Tuesday, February 18, 2014

~ That One Time I Met Bob Costas

Once upon a time, I had a serendipitous path crossing with the one, the only, the pink eye sensation, Bob Costas.  It was weird.  Deeeelightfully, weird. 

At the time I worked at a downtown hotel as a concierge.  I wandered across the street to the convention center and its super sketchy (at the time) food court with my co-worker and bestie, AnonD. 

We were doin' what girls do.  Mock. Ridicule.  Gossip.  Solve the problems of the world.  Recount the prior night's drunken debauchery.  As we sat there I looked up from my greasy ass (which for clarification, I do not use as a pejorative) slice of pizza and noticed a man I recognized, ambling towards us making his was through the sticky table-y maze as I found myself surprised by the words popping outta my mouth, "Hi, Bob.  Could I have an autograph?"  

AnonD, who between work and social tomfoolery knew practically everyone I knew (and vice versa) at the time sat looking bewildered as to A)  Who this mysterious 'Bob' was that I seemed to know, and she didn't.  And II)  Why the fuck I would be asking for someone she thinks I must know's autograph. 

Ridiculousness escalated as the esteemed Mr. Costas broke stride and stopped by our table for a wee chat.   Why are you here?  Are you enjoyin' the city?  And other mundane minutiae Midwesterners ask randomly encountered celebrities.  Bob uber politely provided answers to each of my queries.  (He was in town to do a piece on a local inventor who had devised some basketball training hoop.  I have no idea why that sticks in my brain, yet I can't accurately tell you what I had for dinner last night.  Or how old my dog is.)  He was so kind, in fact, that before he took off to continue this trek through the convention center, he asked me for a pen to bestow me with a pre-selfie days eternal reminder of our meeting. 

What the very genial former Later With Bob Costas (NBC) host didn't know was that I don't enjoy carrying a purse.  I will.  I have several that for various reasons make me happy.  But general rule?  That's what your bra is for.  Classy?  Not particularly.  Super secure and consistently convenient?  Oh, hellz yeah.  But I digress.  Suffice it to say the over the shoulder boulder holder has its purse-y limitations.  One of which is writing utensils.

Now this is the point where I've already weighed out my options, and have apparently decided that getting up walking to one of the food vendors and begging for a pen was too much effort.  Or so I gathered when, "oh, never mind, I don't even have a pen", came tumbling out of my pie hole. 

The only less appropriate phrasing could have been;  'I'm only interested in commemorating our random ass meeting if it requires zero effort on my part.  So, with that said, I'm out.  But, really nice meetin' ya.'  Yes.  I just took pride in being slightly better than my evidently, awful natural inclinations

Meanwhile, AnonD, who is responsible enough to consistently carry a purse is;  1)  searching furiously for a writing device.  B)  still perplexed who this Bob Costas is, why she doesn't know him and why I'm now declining his autograph.

The next thing I know Mr. Costas hoofs it to the nearest food outlet and has successfully acquired a pen.  As he returns, pen in his second coming of the worlds oldest teenager hand, he asks if I have something to write on.  While just really a very nice man, Bob Costas does not read a situation well... 

Pop Quiz:  Does the dumbass girl without a pen, who's already called off the autographing opportunity and is clearly ill prepared, have a piece of paper? 

(If you answered, 'no'?  Give yourself a gold star.  If you
answered, 'fuck no', give yourself 2.  Congratulations, you!) 

I'm starting to realize that I'm likely the worst person Bob Costas is meeting that day the universe didn't want me to have Bob Costas' autograph as I confess that I do not, in fact, have a piece of paper.  Again, I'm left giving Bob Costas a verbal wave-off with a, I'm-practically-begging-you-to-stop-wasting-your-time-on-this "really, I'm sorry, it's ok, noooooo, don't worry about it, it was good meeting you, enjoy your visit."  

