My stepbrother was chowing down with my father today at some barbeque place in Sacramento (Texas Barbeque or some such place) when he heard my father making a weird constricting ‘whee’ noise. Brother G looked up to see my father’s eyes filled with fear.
“Are you okay?” asked Brother G.
My father shook his head ‘no’.
“Are you choking?”
My father nodded.
Brother G’s biggest fear in life is to witness someone choking, a childhood memory he never wanted to re-live. Later in life, he took a basic first aid course a long time ago where he learned something very important.
He got up and stood behind my father to perform the Heimlich maneuver, once, then twice to no avail.
“Stand up,” he told my father.
Other people in the restaurant stopped what they were doing. Chairs from other tables scraped across the floor as they stood. To help? Or to helplessly watch?
Brother G performed the Heimlich again and dislodged whatever lunch mass was blocking his airway.
“Are you okay now?” Brother G asked.
“Yes,” said my father.
Brother G sat down. Everyone else slowly stopped staring while a waitress came over and asked if Dad was okay.
“I am now,” said Dad.
Brother G told me that in less than a minute my father’s fork was back in his mouth.
“Boy, you scared the shit out of me just now,” said Brother G, a sweaty shaky mess.
“Well, how do you think I felt?” asked Dad.
And I thought I wasn’t going to have anything to blog about today. Gee, thanks, Dad!
Hey, while you're here, could you do me a solid and click on this link which will bump me up a bit in the Sacto Top 25 rankings? That's it, just one click, nothing else. Thanks, man.
Now go tell someone you love them. Before they choke to death on some pork ribs.
The Museum Exhibits in New York They Don't Want You To Know About
When Kathcom over at Magick Sandwich recommended I go see the "kooky genius" that is Buckminster Fuller at the Whitney Museum in Manhattan, she failed to mention that I would bear witness to one of the biggest hoaxes known to man. That's right, the "kooky genius" architect, father of all things geodesic, is the brains behind all those flying saucers.
Witchita House, my ass. That's an alien spaceship if I ever saw one.
The "dwelling machine" was built in 1946.
Roswell Crash Incident: 1947.
Coincidence? I think not.
Why is nobody talking about this? This should be all over the TV and radio. UNLESS!...all the conspiracy theorists/UFO believers are paying off the media to prevent the story from getting out.
What are they afraid of? It's not like people stopped believing in Bigfoot after two attention whores pawned off a rubber suit as Sasquatch.
I am sorry to say you will miss this exhibit as it only ran thru September 21. Isn't that just convenient? They get wind of my blog idea and they pull it. Maybe you can catch them loading all that crap onto the truck before they ship it off to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, where they've been keeping the aliens and their spaceships all this time. I don't know exactly where the museum is, but it's on the Upper East Side somewhere, near a real big park.
I can't remember the name of the big park, but it's sort of Central to everything in the city. And it's real big. You can't miss it. They should call it The Big Park in the Center of the City. I mean - that would make the most sense. It's practical if not imaginative.
Witchita House, my ass. That's an alien spaceship if I ever saw one.
The "dwelling machine" was built in 1946.
Roswell Crash Incident: 1947.
Coincidence? I think not.
Why is nobody talking about this? This should be all over the TV and radio. UNLESS!...all the conspiracy theorists/UFO believers are paying off the media to prevent the story from getting out.
What are they afraid of? It's not like people stopped believing in Bigfoot after two attention whores pawned off a rubber suit as Sasquatch.
I am sorry to say you will miss this exhibit as it only ran thru September 21. Isn't that just convenient? They get wind of my blog idea and they pull it. Maybe you can catch them loading all that crap onto the truck before they ship it off to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, where they've been keeping the aliens and their spaceships all this time. I don't know exactly where the museum is, but it's on the Upper East Side somewhere, near a real big park.
I can't remember the name of the big park, but it's sort of Central to everything in the city. And it's real big. You can't miss it. They should call it The Big Park in the Center of the City. I mean - that would make the most sense. It's practical if not imaginative.
So These Two Aliens Walk Into A Chapel...
All right, all right…I guess there ARE a COUPLE of things to do in New York City - thanks to YOU guys anyway. As recommended by msmeta of Adventures at Midlife and Alessia of Musings From The Crypt, I went to The Cloisters . This may sound like a song, but I took the A Train to get there. It’s way up north, like almost Canada. But I got to see this cool medieval stone carving that used to hang over a 12th century yoga studio:
And who knew Salvadore Dali’s great, great, great, (etc…) grandfather was an artist?
By now, some of you Cloisters experts are probably saying, "Hey, what kind of crap is that? Where are the medieval doorways? And it's not called the Cloisters for nothing you birdbrain! Show us the goddam Cloisters!" and you would be right.
For example, here is one of those medieval arches:
The doors to the eerie glow behind them were closed while the sign posted just in front of them read:
By the way, why in the hell don't they post signs that say NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY, so that I didn't have to get yelled at by some kid in a uniform when I flashed away at this Unicorn Tapestry?
And keep your shirt on pal, here's a picture of your damn Cloisters, already.
There. Happy now, you Cloisters freaks? Don't say I never gave you nuthin'.
And who knew Salvadore Dali’s great, great, great, (etc…) grandfather was an artist?
By now, some of you Cloisters experts are probably saying, "Hey, what kind of crap is that? Where are the medieval doorways? And it's not called the Cloisters for nothing you birdbrain! Show us the goddam Cloisters!" and you would be right.
For example, here is one of those medieval arches:
The doors to the eerie glow behind them were closed while the sign posted just in front of them read:
Stay out!
This means you!
We are aliens from the planet Zymog and we are busy repairing our spaceship that your lousy magnetic fields have detransmogrophied. We'd take off our jackets and stay awhile, but your apartment views suck butt. You will have access to this silly little chapel next Tuesday when our Dr. Quark has restored our takeoff thingy. He will be sure to announce our departure with a pithy farewell at which time you may have access to your silly little chapel again. So, why don't you go check out the rest of the museum and walk away now? We hear the stained glass is representative of your parents.
