Nanny Goats in Panties

Universal Subscription Agency, Inc: Scam Artists? Or Just Poorly Misunderstood?

2009-07-06T12:41:00.000-07:00

Remember this guy? The American Idol Wannabe? The nice young man (named Desmond, or Nesbit, or something) who was selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door?

Remember how he sang for me and I video taped him and showed it to you guys? Remember how I gave him $75 for a subscription to Discover Magazine? I wrote all about it in a blog post entitled "I Can't Afford to Answer the Door".

I was thinking about him the other day and wondered whatever happened to him. Did he make it onto American Idol? Has he been staying off the streets? I hope he's continuing to avoid his brother's fate of getting shot down by gang members. Did he win that subscrition selling contest based on points? Did my contribution of SEVENTY FIVE DOLLARS (oh, did I mention that already) help him win?

I also began to wonder: Did he ever turn in my subscription order? Because oddly, I haven't seen a single issue of Discover Magazine yet. And, you know, it's been five months, so I'm beginning to get a little concerned.

So I dug out my receipt and called the company (Universal Subscription Agency, Inc.) at (757) 818-9497 in Chesapeake, Virginia, and would you believe no one answered the phone? I got two different recorded messages both times that I called asking me to leave a message.

So I Googled "Universal Subscription Agency, Inc."

Unfortunately, they didn't have a website, but they are mentioned a lot by others on the internet. In fact, they're famous! See?

Rip-Off? Complaints? Scam? I'm sure there must be some misunderstanding, so I clicked on a few of these links, including one where a Former Employee Tells All. He talks about how Universal Subscription Agency, Inc. is a virtual cult and that they lure in, brainwash, and bully them into selling magazine subscriptions. How the sales people are just as much a victim as the customer and how Universal Subscription Agency, Inc. are just a bunch of highway robbers. It's quite a story, really. You should read it. [dramatic pause] Seriously.

This can't be true though, can it? I think I'll just try calling them again later. By the way, did I mention that the name of this company is Universal Subscription Agency, Inc.? And that their phone number is (757) 818-9497? I'm sure there's just a mix-up in the subscription department or something. I mean, my receipt even has an address and a FAX number, so it must be legit, right? RIGHT???

Because if this turns out to have been a rip-off (perish the thought), I might have to bad mouth them (Universal Subscription Agency , Inc) on my blog or something. I would have to keep saying their name (Universal Subscription Agency , Inc) over and over so that anybody else encountering these people (Universal Subscription Agency , Inc) will know what they're in for and not fall for it the way I did. I might have to start up a website about them (Universal Subscription Agency , Inc) and all the other scams out there to help educate people so that they wouldn't be able to do to you what they did to me.

But until then, I'll just go on about my business and blog about puppies and rainbows.

And goats.

Goat Thing of The Day

Faithful NGIP reader, Wayne (aka Architectcritic), sent in this photo from his trip to Kenya...

(from Wayne's Flickr page)

Cantankerous Landlords and Crotchety Old Men (Who Yell at Cars)

2009-07-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

For the last ten years or so, I've been waking up in the morning, not sure at first which bed I'm in. If you don't know who you're going to wake up next to each morning, it's time to simplify your life.

And I thought I was. Of course, when you live in two cities, four hundred miles apart, owning two of everything doesn't exactly have a minimizing effect. In fact, anything you do to simplify your ridiculously overstuffed existence is a joke as long as your TWO HOUSES and WEEKLY PLANE TRIPS are beating you about the face and neck. What is that you're doing? Donating a bag of books to the library? HA! I laugh at your silly gesture of reduction. Why not try laying off the Southwest Airlines commute? Or hey, I know! What about moving in with your husband after 9 years of marriage and getting rid of half your stuff in one fell swoop, huh? Is THAT simple enough for ya?

What I can't (or shouldn't) do right now is sell my house in Los Angeles. And so I must rent. Blech.

"Landlord" is a four letter word. It conjures up images of Eddie Murphy wanting to kill one. Where did that word come from, anyway: Landlord? It sounds like some medieval concept from England where one is Lord of the Land. Yes, I am Lord of my Land and I command thee to hand over thy hard-earned farthings for the privelege of living on this land of mine of which I am Lord lest I throw ye in the dungeon!

I just want the people to pay the rent on time and not break my stuff. Is that too much to ask? Will I have to put signs all over the property like this one that I saw on the Passive Aggressive Notes blog?

And don't you think I should be worrying about finding a tenant first, before worrying about how they are going to destroy my brand new kitchen? And how they are going to let their over-the-size-limit dog pee all over my brand new floors and let pee puddles sit there for days, staining in the shapes of various US Presidential profiles?

Oh, and please do tell me all your landlord/tenant horror stories so that I can lose as much sleep as possible.

I'm going to be one cantankerous SOB when I grow up.

And speaking of Cantankerous people...

I ask you: Who stops to blog while waiting for the ambulance to arrive? Talking about "If I don't make it, it's been nice and all." Who opens their next blog post from their hospital bed with "I'm in renal failure"? And then writes another post that unfolds the drama of what happened after the ambulance arrived?

Joe from Crotchety Old Man Yells at Cars. That's who! And for such dedication and blogger bravery in the face of renal failure, I am giving him the Purple Kidney Blogger Award.

Joe, you've got a whole internet fan base (plus the HBDC community) behind you right now wishing you and Mrs. C the best. Get well soon, buddy!

If you don't know the Crotchety Old Man, go over and say hello and wish him a speedy recovery. And I'll let him tell you the ambulance waiting story HERE. (Tell him Nanny Goats sent ya!)

Goat Thing of The Day

Okay, kids. Brace yourself for this next picture. It was shown to me by Mike from Mike's Mixed Memories.

How To Create Your Twitter Handle in Two Easy Steps

2009-06-29T15:10:00.000-07:00

So this ~~spammer~~ person on Twitter with the very legitimate sounding name of Fulton604 started following me. Like a trenchcoat-wearing dark alley hoodlum who says, "Psst! Hey, buddy" kind of following me. Fulton604 is following 1,299 people, but only has 67 followers. I wonder what that means.

Actually, it makes me want to change my name to Plexus437. It sounds so cool. Like an alien space ship / area code mashup. Or, HEY - I know. This will be a new thing like How To Create Your Twitter Handle in Two Easy Steps:

1. Take the make or model of your first car.
2. Guess how many Jelly Bellies are in this Elvis portrait:

Put the two together and you've got your next Twitter handle! Mine would be Datsun18. No wait! Datsun19.

Fulton604's last tweet wants to know if I'm an older guy looking for a hot girl to take out and treat me right.

Why, yes. Yes I am. How did you know? Was it my masculine first name that made you think I was male? Was it all my twitter messages about adult diapers and cryogenic head preserving that clued you in to the fact that I'm "older"? And who isn't looking for a hot girl? You are SO smart. You're my hero, Fulton604. I wish I was just. like. you.

Then Fulton604 broke my heart. When I checked his Twitter page a couple days later, it was gone. GONE! I panicked. Where was I going to find "easyurl" hot girls now? I hyperventilated as I felt my new twitter buddy slip right out of my hands. I cried. I sobbed. I bawled.

Then I got this email:

Whew! I thought I'd lost him. And Velva? Yeah, that doesn't sound sexual or anything.

Follow me on Twitter!

Goat Thing of The Day

(seen at the Surfing Goat Dairy on Maui)

Teh Keyboard HAtes Me, But What Cn I Do Abou Tit?

