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Wednesday, June 30, 2010

~Fuckin' Firemen

Firemen.

Ugh.

They are awful. I don't even like to call them firemen. I mean, really, how often do they find themselves fighting a fire vs. noodlin' around doing other stuff (accident run, false alarms, neatly folding hose, kitten in a tree, watching old Emergency reruns, goin' to the grocery)? Perhaps they should be called, uniformed cooks, official accident responders, or professional truck shiners? I donno, but fireman seems somewhat misleading and disingenuous to me.

And what kind of grown up, professional job actually allows you to have another full time job on the "side"? I mean, really now.

In all fairness and in the name of full disclosure, I have an admitted bias against the engine and ladder set. Why? Because everyone just fuckin' looooooooves a fireman, but you know who loves the po-po? That's right noooooobody. And guess who's parents were the po-po? So I'm already pissy at 'em from go. It's entwined in the helix of my DNA for heavens sakes. I can fight it no more than I can fight breathing.

I can not help it. When I see their big red rigs it's like a red cloth being waved in front of an irritable bull. The occasion to have one near me in person is just asking for a tussle. Again, I can't help myself, they bring it on themselves. Apparently, they seemingly own no clothes not bearing a FD logo. I guess I just figure, if you're gonna bait and taunt me with your stupid 'look at me - look at me/love me - love me' logo t-shirt then I'm left with no choice but to alert you to my disdain of you, ya know?

Sometimes it starts with a tongue being stuck out, as it did a couple of years ago on vacation at Cod (Cape for the uninitiated). My guy at the time and I were out at dinner with another couple and had the colossal misfortune of being seated next to a table of firemen. How'd I know? Because of course everyone of those fuckers had some blue t, sportin' some and the other fire logo. Assholes. Name any other job where folks wear their profession on their clothes during their off hours, always? ...See. You are already starting to come around to my way of thinkin'. Those guys are a lil' touched in the head. It's like they're not allowed to wear just some regular, unadorned shirt.

Anyhoo, one of those guys gets up heading to the men's room and by reflex I stick my tongue out at him. That's all. Nuthin' more. He walks on. My guy and the other guy in the mix inform me that I need to "be good" because there are seven of those fire eaters and just 2 of them, and under no circumstances will they be able to take the fire group if it comes to fisticuffs. I assure them that there will be no trouble. They continue to stew and look chicken shit. A bit later the eldest member of the fire table stops by our table, says hello, introduces himself as the Bat Chief of the local brigade, and asked how the guy who I stuck my tongue out to bothered me. My response was "with his mere existence". And then uttered the words, my folks were Officers. All the while all inhabitants of my table looking very, very worried, at which point Bat Chief laughs, shakes my hand and hangs out and jibber jabbers for a while.

Our table continues on with our meal, the guys looking particularly relieved that they will not be the victims of an overwhelmingly outmatched beat down. And then it starts. Each and every fireman who went to the men's room, or wherever during the course of our time there made a pit stop at our table and said "I'm sorry", apparently Bat Chief instructed them to apologize to me for being firemen. Frankly, it was awesome!! Like getting a little comeuppance for the inequity of their general public perception. Even they know it deep down! It ain't right. Score a little moment of justice for the good guys (the police, of course).

In addition to the irritating custom of wearing their job literally on their sleeves (chests, backs, whatthefuckever), they have a propensity for actually tatting their logos on their bodies. Again, really, hoss? I have dated four firemen, much to, particularly my father's dismay, and 3 of 'em had a fire tat. Now, I've dated a couple of IT guys, they seem to manage to live life without a computery Windows or Apple tat. Attorney guy had no lady justice etched on his epidermis. I don't know one officer who felt the need to tat a badge on his body. Fire guys are weird.

Ok, now I feel the need to defend myself. For the record, I have never sought out a fireman. Ever. I know, I know, most girls would knock their grandma down to get to a fireman, but I see it as something one overlooks, not seeks. It's a trait I put in the 'con' colum. I've tried my best to shoo them away from go by letting my feelings be known up front. But, I had some valid reasons for going into my la-la land of don't ask/don't tell about that and letting them in. One was a Marine who'd served in the Desert Storm. Marine good. So I just chose not to think of him as a fireman, but as the much more palatable Marine, who wasn't available every 48 hours. My last beau had been hurt on the job and had to medically retire out, so I liked to consider him as what his second career is and not a fireman, but you know...once a fireman... If you think I'm talkin' trash behind their backs, wrong. I've said way worse in front of their faces. ...And yet, they keep finding me. And keep stickin' around. Why? As the owl would say;



The world may never know...

