I Can't Afford to Answer the Door

Someone knocked on my door today and I didn't answer it. I do that a lot (or is it THEY who do that a lot. The knocking, I mean.). Why didn't I answer the door, you ask? Well, I'm glad you asked me that. Because I'm going to tell you why.

If I'm not expecting someone, then more likely than not, it's somebody trying to sell me something. And frankly, my solicitation quota is filled. For the rest of my life.

And I don't know how to say "I'm not interested" in a way that ends the conversation right there without shutting the door on them. I don't even want to have that conversation. I just don't, okay? I can't hang up on people. I can't slam the door on people. So, like an ostrich, I just bury my head in the sand and hope they go away. Otherwise, I'm forking over my hard-earned unemployed dough.

Like just a few weeks ago, there's this knock at my door. And it's not just any knock. It's one of those KNOCKITY-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCKs. The kind where you think, "Hmmm, that must be a friend of mine" because surely, a stranger wouldn't knock like that, right? In hindsight, I think they are trained to knock like that for psychological reasons. Because we will answer the door, thinking it's our good friend, Quincy, from down the way, just stopped in to bring us his famous frog leg fudge. And we LOVE frog leg fudge, so of COURSE we are going to open the door, aren't we?

The other thing is, I don't have a peephole, so it's impossible to see who is at the door. And I can't yell, "Who is it?" because then I've just admitted that I'm home and I'm ignoring them. GAH!!!! I'm getting all worked up just telling you this.

So anyway, KNOCKITY-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK, and I gullibly open the door to "Hello Ma'am" from this guy:

 

And he introduces himself as Desmond, or Nesbit or something, and he starts in on how he's trying to rack up points and his brother was killed in gang violence and he wants to stop gang violence, so he's trying to raise money so he can audition for American Idol and I must be a classy lady because his mother told him that a women who takes care of her toe nails and finger nails is classy and blah, blah, blah, and it's his dream to become a gospel singer and had I ever heard of The Sparrow and could he sing it for me and he starts belting it out and I think of you guys and tell him to keep singing while I ran and got my camera and caught the last part of it which I will play for you now:

 

(34 second video) Click THIS LINKif you can't play the video below. 

And the next thing you know, I'm signing up for a magazine subscription from this well-spoken young man.

The question is, if he just walked off with seventy-five of my dollars and I'm never going to see my twelve issues of Discover magazine, can I still claim the charitable contribution on my taxes? I mean, I have a receipt.

My Career in Musical Theatre

When I tell you I was in The Music Man, your first thought would probably be: "Oh, were you Marian the Librarian?"

No, I was not Marian the Librarian! Just because I wear glasses and read a lot and look like someone who should know the Dewey Decimal system and my mother's name was Marian does not a Marian the Librarian make me. You think you're so smart.

I was in the band. At the end. They did the whole show with this wonky kids band and then our band (the Sacramento Youth Band, a real band, with instruments and everything - I played the piccolo) would barrel down the aisle in all our glory representing what the wonky kids band had allegedly become. I guess the dramatic build-up of this poor wonky band was effective because we killed.

We marched onto the stage in our red, white and blue wool-jacketed uniforms during the 100+ degree summer night in the outdoor Theatre-in-the-Round. The tent-like roof befitted the name of the theatre: The Music Circus. But it was hot. Hot, hot, hot.

We were supposed to be the big "shock and awe" finale and according to reviews, we were. The audience was delighted and surprised and stopped fanning themselves with their programs for a minute when we stomped onto the stage and belted out "76 Trombones". And in spite of the heat, when I saw the audience's reaction, I got goosebumps. For three minutes and fourteen seconds, we were stars, man!

The stage rotated a complete circle (maybe two, I don't remember, it was one song's worth, anyway) while we played. Then we marched right off to thunderous applause.

That season's Music Man starred Van Johnson. He came over to us once during rehearsal to say hello and we were giddy, even though most of us had no clue who Van Johnson was, being a bunch of self-absorbed hick-town teenagers. If he wasn't under 25, we didn't know who he was. But he was "a celebrity"!

My mother told me that her friend had met Van Johnson twenty-some-odd years earlier and that he was known to always wear red socks and that I should ask him to show me his ankles.