2009-06-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

I have a drinking problem. No wait - that's not it. It's a typing problem. My "the"s always come out "teh" and I keep losing Ts to the subsequent word, like when I'm trying to say "about it" or "thought it", it always comes out like this:

abou tit

though tit

What IS that, a Freudian slip? What is my obsession with tits? Oh sure I'll catch one now and again and correct it <--- including this one right here.

So if you are a blogger and I've left a "tit" on your blog somewhere in the comments section, I'd like to apologize right here and now.

Yeah, I've probably dropped some "tits" everywhere. How embarrassing, the thought of leaving them stranded like that out in the blogosphere. I've been typing since high school, when I had a typing class - boy THAT class sucked big you-know-whats. The teacher was awful. Here's how awful she was: It was a TYPING class and the VALEDICTORIAN of our class couldn't get an A out of her, virtually smudging his perfect 4.0 (except we had these things called AP classes whose grades counted one point higher than a normal class, and I'm sure he got As in those and thereby graduated with more than a 4.0, which should theoretically be impossible, but since when does any school district run on logic?)

So this "tit" thing. Does it somehow imply that I'm a sex addict, like Russell Brand? Or Bill Clinton? Or, whatever the female equivalent of that would be? Samantha Jones, I suppose.

Or maybe it's less disturbing than that and I'm merely dyslexic. Because I also often type "your" as "yoru", and you'll also notice that my "tits" are actually formed by swapping the "t" and the space, right? Right?

Hey, did you hear the one about the dyslexic who walked into a bra?

So anyway, with my previous post eluding to Megan Fox's upper quadrant and now this, one might think my blog has taken on a new theme. That's right - It's Boobs Week at Nanny Goats in Panties. Tune in next week when we'll hear Nanny Goats say: "So I was in Stockholm the other day with Olga, the Traveling Bra..."

All right, this ends our show for today, thank you for coming. Exit doors are on the right. Also, for the men, we have forehead-dabbing cloths on the tables out in the hallway to help you recover from all this "tit talk". For those needing further assistance, you will find cold shower accomodations down the hall - just follow the signs. Please leave in an orderly fashion and you may now turn your cell phones back on. And don't forget to stop at the gift shop counter on your way out for your free key chain or whatever crap they're giving away out there.

Ta ta! (or is that Tatas?) Sorry, okay, I'm really done with that now.

Goat Thing of The Day

One of my blogbuds, Cheri, of Insignificant Ramblings was at the Sequoia Zoo, up in Eureka, California, where the goats have issues. Like this guy, who thinks he is a flamingo.

Or a drumstick.

Necklace? What Necklace?

2009-06-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

Entertainment Weekly has this page called "News Style & Notes Hunter" where readers allegedly see some fashion item on a celebrity and then write in asking where they can get the same thing. Because people can't dress themselves without emailing a magazine inquiring about fashion and then waiting 3-6 months for a reply, at which point said fashion advice is no doubt, no longer fashionable. But I'm veering off the road here.

A woman wanted to know where she could get the necklace that Megan Fox wore in the Transformers sequel.

(click to enlarge - all right, i know how that sounds, but it's not like i said 'click to augment')

OK, the last thing I'm going to notice here is her silly necklace. Am I right, people?

Goat Thing of The Day

I'd like to thank DG of Diary of a Mad Bathroom for sending this one into NGIP...

(what is that, a backpack?)

Now if only I knew which website this came from so I could properly credit it....Hmmmmmmm.... I don't suppose any of you know? Oh never mind, I'll figure it out later, after I've located my garage.

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

2009-06-18T13:18:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did he not get the joke?

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

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

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

Goat Thing of The Day

Thanks, June!

In Other News...

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

Thank You Letter(s)

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

Well, I Never!

2009-06-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lastly, and you probably saw this one coming:

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

Goat Thing of The Day

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

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

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

Thank You Letter(s)

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

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

NGIP Has a Sit Down with Award-Winning TV Writer Russ Woody

2009-06-07T19:33:00.000-07:00

[Warning: this post is rated PG-13 for language, but not because of me. I just got my 1 year chip and I'm not about to fall off the wagon. No, the foul language is spoken by somebody else. I am merely quoting them.]

So, there I was, at some nameless coffee shop in Studio City, ~~stalking celebrities~~ sipping my big-gulp-sized no-foam octo-shot two-percent extra-hot white mocha latte when who should walk in but Hollywood TV sitcom writer extraordinaire: Russ Woody.

"Oh my God," I exclaimed, "you're Emmy and Golden Globe Award winner, Russ Woody!"

"Erm...", he said.

"I LOVE your work!" I said. Because that's what you should say to all Hollywood people who are "in the Biz" - not "You're Mad Dash: Underground Detective! I love you!" - never tell them you love them and never ask for their autograph. Just tell them that you love their work and then they'll ask you if they can buy you a coffee.

And here's another tip: always say YES. Even if you're still working on an octo-shot something-or-other, because then you can brag about it later. At ninety-seven verbal miles per hour.

If you didn't already know, Russ Woody has written for (and produced) such TV shows as Murphy Brown (which is how he got his Emmy), Cybill (which is how he got his Golden Globe), Becker, Mad About You, The Drew Carey Show and on and on - you can see it all on his imdb page. He attended high school in my hometown, Sacramento, California, graduating from Bella Vista High in 1974 (if any BV grads want to holla). During his college years, he worked on a show some of you SacTownies may remember called Weeknight, with Harry Martin.

Also? He babysat Stan Atkinson's kids.

I just happened to have finished his recently published novel, The Wheel of Nuldoid.

"Look!" I cried, yanking the novel out of my book bag. "I just happened to have finished your recently published novel, The Wheel of Nuldoid. Hib nobb del noid! Hib nobb del noid!" I may have giggled and unsuccessfully stifled a snort.

He gaped at me. Probably because he didn't remember me from the book signing I ~~obsessed for weeks over~~ had looked forward to. "We met at Time Tested Books in Sacramento. Remember? Remember?"

"I remember," he said, taking a step back.

I pulled out a chair. "Here, sit here with me. I'd love to interview you for my blog."

"Goats and underwear or something?"

"Oh my gosh!" I gushed. "You remember!" You can go ahead and gush. You just can't tell them you love them. Or ask for their autograph.

I looked up at him expectantly, offering up my best rendition of a winning Nanny Goats in Panties smile. His shoulders fell and he said, "Can I buy you a coffee?"

"YES." I said. See how that works?

So while he went to order our coffee, I whipped out my camera. Then I pulled out my handy-dandy digital voice recorder, (you know, just in case I run into a big-time celebrity that agrees to be interviewed for Nanny Goats in Panties), turned it on and barraged him for a couple of hours.

For all you parents of young adults out there, The Wheel of Nuldoid is a fantastic and funny story about a society of quarrelsome creatures who operate the the Wheel of Nuldoid at the center of the earth. The Wheel is responsible for the earth's rotation. A group of young humans stumble upon these creatures and find themselves on an adventure to the center of the earth with a crystal from the surface that is urgently needed to maintain the Wheel of Nuldoid.

Since the story is also one of political and cultural satire, adults can enjoy this book as much as kids. "You can write to kids," says Russ, "but if it's fairly honest in the structure of the comedy, it's funny to both. Like Charlie Chaplin's movies, I love them, my kids love them. I think you can write a lot smarter for kids than people think you can."

The Wheel of Nuldoid is self-published, partly on the advice of his agent and other writers. "You only get something like seven percent of the gross and you often have to pay for your own publicity and you get a pittance up front, unless you're a big name. But if you can garner interest in the first publication, and maybe even a second, then a publisher will know it has some legs and you can get a better deal after that." But he believes that self-publishing is the "wave of the future".