...Which is exactly when AnonD discovered an old receipt floating around her purse: 

Circa 1992

As we finished our lunch I filled AnonD in on who Bob Costas was (is) and why he's one of the coolest cats around.  A half an hour later, or so, as we stopped giggling started back to work, is when she learned exactly how cool Mr. Costas is when we heard our names called from across the cavernous lobby near the exit, "see you 'later*', BBG, AnonD".   (Insert Bob Costas wave here)

Anyone who gets his own autographing pen. (And returned it to the vendor)  Doddles whilst stranger girls scramble for paper and recalls names more than :30 seconds later??  That's one very decent guy.   And cool ass cat.


* In homage to his show, Later with Bob Costas.  Not because either AnonD or I were floozy's.   There were no actual Bob Costas plans involved in the making of this story.


Tuesday, January 21, 2014

~The Tale Of The Hedgehog

In what may actually be the first time I've ever mentioned 'the hedgehog and haven't meant Ron Jeremy my ultimate tale of dumbassery...  (Which as you can imagine, is sayin' a lot.) 

I give you this:

A month or so ago I was Facebook-y involved in a conversation with a couple of friends (LEM et Ree Ree Bun) who I've known since middle and high school, respectively.  One of those chats that starts as one subject and morphs into an entirely different somewhat insane topic.  ...Which is when the subject of opossums popped up. 

Now, I don't wanna brag I don't wanna boast (Yeah, toast!!) give you the impression that I'm into opossums.  But I'm kinda into opossums they've played a big weird role in my life. 

A million years ago when LEM, Ree and I were drinking Bartles & James outta our Dairy Queen cups and listening to the Violent Femmes for the 837th time driving around the rural outskirts of our ancestral home, tempting fate by venturing out to a place called, Cry Baby Bridge.  A place locally rumored to be haunted by the wails of a mother who for some the fuck reason or another had drowned her kid(s).  I'm sketchy on the details, but suffice it to say as sixteen year olds with still-hot-from-being-laminated drivers licenses and a sweet ass ride called, Ginger, it was, I assure you, the height of hometown adventure.  

Not the BBGmobile (aka: Ginger) but as close as I could locate on the interweb. 
And yes.  Yes I did feel compelled to give it racing stripes for historical accuracy.

One night on a dark country road drunken ride (Dear Anyone Reading This~   It is not my intention to put a positive and peppy spin on drunk driving.  On the contrary, I frequently say, "I'm lucky to be alive" and often these, I-didn't-use-better-judgment moments are precisely what I mean.  This is simply a testament to keepin' it real and historically accurate.) we rounded a bend in the road to encounter an across-the-road stretchin' line of creepy ass glowing opossum peepers staring us down with complete and utter impunity.  If 'come at me bro' had been a thing back then, and of course if opossums had the power of speech the mom opossum leading her pack would have 100% hissed it at us.  They held us at bay for (?) 10 minutes in a Opposable Thumbs vs. Prehensile Tail standoff, that we didn't know we'd live to tell the tale of as we sat cut off from humanity huddled in a Chevette.  In the dark.  In the country. 

That nocturnal nature-y memory was what was being bandied about when I abruptly told LEM and Ree to "excuse me.  I'll be right back." as I started to wander upstairs to the kitchen to take a photo of the opossum I have sitting on the side of the sink.  The ceramic opossum that I spied and purchased in a dollar store and has been sitting at my sink for easily the past 20 years.  For perspective sake, I'm not a tchotchke sitting on ever surface girl.  Mainly because more stuff = more cleaning and why the fuck would I wanna set myself up for that?  I'm far too lazy to have to clean 67 things around my counter, so you know this opossum figurine holds a certain level of importance to me.  In fact, it's given me an internal giggle about that night pretty much every time it's caught my eye during otherwise mundane dish wash-y tasks. 

It became even more meaningful to me (if possible) a few years back after a Very Special daytime opossum siting that had one challenging me to a life and death duel for who would reign supreme over man and animal kind causing a slight delay to my arrival at work one morning. 

