, but we offer the latest tips in fashion too!

And speaking of fashion, mad props goes to Violette at BigShoes for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to the Just Your Size section of her blog roll. Not to mention mentioning Nanny Goats in her blog recently. Check out her recent post entitled "Money - The Root of All Evil". It'll make you laugh and fire you up, all in one sitting.

Say Mac & Cheese!

In defiance of National Salad Month, I am going to give you the secret to making photograph-worthy Macaroni and Cheese. I mean, because of you all, Nanny Goats In Panties has risen to #4 on the Sacramento Top 25, so the least we can do here is share one of our all-time favorites. And just in time for summer, too!

First make some macaroni and cheese and throw the leftovers in the fridge.

Two or three days later, remove leftovers from fridge and put in a microwave safe bowl.

Set timer to something that is clearly way too long, push the START button and walk away.


Remove this from the microwave:

I don't know if everyone can see this. Mortimer? (Mortimer's our cameraman). Mortimer, if you could just zoom in here, so we can all see just how much texture there is here...

Mmmmmm. And the great part about this is, it comes right out of the bowl with no trouble at all. Talk about your hassle-free recipe!

You can probably put your bowl right back in the cupboard after that smooth removal!

So, now that you've got your hockey-puck of a disaster delicious meal prepared, you need to find a circular container, preferably stainless steel. I like to add some orange rind for a little zing:

And you've got yourself a tasty delight! Now, didn't I tell you it was photograph-worthy?

Oh, that reminds me, did you know that May is also Fungal Infection Awareness Month ?

A Nanny Goats Shout Out...


So, Tootsie Farklepants & I were talking the other day over tea and crumpets. The usual stuff: vampires and the impact of blood-sucking on global warming. We can't seem to agree on that issue so it continues to gnaw at us. She seems to think that if any scary monster was responsible for tearing a hole in the ozone layer, it would be the gas-guzzling lycanthropes - something about all the carbon-dioxide-emitting moon-howling. I say, if she'd ever actually met and been bitten by Dracula, she might see vampires in a whole new light. In spite of our differences, I find her blog, Vintage Thirty, hysterical and she has generously added Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll. Thank you, Ms. Farklepants! There is a picture of Mac N Cheese on her blog as well, but hers looks way different than mine. Edible, even.

101 Degrees of Perspiration

Sacramento's heat is like a stealth bomber. Its viewfinder captures the tiny, naive people in the city below. It maps their coordinates and hears their thoughts. Thoughts like, "Oh, it's only May. Since gas prices are killing me, and I wanna be a good doobie, I'll ride my bike to work." Or: "Hey, since parking is such a pain in the wahtoosie where Sheila lives, I'll walk over there. It's only a mile. And it's only May. Lord knows, my fat ass needs the exercise." Or: "Hey it's Friday. Let's hit that weekly Concert series thing at Cesar Chavez Park."

Meanwhile, the stealth bomber locks its sights on these tiny urban dwellers with silly little notions of various outdoor activity. The entire city is in the cross hairs and click! - the heat bombs fall. Then BOOM! - the oppressive missiles crash and explode on all the unsuspecting victims, killing just about every one. Bodies are draped over bus benches, dried tongues hanging out of their dehydrated mouths. The whole city is devastated.

Luckily, though, I'm safe and locked up in my bomb shelter with the air conditioner set to 65 energy-wasting degrees.

If I had to write an open letter to Sacramento, it would look a little something like this:

Dear Sacramento,

Look, pal. It's bad enough you swelter us during the summer, and I understand you've gotten all caught up in the instant gratification craze that we all suffer from, but can't you wait a little bit longer before you pelt us with your triple digits? I mean, seriously.

Also, would it kill you to cool down sooner in the evenings? Certain event organizers (I won't name names, because I don't actually know them, but maybe they know who they are) insist on holding events outside. At 5pm!!! The hottest part of the day.