"The stigma of self-publishing is that your book hasn’t gone through editors, but I’ve done a lot of television which would put book writing to shame when it comes to notes. I gave it to a number of harsh readers. The bastards."

He explained that, to him, the book is about dissent. How a functioning society needs dissent. How this country was founded on it and the quarrelsome creatures in the novel represent that dissent.

Then I told him to shut up about the book already and give me some scoop about being a television sitcom writer. I wanted the dirt on Ted Danson, that no-good so-and-so. But all he could tell me about Danson is that he is a sweet guy who befriended Russ's dad when he became ill with ALS (Lou Gehrig's desease). Russ's dad began visiting the set of Becker and Danson came over one day, introduced himself, and at some point began playing with the keyboard that helped Russ's dad communicate when his speech deteriorated. Others, especially men in the cast and crew took great interest in this device and would type out "Fuck", "Shit", "I want to eat your p---y", and other fun-filled phrases.

Russ's dad was also treated to a special side entrance to the set that only Kelsey Grammar and Ted Danson were allowed to use. And at the end of the season, after the last show had wrapped, the cast began chanting "Woody", "Woody", calling Russ's dad over to the set to join them for that season's cast and crew picture. As the group parted to make way for Russ's dad, Russ watched him get waved in to the set's living room couch to be seated between Ted Danson and Hattie Winston. Russ was relegated to the floor with the rest of the staff.

"OK, OK," I said, "so Danson's a nice guy. I get it. What else ya got?" Let me just say right now that when you say "YES" to coffee, you might want to limit that affirmation to a couple of espresso shots per hour. It can make one a little jumpy.

Russ mentioned that when an actor doesn't like a particular joke, they can "tank" it, by speaking in monotone, or "absolutely fuck up the joke. Cybill Shepherd is a name that comes to mind," he said.

I'm not sure what he meant by that, so I tried a different tactic and here's what else came out of his mouth:

On TV Writers in L.A.: "You can throw a rock in any direction and hit a television writer. And then they'll bitch about it if you do."

On David Milch (Deadwood, Hill Street Blues, NYPD Blue): "Taught at Yale, didn't finish high school. He's one of the most brilliant writers I've seen in my life. Crazy? Great guy, but crazy. When I first met him, he was walking out of his office and I said, "Nice to meet you." and he said, 'Listen, I'm going down to take a piss. I've only got one testicle. Do you want to see it?' And that's just who he is."

On The Wheel of Nuldoid: "Opposites are next to each other on the Wheel, showing just how close genius and insanity are to each other."

How Emmys work when a group wins: "Everybody gets one and they walk you backstage and they're all blank. And then three or four weeks later, they send you the little round piece with your name on it and you just take it apart."

How Golden Globes work when a group wins: "One person gets it. That's the free one. And then it costs $500 [for additional ones] - they sell them to you."

On his awards: "I use it a lot for publicity. I understand why people are enamored with it. Winning those things is fun, but I don't take the idea of winning them very seriously. You do yourself a disservice when that stuff becomes important to you. Some people base their net worth on what kind of car they drive, or how big their house is.... So that's why I had it mounted on the hood of my car."

It was only a matter of time before I got to ask this:

NGIP: Do you like goats, or do their eyes freak you out?

RW: I've never been with a goat, if that's what you're getting at. If I were around a goat, I would try to stay on good terms with it. I did raise a lamb once, when I was a kid. It's name was Frisky. The next time we went to visit Frisky's owners, guess who was for dinner.

I asked him if he had any advice for writers. He spoke of the value of the "vomit draft", where you just get it down as fast as you can without stopping to edit too much. He also tells young comedy writers to "Write the first draft on paper, when you get to a joke, put variance to the joke out to the margins, write it a different way, try alternatives. Come back in an hour or the next day and you can see which one works right away."

By the way, The Wheel of Nuldoid could become a movie someday. Russ has had a couple of meetings with production companies about it already, one of which is very excited about it. One idea that is currently being pitched is for the story to be animated. "For animation, you can sell the story idea, whereas for live action, you need a whole package" (director, actors, etc.).

What’s next for Russ Woody, you ask? You must be a mind reader, because I asked him the very same thing. Maybe YOU should have interviewed him if you're so smart.

After taking some time off to work on the publication and promotion of The Wheel of Nuldoid, he's going back into television. He's mulling over two recently picked-up pilots. One will star Patricia Heaton (of Everybody Loves Raymond) and is similar to the movie, Little Miss Sunshine, and the other show is called Sons of Tucson. He told me that both are single camera shows, which he prefers. Whatever THAT means.

[Editor's Note: At press time, his people were in talks with ABC's people (for The Middle, the one with Patricia Heaton), so there's a good chance he's going to wind up writing for them. You know who else is going to be in The Middle? That janitor guy from Scrubs.]

He also wants to revise the book he wrote about his father and get it published. Meanwhile, two other novels in "vomit draft form" are on the back burner waiting for his attention.

We left the coffee shop and in true stalking fashion, I followed him to his house. When he got out of his car, he seemed surprised to see me. I laughed diabolically and told him that I loved him and asked for his autograph and did he have any coffee in the house...

OK, that's not exactly what happened. Upon his invitation, I went to his house to pick up a press kit and while I was there, he showed me a creature of Nuldoid that he was working on...

BEFORE and AFTER

Then he showed me his personal museum where he houses such memorabilia as John Lennon's glasses...

Sorry about the reflection, hey I'm a writer not a photographer.

Now if I saw this thing while driving on the freeway? Totally would have nailed it.

and Harrison Ford's boots from Raiders of the Lost Ark...

one of FDR's shirts...

some tasteful political memorabilia...

and lots of other stuff that if I showed you any more, I'd have to charge admission.

What a fun tour! And a nice guy.

So, if you're sick of watching your kid open that blasted Harry Potter book again, or if you're sick of having to read it to him, you can get The Wheel of Nuldoid via this link on Amazon.com. Or if you're in the L.A. area, you can get it at Book Soup in Hollywood, or Portrait of a Book Store (inside Aroma Cafe) in Studio City. If you're in the Sacramento area, you can find it at Time Tested Books and Avid Reader.

If you want an autographed copy, you can buy the book through the Wheel of Nuldoid website and request an autographed copy. In other words, it's okay to ask for his autograph and it's okay to tell him you love him.

Follow Nuldoid on Twitter.
Follow Russ Woody on Facebook.

Epilogue (for those who don't know what's real and what's not...)

FYI: I was yanking your chain about how I met Russ Woody, but I really did interview him and yes, he really did say all that stuff in between the quotation mark thingys.

Crime and Punishment: The Middle School Years

2009-06-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

If my mother's ashes weren't scattered out to sea somewhere, I could ask her a few things I've been wanting to know. Like, who did she vote for? Did she believe in God? Why the hell did she marry that lying-ass idiot fourteen years her junior after she divorced my father? And most importantly, what the hell did I do that prompted her to make me write this?

(click to enlarge)

(click on pic to enlarge)

The nameless "SOME PEOPLE" is probably my sister. I don't know whose wedding this was. I don't even know when this was written but judging by my dubious outrage, the ridiculous self-righteousness, and my parent's divorce in the early 1980s, I would say between 7th and 9th grade (circa 1977-1979).

So when I get to Heaven or the Great Whatever, the first thing I'm going to ask her is: "Did you read my essay with a sense of justice served by my punishment? Or did you laugh your ass off at my expense?"