By the way, why in the hell don't they post signs that say NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY, so that I didn't have to get yelled at by some kid in a uniform when I flashed away at this Unicorn Tapestry?
And keep your shirt on pal, here's a picture of your damn Cloisters, already.
There. Happy now, you Cloisters freaks? Don't say I never gave you nuthin'.
There's No "Escaping" This NYC Tour
Since there is nothing to do in New York City, I’ve decided to make up my own tour: The Nanny Goats In Panties Drop Dead Gorgeous Fire Escapes of Manhattan. It’s a short tour.
We pick you up at 42nd and Broadway right smack in the middle of the road, where you board trolley style. The bus, or minivan, or whatever mode of transportation we’ve managed to pilfer for that day, slows down just enough for you to jump on (or hop on, whichever you prefer - we’re flexible like that). We keep our medicine trunk fully stocked for those of you we accidentally drag down the street before finally pulling over because we can’t take any more of your bloody screams or the incessant begging of your traveling buddies to stop the bus (or minivan, or whatever). We’ll even provide $10 pint-sized overpriced bottles of water at a 10% discount. But we will charge for the bandages.
Once we’re moving and have picked up sufficient speed, we will then hang a hard left and barrel down 47th Ave and screech to a halt in Hell’s Kitchen. You will disembark the bus and be shown this crowning achievement in fire escapes design.
Then as you are all pulling your cameras out of their cases, the bus will burn rubber, leaving you stranded in Hell’s Kitchen to fend for yourselves (unless you had the foresight to tip your driver ahead of time, or if you bought something expensive from the NGIP Gift Shop in the back of the bus).
So, enjoy, good luck, and don’t forget to tip your driver and tell your friends!
Now, does anybody want to add a caption to this picture?
We pick you up at 42nd and Broadway right smack in the middle of the road, where you board trolley style. The bus, or minivan, or whatever mode of transportation we’ve managed to pilfer for that day, slows down just enough for you to jump on (or hop on, whichever you prefer - we’re flexible like that). We keep our medicine trunk fully stocked for those of you we accidentally drag down the street before finally pulling over because we can’t take any more of your bloody screams or the incessant begging of your traveling buddies to stop the bus (or minivan, or whatever). We’ll even provide $10 pint-sized overpriced bottles of water at a 10% discount. But we will charge for the bandages.
Once we’re moving and have picked up sufficient speed, we will then hang a hard left and barrel down 47th Ave and screech to a halt in Hell’s Kitchen. You will disembark the bus and be shown this crowning achievement in fire escapes design.
Then as you are all pulling your cameras out of their cases, the bus will burn rubber, leaving you stranded in Hell’s Kitchen to fend for yourselves (unless you had the foresight to tip your driver ahead of time, or if you bought something expensive from the NGIP Gift Shop in the back of the bus).
So, enjoy, good luck, and don’t forget to tip your driver and tell your friends!
Now, does anybody want to add a caption to this picture?
It's Pronounced 'Veeshluh'
If you’re in New York and want people to just walk right up to you and constantly interrupt your dinner and talk to you and give you lots of attention short of asking for an autograph, simply bring a dog along. But you don’t want to bring just any dog, you want the Ferrari of dogs. You want people to stop in their tracks, crane their necks and yell, “What is that, a Vizsla?”
I am referring to what must be THE dog to have right now and DennisTheVizsla knows what I’m talking about.
I’m having dinner with a friend on the Upper East Side the other night (Spigolo at 81st and 2nd, if you must know) and I SWEAR TO GOD! Every 15 minutes. Passersby would crawl up to our table -- New York strangers, mind you -- and coo and cuddle and pet. The dog, that is.
“Is that a Viszla?”, they’d ask in wonder as if they’d never seen one before.
OK, maybe I’m not being fair. Come to think of it, I guess I’ve never seen one in real life before either, and maybe I’m bemused because I am childless and petless, so I have no justifiable reason to ever talk to strangers, but I’ll complain until I’m blue in the face about how nobody talks to each other any more. How we’ve lost our sense of community. How if I even try to engage in conversation with a stranger then he or she will utter more than a terse grunt only if he or she is crazy, because only wacko, desperate and deranged people talk to strangers. Which means plenty of people think I’m crazy. But dogs give lonely people an awesome excuse to talk to each other.
Perhaps DennisTheVizsla can bark in on this topic as to whether it’s the breed or the whole dog species that promotes such congeniality among otherwise hostile people. Or maybe all you other dog owners out there know about this odd behavior. Is there some sort of caste system? Like if you have a mutt and try to talk to someone with a dolled up poodle, will the poodle owner snub you? Do good-looking dog owners get approached more often? Do certain breeds increase your chances for conversation?
Anyway may I introduce the lovely and talented 7-month-old Tawny with whom I had a very interrupted dinner?
Hey, did you know that Clifford the Big Red Dog was a Viszla?
Me neither!
I am referring to what must be THE dog to have right now and DennisTheVizsla knows what I’m talking about.
I’m having dinner with a friend on the Upper East Side the other night (Spigolo at 81st and 2nd, if you must know) and I SWEAR TO GOD! Every 15 minutes. Passersby would crawl up to our table -- New York strangers, mind you -- and coo and cuddle and pet. The dog, that is.
“Is that a Viszla?”, they’d ask in wonder as if they’d never seen one before.
OK, maybe I’m not being fair. Come to think of it, I guess I’ve never seen one in real life before either, and maybe I’m bemused because I am childless and petless, so I have no justifiable reason to ever talk to strangers, but I’ll complain until I’m blue in the face about how nobody talks to each other any more. How we’ve lost our sense of community. How if I even try to engage in conversation with a stranger then he or she will utter more than a terse grunt only if he or she is crazy, because only wacko, desperate and deranged people talk to strangers. Which means plenty of people think I’m crazy. But dogs give lonely people an awesome excuse to talk to each other.