Unlike my previous opossum-y adventure, I felt my life was in less danger because this time it was personal it was on my city/suburban turf, I had the benefit of sun, and a big ass SUV.  This all should have made for a substantially less my-heart-is-gonna-beat-outta-my-chest commune with the beady eye'd, half monkey/half albino rat creature.  But it did not.  Primarily because this opossum seemed extra mean as it exited a drainage hole (I'm sure they have a real name.  I do not know what it is.) ambled across the street and into my path as it carried a pack of opossum babies clingin' to it's body.   It was a very tense interaction, that by the time I made it to the office evolved into a scenario which involved 23 sketchy opossum babies hangin' from it, and that the obstinate opossum parent had actually flipped me off during our exchange.  (It still warms my heart that one of my co-workers for several [super deeeelightful to me] hours believed that a marsupial flipped me the bird.  ...'Merica, I don't even have the words to convey how much I love you.)

As I entered the kitchen I found myself slightly giddy over snapping a photo to share with LEM and Ree.  I knew they'd love seein' that I still had the kitchen opossum.  Click.  Returned to post the shot...  Which is exactly when I realized I'm a dumbass.  Not only amHave been every damn day for approximately two solid decades.  It's the precise moment I recognized that my prized opossum is, in fact, a muther fuckin' hedgehog.  Honestly?  I was so angered by my discovery that having to clean it up was the only thing that prevented me from marching back to the kitchen, picking it up and smashing it on the floor and into a million pieces.  I'd been hoodwinked by a headgehog! 

P.S. I now must refer to it as Fauxpossum.

I realize that for many folks this would mark the end of a cracked out opossum saga.  Thankfully, I'm not many folks...

Because I enjoy being overly dramatic about random shit, which I always find odd as I'm so likely to downplay actual gasp worthy situations of course I shared my I'm-a-dumbass story with a few people, including my Mom.

On Christmas morn' as I gathered with family opening presents I unwrapped, well, let's just cut to the chase--


Oprah has her favorite things, I have mine. 
(Given to me by Mom's hubby.)

I have no idea what dark corner of the interweb one visits to find a spectacularly crazy opossum with babies figurine, but I am eternally grateful that Mom's husband did.  I also have no idea why a manufacturer actually makes an opossum with babies figurine, but I'm thankful that they do.  To say I'm overjoyed with it would be an understatement. 

If anyone has a weird history with hedgehogs and would like a previously owned hoggy homage, please feel free to email me ( 


...And now for the Paul Harvey-y rest of the story? 

I started this post a week or so ago, got busy, had time to consider the ridiculousness of this post, that this made me look a fool it probably wasn't that entertaining of a story worthy of a share and like many a post before didn't bother to finish it

And that was that. 


Today when I spied this sign from the universe meme that seemed to be prompting me to bring the tale of the hedgehog to a proper full circle:


Hedgehog Bonus:
Ron Jeremy-Wrecking Ball


Thursday, December 19, 2013

~ Gift Ideas (aka: These Exist III)

My last position when I worked at a hotel (a million years ago) was as concierge.  It was a perfect fit for someone who knows shit.  Notice that I didn't say I know useful shit.  In fact, it's fair to say that most of the details being housed in my gray matter fall into the realm of random.  Perfectly useless.  ...Ya know, until some situation pops up that makes a weird lil' (useless) tidbit I've had tucked away something that could help you out.   And lets face it, who couldn't use a some gift help this time of year?  (No tip necessary) 

I'm a big fan of a multi-taskin' tool which is exxxxactly what caught my fancy with this man gift.  A collar stay that allows a guy to fix a lil' sumthin'-sumthin', open my beer perhaps pop a adversary's eye out if necessary and keeps him lookin' classy.  Seriously?  What's not to like?  Titanium Collar Stays

If you're searching for the perfect gift that says, 'I'm a narcissistic asshole', then kidz, I gotcha alllll taken care of.  I'm not sure a present to another person is supposed to imply that you think somehow their life can be improved by having a you doll?  With that said?  And in, what may indicate I'm a bad person I am fucking obsessed with having a lil' BBG doll.  A tiara?  A dumbass smile?  Big hooters?  ...Oh, hellz yes.  I feel like Uncle John (my cute ass dog) would immediately plunder for stuffing and gnaw off my appendages like to be in charge of me for a change.  Build Your Own Doll

In celebration of several states going all weed legal 'n all, and for those of you still scratchin' your head for a gift for your favorite pothead I'm pleased to present Cannabis Scented Incense 

I'm hopeful that next year the inventors of that ubiquitous (if you've been on YouTube recently) poo spray (in case you haven't seen it) will be marketing poo spray that smells like a roadside portapotty! 