Useful Website of the Day: RunPee.com

If you're like me, you can't make it through the whole movie without having to pee and while this is not a problem at home with a DVD that can be paused at your convenience, this can be a stressful event in a theatre. You never know the right time to go because what if you miss something? What if that elusive kiss is finally planted while you're down the hall relieving yourself? What if that key piece of information is delivered while you're in the little girl's (or little boy's) room? And don't you hate it that YOUR theatre is the one farthest from the dang bathroom?

That's why you need RunPee.com. With RunPee.com, you can find out beforehand, the best times to pee during the movie. That's RunPee.com. Because a Bladder is a terrible thing to hold.

Thank You Letter(s)

Thank you, Sparky, of My Thoughts Exactly for dropping this awe-summm bomb on me the other day:

Taking the "Fair" Out of County Fair

2009-05-26T16:41:00.000-07:00

I don't know if it's ignorance, apathy or both, but I never noticed that Sacramento had a County Fair. Maybe it's just overshadowed by the order-of-magnitude, deeper-fried State Fair in August which is located on the same asphalt jungle we lovingly refer to as Cal Expo. Or maybe it's overshadowed by the largest jazz festival in the West, originally known as the Sacramento Dixieland Jazz Jubilee, later renamed to the more-inviting Sacramento Jazz Jubilee, and renamed again this year to the more accessible (and therefore, lame) Sacramento Jazz Festival.

Nevertheless, it stands to reason that if there is a State Fair, there ought to be a County Fair here in Sacramento that exhibits stuff like livestock and pies and art entered by children who get bedecked with red, white or blue ribbons with the chance to move on to the State Fair and be judged some more.

We just went for the goats.

Do I need to rant about the fact that it was three dollars to get into the fair, but it was TEN DOLLARS to get into the parking lot? No. I don't. Because that one is too easy.

This is the entrance to the illustrious event:

(click on any pics in this post to enlarge)

You must be no more than this tall (13 feet, 9 inches) to enter this Fair. Which is discriminatory, which is NOT fair, but whatever. Rules are rules.

We made a beeline for the goats. And while I think it's a nice wholesome activity for children to learn how to take care of animals and how to compete with good sportsmanship and all that, I was not prepared to witness the manipulation of these helpless and innocent animals, such as the removing of ears, just because they are in the way, or they are inconvenient for showing or whatever crazy and heartless reason they have for such violent and atrocious acts.

While my husband kept a lookout, I shot these pictures to expose the torturers for who they are. I will bring them to justice if it's the last thing I do. I will write my congressman, or whatever it is you do in cases like these. I wanted to vomit, but I soldiered on just to see if there were other suffering animals at this event. Just what the heck kind of Fair is this? It's not fair to the goats, that's for sure.

I'm sorry to say, it didn't get much better. These beautiful furry creatures used to be much taller...

...until their legs were whacked off at the knees. Who DOES this? The mafia. That's who.

I begged the ten-year old brat who owned this cutie-pie to tell me why he was made to stand in a bucket for hours and hours and you know what that mean, little 4-H child of Satan did?

He looked at me funny. But he didn't have the nerve to stop me from taking any pictures of his crimes, I can tell you that. Also? I heard his mother call him Guido. "Guido?" she yelled from across the goat prison cells. "Come get your pastrami sandwich!"

What follows can only be described as a modern-day bout of Goaty Gladiators. I should warn you that the next picture is not for the faint of heart. Viewer discretion is advised. This is no different than throwing Christians to the lions, if you ask me. (Notice my references to historical events that occured in Rome. Which is in Italy!)

This is very hard for me to say, but this pitting of goats against chickens in a game of Tic-Tac-Toe is nothing short of heinous. How can you not compare this to the inhumanity of cock-fighting?

I'm sorry to have to be the one to introduce you to the seedy underbelly of the County Fair, and I don't know if this happens at all county fairs, or just the one in my backyard, but I for one, was outraged.

I couldn't take any more. Wracked with sobs, I moved on to the other exhibits.

Maybe I was still upset about the goats, but when we got to the rabbits, things over there didn't seem normal either. I didn't say anything, though. I didn't want to arouse suspicion of my Big NGIP Exclusive that would soon be clogging the information super highway, and eventually putting some very serious criminals behind their own sets of bars.

On a completely unrelated note, Marilyn Manson's new album The High End of Low was released today.

Things were much more colorful outside.

Whoaaaaa! Not so fast. Did you catch that sign on the Diskotek ride? Let's see if we can get Manny, our camerman, to zoom in on it for us...Manny?

Hmmmm, just as I suspected. You can't tell me this is a coincidence. What, are we supposed to think those Italians really know how to make a carny ride? Yeah, and they're real safe, too. Youse pays extra for, shall we say.....protection. An' if you gotta problem wit dat, you go to da Office of Klownland Suckurity:

The more I looked around, the more I noticed just how much real estate those Romans owned.

How fair is that?

Then we saw a couple of gum-chewing bullies in Armani suits walking toward us smacking baseball bats into their hands and we high-tailed it outta there.

Yeah so anyway I don't think I'll be back anytime soon.

Some Restaurants You Don't Go For the Food. At All.

2009-05-21T08:03:00.000-07:00

I wish I could highly recommend a restaurant on the long drive through California from Los Angeles to Sacramento, and if I did, it would rhyme with Sin 'N' Doubt. But there is only one of those and you have to be hungry by the time you hit that particular mile marker, otherwise you might find yourself, once again, going to Apricot Tree Restaurant even though the food is not all that.

Where is Apricot Tree you ask? I'm glad you asked, because I was just about to tell you. It is in the Fresno-ish part of California on I-5 (or "The Five" if you're from Southern California.) It's in a little town called Firebaugh - formerly, Firebaugh's Ferry. You're probably wondering why it used to be called Firebaugh's Ferry. As it happens, there used to be a ferry that took ~~greedy bastards~~ Goldrushers across the San Joaquin River. This was back before bridges. And sidewalks. And black presidents. Also, if any of you are punk rock fans and know of a band called the Circle Jerks, you may recall a song of theirs that goes... "If your car breaks down, don't take a tow to Firebaugh..."

So now you might be asking yourself, why in the H.E. Double-Hockey Sticks would I stop at such a God-forsaken place? Because of the lunch boxes, of course. And if you'd just quit interrupting me and let me finish my dang story, you'd know why already.

Know what's on the menu at Apricot Tree? Apricot bread pudding, apricot milkshakes, apricot pie...it's the Bubba Gump of Apricots. Also? The Whatever Platter....whatever that is. I wouldn't order that if I were you.

But who cares about the food, I go for the sites. Here, let me show you:

(click on pics to enlarge)

There are all these lunch boxes that line the ceilings.

Galactica, Astronauts, Buck Rogers, The Black Hole

Road Runner, Smurfs, Woody Woodpecker

Superheroes (I'm not typing them all out. I said click to enlarge, didn't I?)

Hundreds, maybe thousands of 'em.

And thermoses line the booth dividers:

The woman at the table on the other side of those thermoses couldn't stand it, I guess, and she came around to our table and said something about seeing me take pictures of the lunch boxes and how she had a Woody Woodpecker lunch box when she was a kid and doesn't this place take you back and blah blah blah.

This kind of thing always sets my husband and I off on a conversation afterwards about how if we approached some stranger and started blathering on about our childhood, they would think we were social misfits or completely crazy. This woman, we thought, was just being nice....or was she? You know, Coalinga State Hospital isn't too far down the road...{BONG! - cuckoo!... cuckoo!}

Anyway, up near the front, encased in glass, are the special collector's lunch boxes, like these here:

Partridge Family, Star Trek

Action Jackson, Emergency!, The Jetsons & Evil Kneivel

Porky's, KISS, and ???