Me. Ask him. A celebrity.

The show only played for one week, but at some point after rehearsals, I saw him on the street near the theatre. Overwhelmed with a rush of adrenaline, I couldn't move. My body had started rigor mortis-ing or something. My brain was telling me to run after him or else I'd miss my chance. Go, dummy! He's alone, but he's across the street already. He's getting away! Go, Go, Go!!!

I broke free of my solid state and darted across the street, surely looking like a stalking fool.

"Mr. Johnson!" I called out weakly. (At least I hope I said "Mr. Johnson". That was something my mother never taught me - to use such formality when addressing people or saying "Sir" or "Ma'am" or anything like that. Surely, I wouldn't have blruted out: "Oh Va-AAAaaaaannnnn!"   Ack! That would have been so uncouth.)

He turned around and I said I was in the band and he shook my hand, and my legs got all jello-y and my voice got shakier but I soldiered on. If he said anything else, I couldn't tell you what it was. I was far too focused on the task at hand and spat out everything I was supposed to say. Never mind any art of conversation. The world closed in around me as I rattled off that my mother said that her friend said that blah blah blah and could I see his socks.

He looked me square in the eye for a moment, almost pleased, and he reached down, yanking up the leg of his trousers.

And showed me the red.  

* * *


R.I.P. Van Johnson  (August 1916 - December 2008)



Link to video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxASXzcmQqc





I want to thank Tiffany and Heather for making me the Featured Blogger over at SITS today.

And hello to all my SITStas!

I Coulda Binna Supermarket Tabloid Journalist

In case you're wondering what an unauthorized interview looks like (where the interviewer can't get an audience with the interviewee so she just starts making stuff up - kinda like The Enquirer), you can check out my review of Anna Lefler's blog, which just came out on Humor Bloggers Dot Com. It is entitled The Life of Lefler: An Unauthorized Interview. (Feel free to rate it when you get there.)

Anna's blog is called Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder and if you're not reading her blog already, you should be.

Stop What You're Doin', Cuz I'm About to Ruin, the Image and the Style That You're Used To

I was wearing my mermaid costume, working out to a Richard Simmons Swingin' It Thru the 70's exercise video with the front door wide open, when the mailman finally arrived. He had a package whose delivery was initiated by the man who lives in my house. Woo-hoo! A surprise gift!



Can I get a holla! or a Mook-Mook! from all you Pingu fans out there?

What?! You don't know who Pingu is? Why, he's only the European Spongebob of penguins.

By the way, that little exclamation I exclaimed earlier? The "what" with the "?!" afterwards? Did you know that particular character set is known as an "interrobang"?

Boy, I'm just full of useful information today, but I'm getting off topic. I meant to keep on with my Pingu sweatshirt, which is white. Which is bad. I am unable to avoid immediately ruining any new white attire. They are coffee and spaghetti magnets. 

I bought a new white T-shirt for my trip to Hawaii recently. First day out? I spilled coffee on it. And I spilled it in an area that might mislead or otherwise indicate that I lactate oddly.

Our recent return from Maui to the cold, rainy weather here in Sacramento had me bundling up in my new white Pingu sweatshirt, although the instant I donned it, I got this powerful craving for spaghetti, and I have no idea why.

I can't go one hour without wearing white and spilling something on it, whereas penguins keep their tuxedo shirts tidy after gorging on fish all day. Of course, the ocean IS their washing machine.

Hey, you know what? The more I think about my spillage issues, the more I think I just pour food on myself every day, regardless of the color of my clothing. I couldn't even make it through this blog without dribbling coffee down the front of my shirt. I'm not kidding. See?


(The view from my perspective.)


I had to grab my camera fast because it was quickly sinking in and since it wasn't my new white Pingu hoodie, I was afraid of losing the shot. Luckily, it spread into a wet spot before disappearing completely.



So where does an adult woman surreptitiously purchase a sippy cup? And do they deliver in a brown unmarked bag? Because I don't want my mailman thinking I'm strange or anything.






A small sample of Pingu.