Perhaps DennisTheVizsla can bark in on this topic as to whether it’s the breed or the whole dog species that promotes such congeniality among otherwise hostile people. Or maybe all you other dog owners out there know about this odd behavior. Is there some sort of caste system? Like if you have a mutt and try to talk to someone with a dolled up poodle, will the poodle owner snub you? Do good-looking dog owners get approached more often? Do certain breeds increase your chances for conversation?
Anyway may I introduce the lovely and talented 7-month-old Tawny with whom I had a very interrupted dinner?
Hey, did you know that Clifford the Big Red Dog was a Viszla?
Me neither!
NYC: It's a Nice Place to Visit, But...
Did I mention I’m in New York this week? I did? Well, did I mention that I rented an apartment? They say you get what you pay for, but I’m getting even less than that. She said there was wireless internet access. Not even!
I bet if I’d asked about the view, she’d have claimed that I could see for miles and miles, because check out my view from the kitchen:
The view of a penthouse, right?
Did I mention that the water pressure coming out of the shower is less than that coming out of the sink faucet?
Look, I realize I’m a big baby when it comes to internet access and I spent all day yesterday trying to find a free wifi café because dammit, my blog’s diapers needed changing, but do they have to serve it up like I’m two years old?
And what’s up with the phallic plastic ware?
How I Stole The Emmy from the Leading Competition
Saturday night I did the John Edwards thing and Twittered from the Emmys to keep all the NGIP fans up to date on the latest celebrity sighting, LIVE, as it was happening. I Twittered every 60 seconds, I couldn't keep up with it all. Eventually I gave up from finger cramps after about two minutes, but BOY! Were you instantly informed there for a while.
First of all, I was wrong about the lack of paparazzi, the place was lousy with 'em.This is Erin, the co-executive producer for TNGIPVRH (The Nanny Goats In Panties Virtual Reality Hour) on the red carpet. Poor Erin, none of the paparazzi wanted to take a picture of her, so I kindly offered to shout "Erin! Over here, Erin! Who are you wearing?" and snapped a photo:
Does anybody recognize the two little elfin mop tops in the back? Because for some reason the papas were all over them.I did manage to walk past Sharon Gless on the red carpet. At least I recognized ONE person. Sheesh! Unfortunately, when I tried to take a picture of her, a couple of her body guards manhandled me like Sean Penn. (Which I suppose for some women, wouldn't be a bad thing)
Rumor had it that it was going to be a a long ceremony. This photo was taken just before entering the theatre and some people came prepared.This is the inside of the new Nokia Theatre where the Rat's Ass Emmys were held (and will be held next week for the real Prime Time Emmys:
After the ceremony, we were led to the Convention Center next door for the Governor's Ball, where each guest was greeted with a box of big ass chocolate candy bars in their chair (and the first course of shrimp salad, which of course led me to wonder....'How long has that shrimp been sitting there on that room-temperature table?'
Then the main course where there was more shrimp, some meat thing with mushrooms and asparagus and fried Mac-n-Cheese. Mmmmmm....mac-n-cheese - that's what I'm talkin' about. None o' this fancy schmancy basil-brushed tenderloin in a wine reduction sauce topped with a smashed red thingy:
And for dessert, "diamonds" of something:
The band and diamond encrusted, Emmy-themed ballroom:
Some woman complimented me on my dress. It was all I could do not to tell her who I was wearing (Dress Barn $39.99). See? People just assume; you're at a swanky ball, so it must be some hideously expensive designer get-up.
And that was pretty much it....
Oh yeah! You're probably wondering if I won an Emmy for The Nanny Goats In Panties Virtual Reality Hour.
Does this answer your question?
No? Well what if I tell you that that's me in the picture, then does it answer your question?
NGIP is #1 and Not Afraid to Rub Your Nose In It
OK, am I the only one to get excited over a little number?
Thank you Preston over at Me and the Blue Skies for giving me the Kind Blogger Award. Because I am nothing but dripping with kindness. Want some candy, little girl? BWUHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I won't pass it on, as awards seem to be saturating the blogoshpere like Amway salesmen (excuse me, Quixtar salesmen), but I did want to acknowledge Preston for bestowing this award for which I so humbly accept and richly deserve and it's about damn time.
This is so that I can fly down to LA and hit the Emmys before I traipse off to New York. No, it's not the celebrity-laden Emmys. It's the one they hold the week before for all the non-celebrity types that no one knows about (because no one cares). So yeah, that's the one I'm going to. They should call it the Rat'sAss Emmys. But I'm going to walk across the same damn red carpet at the same damn venue as the real Emmys and go to the same damn after-party they hold for all the nominees. The cool thing is, I can act like a total ass with no fear of papparazzi!
If you're lucky I will pose with my Emmy and show you guys that shiny bad boy, which I'm sure I will win, because anybody who is anybody knows that The Nanny Goats In Panties Virtual Reality Show is the best damn show on television right now.
So, I got this in my email box:
Once again someone has spent countless hours pouring over the last three and half years of my posts and come to the same conclusion that all my fans have - that Nanny Goats rocks. And...they are ready to pay cash! Who needs blog ads when big famous internet moguls are ready to pay the big bucks for your blog?
I want to thank all you little people who stood by me when I thought this blog was going nowhere, when I thought nobody would ever read this blog, when I got nothing but hate mail threatening to do evil with goats in panties. Heyyyyy, that would make a good Emmy speech. Mind if I use that?
I wonder how many millions of dollars Mr. Jones will be handing over to me.
And speaking of awards...