Speaking as a former long-sleeve-wearing, wool-uniform-even-in-the-summer-donning, marching member of the Sacramento Youth Band, I beseech you to cool off! I'm stuck here. Many of us are stuck here. We are all but naked before you, peeling off our wet perspiration-soaked rags, secreting salty, watery fluid from the glands in our skin - not to mention, sweating to death. We beg you, stay away from the One-oh-somethings!

And if you can't avoid the hot hot summer, could you at least wait until the goll-durned summer before we are doomed to feast in all your blistering glory? Have mercy, already!

Your loving, albeit panting citizen,
Nanny Goats In Panties

If You Disapprove of Shameless Plugging, Stop Now, I'm Warning You

Dude! You guys rock! I make a simple request and you delivered like the Speedy Gonzalez Pizza Hombres. My initial goal of making it to the top 25 websites on Sacramento Top 25 was met in less than 24 hours. And then it just kept climbing. And if you make it to the top 15, you get a banner next to your link and BLAMMO, MerlotMom tells me it's at 14 when she clicks the logo. Even as I type this, I'm at #9! Keep those fingers clickin', 'cause Nanny Goats is a ranking whore. (You know, taken out of context, that last sentence doesn't sound very pretty.)

And that's not all! Today, I was awarded the Post of The Day Award on The Rising Blogger. They reviewed my post about Mother's Day (which is also currently posted on midlifebloggers.com, by the way). So please read this review on The Rising Blogger and add a comment after mine where I give a tearful, yet heartfelt acceptance speech. (And am once again cut off by the exit music. These awards shows are not about the awardees anymore, I tell you!)

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an After Party, and an After After Party to attend and my publicist wants me to take a meeting tomorrow, so I gotta prepare for that, and my agent has been calling me nonstop since the announcement and, well, you know how it is.

No Campaign Promises Here, I Can Promise You That

So for some reason you click on a link which links to something else which links to something else and pretty soon you've got 14 browsers open and you are way out there in cyberspace losing your mind, exacerbating your ADD, completely forgetting to eat, and now you can't remember what the hell you were searching Google for in the first place.

And so it was on one of these occasions I tripped over the Sacramento Top 25 website. And I decided that Nanny Goats in Panties MUST BE ON THIS LIST. It became my life's goal to be one of the Top 25. I could be a contender. I could BE somebody.

As of press time, wee little Nanny Goats is ranked number 63 out of the 77 sites listed at the Sacramento Top 25. If you could see your way to clicking that logo on each visit here, or as often as you can remember, I want to see just how far I can climb. Will Nanny Goats make the Top 25? The rankings are reset every two weeks, so tune in tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and ...now a word from our sponsor...


Do you have hemmorhoids? Are you bored and listless? Do you find yourself camped in front of your computer every day wishing you could just go and kill 93 seconds of your life? Well look no further than the Nanny Goats' Silly Ass Questions Daily Trivia Quiz and Fun Park. It's loads of laughs and maddening at the same time. I mean, some of those user-contributed questions are absolutely assinine, but you keep coming back for more, and you know why? [cue Vivaldi's Four Seasons, Spring] Because it's a community of like-minded people getting irate at the stupid-ass questions together.

But don't just take our word for it. Listen to what some of our customers are saying about Nanny Goats Daily Trivia Quiz.

"I thank this quiz is jest about the stupidest but quickest dang waste of tahm thar is on the 'net." - Bubba (Dumpy Hills, Arkansas)

"Before I started taking the quiz, my tumors were getting bigger and bigger. And now, I'm in total remission." - Seymore Butts (Urine Valley, FL)

"The Nanny Goats Daily Quiz saved my marriage!" - M.R.S. (Salt Lake City, UT)

"It's not the itching and redness, it's the swelling and burning." - C. Myrash (Potatoville,ID)

You'll come for the fun, but stay for the pain.

Ask your doctor if Nanny Goats Silly-Ass Questions is right for you.

Some of Nanny Goats' best readers have signed up for this torture. That's the Daily Trivia Quiz. Come check it out. You'll probably be sorry you did.