This video can also be found here:
http://www.youtube.com/v/69vO9ScXLV4&hl=en&fs=1

Click on this link for The Official Pingu YouTube Channel.

Goat Thing of the Day

Soggy Doggy Bloggy recently showed me a video of goats who ride horses:



Click on this link if video is not working:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1P6CFh0LpzE

Taking the "Class" Out of First Class

What's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind when he hits a windshield?

His ass.

So, I'm on this plane coming back from Hawaii and we hit turbulence and I start stressing out. Not about dying, but all the planning required for surviving a plane crash. If we should be so lucky as to have a Sully-like pilot who manages to safely land on the ocean like a waterbug, then when we jump down the inflatable ramp, they either won't let us first grab our carry-on luggage (for which I mentally go through the moves and how I can scoop up everything and take it all with me), or I'll be a screaming banshee, pushing everyone out of my way to get off first like George Costanza in that fire episode on Seinfeld, pushing down old ladies and not once thinking about my bags (or helpless children).

I think about all the crap I'm going to lose, like my driver license, and my credit cards and my car keys and what a total pain in the ass that would be to replace all that, and how am I going to drive the two hours home from San Francisco at 10:00pm if I don't have my car keys.

If I perish, then I won't give a crap that my keys are at the bottom of the San Francisco Bay, because the cars in Heaven don't need keys (and they get like, infinity miles per gallon).

If I survive, without my luggage, my laptop with all my photos that I haven't yet posted on my blog would also be swimming with the fishes. And that would piss me off. But if I died? It wouldn't matter, because Heaven is the big automatic alternate storage device. Just one big fat server - the true concept of cloud computing.

But then the turbulence stops and I simply go back to complaining about how I wasted my frequent flyer miles to fly first class on one of those smaller B-717 planes where you can easily touch the seat in front of you and how there's no foot rest and how there are not one but TWO babies crying in front of me.

Sampling NGIP

Nanny Goats in Panties was finally listed as an example of what to do instead of the insanely popular what NOT to do. Yay! Thanks to the website Master Success Mindset.

The Russians Are Talking! The Russians Are Talking!

Can anybody explain what these guys are saying about NGIP?

Goat Thing(s) of the Day

Fi of Four Paws and Whiskers showed me that goats can indeed grow on trees.

(Photo courtesy of Corv via Flickr)

And have I mentioned the Surfing Goat Dairy on Maui yet?

What NOT To Do on Maui

Five days into our Maui vacation and we were bored out of our minds. Bored, bored, bored. I mean you can only see so many whales, sunsets, waterfalls, and volcanos (YAWN! Am I right?). So we decided to go off the beaten path. There’s this place we found called Aloha Joe’s Fly-By-Night Maui Vacation and Island Adventure Tours, Inc. And based on several packages we embarked on, I can now safely tell you what NOT to do on a Maui vacation.

Harpoon Lessons

This is an exhausting all day tour with no lunch breaks. Lessons in the morning, immediately followed by a sun-burning, sea-sickening whale hunt. Also, they yell at you if you accidentally stab a dolphin. Sheesh! What do they expect from beginners? Plus, my dad can’t see very well anyway. We won’t be doing this tour again.

Playing With Feral Cats

For $29.00 they only give you one bag of live rats and one hour in a pen of feral cats. At least they let you pet them. I would have taken pictures, but the cute little kitties ate my right hand. Which is the one I use to take photos.

Helicopter Diving

This is the one you’ve probably heard about where you dive out of a helicopter into the Haleakala Crater. At night. You don’t get a parachute or anything, but at least this time, they send you down with a bag lunch.

Baby Seal Clubbing

Sorry. We thought this was going to be a nightclub. With dancing or something. With baby seals. It sounded so magical in the brochure.

A Taste of Hawaii

An all-you-can-eat-buffet of poi. That’s it, just poi. Oh, and Mai Tais. Each table is supplied with barf bags. Thank God.


Being the nonconfrontational person that I am, I meekly tried to complain to the tourist company, but they blustered back at me about how you can’t please some people and what snobby haoles we were. Needless to say, we’re pretty much done with Maui.

After two weeks of daily messages to my travel agent, she finally called back and set us up for another vacation. Next stop: Columbia. She says the country is beautiful, but it’s the people that really take you away.