Thank you Preston over at Me and the Blue Skies for giving me the Kind Blogger Award. Because I am nothing but dripping with kindness. Want some candy, little girl? BWUHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I won't pass it on, as awards seem to be saturating the blogoshpere like Amway salesmen (excuse me, Quixtar salesmen), but I did want to acknowledge Preston for bestowing this award for which I so humbly accept and richly deserve and it's about damn time.What the Hell is There To Do in Manhattan? I Mean, Really.
Last night, as I was spraying down my elephant, Gwendolyn, I wondered, What the hell am I going to do in New York next week? I mean, it's not like there's anything to do there, right?
O.K. I'm kidding. My elephant's name is really Larry, but he's having gender issues right now and I've decided to humor him as he goes through this trying phase.
But as I was saying, New York. I'll be in Manhattan next week, goofing off and going to a wedding. Well, not a wedding exactly, that's for close friends and family. I'm part of the extraneous guest list that gets to go to the reception. The young bride-and-groom-to-be are artists as evidenced by the 8x11 invitation I received in one of those large cardboard envelopes:
Anyway, I've got the whole rest of the week to "do Manhattan". Last year I did things like this:
I took a ride on the Staten Island Ferry where you can get THIS CLOSE to the Statue of Liberty!
I took a picture of this guy's dog in the Village:
I had dinner at THIS coffee shop:
I went to MOMA and saw THIS piece of art:
and train stations:
Now if you have any MUST-SEE suggestions, I'd love to hear them. Got a favorite pizza place? Broadway show? Museum exhibit? A place to sit and blog to you guys? Cupcake place? Cannoli place?
Oh, and uh, if you know of any elephant-sitters with a LOT of patience and understanding when it comes to unpredictable hormonal sobbing and I'm Not Really A Waitress toenail polish, please send them my way.
O.K. I'm kidding. My elephant's name is really Larry, but he's having gender issues right now and I've decided to humor him as he goes through this trying phase.
But as I was saying, New York. I'll be in Manhattan next week, goofing off and going to a wedding. Well, not a wedding exactly, that's for close friends and family. I'm part of the extraneous guest list that gets to go to the reception. The young bride-and-groom-to-be are artists as evidenced by the 8x11 invitation I received in one of those large cardboard envelopes:
Anyway, I've got the whole rest of the week to "do Manhattan". Last year I did things like this:
I took a ride on the Staten Island Ferry where you can get THIS CLOSE to the Statue of Liberty!
I got THIS CLOSE to Chris Angel's blurry butt in Midtown:
I took a picture of this guy's dog in the Village:
I had dinner at THIS coffee shop:
I went to MOMA and saw THIS piece of art:
I took pictures of things in subway stations:
and train stations:
So, yeah. That kinda stuff.
Now if you have any MUST-SEE suggestions, I'd love to hear them. Got a favorite pizza place? Broadway show? Museum exhibit? A place to sit and blog to you guys? Cupcake place? Cannoli place?
Oh, and uh, if you know of any elephant-sitters with a LOT of patience and understanding when it comes to unpredictable hormonal sobbing and I'm Not Really A Waitress toenail polish, please send them my way.
The Thing That Wouldn't Die
This past weekend, the blogosphere was resplendent with horror stories. Creatures everywhere invaded our homes.
Maggie Dammit had bats in her belfry.
Sprite's Keeper wrote a letter to the spider in her house.
JD at I Do Things has a mouse in the house. Somewhere. Maybe under the refrigerator.
Chat Blanc has a wasp.
Today I present a 46 second video that exemplifies my own difficulty in murdering a cockroach a few days ago.
* * *
If you're in need of a new addiction, try the Nanny Goats In Panties Torture Ride and Fun Park.
Maggie Dammit had bats in her belfry.
Sprite's Keeper wrote a letter to the spider in her house.
JD at I Do Things has a mouse in the house. Somewhere. Maybe under the refrigerator.
Chat Blanc has a wasp.
Today I present a 46 second video that exemplifies my own difficulty in murdering a cockroach a few days ago.
* * *
If you're in need of a new addiction, try the Nanny Goats In Panties Torture Ride and Fun Park.
There's Never a Hero Around When you Need One
It was midnight in Los Angeles. Time to hit the hay. Man, was I sleepy. I was just about to descend the stairs when I realized I was eye-level with Franz Kafka's main character in The Metamorphosis clinging to the stairwell ceiling. It was a monster, I tell you!
My first thought was OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD HE'S A MONSTER!!!!! In fact, I think my face resembled that spill stain on Significant Snail's stove the other day.
My second thought was, "Where is my camera? Because when I blog about this adventure I'm about to dive into, I'm gonna need a picture!"
The problem? The monster was hanging between me and my camera, and I wasn't about to walk underneath that behemoth, have it fall on my head and get tangled up in my hair. I'd have screamed like a banshee (that simile in honor of Authoring Auctioneer's post about the correct usage of "like"), rudely disturbing my sleeping roommate.
See, if this were in Sacramento, I could scream for help and my husband would ride in on his white horse and slay the dragon with his mad lancing skillz. However, this was not Sacramento and the last time I called upon a roommate in L.A., it resulted in two chickens running around the house screaming with the heebie jeebies and "You do it!", "No! You do it!". That, plus my guilt over waking up someone who had to get up at 4am overpowered (just barely) my fear of having to do the deed myself.
My squirm count escalated as I strategized how I was going to kill this thing. And I HAD to kill it (sorry, Scratch Bags, I know how you don't like to kill anything, including bugs). If I merely chased it off somewhere, I would never NEVER get to sleep.
I found some Raid underneath the sink and decided I would spray it to death. It was too big for me to crush with a shoe. Let me emphasize that it was too big for ME to crush with a shoe. I was getting more and more creeped out by the minute and when that happens, I have to be further and further away from it as I do damage. Therefore, it is essential that I kill it ASAP. Otherwise there is a turning point at which I am completely immobilized into a sweaty, shaking and useless mess. I would stand there paralyzed while peeing on the carpet and requiring some sort of mental hospitalization. So the stress of THAT thought is enough to motivate me to kill.