And if that doesn't burn your wickie, you can waltz on over to the gift shop and buy yourself some of this crap:

Tut Bust, anyone?

Cause you know, they only have this stuff in Firebaugh, so you HAVE to buy it NOW.

Or perhaps a pelican cookie jar is more up your alley...

And if you still have room for fun, you can always throw a few quarters (or is it dollars now?) in this:

That's the Apricot tree, 150 miles south of Sacramento (and San Francisco) on I-5. Just keep your eyes peeled for this sign:

And then look for the orange pyramid with the fountain out front.

And expect food not quite as good as Denny's.

And I can't tell you whether or not to order the "Whatever Platter". It might be best to stick with something apricotty. People seem to LOVE the apricot muffins and apricot pie, but you are kind of risking your life by ordering any type of meal. Reviews vary widely.

Thank You Letter(s)

While the rest of you are wagging your fingers at me in disapproval, SOME people are rewarding me for my smart-ass, juvenile-at-times, silly behavior. Take for example, Cari over at Not Quite a Fairy Tale. I get all silly up in her comment section and win some yummy Seattle goodies. I have no idea what I've won exactly - I guess I'll have to call Johnny so he can tell me what I've won (You know, as in, "Tell her what she's won, Johnny!" ... Ohhhh, did you hear that? That was the death knell of the game show.) So, thank you, Carebear! MWAH!!

What Happens When My Inner Child Gets Ahold of the Camera

2009-05-15T10:22:00.000-07:00

Today I am the featured guest on Ann's Rants: Confessions of a Work Week Widow for Free Association Friday, but before you click over there (and I think you should because I'm just a barrel of laughs, although I'm far too humble to ever say such a thing), I wanted to show you this picture I took when I was ten years old the other day, as evidenced by the description in the upper left quadrant:

I didn't know sperm had eyes, did you? I guess that's why it's the ..... Seeeeeecret of the Deeeeeeep.

Anyway, please go over to Ann's Rants, where today, hilarity ensues. Why? Because I'm on it. If you can't trouble yourself just now, then at least set your TIVO, because you don't want to miss it.

CLICK HERE to see my guest spot over at Ann's Rants.

So Nice They Posted it Twice

Ann's article featuring Yours Truly has also been published over at Humor Bloggers Dot Com!

The Eye-Five. And Other Drive-By Shootings.

2009-05-12T17:22:00.000-07:00

Driving to Los Angeles from Sacramento is like being hung by your fingernails for six hours, minus the joy.

If you're from Sacramento, the infinite swath of asphalt is called I-5. If you're from Los Angeles, it's called "The" 5. If you live in both cities, like me, you spend many years being overly self-conscious while debating the use of a definite article. Eventually you pronounce ALL freeways using your L.A. words because L.A. is so hip, they must be right.

Regardless, that long-ass southbound trip becomes all about driving as fast as you can and avoiding this:

somewhere along I-5

The speed limit is 70mph on most of ~~I-5~~ The 5, which means you can go at least 75 before turning on your police radar. You don't want to go so fast that this happens:

[This is where I would have inserted the picture of a terrible accident where I saw a car on its side, but I couldn't grab my camera fast enough. Sorry. I did capture another accident later though, if that helps.]

Did I mention how long and boring this drive can be? Four hundred miles of more or less this:

btw, you can click on any pic to enlarge

You sing to yourself. You do glutes exercises. You think you can't drive any further before going crazy and wonder how much longer and you pass a sign that tells you:

And you drive and you drive and you drive some more. You search for radio stations, most of them are of the Spanish Mariachi flavor. You contemplate life. You drive with your knees while eating your Drive-Thru cheeseburger. You think you are never going to get to the Grapevine. You stop for gas. Again. You eat candy bars to kill time. You pass fourteen thousand rows of asparagus growing in the endless flat dusty bowl that is the Central Valley of California. Hours later, you pass another sign:

You are bored bored bored bored bored.

Then a fire truck whizzes by you and you see smoke up ahead. Yay! Some excitement. It takes at least five miles to reach it, plenty of time to grab your camera and take a couple of shots as you drive by.

woo hoo! A fire in the median!

You try to get one last shot in the rear-view mirror, but being the idiot photographer that you are, you don't realize that the camera focuses on the mirror, not the object reflected:

Oh well, nice camera though, right? Why thank you! It was gift from my husband for Valentine's Day last year. That's why it's red, see, because it was for Valentine's Day, isn't that cute?

Anyway....

Everyone has that one landmark on the map that designates the start of the "home stretch". The point at which, you think, OK, it's not long now. I'm practically home. For me it's this:

Not the grey car, silly. Magic Mountain. Geez, do I have to spell everything out for you? By now it's just a hop through Valencia, a skip across the Valley, and a jump past the Getty Museum into the Westside.

Home at last, home at last, thank God almighty I'm home at last. Yeah, there's nothing like a cold drink to greet your road-weary soul. I walked in the door, approached the refrigerator and noticed a small black stain on the floor formed by some blackish fluid dribbling from the bottom of the door. Hmmm, that's strange. Then I opened the freezer, when what to my wondering eyes should appear?

wtf?

I can only guess that some elf got locked in there while I was gone and created an ice sculpture while waiting for my return to let him out. Either that, or the fridge is on the fritz. {SIGH} I noticed the door shelf (the one right underneath the ice dispenser) was filled with water.

Did you hear that? My freezer has WATER in it! You know, water? As in, not ice?

And yes, the refrigerator side isn't working either.

{SIGHHHHHHHH}

So, the fix-it dude is coming on Wednesday between 11a and 3p. Or on Thursday between 8am and 11am. I'm not sure which one it is because for some reason two customer service people called me to make appointments after I made a service request via the home warranty website. I tried to talk to a human being but she just kept repeating the same thing over and over without actually answering any of my questions:

"Yes, I can make an appointment for you on Thursday."

"But I already have an appointment for Wed."

"Yes, I can make an appointment for you on Thursday"

So if I had to initially complain to a website, then make two appointments with machine-like humans, will a robot show up to fix my refrigerator? This should be interesting. I've never seen robot butt-crack before. I'll be sure and get a shot of THAT for you.

Thank You Letter(s)

Thanks goes out to Hammy of The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas for the Honest Scrap Award. Have you noticed that if you say it fast enough it sounds like Honest Crap? Hey, what a great name for a blog!

The Best Little Cathouse? Why, Heck Yes.

2009-05-07T11:25:00.000-07:00

After a visit to the Circus of Misfit Animals that is my father's house, I have decided to open a shelter for off-kilter four-legged friends. I will call it The Nanny Goats in Panties Institute for Retarded Pets and Waffle House (because in this economy, you gotta have a backup plan).

Why am I using the word "retarded?" Because calling them morons or idiots is just plain mean. I don't mean "retarded" in the derogatory sense; I mean it in the literal sense, so look that up in your Funk & Wagnalls.

And I'm not talking about physically disabled kitties like Ringo, the one-eyed feline, who has no trouble swinging it with the ladies. No, I'm talking about a cat named Fred who is currently squatting at my Dad's house.