Goat Thing of the Day

If you're ever at the Kula Lodge on Maui, consider ordering the Billy Goat Float...

 

And did I mention the Surfing Goat Dairy?

 

I did?

Oh. Never mind, then.

An Open Letter to Charities

Dear Charities,

No.

No, No, and No!

I have not won the lottery, so please quit acting like it.

You may not have all (or a part of) my unemployment check.

If I send you a substantial check once a year, at the same time every year, and you even have me listed as a “Broadcast Circle Member”, I will not be sending you additional checks every two months during the rest of the year, so save a tree already!

If I gave you money because my friend rode a bicycle, or ran a long distance for your organization, that does not mean I want to be a lifetime donator to you people. I was just supporting my friend for a cause. If you want more money, go ask her for it. Leave me alone.

If my friend’s mother died and in lieu of flowers, I donated money to you, do not continue to mail me solicitations for more money. You are only pissing me off and giving yourselves a bad name so that every time I see your name, I will seethe in anger, rather than fondly remember a dead loved one, so thanks a lot for that.

Sending me return address labels as a “gift” for my anticipated donation will only result in one less item that I throw in the trash. I hate you people more than anyone else, because now, I will either feel guilty for keeping something without donating, or I will feel guilty for throwing a perfectly usable product in the trash. I mean, if you’re going to go to the trouble of making them, I will have the audacity to use them. And I will feel guilty about it. One hundred and twenty times. Also? I will have the nerve to be angry about any name misspellings.

I already have my favorite causes and most of you are not one of them.

I have a good mind to call you and tell you that you can’t afford to waste money sending me mail. It makes for fewer resources actually HELPING people. But then I’m afraid to call you and tell you that, because I’ll feel guilty because I will be essentially saying, “I never ever EVER intend to give to your organization!" Followed by an outright slam of the door in your virtual face.

My kingdom for an easy, convenient, guilt-free (i.e., magical) way to say no!

So, which box on the Form of Life do I check to opt out of this relentless barrage of mailbox garbage?

GAHHH!!!

Your sincerely,
Nanny Goats

Goat Thing of The Day

No Maui vacation is complete without a visit to the Surfing Goat Dairy! 

Awwwwww, 4-day-old goat kidlets!

Buy a bag of hay for a dollar and let the kids feed the kids!

You can get a guided tour of the farm, and if you hit it at the right time of the day, you can help herd the goats in for milking.

You can taste (and buy) their goat cheese (which appear on various restaurant menus throughout the island). They also sell goat milk soap and T-shirts. If for some strange reason you won't be going to Maui anytime soon, you can always order their cheese online.

This is Hanzie (rhymes with Fonzie). He's usually the Big Daddy, if you know what I mean.

Poor Hanzie has arthritis and was unable to be the Big Daddy this year. Maybe next year, Hanzie.

OK, just one more goat photo and I'll let you go.

Laid-Off Lady Liberty Considers New Line of Work

I have this friend who works in the New York Harbor. Well, she used to work in the New York Harbor. But last week, like so many of us in the last year, she got a pink slip from the boss. And when the Statue of Liberty loses her job, this country MUST be having money problems.

They’ll bail out the banks and the auto companies, but do you think they could find it in their patriotic hearts to throw a few bones to Penelope? After all she’s done for this country? Not to mention that she never once called in sick. You’d think that would stand for something!

Poor Penelope doesn’t qualify for unemployment either (not the right blood type - whatever!), so she has to hunt for a new job right away. I mean, she’s a single mom with 350 million mouths to feed: her tired, poor and huddled masses.

Last month, when she was caught by TMZ.com paparazzi while standing in a bread line, her towering image was splashed all over the nation’s headlines. She hung her head in shame and stayed home all day, watching soap operas and nearly starving to death.

“C’mon, Penny”, I wrote on her Facebook wall, “You need the California sunshine to pull you out of your funk. I bet you’ll get scooped up in no time out here. If nothing else, you’re hot, you have big boobs and you’re an SILF, and that counts for a lot in this state.”

“What’s an SILF?” she asked.