I sprayed at Satan on the ceiling, filling the house with noxious fumes, certain the smell would choke my roommate out of his slumber. The monster clicked across the stairwell ceiling and I continued to spray (PSSSSSssss!). He crawled along the carpet and down the hallway (PSSSSSSsss!). He slipped in between some boxes at the end of the hallway. (PSS- - ) I stopped, and listened to him shuffle around between the boxes. It sounded like a rat crunching on peanut shells. I wanted him to come out. I needed him to come out. My sole purpose at that moment was to end this evil being's life.
He emerged from the boxes and crawled toward me on the carpet. I walked backwards (PSSSSsssss!) He turned around and crawled away from me (PSSSssss!). He made a right turn into the bathroom and I followed him as he crawled along the bottom of the sink cabinet (PPPSSSsss!) and skittered along the side of the cabinet, disappearing behind the toilet.
Well, now what? By now I'm gagging on poisonous fumes. I walked into the bathroom, scrunching up my toes so he couldn't get his mealy armor in between them in case he came scurrying out in a surprise attack. Several times I walked in, toes curled, and backed out, too afraid to check behind the toilet. Or I'd take one step in and bend over to peek around the bathroom cabinet and pull back while wincing from the carpet-soaked Raid fumes in the hallway.
I finally made the leap and peered around the toilet bowl to see the monster on his back with his legs flailing around. How does that happen? I mean he was upright a minute before. How does he wind up on his back? Does he do the dramatic swoon like Daffy Duck whose just been shot, twirling around, saying "Ugh, you got me! Goodbye cruel world!" Why wouldn't he just stop crawling? What's with the flip and the theatrics? Drama queen.
(PSSSSSssssssss!) He wouldn't stop flailing. I had to figure out the next step of Operation Monster Reduction. What would I do if this guy finally petered out? And if you think for one minute I could pick him up with a paper towel WITH MY BARE HANDS you are sadly mistaken, fella. I don't care that I wouldn't actually be touching him with my bare hands. I had too much time to think about his crunchiness and would therefore require a shovel.
Only I don't have a shovel. It's a condo for Chrissakes, what would I be doing with a shovel? Oh, killing bugs, yes that's very funny. You sure are quite the comedian when you want to be. In any case, I don't have any place to put a shovel. But never mind that, there's a squirrelly cockroach in the bathroom right now and I need to find something to kill him and transport him out of the house because there is NO WAY I'm going to throw him in the trash. Since he's clearly not dying anytime soon, I can't risk throwing him into what would essentially be a life-giving force, a veritable pantry for him to nosh on overnight, gaining back his strength and in perfect cartoon likeness, pop back to his normal body fullness and track me down while I slept and crawl all over me and in and out of my orifices. Ick and Shudder!
So I grab the Swiffer, march back into the bathroom and start pounding him with the flat bottom of the tool. (See Orion? The Swiffer is awesome!) He keeps wiggling his legs and I keep pounding the floor which is right over my sleeping roommate's bedroom, although he hasn't managed to wake up during this whole ordeal.
After several stampings, the monster appears to be succumbing to my shock and awe. Only one or two legs remaining wiggling. OK, now I had to find something to scoop him up with. Again, wishing I had a shovel right now. I dug around the garbage (something I bet the monster wished he could have done as a sort of death row last meal kind of thing). In my bag for recycling, I found some broken down soda boxes, but for me a 14-inch-long piece of paper didn't put the monster far enough away from my hand. What if he snapped out of it one last time to land me a death blow, like in the movies. See? I told you I get all freaked out the longer it takes. I lose all irrationality.
I settle on a long-handled broom and dustpan, brush the nearly dead thing into the pan and carry him straight out in front of me (my arms aren't long enough, but they'll have to do). I open the sliding glass door and hurl him out into the abyss three stories below. I apologize for not having my wits about me to take a picture of the carcass for your viewing pleasure, but here is an unreasonable facsimile:
I know! I told you he was big!
My first thought was OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD HE'S A MONSTER!!!!! In fact, I think my face resembled that spill stain on Significant Snail's stove the other day.
My second thought was, "Where is my camera? Because when I blog about this adventure I'm about to dive into, I'm gonna need a picture!"
The problem? The monster was hanging between me and my camera, and I wasn't about to walk underneath that behemoth, have it fall on my head and get tangled up in my hair. I'd have screamed like a banshee (that simile in honor of Authoring Auctioneer's post about the correct usage of "like"), rudely disturbing my sleeping roommate.
See, if this were in Sacramento, I could scream for help and my husband would ride in on his white horse and slay the dragon with his mad lancing skillz. However, this was not Sacramento and the last time I called upon a roommate in L.A., it resulted in two chickens running around the house screaming with the heebie jeebies and "You do it!", "No! You do it!". That, plus my guilt over waking up someone who had to get up at 4am overpowered (just barely) my fear of having to do the deed myself.
My squirm count escalated as I strategized how I was going to kill this thing. And I HAD to kill it (sorry, Scratch Bags, I know how you don't like to kill anything, including bugs). If I merely chased it off somewhere, I would never NEVER get to sleep.
I found some Raid underneath the sink and decided I would spray it to death. It was too big for me to crush with a shoe. Let me emphasize that it was too big for ME to crush with a shoe. I was getting more and more creeped out by the minute and when that happens, I have to be further and further away from it as I do damage. Therefore, it is essential that I kill it ASAP. Otherwise there is a turning point at which I am completely immobilized into a sweaty, shaking and useless mess. I would stand there paralyzed while peeing on the carpet and requiring some sort of mental hospitalization. So the stress of THAT thought is enough to motivate me to kill.