Ladies...? Meet Fred:

This poor homeless cat who has already sent two of the other residents to the vet, is currently locked up in my father's bedroom, with occasional daily privileges to the rest of the house when the other wounded-but-recovering residents are outside. I forget his story about why he is there or, I don't care or, whatever. And I don't know if he is actually retarded, but he's cross-eyed and that can't be winning him any prom dates now, can it. If you were a cat, would you date this guy? No, of course you wouldn't because you're a vain fur ball and looks matter! And if you look retarded, you are not getting any.

On the other hand, Ringo whom some of you met and fawned over last Fall, is like Sylvester Stallone after a boxing match.

He wears his missing eye like a war-torn battle hero. Whereas Fred:

Fred looks like the guy in Accounting who lost his job long ago but still shows up anyway so they transfer him down to the basement and he wants to know whatever happened to his stapler.

Yeah, THAT guy.

Thank You Letter(s)

First of all, I would like to thank Google who has decided that Nanny Goats in Panties should be the #1 (NUMBER ONE!!!) search result for "Sacramento Humor Blog". Woo Hoo! I should also note that it is the #1 result when you enter Nanny Goats in Panties, or does that go without saying? I always forget whether or not I should point out the obvious.

And I really appreciate Heather of Nobody But Yourself totally adoring me and stalking me in her post, Things Which Are Thingish.

A big THANK YOU to one of my longtime bloggy friends, Jan of Jan's Sushi Bar for bestowing this pretty thing on me.

I would like to thank Gladys over at Gladys Tells All for the Lemonade Award. Thanks, Gladys!!!

And thank you to Jan at Jan's Place for the Lovely Blog Award. Which is....lovely!

Oh Yeah? How Long Has It Been Since YOU Took a Bath?

2009-05-01T17:25:00.000-07:00

I haven't taken a bath since the sixth grade which, I realize, sounds gross and all but you're my peeps and I figure I can tell you just about anything (except for that thing last year with the cop and the algae and the 437 rolls of bubble wrap - I'm not ready to talk about that yet.)

Anyway, some Frenchy frog blogger named Sheila (Ma Vie Folie) who makes natural bath products out of her garage or something sent me a boatload of products with a note attached that said: "P.U. You stink!"

Well. Of all the nerve.

Also, while it's true I haven't taken a bath since the sixth grade, it's not like I haven't taken a shower since then - sheesh!

Is it just me, or is it fun to get stuff in the mail? It's me, isn't it. You probably hate getting stuff. You guys are all givers, right? Not me. I take, take, take and take some more. My middle name is gimmegimmegimme.

So I tried the Orange Dreamsicle Lip Balm. I liked how the smell/flavor wasn't overpowering enough to knock out small pets or the guy next to you on the subway, but enough for me to get a good whiff. And the balm is kind of soft, not like those mini-candles they sell at the impulse item section at Walmart. In fact, if I were the PR guy, I'd start an ad campaign with the slogan:

Try our balm. It doesn't scrape the crap out of your lips!

Catchy, right? And that's just off the top of my head.

I also tried the Mmmm Cheesecake! Lip Balm which had a little more punch in the aroma department, but if you like the smell of coconut (or at least I think it was coconut, it might have been pantyhose, I always get those two mixed up), then you'll love the cheesecake flavor. Also? This stuff is even better than that Chicken Poop Lip Junk that I mentioned last year.

After seeking therapy over my childhood traumas surrounding bath tubs (my grandfather died in a tragic accident when he and I raced in the 1st Annual Downhill Bathtub Race of 1977 at the Cliffs of Dover), I decided it was time to get right back on that horse. Albeit thirty years later.

And while we're on the subject of bath issues, I'm afraid to take a bath alone. I want my privacy, but if I slip in the tub, I don't want one of my neighbors breaking down the door wondering what that awful smell is and discovering my naked, partially decayed body in the bathroom. How embarrassing. And what about when the cops arrive...

"What's that smell?" Cop #1 would ask.

Cop #2 would plug his nose, "Rotting corpse?"

"No," Cop #1 would say, sniffing the air like a mouse, "I believe that's mocha mint."

Anyway, as I stepped into the bathroom to prepare a nice hot bath, I discovered a spider on the wall - Eek! How am I supposed to relax in the aroma of Creamy Mocha Mint Latte knowing one of Charlotte's cousins is hanging around waiting for me to fall asleep open-mouthed in the tub? And why is it that spiders only seem to appear AFTER you've taken off all your clothes?

So I hairsprayed the little guy to death.

I brought a book in with me, thinking that I would get bored just laying there in the tub, doing nothing, staring at the tiles, mentally developing my ToDo list, calculating how many more moving boxes I'd have to buy, what I plan to donate to Goodwill, which stuff is going to Sacramento with me, how will I find a mover to move just a few large things 400 miles, finding a handyman to fix all the broken stuff, researching for a property management company... you know, normal every day stuff.

I climbed into the salt-infused bath and breathed. I closed my eyes and took in the minty mocha aroma. Thirty minutes later, with the water cooled, the book untouched, and the ToDolist uncontemplated, I emerged a new woman, totally relaxed. After drying off, I felt my skin. It was so smooth, not like after lotion, but something else. Needless to say, I couldn't stop touching myself (or is that not needless to say?)

Also? The thing I like about the bag for these bath salts is that it's resealable. I don't know, maybe it's just me, but I love things that are resealable. They make my day, that's how much they mean to me.

I've never done a home facial mask thing and had no idea what to expect, but all I had to do was mix a teaspoon of water with a teaspoon of this green powdery stuff and smack it across my face for a few minutes.

Oh! And take a picture, of course:

I see this picture and think Halloween. Or Viet Nam.

But, I gotta say, after I rinsed off and dried, I kept feeling my face all night because it was smooth and tight and clean.

So, thanks for the stuff, Sheila, and if the rest of you are curious about all of her products at Aventine Hill Bath Emporium, check it out!

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a bath. And kill a bug.

Free Wink: Hostage Crisis Update

Wink has finally been returned to her rightful owner. And let me just be Paul Harvey for a second and give you the rest of the story of how this egregious travesty went down:

Wink was discovered just a couple of hours after she got out of her yard. Animal control picked her up and called Save-A-Mutt. Why? Because they are listed as the primary owners on her LoJack chip thingy and refused upon adoption to have it otherwise. It's been four years and they still won't transfer primary ownership to the actual owner.

For unknown, unjustified, and undocumented reasons the people at Save-A-Mutt kept Wink and accused the owner, my friend, of neglect and improper care. They claimed she was matted and dirty when they got her. They claimed to have taken her to a vet who said she had gingivitis and an ear infection. However when pressed for pictures or documentation to prove these allegations, they were unable to do so. Yet, they refused to return Wink to her rightful owner.

Initially they said they would find a more suitable home, but then lawyers got involved and seven long non-Wink weeks went by before a bitter and reluctant Save-A-Mutt rep agreed to return Wink TO HER RIGHTFUL OWNER. But...she had a list of demands including but not limited to:

1. Wink must see a vet at least once a year. (She already does.)

2. She must be groomed at least every other month. (She already does. In fact, she missed her last 6-week appointment and numerous bath appointments because Save-A-Mutt held her hostage FOR SEVEN WEEKS)

3. Save-A-Mutt must be allowed to inspect and check on Wink after one year to ensure she is being properly taken care of. If they believe Wink is being neglected, they have the right to take her away.

I don't know what misguided, low-self-esteem, overcompensating, bitterness issues these people have, but to use my friend as a scapegoat was hateful and hurtful. And makes me want to say mean things. As I understand it, it was really just one person who was causing all the trouble.

So if you want to "sick your dogs" on someone, or give them a piece of your mind, you can contact them at the email address on their website. WHICH SUCKS BY THE WAY. I'm just saying.