Sometimes I think Penny has little acronym-challenged people wandering around inside her head with cameras and maps, constantly pointing at the pretty boats floating by.

“Well, let me just say that ‘S’ stands for ‘statue’ and the rest you’ll have to look up on Wikipedia because I‘ve sworn off swearing.”

So she came out to the Golden State with the clothes on her back and $3.27 to her name. I’m letting her stay with me while she pounds the pavement in search of a job:



After picking her up off the street one day, she seemed dejected. I told her what she needed was a schtick. Something that showed the commuters she wasn’t panhandling, but that she was interested in gainful employment.

She’d had accounting experience in the past, so she ran out and got a sex change (changing her name to Penal Opie) and made a sign:



Unfortunately, that didn’t work either. I asked her about why she felt the sex change was going to help and we got into a chaotic conversation that ended with me screaming: “I said ‘schtick’. SCHTICK!”

Thinking that perhaps northern California wasn’t right for her. I suggested she hit Hollywood and see if she could get some bit parts in movies. They’re always looking for New York characters. She does a great “Fuhggedaboudit!” Plus with the sex change thing, she would find amicable company in West Hollywood.

So the next time you’re sitting in a darkened theatre and a shot of a green copper man donning a toga and spiked hat and holding a torch appears on the screen, you’ll know that Penal Opie has once again achieved the occasionally elusive American Dream.

Nocturnal Admissions: When Pillow Talk Goes Too Far

Remember when I told you about the two times I almost choked to death because of acid-reflux and I was so scared and blah, blah, blah? I kind of went on about it. That second incident occurred as a wake-up call. Literally. It woke me up out of a dead sleep at 5am.

I began to resent my bed, whom I call Phil. I thought Phil had tried to kill me. As if he was twisting up the blanket and wrapping it around my neck. Bad bed!

So Phil and I went to relationship counseling and he ultimately apologized and I forgave him. But not really.

You know how someone you love tries to kill betrays you and you think you're over it, but really you keep your feelings of mistrust inside and let it fester into a small tornado of hatred and resentment until it one day manifests itself unexpectedly?

Maybe I overdid the sweet tone of voice as I'd crawl into Phil each night, saying things like, "I love you. You're the King. Hold me." etc. But he knew something was wrong. Things had changed; he could tell.

"If you love me," Phil asked one night, "why did you start wearing your pajama bottoms to bed?"

"Well, Phillip," (he hates it when I call him that) "I've been feeling...cold lately."

I didn't want to tell him that if he attempted murder again and the paramedics burst in to save my life, I was not going to be resuscitated without pants.

Phil began sending me instant messages during the day:

    Bed:   ru mad at me?  :)  :D
    Me:   no
    Bed:   wutz rong?  :D
    Me:   nothing. cu tonite.

Then one night I woke up from a nightmare in which Phil was stuffing a pillow down my throat and I couldn't breathe. I woke up more angry at him than ever. It felt so real. I worked myself up into a frenzy that whole next day. The only way I could get over my fear of him was to give him a taste of his own medicine, the springy bastard.

Payback Time

I snuck up the stairs and jumped onto him with all my weight, knocking the wind out of him. Then I gave him a wedgie. Not just a casual everyday wedgie, but a SUPREME wedgie.



I slipped that bad boy between the mattress and my pillow and I gave it to him good.

He started crying like a baby, whining about how he had never tried to kill me and that it was my acid-reflux that caused the choking.

Acid-reflux my eye. I laughed at him as I ate lasagna and half a box of Ho Hos just before going to bed and immediately falling asleep. And I'm not dead yet, so I guess I showed him.

Phil and I aren't speaking any more. Oh sure, we're civil in front of company, but otherwise, we just go about our own business.

Now he just pouts all day. Well, let him. He can take his timeout and think long and hard about what he's done. It's not like I'm more comfortable sleeping on an incline to keep the acid from crawling up out of my stomach. And I do miss our nights of drinking until we were three sheets to the wind. But we're talking about my life here.

When Phil can apologize with more sincerity and demonstrate complete nonhomicidal tendencies, then I'll think about going back to a pillow-only situation. But until then, it's Zantac and wedgies for the rest of my life.