I sprayed at Satan on the ceiling, filling the house with noxious fumes, certain the smell would choke my roommate out of his slumber. The monster clicked across the stairwell ceiling and I continued to spray (PSSSSSssss!). He crawled along the carpet and down the hallway (PSSSSSSsss!). He slipped in between some boxes at the end of the hallway. (PSS- - ) I stopped, and listened to him shuffle around between the boxes. It sounded like a rat crunching on peanut shells. I wanted him to come out. I needed him to come out. My sole purpose at that moment was to end this evil being's life.
He emerged from the boxes and crawled toward me on the carpet. I walked backwards (PSSSSsssss!) He turned around and crawled away from me (PSSSssss!). He made a right turn into the bathroom and I followed him as he crawled along the bottom of the sink cabinet (PPPSSSsss!) and skittered along the side of the cabinet, disappearing behind the toilet.
Well, now what? By now I'm gagging on poisonous fumes. I walked into the bathroom, scrunching up my toes so he couldn't get his mealy armor in between them in case he came scurrying out in a surprise attack. Several times I walked in, toes curled, and backed out, too afraid to check behind the toilet. Or I'd take one step in and bend over to peek around the bathroom cabinet and pull back while wincing from the carpet-soaked Raid fumes in the hallway.
I finally made the leap and peered around the toilet bowl to see the monster on his back with his legs flailing around. How does that happen? I mean he was upright a minute before. How does he wind up on his back? Does he do the dramatic swoon like Daffy Duck whose just been shot, twirling around, saying "Ugh, you got me! Goodbye cruel world!" Why wouldn't he just stop crawling? What's with the flip and the theatrics? Drama queen.
(PSSSSSssssssss!) He wouldn't stop flailing. I had to figure out the next step of Operation Monster Reduction. What would I do if this guy finally petered out? And if you think for one minute I could pick him up with a paper towel WITH MY BARE HANDS you are sadly mistaken, fella. I don't care that I wouldn't actually be touching him with my bare hands. I had too much time to think about his crunchiness and would therefore require a shovel.
Only I don't have a shovel. It's a condo for Chrissakes, what would I be doing with a shovel? Oh, killing bugs, yes that's very funny. You sure are quite the comedian when you want to be. In any case, I don't have any place to put a shovel. But never mind that, there's a squirrelly cockroach in the bathroom right now and I need to find something to kill him and transport him out of the house because there is NO WAY I'm going to throw him in the trash. Since he's clearly not dying anytime soon, I can't risk throwing him into what would essentially be a life-giving force, a veritable pantry for him to nosh on overnight, gaining back his strength and in perfect cartoon likeness, pop back to his normal body fullness and track me down while I slept and crawl all over me and in and out of my orifices. Ick and Shudder!
So I grab the Swiffer, march back into the bathroom and start pounding him with the flat bottom of the tool. (See Orion? The Swiffer is awesome!) He keeps wiggling his legs and I keep pounding the floor which is right over my sleeping roommate's bedroom, although he hasn't managed to wake up during this whole ordeal.
After several stampings, the monster appears to be succumbing to my shock and awe. Only one or two legs remaining wiggling. OK, now I had to find something to scoop him up with. Again, wishing I had a shovel right now. I dug around the garbage (something I bet the monster wished he could have done as a sort of death row last meal kind of thing). In my bag for recycling, I found some broken down soda boxes, but for me a 14-inch-long piece of paper didn't put the monster far enough away from my hand. What if he snapped out of it one last time to land me a death blow, like in the movies. See? I told you I get all freaked out the longer it takes. I lose all irrationality.
I settle on a long-handled broom and dustpan, brush the nearly dead thing into the pan and carry him straight out in front of me (my arms aren't long enough, but they'll have to do). I open the sliding glass door and hurl him out into the abyss three stories below. I apologize for not having my wits about me to take a picture of the carcass for your viewing pleasure, but here is an unreasonable facsimile:
I know! I told you he was big!
For Whom The Bell Tolls
How on earth did people live without the internet? I mean, where did addicted Hollywood celebrities get their dirty pic fix before broadband? Where did you get yours? If you were like me, you simply stumbled onto it now and again, when you were all of ten.
On Fridays my mother did the bookkeeping for my father’s business, a towing service. During the summer, my sister and I had to go in with her. (There was no such thing as summer camp, or space camp, or soccer camp, or whatever the hell kids are sent to these days to “keep them off the streets” or “prevent Mommy or Daddy from killing them”).
We sat in the back of the office BORED out of our ever-lovin’ minds desperate for something to do. We would watch crappy television (game shows) with crappy reception, playing with the antennae every 5 minutes like it would make a difference. Man, talk about nothing being on TV: three or four channels to choose from and no cartoons in the middle of the weekday. You could watch Guiding Light or you could watch Password, or you could sit on your thumb and spin.
We entertained ourselves with office supplies, playing exciting adventure games like Store! or Filing! or Know Your Lien Sale!, while irate customers came in to pick up their cars. Perhaps ‘customers’ is an inappropriate term. They had parked in a red zone, or had been in an accident and were never happy to trudge or limp in and hand over their money to the thieves who had towed their vee-hickle. Why would my dad go into such a business? It’s so . . . confrontational. But, like proctologists, somebody’s got to do it.
I suspect these horribly imaginative games with pens and pencils and While You Were Out notepads may explain my obsession with office supplies now. I could roam around Staples all day, planning what I would do with all those forms and filing cabinets and Post-Its.
There were two desks in my dad’s office. My mom would sit at the primary desk to work while seniority ruled who got the second desk. If the other tow truck driver left, that freed up desk #2, and I was all over it pretending to work or swiveling the hell out of the chair. I was ten years old, but I’d go through the desk drawers as if conducting important work. Then one day while rifling around in the drawers, I found Polaroid pictures of a young girl with a penis in her mouth. (That's right, a detached penis. Honestly, what am I going to do with you people? No, it was attached to a man, but you didn't see much else of him.) I remember the girl (and the penis, for that matter) had very dark skin and she looked a couple of years older than I, and the penis seemed gigantic and the girl, who was wearing two or three pigtails, was staring into the camera. I wonder where she is now…
Here is a picture of an ad that my mother designed which appeared in our high school yearbook:
You can click on the pic to see a larger version and peek at the writing, the kind of stuff 1980s people wrote in yearbooks. Do not ask me who Brian is. I have no idea; maybe Susan (the one who wrote it and apparently liked some guy named Mitch) remembers. She hoped we could be friends forever. She also advised me not to lose my virginity (the 1980s alternative to "Have A Nice Summer"). What, did she think just because I was exposed to polaroid porn at such a young age that I would be so easily corrupted?