In other, I'm-amused-by-things-that-are-what-they-are-items news.  Or as I like to think of 'em as-- fantastic clusterfucks of irony, is a gift that is mind-blowingly spectacular.  Nay.  Boobtacular.  While I've never owned a pastie, I can't conceive of a better pasties than an actual nip pastie.   And I can't imagine what girl wouldn't love the ability to hide her nipples by displaying anatomically correct fake felt nips?   Nipple Nipple Pasties 

For the glug-glug-ers on your list I like a gift that monitors and alerts the recipient that they are taking too long to get tipsy.  A great gift for anyone on your list that makes you think, 'ya know, I like (insert name here) better when s/he's got a lil' booze on board'.  Problem solved.  You're welcome.  Wine Glasses w/ 10 Minute Stem Timer  

Another alcoholcentric gift that caught my attention is a new incarnation of something I highlighted way back in the 2011 Gif Ideas (aka: These Exist II) when I included the big ass flask.  At the time it was the most fantastic flask I'd ever laid eyes on, with it's 64 oz. holdin' stainless steel confines.  But this year I discovered a bigger ass'd flask.  This 128 oz. giant ass flask is an item any drinker and ol' school Honey I Shrunk the Kids-er would certainly love to glug.  Giant Ass Flask 

It used to be there were boat people and non-boat people.  But now there's a third option.  A killer option.  Behold the Killer Wale Submarine for only $90,000 you could give someone the gift of free range poseidon-ing. 

Check again.  That's a submarine.
If your sense of adventure runs a lil' more land based, or your bank account isn't gonna cover a $90k nut gotcha covered on that one too.  Next time you tell someone you 'love them to the moon and back', you could literally show them the exact spot.  For under $30 you can get in on a piece of moon, baby.  (Please note;  'Getting' in on a piece of moon' is not a euphemism, nor is it the same as mooning, which we all know is a gift you can give for free.).   Lunar Land

While I can't fathom when a bubble wrap suit would actually be necessary?  I can't exactly say I think it's a bad idea either.  Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, POP, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, POP, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop...  Bubble Wrap Suit
Wanna bring a lil' culture to the person on your list who has the crafting skills of a 7 year old?   The Latch Hook Rug Mona Lisa Kit is your gift-y problem solver.  In fact, I just solved the what is the BBG winter project is gonna be, problem.
Yarn Mona Lisa?  Hellz yeah!
I feel like when the apes take over it will be with the help of man's best friend.  (It's entirely possible I dug the Planet of the Apes a lil' too much as a kid.)  Why will our closest animal friends turn on us?  Two words:  Dog Bikini  I know this will not keep some people from thinking aaaaafuckingdorable and making a purchase, so thank you in advance for letting me know that you are that crazy dog person, and that you are in collusion with the apes. 
I hope your gift giving just got a lil' weirder easier.
Related Odd Gift-y Posts:


Tuesday, December 3, 2013

~ What You Might Not Know About Driving Behind An SUV

Dear People Who Drive Cars,

Some of you apparently do not realize how you appear to us high riders (SUV's/pickup trucks/vans).  In a car you know someone is tailgating you if, lets say, you can't see the bumper of the car behind you in your rearview mirror.  Unless you are driving a sponsored and logo'd car in a left-er-ly fashion, whilst wearin' a flame retardant suit,  a la NASCAR, drafting tailgating is generally considered a universal no - no, I think we can all agree, no?

And I think everyone is aware of the accommodations they should make around semi's:

Stay out of the shaded areas or things could get shady for you real quick.