...And now back to our regularly scheduled programming. The Top 25. Remember kiddies, vote early and vote often. Just clicking the logo on the left activates a vote for Nanny Goats.

Start Spreading The News

On June 3rd of last year, I met a friend (let's call him Myron just to piss him off) in New York City. Myron and I are best buds and we used to have coffee together all the time while working together in L.A., but then he had to go and move to Florida.

Jerk.

(Just kidding, Myro. He hates it when I call him Myro.)

Anyway, it just so happened that we'd both be in Manhattan on June 3rd. We had the whole day, so we crammed as much fun as possible into it: Bagels and coffee and the Staten Island Ferry...



...and coffee and lunch at the Seinfeld Coffee Shop...



and coffee and Central Park and more coffee, and lord knows what else. It was a hot and humid day, so we tried to limit the outside activity. But by the evening, it had cooled off and started to rain, so I darted into some cheap-ass department store near St. Mark's Square and snagged some jean jacket on sale. I think it's been hanging in my closet ever since, cursing me and the day I was born. Hey man, that thing is lucky I bought it. I mean, how many times did it have to be marked down before it finally caught a clue? "Nobody wants you, OK?" That jacket just needs to get over itself.

Anyway, Myron had a couple of longtime friends who had a musical theatre show at The Public near NYU. He'd already seen it the night before, but really wanted to see it again. We lucked out on some last minute tickets and thoroughly enjoyed the show.

The theatre was small with a square stage and the audience sat around it in a U-shape. Maybe 100 seats in the audience? The "orchestra" consisted of four people, each person seated on each side of the stage. They rose out from the floor at the beginning and sat at half height the whole show.

Afterwards, I met Myron's friends, Stew and Heidi, who cowrote the music and performed in the show. I told them and any other cast member I met how fabulous they were. I remember one of the actors, Daniel Breaker, telling me how they'd been workshopping this show for 4 years, and how they'd performed the show in Berkeley before coming to New York. He was still sweating, and looked exhausted and energized simultaneously. Ah, youth. I wanted to pat him on the head and tell him how wonderful he was and how I'm sure he'd go places, but why get his hopes up? I mean, what are the chances? It's show business, right?

At the time, we caught what we thought was the last show of the run. Then it got a great review in the New Yorker the next day and was promptly extended.

Then in February of this year, they opened the show on Broadway, at the Belasco Theatre.

Then, in March, I heard Stew and Heidi in an interview on NPR.

Then, yesterday, the cast appeared on The View to sing a medley of their songs.

Then, this morning, the show received 7 Tony award nominations.

My guess is, by the end of the summer they will have double-handedly acheived world peace in the middle east and cured cancer, all for a song.



Is it just me, or when Stew belts out the line "Welcome to Amsterdam" for the third or fourth time, do you find yourself swaying too?

If you ever have the opportunity, the show is called Passing Strange.

Oh yeah, and that little Danny Breaker kid? He was nominated for a Tony, too. I guess he's going to go places after all.

Whose Day Is It, Really?

I was a freshman in high school when I passed out in class, my head bonking against a desk in the next aisle over. Rather than letting me lay on the floor to let the blood return to my head, my teacher insisted I go to the nurse's office. And rather than pushing me in a wheelchair, the teacher instructed two girls in my class to walk me over there. It was more of a dragging than an escorting across the campus to the nurse. Later, my mother quoted the nurse, saying the sight of my blood-deprived pale head between two black girls looked like an Oreo cookie.

When the nurse called my mother to tell her what happened, she laughed. Why? Well, first of all, because my losing consciousness wasn't unusual under the circumstances. And second of all, the circumstances surrounding the event involved falling out of my chair during a film strip of "What to Expect During Your First Gynecological Exam" during that 9 weeks of P.E. where we learn everything about sex that is legally allowed to be taught by the school district.


My mother was a Stay At Home Mom before there was such a thing. I think they called them housewives back then. She belonged to the PTA. She crocheted my clothes (crocheted!) and I have the embarrassing class pictures to prove it.