Before you think that I'm an out and out bitch, (which you may already think from reading other entries, or by knowing me in real life, but either way, you're the one who's here, and so I'm left with only one thought: suck it.) I only hate firemen (and women, my feelings are all people fire included) 49%. I would never stand for any ol' Tom, Dick or Harry badmouthing them. Think of it as how you can talk about your sister, but if someone else talks about her there's gonna be trouble, type stuff. The fire service is kind like the slower, "special", less cool, kid brother of the police. I feel with my other 51% that these are stand up, well trained cats who see some horrible things and put their lives on the line to come screechin' up ready to run in and TCB when your good judgement has you running the hell outta there-- and that I respect.

And they do have a few good qualities. (Wait. What is that bad feeling I just had when I typed those words? Is this what an aneurysm feels like?!?) For instance, those crazy velcro pants. As much as I mock when fireman Marine shows up wearin' them, (think along the lines of "awwwww...your employer doesn't think you guys are smart enough to master a button") those suckers are kinda cool. And as much as I would never ever ever admit it to him, that turnout gear and when he smells a bit like ode du smoke, is strangely appealing. Plus, I know the difference between the engine and ladder. (overly simply, engine guys extinguish, ladder guys ventilate) And I know terms like "unit day". So there's that.

The only really awesome thing about fireguys that I like is Rescue Me. Wicked awesome show. The new season started last night. I have it DVR'd and can't wait to see it. I say it's one of the best shows on tv. There is plenty of hoosafudge (nonsense, non reality based stuff/story lines), but there is a lot of reality to it too, specifically in terms of the ball breakin' and got your back business between the characters. I highly recommend it.

...Now let's just keep that our lil' secret. If fireman Marine finds out I'll never hear the end of it. The last words I spoke to him were, "you look cute...well, except for that shirt." I gotta keep my 49% rep in tact.

Everyone loves Raymond. And firefighters. Except for me. I hate 'em both. (sticks tongue out)


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Tuesday, June 29, 2010

~Crazy Cracked Out Corn And I Don't Care

How could I have passed this up? I actually watched someone else pick it up and put it back, presumably put off by it's mutation. Fool. Clearly, I couldn't pass it the rabbit of corn by.


I immediately snatched it up, completely intrigued by it's Chang and Eng weirdness. (Although perhaps this falls more under a parasitic twin than a conjoined?!?) Yes. Crazy cracked out cob must come home with me! I'm a sucker for odd.


Evidently, Uncle John is too.


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Monday, June 28, 2010

~Are Fish Sticks Ruling My World?


Technically, it's not just fish sticks. It's a little frozen pizza here, or a bun I need toasted for my hot dog there. (God! I am such a child when it comes to eating. Ridiculous. I should be ashamed. "Should" being, of course the operative word.) It's a single baked potato I crave, or maybe that single slice o' Texas toast all mozzarella'd up.

All of the things that it seems too fucking stupid (and wasteful) to heat the oven up to 425 to make, ya know? Cooking for one, it just seems like too much. It's one of the reasons I eat so childish. Fixin' grown up food seems like such a hassle, which is how I end up eating ham & cheese samiches, or corn on the cob and tomato, or popcorn for dinner for days up on end. Ease. Maybe I'll even be more likely to have something resembling a meal more than, a one item entree. Maybe.

Anyhoo, recently, I've started considering a toaster oven. I know, radical, right? But for the sanctity of my clearish counter tops, it's a big decision. I've already got this crock pot, which I can only use for one purpose, pot roast. I gotta tell you it makes one hell of a pot roast. (Recipe below)

And of course a microwave, in addition to a few houseplants. I don't know if I can stand having one more thing cluttering up the joint. But I don't think I should be regulated by what I eat because the oven is too much. Should I? I'm a fuckin' grown up, shouldn't I have what sounds good and tasty and not just what isn't wasting energy? Or heating up the whole first floor on a already hot summer day?

So in mulling this over, I've spent approximately too the hell many hours looking at different toaster oven options, reading reviews, comparing and contrasting. Now, before you think I'm some kinda anal retentive, over analyzer, know that I bought my last car within 4 hours of determining that my old car wasn't worth the work the shop said it would cost to make it right, some kinda ball/joint-y business that cost more than the Blue Book on it. Decision easy. Do not fix. Buy new ride. I went home that evening in my current vehicle. It was a few minutes online to determine the newer model years of what I wanted were still solidly built with a good rep, and comparing prices at local dealerships. Swift. Decisive. Done.

But this toaster oven debate going on seems to be taking up much too much of my brainpower and time. Why am I investing sooooo much time and energy into a $30ish dollar purchase? This is verging on crazy. Hell, maybe it's already crossed over into crazyland?

One way or the other, I must make a decision.

Update to follow... (maybe)




(Recipe: Pot roast. Season to your style. I use cracked pepper and kosher salt. Pour in one can of chicken juice (stock? I guess). Toss into crock pot as you go to bed, set on the low and slow setting and you'll wake up to the most delectable aroma but hold off until din-din. It'll be kick ass. I guess if you like your veggies cooked in the stock/meat juice include them too, although I'd do that in the morning (if I liked such veggies) so they don't get too smushy. --It ain't Julia Child, or Nigela, but that recipe is a winner kids. A chunky monkey girl would never lead you wrong about food.)