But I'm not sure as several times weekly I'm forced to break check some of you bastards that some of you are aware that at a similar distance behind those of us in high riding vehicles that you look even closer because we sit so high that we are looking down at ya from our mirror vantage point.  How close?  I generally don't think twice about you if I can see the tip to the middle of your hood.  Unfortunately, I find all too often that I glance back and find that maaaaaybe I can see where your hood and windshield meet.  That my friends is too damn close.  If all I can see is your steering wheel?  You'd better hope three things:

1)  That you have good breaks on your car.
B)  That you have the reaction time of Flash Gordon.
III)  That your insurance is up to date (and that you aren't getting too close to your point allotment on your drivers license because anytime you hit someone from the rear you are at fault for not keeping a lil' thing called assured clear distance [Ohio Revised Code: Assured Clear Distance]). 

What you look like in the rearview of a car

What you look like in the rearview of an SUV/pickup truck

Tip:   The higher the back window of the vehicle in front of you the farther you need to hang back to avoid making an abrupt acquaintance with my back bumper, higher insurance rates, points deducted from your license, and those pesky, 'it's gonna cost how much to fix my front end?!?' conversations.  True story.
Listen, I completely understand that it's not your fault that my tailgate height, and trajectory of sight means you need to adjust your driving style behind me.  But in fairness, it's not my fault that you can't see around my ride from your 5" off the pavement view, but I consciously make accommodations to be thoughtful of your perception each time I drift a lil' right in my lane in traffic so that you can have an opportunity to see what's going on in front of me.  See.  It's called bein' courteous.  Which is all I'm askin' from ya.  Be courteous and get the fuck off my ass. 


Related Posts:

It's Official Dumbass Season Is Upon Us

Dear Dumbass Driver

Driving: My Pet Peeves


Wednesday, November 27, 2013

~Brown Thursday, My Ass. It's Thanksgiving. (If We Can't Stick WIth That We Should Start Calling It Greedy Thursday)

From the time I still qualified as a Little Brown Girl holidays were often a lil' sketchier than those of most of my friends.  Because my parents were Police Officers (Mom later became an RN) holidays tended to happen when they did.  Dinners were held early, or late to accommodate someone's work schedule.  Presents were opened on Christmas morning some years and Christmas Eve on others depending on the presiding shift rotation in our house.  I was always flexible to the somewhat helter skelter nature of our holiday celebrations because I knew my parents had important jobs.  Literal life and death jobs that required staff to man the posts for the greater good of our community 24/7/365.

One of my first 'grown up' jobs was working the desk at a downtown hotel.  Those years frequently found yours truly working holidays.  Not because I was low (wo)man on the totem pole, but because I'd had a long ass history of fluid holiday celebrations and family gatherings so I would volunteer to work 'em.  While hotel work is not life and death (99.44% of the time, although I have stories that would prove that wrong) it does require being staffed every day. 

I'm certainly no martyr by anyone's measure.  Seriously.  No one's.  I say, 'no' and manage to do exactly what I fuckin' want more than any 5 people you know combined.  ...But I'm also not a complete dick so if I could very easily work so that some co-worker had the opportunity to drive across the state to their familial homestead to gather with their loved ones with again, no skin off my nose?  Of course I'm gonna volunteer to do just that.  My family and I can have a holiday like any other--  maybe on the day, maybe not on the exact holiday being celebrated.

So, I don't come to my views on holidays as someone workin' a cush job that always has such days off.  Nor are they based on some long history of bein' bitter for havin' to work them.  My views are rooted on the simple premise of; is it necessary for certain people to be ripped away, or prevented from participating in holidays due to their job?

Obviously, there are a ton of yes's.  (City snowplow drivers, flight attendants, soldiers, firefighters, people who answer Poison Control, NFL refs, etc.)  But ya know what else there are?  A shit load of no's.  One of the easiest no's is retail workers.  I mean, honestly?  I don't know about you but I've never heard tell of some retail emergency.  "...Ya know, cousin Cooter was so spry.  (shakes head)  Until he couldn't go to Macy's back for a flat screen on Thanksgiving '13, that really took a toll on him.  He was dead by 9 Thanksgiving night (single Native American by a littered road tear drops)..."  Why?  Because there are no retail emergencies.  ...There's retail poor planning.  (I forgot to buy potatoes for mashin'.)  ...There can be lack of retail access discomfort.  (My TV broke before Santa finished the parade.)  But there is no necessity for immediate, unfettered ability to purchase a waffle iron at 4pm on Thanksgiving.