She was there when I came home from school while Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman blared from the TV. She was there at my volleyball games, track meets, marching parades, and graduation. She was always...just...there. And always on time. Did I take that "there"-ness for granted? Absolutely.

Dinner was always at 6pm sharp. I think she timed it on purpose to prevent turning off Star Trek before it was over. As a result, I'm extremely obsessed about exact time and get pissed anxious if someone else is late. I guess my Mom inadvertantly trained me to have high expectations of people with time. I've been spending the rest of my life learning not to get so angry at people who don't have the frickin' courtesy to SHOW UP ON TIME, as if MY TIME isn't as IMPORTANT! GAHHHAAHHH!!! But anyway...

During my childhood, my mother was never a lecturer. She let me (and sometimes, to my frustration, forced me) to make my own decisions, which made me a very independent person, and is undoubtedly aggravating for others around me. She was not one to sit me down and tell me what to do, or manipulate me into doing what she wanted me to do. She led by example and by not forcing my path, I wound up emulating her in more ways than not.

I remember my childhood as full of humor and laughs, but also void of conflict and confrontation. Therefore, I grew up a virtual class clown, but ran away the instant a bully stepped into the light. Well, except for this one time.

There was this girl named Kathy Baretta (isn't it funny how you remember everyone's full names from junior high, but you can't remember that guy Bob Something who works over in Accounting?) who was picking on me. She kept asking me "What are you looking at?", even when I wasn't looking at her.

I went home begging for my Mom to save me. She told me that the next time Kathy asked me that daily question in P.E. class (why do most traumatic things always happen in P.E. class? Boy that Stephen King guy really nailed it with the Carrie story) that I should say, "A joke."

Now, that's something you'd say in the movies to create drama, or it's one of those things you fantasize saying after the fact, but if you really did something that stupid, it would lead to trouble and you deserved what you had coming. However, my Mom didn't dole out the advice very often, so I considered it.

The next day, Kathy waited until I was looking in her general direction when she popped the question: "What are you looking at?" I licked my lips, debating whether or not to say it. "Well?" she demanded.

And then I blurted it out: "A joke."

There were a few gasps in the crowd. Everyone watched her stalk toward me. "What did you say?"

Now, I can't remember if I repeated it, or backed down with a meek: "nothing". But she proceeded to kick my ass and later that day, I told my mother that her "plan" didn't work.

Other than that one incident, I have no complaints about how she raised me. She was generous, ethical, ever-present, and loving. And look at me, I came out perfect!


Fifteen years ago, on the day before Mother's Day, I delivered my mother's eulogy. She was killed by a drunk driver. She was 50. I was 27. Too young for either one of us to go through that sort of thing, if you ask me.

I envy women who still have their mothers to talk to, to ask historical questions, to find out when to expect menopause, to ask, ask and ask some more. There are some things only my mother would understand, accomplishments only my mother would applaud enough. She would have been my biggest fan. She would have read my blog every day and told me it was fabulous. Every time I think of her, a feeling of being robbed usually comes along for the ride.

I still dream about her and sometimes in the dream it's as though she's never left. Other times, I'm relieved to see she's still alive and I think, Wow! That's great she's alive, now we can go do stuff!

If she came back to life today, I'd take her to lunch at Buddha's Belly in Santa Monica, and brag about how well it's doing, being an investor and all. I'd take her to the beach and show her where I became Queen of The Jungle in a doubles volleyball tournament ten years ago. I'd drive past the Empty Stage on Pico and go on and on about how I'd killed during my stint in improvisational theatre.

Because on Mother's Day it would have been all about me.

No really, it's "Frog"

This might be all I have today, but rather than spending 1 minute reading my blathering, how about spending 1 minute watching this video and then maybe you can tell me what the MPAA would do with it.

Two Christians Walk Into A Bar...

I was sorting through my toenail collection a moment ago, and it occurred to me that I can't remember the last time I had a good blaspheming.