Oh wait, I remember who Brian was. He was my boyfriend from the youth band. It was a June-August romance, between my freshman and sophomore year of high school. If I recall, he was a year younger. Yeah, I was a real cougar, man. As soon as summer ended and we went back to our respective high schools, he dumped me. HE...dumped ME! Boy, I'll bet he rues this day, now that I'm a big famous author of a blog about goats and underwear. Ha ha, Brian-whatever-your-last-name-is! You lose! You loser! Lew-hew-hewwwzzzzzerrrrrrrrrr!
Speaking of penises, my dad slept in the nude. Since his towing service was a 24-hour one, he slept whenever he could. If he slept on the couch and the phone rang, you could hear the coins in his pants jingle as he got up and my sister and I would run over to check between the cushions for loose change like it was a piñata. If he took a nap in bed, he’d often sleep in his birthday suit, or just underwear. I guess I eventually got over his coming out of the bedroom to answer the phone completely naked, but it got a little embarrassing if I had friends over.
A friend and I would be watching TV and he or she would be caught off guard, staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed as my father flopped his way into the living room to answer the phone. Oh sure, it’s funny now, thirty-five years later, but if that happened today? He would have been hauled off to jail by the parents of whichever traumatized friend of mine sat on our blue, black and white tweed couch while I burned a silent but mortified shade of red.
And if you include the loud RING-RING! in the middle of the night and in the middle of dinner, I grew up to hate the sound of a ringing phone. Even in my dad’s office, the phone rang so loud, so that if someone had walked out to the storage yard, he could still hear it. The ringing phone represents disturbance in my life. On so many levels.
On Fridays my mother did the bookkeeping for my father’s business, a towing service. During the summer, my sister and I had to go in with her. (There was no such thing as summer camp, or space camp, or soccer camp, or whatever the hell kids are sent to these days to “keep them off the streets” or “prevent Mommy or Daddy from killing them”).
We sat in the back of the office BORED out of our ever-lovin’ minds desperate for something to do. We would watch crappy television (game shows) with crappy reception, playing with the antennae every 5 minutes like it would make a difference. Man, talk about nothing being on TV: three or four channels to choose from and no cartoons in the middle of the weekday. You could watch Guiding Light or you could watch Password, or you could sit on your thumb and spin.
We entertained ourselves with office supplies, playing exciting adventure games like Store! or Filing! or Know Your Lien Sale!, while irate customers came in to pick up their cars. Perhaps ‘customers’ is an inappropriate term. They had parked in a red zone, or had been in an accident and were never happy to trudge or limp in and hand over their money to the thieves who had towed their vee-hickle. Why would my dad go into such a business? It’s so . . . confrontational. But, like proctologists, somebody’s got to do it.
I suspect these horribly imaginative games with pens and pencils and While You Were Out notepads may explain my obsession with office supplies now. I could roam around Staples all day, planning what I would do with all those forms and filing cabinets and Post-Its.
There were two desks in my dad’s office. My mom would sit at the primary desk to work while seniority ruled who got the second desk. If the other tow truck driver left, that freed up desk #2, and I was all over it pretending to work or swiveling the hell out of the chair. I was ten years old, but I’d go through the desk drawers as if conducting important work. Then one day while rifling around in the drawers, I found Polaroid pictures of a young girl with a penis in her mouth. (That's right, a detached penis. Honestly, what am I going to do with you people? No, it was attached to a man, but you didn't see much else of him.) I remember the girl (and the penis, for that matter) had very dark skin and she looked a couple of years older than I, and the penis seemed gigantic and the girl, who was wearing two or three pigtails, was staring into the camera. I wonder where she is now…
Here is a picture of an ad that my mother designed which appeared in our high school yearbook:
You can click on the pic to see a larger version and peek at the writing, the kind of stuff 1980s people wrote in yearbooks. Do not ask me who Brian is. I have no idea; maybe Susan (the one who wrote it and apparently liked some guy named Mitch) remembers. She hoped we could be friends forever. She also advised me not to lose my virginity (the 1980s alternative to "Have A Nice Summer"). What, did she think just because I was exposed to polaroid porn at such a young age that I would be so easily corrupted?
Oh wait, I remember who Brian was. He was my boyfriend from the youth band. It was a June-August romance, between my freshman and sophomore year of high school. If I recall, he was a year younger. Yeah, I was a real cougar, man. As soon as summer ended and we went back to our respective high schools, he dumped me. HE...dumped ME! Boy, I'll bet he rues this day, now that I'm a big famous author of a blog about goats and underwear. Ha ha, Brian-whatever-your-last-name-is! You lose! You loser! Lew-hew-hewwwzzzzzerrrrrrrrrr!
Speaking of penises, my dad slept in the nude. Since his towing service was a 24-hour one, he slept whenever he could. If he slept on the couch and the phone rang, you could hear the coins in his pants jingle as he got up and my sister and I would run over to check between the cushions for loose change like it was a piñata. If he took a nap in bed, he’d often sleep in his birthday suit, or just underwear. I guess I eventually got over his coming out of the bedroom to answer the phone completely naked, but it got a little embarrassing if I had friends over.
A friend and I would be watching TV and he or she would be caught off guard, staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed as my father flopped his way into the living room to answer the phone. Oh sure, it’s funny now, thirty-five years later, but if that happened today? He would have been hauled off to jail by the parents of whichever traumatized friend of mine sat on our blue, black and white tweed couch while I burned a silent but mortified shade of red.