Given that we've established there isn't a necessity for retailers like Wal-Mart, Kohl's and Best Buy et al to be open on Thanksgiving, ya gotta ask yourself, 'how fuckin' greedy are these places that 4am on Black Friday isn't enough?'  A:  Greedy enough to take millions of Americans away from their families on one of the few pretty much everybody-gets-off holidays left. 

It's funny that you don't have talk with anyone very long, about any subject, that something along the lines of, 'breakdown of the family' isn't offered up as an excuse or reason to explain something away.  Yet, those same people will have no compunction about not only leaving their family Thursday, but about contributing to having some other person/worker leave his/her family. 

Personally, I don't want to play any role in  people not being able to have their holiday. 

So you won't find me at any of the plethora of places opening Thanksgiving Day.  I will however make a concerted effort to girlcott (wouldn't that be the opposite of boycott?  [...Yep.  *You* just witnessed a word being born.  Congratulations!]) retailers who opt to keep their doors closed and their workers with their family and friends on Thursday.  I'm not suggesting what you should do.  The Golden Rule really covers it, so why should I? 

Retailers Not Bein' Scrooge-y Assholes Closed Thanksgiving Day Include:
JoAnn Stores
Marshalls/TJ Maxx
Radio Shack
Stein Mart

I have to admire the companies above who have made the decision to put workers (and their families) above grabbing for profits, if only for a few hours on the fourth Thursday of November.  Although I also must admit that I think, 'we didn't shackle our staff to their work stations on Thanksfuckin'giving' is a pretty shitty standard to have to serve as a litmus.  But here's where we are...   

If anyone understands that any day can be a holiday, it's me.  I'm just never going to be the excuse of why someone else is required to spend Thanksgiving away from their important people when it's completely unnecessary--  when the only life and deathy-ness is self made consumer mobs trampling each other for a this year's Monchichi.   I'm not inclined to reward a company with my benjamins when the real cost isn't a cheaper item, but the separation of families on a day set aside to be THANKFUL for the things we have... Things like families and people who love us.  No deal.  No sale.  No thanks. 

Since obviously I can't volunteer to work in place of every retail worker in America in order to allow them to be at home tomorrow, the next best thing I can do is share the sage and reasonable thoughts of an Iron Chef, and fellow Ohioian: 

"My restaurants are never open on Thanksgiving;  I want my staff to spend time with their family if they can.  My feeling is, if I can't figure out how to make money the rest of the year so that my workers can enjoy the holidays, then I don't deserve to be an owner." 
                                                                               - Michael Symon. 
My restaurants are never opened on Thanksgiving; I want my staff to spend time with their family if they can. My feeling is, if I can't figure out how to make money the rest of the year so that my workers can enjoy the holidays, then I don't deserve to be an owner.
My restaurants are never opened on Thanksgiving; I want my staff to spend time with their family if they can. My feeling is, if I can't figure out how to make money the rest of the year so that my workers can enjoy the holidays, then I don't deserve to be an owner.
And have an extra helping...
My restaurants are never opened on Thanksgiving; I want my staff to spend time with their family if they can. My feeling is, if I can't figure out how to make money the rest of the year so that my workers can enjoy the holidays, then I don't deserve to be an owner.

My restaurants are never opened on Thanksgiving; I want my staff to spend time with their family if they can. My feeling is, if I can't figure out how to make money the rest of the year so that my workers can enjoy the holidays, then I don't deserve to be an owner.
My restaurants are never opened on Thanksgiving; I want my staff to spend time with their family if they can. My feeling is, if I can't figure out how to make money the rest of the year so that my workers can enjoy the holidays, then I don't deserve to be an owner.

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