They say you should never discuss sex, religion, or politics in a group setting because it usually doesn't go well, but I'm going to see if I can mention something about religion without going to hell before I push the PUBLISH button.

Last night I went to see a couple of friends of mine perform their stand-up routine at a megachurch.



Amy (the Barnes of Barnes & Miner) is the other half of a writer's club that I belong to in L.A. Depending on how much Comedy Central you watch, you may have seen her before.

Have you guys ever been to a megachurch? Holy Cow! It's ridiculous. Imagine what a church would look like if it were in the Fortune 500. This place was a compound. A corporate-feeling building adorned the center of it. No steeple. No crosses. No statues. No stained glass. No pews. Just a big space inside with hardwood floors. And a colorful stage that looked like it was ready for an Amway rally. Or Abba.



Just outside the church in the next building where they had daycare for this event, was a Starbucks. A Starbucks! At a church! It was all so....suburban. It's easy to see why these places are called McChurches.

Before the show started, we were instructed to meet our neighbors, so we asked one of the regulars at our table how large the congregation was. His answer: ten to twelve thousand. Did I mention that this was a church? Not some central headquarters of some corporation (which is exactly what it looked like), but a church. I mean I'd read about these places before, but I'd never stepped foot in one of them.

But anyway, Barnes & Miner do a lot of megachurch gigs. Being Christian, married and comedians, they've carved themselves quite the niche. Can you even name the last stand-up married duo? Besides Stiller and whats-her-face?

So if you go to a McChurch, they may very well be headed your way, and I highly recommend them. And I'm not just saying that. Or maybe I am, what do I know? They don't restrict themselves to church gigs, but they keep it clean, if not necessarily tame. One minute, Amy & Jerry joke about online dating and the next, Amy plays the piano and sings a cringe-worthy but hysterical song about leprosy. So check 'em out.

And while we're on the topic of religious humor, I found a little web series entitled Mr. Deity. An irreverent look at the Big Cheese and his assistant Larry as they struggle over the Creation. I've enjoyed every goddamn entertaining episode to date.

You can get it at iTunes, or mrdeity.com or YouTube. Each episode is less than 5 minutes. Here's episode 1 (4 min.):

How To Drive Irrelevant Traffic To Your Website

Nanny Goats fans may not be surprised to see some of the search keywords used to get to my site. After having bitched posted about telemarketers, Starbucks, healthy digestion, masturbation, and middle-age, I give you a few phrases people have entered in search engines and then for some unbeknownst reason, ventured over to my site.

spank the monkey wiki

suck em up panties

celebrity panties sighting

baubo siren

all you can eat panty

panty all you can eat

all you can eat panties

poo poo panties

flashing panties on stairs

panty tent pole

801-623-4621

load up on panties

nannies in panties

do guys were panties

here are my personal favorites for the month:

how to keep kids from nursing off nanny goats

bring the car into the garage with panties and a tshirt

and last but not least:

what's the matter with you

Indeed.

I am raising my hand up high, teacher, because I have a few questions:

1. What the hell are you actually looking for with "panty", "tent", and "pole"?

2. Do you seriously think from the search results of "suck em up panties", that a website called "Nanny Goats In Panties" would be some online store to meet your pervy needs?

3. poo poo panties? Really? ... Ick.

Of course, now Nanny Goats will appear twice when someone is looking long and hard for "panties dollar", another search phrase I neglected to mention. Until now.

If I were King of the search engines and some wierdo asked me to crawl the web for him and bring him back a little sumthin' sumthin', I'd say, "Yeah, I got yer 'nannies in panties' right here, pal."

Respect This, Farmer Bob

In celebration of International Respect For Chickens Day, I have transcribed a little ditty.

It's a song about a little chicken named Aretha (for lack of imagination on my part), who belongs to a Farmer named Bob (see previous lack of imagination reference). Farmer Bob is a friend of mine and while I was visiting his farm today, he took me out to the hen house where Aretha lives. As we approached, he called out to her.