And if you include the loud RING-RING! in the middle of the night and in the middle of dinner, I grew up to hate the sound of a ringing phone. Even in my dad’s office, the phone rang so loud, so that if someone had walked out to the storage yard, he could still hear it. The ringing phone represents disturbance in my life. On so many levels.
A Little Goat with some Bloggyvangelism on the Side
How beautiful is this goat?
A. Like Miss America beautiful.
B. Rawr! Is she single?
C. Looks good enough to eat, why do you ask?
D. Ick! Put some panties on that thing already! And a bag over its head!
Mrs. Parks from The Farm Blahg was generous enough to allow me to pilfer her photography and try to pass it off as my own, so... what do you think of my new goat? I bought it at the Calico market off some dude wearing a trenchcoat, pink alligator boots and aviator sunglasses. Said his name was Harv. The dude, not the goat. I don't know what the hell the goat's name is.
Let Us Pray...
Lord? Our sister Ettarose is in trouble. Hurricane Rochester Worthington III Esq. tore through her blog and wiped out all her subscribed readers, Lord. Please warm everyone's hearts to check out Ettarose's blog called Edge of Sanity, Lord, and if it pleases you, have them subscribe to her blog in either an RSS reader or via email. Also, Lord, if they have any trouble subscribing on her site, have them click this link, which will take them to the subscription page. This feedburner fundraiser is sponsored by Humorbloggers.com. And God (not sure what His URL is, maybe you could Google Him or something).
That's right, I just prayed to God immediately after huge bestiality overtones.
Sorry about that.
A. Like Miss America beautiful.
B. Rawr! Is she single?
C. Looks good enough to eat, why do you ask?
D. Ick! Put some panties on that thing already! And a bag over its head!
Mrs. Parks from The Farm Blahg was generous enough to allow me to pilfer her photography and try to pass it off as my own, so... what do you think of my new goat? I bought it at the Calico market off some dude wearing a trenchcoat, pink alligator boots and aviator sunglasses. Said his name was Harv. The dude, not the goat. I don't know what the hell the goat's name is.
Let Us Pray...
Lord? Our sister Ettarose is in trouble. Hurricane Rochester Worthington III Esq. tore through her blog and wiped out all her subscribed readers, Lord. Please warm everyone's hearts to check out Ettarose's blog called Edge of Sanity, Lord, and if it pleases you, have them subscribe to her blog in either an RSS reader or via email. Also, Lord, if they have any trouble subscribing on her site, have them click this link, which will take them to the subscription page. This feedburner fundraiser is sponsored by Humorbloggers.com. And God (not sure what His URL is, maybe you could Google Him or something).
That's right, I just prayed to God immediately after huge bestiality overtones.
Sorry about that.
If An Apple Is Traveling at 9.8 Meters Per Second Squared...
I’m guessing that if you have to look Death in the face at the age of six or seven, your life doesn’t exactly flash before your eyes. You might be aware that you’re in some kind of trouble, and that you got yourself into it, and boy are you going to get a whuppin’ when you get home, but you’re not going to think about what a good life you’ve had so far and thank God for it or anything. In fact, if you’re lucky enough to live through the experience unscathed you’ll forget all about it until 38 years later when you are stuffing a pile of french fries down your gullet at The Cheesecake Factory and somebody says a word that sparks an inkling that leads to a memory and the next thing you know, you’re blogging about it.
When I was five years old, my father left the family business (an auto body repair and paint shop) to open a business of his own. He leased out office space and a yard from his father in the same building as the body shop and started his own towing service. So, while the apple fell, it did not fall far.
It was a 24-hour service, so the business phone line in our house would frequently ring in the middle of the night. It was an unusual dinner when the phone didn’t ring sending my father out the door abandoning his half-eaten dinner.
If my mother was out after our bedtimes and a towing call came in, my father would have to drag my younger sister and I out of bed and take us with him. Crabby as hell, we’d fight over what little space there was on the stiff, vinyl bench seat of the truck to reclaim our slumber.
One night, my father pulled over on the freeway behind the car in trouble and set the brake since we were parked on an upward slope. The brake was a lever switch thingy among the radios and other crazy cockpit-like controls on the dashboard. It was a small version of what Dr. Frankenstein flipped before proclaiming “He’s alive! He’s alive!”
My sister slept beside me while I was dicking around with the steering wheel pretending to drive when my foot must have dislodged the mini-Frankenstein switch. The tow truck started to roll backwards on the shoulder of the freeway and began curving toward the traffic lanes. My father was up the hill talking to some guy about the car. As I recall, the rest of this scene happened in slow motion.
I stuck my head out the window and screamed for my dad until he turned around. I’m not sure if I made any sort of obvious announcement of the current predicament, but he managed to size up the situation and ran toward us. I don’t think I ever saw my father run before and I don’t recall ever seeing him run since, so I don't know how speedy he was, but I can safely say I’d never seen him run that fast in all my life.
I feebly tried to steer the truck back toward the shoulder while my father caught up to the truck, jumped in and slammed on the brakes. I don’t know who saved our lives, him or me, but I know who endangered them: him. What was he thinking, leaving his two young defenseless daughters so precariously perched on a hill, completely failing to threaten us with “Don’t touch anything!” before stepping out? We could have been smashed to smithereens!
I suppose I deserved a spanking from the omnipresent wooden spoon kept on the top of the piano, but maybe my father was too relieved that our lives were spared for it to occur to him to punish me. That, and the fact I played dumb as to what could have caused it. Come to think of it, I didn’t kick the brake lever that far out of position and when I tried to push it back where it belonged, it seemed to already be set as far as it would go.
So, while he was busy not telling my mother how close he came to killing the children, I was busy not telling him that the whole thing could have been my fault. Looks like this apple didn’t fall that far either.
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