Keys: The Lost Episodes

2009-04-26T15:48:00.000-07:00

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

And then I lock myself out of my condo.

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

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

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

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

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

Crap!

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

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

Crap!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: So, do you know any good locksmiths?

Him: Uhhhh.....

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

Him: Can we talk about my book?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goat Thing of The Day

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

Free Wink: Hostage Crisis Update

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

(Wink's Hostage Story)

Next Thing You Know, They'll Ban Babies From Driving

2009-04-20T11:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, as I was hanging Grandpa's incontinence diapers on the clothesline (because I'm eco-friendly like that), I was contemplating the government's reactionary policy.

For example, we know that cell phone usage in our cars has been outlawed only because many people have died as a result of distracted people taking to the road. I can only assume that the California's recent ban on text messaging was also due to a large number of deaths (I didn't actually look it up, so can you Google it or something and get back to me on that?)

Unlike the government, I can see a trend here and predict that the next phone-related legislation will involve mobile photography.

That's right - sooner or later, drive-by shooting will be illegal.

Once that happens, pictures like this one I took for last July's post, Motorcycle Diary of a Madman will be a fine-able, if not arrestable, offense:

In other words, it will be okay to drive without your feet, but not your hands.

I take pride, and often risk my life bringing my life in pictures to you, and soon the government will be taking that away from me. No longer, will I be able to reach under the car seat to find my cell phone to capture photos such as that pink mustang last December in my post entitled, It's My Blog and I'll Cry if I Want To.

And I can't begin to tell you the near death experience I experienced one very hot day while snagging this picture of my dashboard for last summer's post entitled Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorched:

The thing is, if someone like me can foresee this trend of continuous banning of our American freedoms, and someone like you can see it, surely the government knows that driving under the influence (of photographic inspiration) is inevitable, so why not just do it already?

I mean, how many senseless deaths must occur before our elected officials finally decide to crack down on this dangerous behavior that could potentially kill countless people? Have they no decency? Have they no sense of shame?

Should I organize a Camera Bag Party in protest of the heel-dragging that is the apathy of our lawmakers? Of course, we'll have to come up with a euphemistic definition for "camera bagging". Can you get back to me on that one too?

Goat Thing of The Day

For the latest in goat shoes and fun fur hot goats pants, you must hit the Vera Wang of goat fashion online stores. Of the millions of websites offering high-end fashion for Nannies and Billies, no one beats Goats Online. Seriously, can you name a better store? Don't miss out on their annual 4 for 1 sale!

Thank You Letter(s)

I was featured on Five Star Friday last week - woo hoo! Thank you to Schmutzie, who runs Five Star Friday, and whoever else may have been responsible for submitting one of my blog posts. Five Star Friday mentioned my post entitled The Hawaii They Don't Want You to Know About.

Free Wink: Hostage Crisis Update

The lawyers are in currently in negotiations, although it looks like Wink will be able to go home. Eventually.

Decorum dictates that I hold off on providing any more details than that at the moment.

(Wink's Hostage Story)

Arrested Development. And the Bulk Candy Aisle.

2009-04-16T21:55:00.000-07:00

For some strange reason, I always think that the B-Holes of society grow out of life's phases right along with me. I'm repeatedly surprised to hear that children still bully each other, as if I thought the notion were reserved for the 1970s. Shouldn't bullying be considered cliche by now?

I mean, where are juvenile delinquents' sense of fashion and pop culture when it comes to bad behavior, I ask you. And it's not just bullying. Why just last week, I was having this one-sided conversation with my husband, Grimfeld (he won't let me print what he said):

Me: You mean people are still killing each other? But that's soooo ten years ago.

Me: Gangs? They still have gangs? Are you kidding me? I thought we took care of all that with No Child Left Behind, and every kid gets a trophy for every little thing, and T-Ball and haven't people grown up?

Me: Well, those are just people on the news. I don't associate myself with those kinds of people. My circle of people are past that kid's stuff.

Me: What? Aunt Wilma and Uncle Piebald are still fighting? What on earth after all these years could they be possibly fighting about? Aren't they in their fifties? And Uncle Chester is still living with his mother? Isn't he sixty-something? And divorced four times?

Me: Well I don't live with those people, so that doesn't really count. It's not like I had anything to do with raising them or anything.

Me: What? Francine smokes pot? Our Francine? Our little Francine? Do they still even make pot? I thought that was something people did a long time ago. I thought humanity in general was over that by now.

Me: Well, at least it's not me. At least I've grown-up. I have responsibilities. You don't see me living with my parents. Or acting like an idiot, shoplifting or what-have-you.

Me: What? That's not shoplifting. The grocery store writes that stuff off anyway. If they don't want anybody eating it, they should just package it instead of selling it as bulk. It's not like they have signs around saying, "Please do not eat the malted milk balls", do they?

Me: What? It is not illegal if I open it. If they are going to put it in my mailbox, it's mine to open. I can say I wasn't paying attention, I thought it was for me. So what if it's their bank statements, I can tell them I never actually LOOKED at them.

Me: I am NOT a liar! You're the liar.

Me: I know you are but what am I?

See what I mean? Even Grimfeld got all childish on me! When will people just grow up already? Sheesh!

(P.S. Yes, people this is fiction. Who has a husband named Grimfeld?)

Free Wink: Hostage Crisis Update

At press time, Wink's lawyers are negotiating with the ~~hostage takers~~ shelter's lawyers for Wink's release. Wink's owner appreciates all of your support during this difficult time. Let's hope Wink comes home soon.

(Wink's Hostage Story)

Dog Gone It: A Bark For Help

2009-04-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does this look like an unkempt dog to you?

New Years Eve 2005-6

New Years Eve 2008-9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is wrong with people?

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

Why I Will Never Own a Pink Cadillac

2009-04-09T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See what I mean? Totally selling it right now.

Beggin' Strips

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

Thank You Letters

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

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

Employment is For the Birds

2009-04-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

Unemployment is high enough already that we don't need people out there exacerbating the issue by hiring animals to do the work. And I don't want to hear anybody trying to correct me by saying, "Oh, we use the term 'human-challenged'".

Have you heard about the new reality show called Aviarian Idol?

They only hire birds for the show. The contestants are birds. The judges are birds. The show's crew are birds. I walked onto their set last Tuesday to apply for a job and witnessed this feathered buffoonery:

It's discrimination and I intend to start a cause called "WTF: Whack The Fowls".

This whole bird thing has been an ongoing problem for decades, people. DECADES! Or do I need to refresh your memory by mentioning, Donald Duck, Daffy Duck and Foghorn Leghorn - All corporate lackeys stealing jobs from hard-working humans like you and me.

And it doesn't stop with the current worming into Reality Shows. There are plans for a new spinoff of a popular franchise: Law and Order: Quackdown.

By the way, I'll also be protesting Twitter, for obvious reasons. Except for when I grab my virtual private parts and type "Tweet this, pal!"

Goat Thing of the Day

Pamela at My Thoughts Exactly is traveling in Texas Hill Country this week, where she came upon these curious cuties:

Thank You Letters...

Today's Thank You letter goes out to La Belette Rouge for mentioning Nanny Goats in Panties in her post entitled K-Line Q and A the other day.

The Hawaii They Don't Want You to Know About

2009-04-02T14:37:00.000-07:00

If Hawaii's tourism was not in crisis mode (as reported in Business Week today), they wouldn't have taken such drastic measures in drawing visitors, and I wouldn't have noticed all their everyday evil doings.