It was dusk and an eerie glow emanated from the coop. Aretha, in all her blotchy yellow feathered glory, emerged from the doorway and a blue-white beam of light shone down on her down. She was wearing a white feather boa and she sashayed sideways down the little chicken ramp as the music started. She cradled an extra large grade A egg in her wings. Three smaller chickens appeared from out of nowhere to back her up (parenthetically). I'm not sure I got all the words right, but what they sang went a little something like this:

[ed. to be sung to the tune of Respect, as performed by Aretha Franklin]

(oo) What you want

(oo) Baby, I got

(oo) What you need

(oo) Do you know I got it?

(oo) All I'm askin'

(oo) Is for a little respect when you want eggs (just a little bit)

Hey baby (just a little bit)

'Cause I'm gettin' sore (just a little bit)

Farmer (just a little bit)

I ain't gonna leave my poop, all over this coop

Ain't gonna stop churnin' (oo) 'though my ass is burning (oo)

All I'm askin' (oo)

Is for a little respect when you grab these - (just a little bit)

Babies (just a little bit) when you want some (just a little bit)

Yeah (just a little bit)

------ instrumental break accompanied by circles of chicken scratching------

Ooo, your grabby hands (oo)

Rougher than coal (oo)

And guess what? (oo)

So is my egg hole (oo)

All I want you to do (oo) for me

Is use some damn hand lotion once in awhile (re, re, re ,re)

Yeah baby (re, re, re ,re)

And smooth it on me (respect, just a little bit)

When you want eggs, now (just a little bit)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T Find out why my butt's a throb

R-E-S-P-E-C-T Take care, Farmer Bob

Oh (bawk it to me, bawk it to me, bawk it to me, bawk it to me)

A little respect (bawk it to me, bawk it to me, bawk it to me, bawk it to me)

Or something like that.

I guess you had to be there.

Let There Be Blight

Ahhhh, back in Sac, the little town that hasn't. Did you know Sacramento ranks #5 in the country in foreclosures? Yeah, we're pretty proud of that. I get to come back home to news stories like the one about the people who are vandalizing the homes they can't afford anymore (that they couldn't afford in the first place, actually, and now if they can't have it, no one can.)


Wishful thinkers disguised as talking heads tell us that we're close to the bottom and things should get better next year. It's amazing how the media coupled with mob mentality can be so effective in creating mass delusion. People have a short memory, and believe what they want to believe.

I'm not bitter or anything, but a few years ago flippant flippers swooped in, raped and pillaged, and scrambled out, all the while proclaiming that home prices were going to climb forever. "...and you can just get this interest-only loan with a zero down payment...." What could possibly go wrong?



And now housing market optimism hype spreads like teenage STDs.

But the fact is that there are still plenty of 3 or 5 year adjustable-rate loans that have yet to reset in 2008 and 2009, not to mention all those "liar loans" dotting the financial landscape. (For those of you who haven't fallen asleep yet, liar loans are no-doc loans or stated income loans where the borrower is simply asked to state their income, and taken at their word.)

Foreclosed homes remain vacant, and many are vandalized, creating neighborhood hazards described with words like blight, disease, and poverty. These conditions take years to recover, if they ever do. What part of all that allows the market to "turn around" by next year?

I thought blight and disease were reserved for trees. Granted, houses are made out of trees and Sacramento is the City of Trees. We should we change our motto to: Sacramento - The City of Blight and Disease (which rhymes with trees, by the way).



Kinda makes you want to bust out your AAA Travel Guide book and arrange a trip to the capitol of California right away, doesn't it? Yeah, and if you're interested we've got a McMansion or two or twelve for sale, dirt cheap. Come on down.

... IN OTHER NEWS ...

Nanny Goats would like to step off the soap box for a second to give mad props to Onedia In The Ozarks. This beautiful blog, run by the Super D Duper Miss Onedia, has been generous enough to not only link to Nanny Goats, but to also throw it into the "Laugh Out Loud" category. Thanks, Onedia!