But this trip to the pineapple-laden paradise has revealed their sinister desperation for our dollars and uncovered the farce behind the so-called "Hawaiian Culture". It is a conspiracy to end all conspiracies and I'm here to expose their lies and chicanery.

Here are just a few samples of what we thought we knew about Hawaii:

Aloha and Mahalo

Hawaiian proponents would have you believe that "Aloha" means "Hello", "Goodbye" and "Love", while Mahalo allegedly means "Thank You". This is just a ruse to make tourists, and paticularly mainlanders, think they are visiting a foreign culture.

Have you ever noticed how they speak this alleged language when tourists are around to witness it? But have you ever heard them use Aloha and Mahalo when you are not there to hear it, or when they are in their own home?

Do you honestly believe that they answer their phone at home, "Aloha"? No, they say, "Hello" like the rest of us normal people. Have you ever heard locals say "Aloha" to each other? No, they say it to you. And they deliver it with an evil, money-grubbing smile. Just look at them the next time you walk in to Don Ho's Whale of a Deal Canoes and Other Fine Things store.

An example: A Hawaiian walks into a bar, specifically, the Wiki-Wiki King Kamehameha Bar and Grill

Bartender: Aloha, Brah!

Hawaiian: I'm Hawaiian, man.

Bartender: Oh. Hey, man, what's up?

This is precisely why locals avoid such touristy places and have their own bars that we "haoles", have no idea exist.

The Mai Tai

Do Hawaiians really drink Mai Tais, or was this inebriation-inducing concoction merely created to make us naive visitors hand over money in fifteen dollar increments to maintain Hawaii's tourism trade they so heavily depend on?

Same Hawaiian walks into a bar, specifically the Banana Monkey Aloha Dive.

Bartender: Aloha! We have specials on Mai Tais. Only two for $19.99!

Hawaiian: I'm Hawaiian, man. (Stifles a belch. Or not, since there are no tourists around.)

Bartender: Oh. Grog, then? (Also may or may no be stifling a belch.)

Hawaiian: Yeah.

Bartender: That'll be fifty cents.

Getting Lei'd

Those plumeria necklaces that they attack you with are merely aromatic manipulators that act as a fishing line, hooking you and reeling you in to expensive stores and forcing you to buy $199 glass turtles and "Just Mauied" bumper stickers.

I see what you're doing, Hawaii, if that is your real name, and you don't fool me for a second. Your crashing waves aren't going to lull me. Your multicolored sunsets will not hypnotize me.

I've come to realize that Hawaii is just another word for sucker. I'm not trying to be a killjoy, I'm just trying to save you from your gullible selves and see Hawaii for what it truly is.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to go to a luau. There's a Kalua pig and a couple of Lava Flows with my name on it.

Goat Thing of The Day

Because I love the Surfing Goat Dairy on Maui (some of the staff are now Nanny Goats in Panties fans), I had to go back and see my little furry buddies again. This time, I caught them hanging ten:

Well, sort of.

I asked this cutie to smile for me, but he just stuck out his tongue...

They Prefer To Be Called "Little Bugs"

2009-03-30T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Because midges, apparently, are hard on vacuum cleaners.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and there is the occasional sea monster...

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

Goat Thing of the Day

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

Who Needs Tomorrow?

2009-03-26T01:38:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goat Thing of The Day

The Purple Goat Lady is having babies...

A Post About Nothing

2009-03-23T00:20:00.000-07:00

Your phone rings. Caller ID says it's Umbert. You think, Jeez, that's the third time he's called today. Ugh, better answer it.

You: Hello?

Umbert: Hey, whatcha doin'?

You: Nothing.

Umbert: ...

You: You?

Umbert: Oh, nothing.

And that's why you never answer the phone when Umbert calls. I mean, he's a nice guy and all, but he doesn't add anything to your existence. In fact, he can really suck the life out of a conversation.

Or how about when you're walking down the hall at the office and Stan from Marketing says, "Hello, how are you?"

You: Fine. You?

Stan: Fine.

And that's it. Stan looks like he wants to say more, but can't think of anything, so you keep walking because you don't want to get stuck in a meaningless conversation and you've got way more important things on your mind. Like how you have to go to the grocery store to get some cheese because you're sick of tacos without cheese for dinner. And how you have to get proper cat food for Xavier because he's probably sick of cheeseless tacos as well.

An hour later when you're getting your fourth cup of coffee, you pass Stan from Marketing again and he says, "Hey, how are you?"

You: Fine.

And you already asked him how he was doing before, so why should you ask him again?

You decree right then and there that coworkers should only say hello once. After that you should just half-smile past each other in silence the rest of the day.

Another hour later, you have to pee so bad you walk briskly to the little girls room and that's when Stan from Marketing says, "Hey, what's the status on the Smith-Johnson report?" and there's no short answer. Do you say, "Look man, I gotta pee." or do you squirm while delivering a quick summary of the damn Smith-Johnson report? Sure, it's your fault for waiting so long, but you were on an endless conference call, and you set the phone down on your desk, thinking you could sneak down the hall and get back before anyone could notice.

And now here's Stan the Office Obstacle.

You think you maybe need different people in your life. (♪ Peoplllll... people who need peoplllllll...♪)

You go to a social network event to meet some of these so-called people. And the whole time you ask yourself if you really need more people in your life.

Don't you have enough people already? Aren't you sick of people? You're always saying you're not a people person, so what are you doing hanging around talking about the weather and the economy and March Madness with these people for?

You come home exhausted and swear off people from now on. You go to work the next day and nobody says hello. They avert their eyes when they swish past you in the hallway. Your phone doesn't ring all morning and the Smith-Johnson report is done, so you have nothing to do right now. The company doesn't allow personal internet surfing, so you twiddle your thumbs until lunch. No one seems to be around to go to lunch with so you walk to the roach coach and get a greasy taco (with extra cheese, because you forgot to get cheese while you were at the dang grocery store the night before) and eat it alone at your desk.

Your phone rings after lunch. It's your boss, Mr. Peabody, calling you into his office.

He never calls you into his office.

As you approach his door, you notice the blinds in the window are closed. You brace yourself for "the talk". How times are tight and there's nothing he can do and good luck. You figure out that that's why nobody would talk to you today. Because they knew.

You knock.

Nothing.

You knock again.

Mr. Peabody: Come in.

You: {gulp}

You open the door and the entire office yells "SURPRISE!". They present you with your favorite birthday cake: chocolate. Everyone pitched in and gives you presents including a gift certificate to your favorite restaurant: Pedro's Taco Emporium and Cheese House. While everyone is munching on cake, you find out that Violet who only sits two cubicles away loves all the same Hitchcock and Scorsese movies you do.

Stan from Marketing says, "I've been busting all day! I couldn't even talk to you - I was so afraid of blowing the surprise."

You discover that Stan was in the Peace Corp, that he saved the lives of many children.

You never knew Carmen was so funny and she wants to be a writer someday, just like you.

Mr. Peabody asks you to stick around while everyone else leaves his office. He tells you that the Smith-Johnson report was outstanding and that he's giving you a raise. He also offers you a promotion to their satellite office where you would have the whole office to yourself since everyone else there is constantly traveling.

You look at the pile of chocolate crumbs that used to be the cake and the splayed presents. You see the gorgeous view from Mr. Peabody's office of the harbor and the blue ocean behind it. You recall that last joke Carmen made that had you both in hysterics.

Mr. Peabody: What's wrong?

You: Nothing.

Mr. Peabody: Are you okay?

You: I'm fine....You?