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~Dear Parents Of The World

Honestly, I never anticipated that I'd ever have the occasion to write these words, but I have (ya gave it to me), so for the fuckin' record...
Dear Parents-

It's 1 am. If no one has mentioned this to you, this is the perfect time to for your kiddies to be tucked into their wee beds. Sawing logs, catching zzzzz's and making nice with the fuckin' sandman. 1am is not the time to have your 5 year old kid in a bar. For starters, by 1 am my ability to not utter four letter words is waaaaaaay the fuck past. Frankly, I wasn't very good at it at 9pm. Or at 9am, for that matter. But at midnight plus 1, there is zero chance of me or any of the other adults watching their mouths.

Oh, and perhaps no one has mentioned this to you, kids need fuckin' sleep. Not watching some middle age birthday girl grinding against her gal pal as their hubby's egg them on. Additionally, a sloppy karoke rendition of Bust A Move and Mr. Roboto are not actually lullabyes.

I understand that you want to hang with your peeps, kick back and have some fun. Guess what? Me too. And that's why I have a dog. And why the others that I was with had this crazy ass thing called a baby sitter. Do ya wanna say it with me? Baaaaaaaaby sitter. For a nominal fee they are responsible people who will watch your children while they, ya know, stay the fuck home and get a decent night's sleep until you return. You might want to look into them. They come in all shapes, sizes and ages, and can really be anyone who you are pretty damn certain will keep your children alive and safe while you are away. If you are for some reason unable to secure one, this is a good time to keep your ass the hell at home. In the event of such ta-doin's it is perfectly acceptable to invite a friend or two over to your place, while your tot is safely and soundly in their bed.

This may be news to you. It may even sound outlandish, but I promise you, this is how reasonable people, who aspire to not raise heathen children, or be heathen parents, conduct their lives and show their regard and care for their offspring.

Not being an attorney or law enforcement officer, I am uncertain of the legalities of having your kid at a bar at such an hour. But it was a topic of discussion amongst the other people witnessing your poor decision making skills. Words and phrases like "child abuse" and "call the police" were bandied about. In large part due to the fact that "shots and tots" is not a thing. At least not where the rest of us reasonable folks come from. Had we ascertained which one of you was in charge of the child and and matched you up to who was consuming the shots that were delivered to your table (before you presumably hopped in your car to drive her home to finally put her the fuck to bed), you would be sitting somewhere cuffed up while CPS cared for your kid, which from what you showed us of your parenting skills was probably a far better place for her to be.

Lastly, and on a much smaller note, 5 years old is too old for a binky. So, all in all, world class job in parenting.

...And this is where I remind myself that much to my chagrin, it is still illegal to hit people in the head with a brick...

Even when they really, really deserve it. Seriously, people, we've got to call our legislators about this one. Bricks for Bitches/Bastards. It might not solve everything, but I believe it will address some things. I'm just sayin'...

Love,
BBG & concerned and reasonable people everywhere, including the (code name) Jorge Estrada's.


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Saturday, June 26, 2010

~Strawberry Moon: It's Here

Tonight will be the "Strawberry Full Moon". Honestly, I didn't know such a thing existed, until I heard the weather man mention it. But apparently, it's a thing. It's in the Farmers Almanac.

• Full Strawberry Moon – June This name was universal to every Algonquin tribe. However, in Europe they called it the Rose Moon. Also because the relatively short season for harvesting strawberries comes each year during the month of June . . . so the full Moon that occurs during that month was christened for the strawberry!

In the spirit of the season, check out this big ass strawberry I had the other day:In my Googling of this Strawberry Moon biz, I also learned there is a Beaver Moon in November. But don't hold your breath for any personal pictures of that!

There ya go. We learned a lil' sumthin' today.


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Thursday, June 24, 2010

~Not Working For Me Hollywood

"Tom Cruise is at his Jerry McGuire best", is what the announcer said on the commercial I just heard for this new Knight and Day movie he and Cameron Diaz star in.

Really? "At his Jerry McGuire best"? That's whatcha got? That's the big selling point?

Granted, I'd pretty much rather let ants crawl on me for 90 minutes than actually watch Jerry McGuire, or any other Tom Cruise flick for that matter, really. But if that's the best ya got, I'm not very impressed. It's not exactly alluring or compelling, now is it?

I liked Tom Cruise exactly twice. Top Gun* and All The Right Moves. Wait. I'm a fibber. Three. The Outsiders. So I realize I hold a predisposed bias against him, but "at his Jerry McGuire best"?!? Come on now.

*Please note the main appeal of Top Gun wasn't Cruise, but Rick Rossovich. (Highooooooooogaaa!!) And a dash of Iceman. I'm sorry, I just can't call a grown man Val. Just can't.


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Wednesday, June 23, 2010

~Weird & Random (aka: Ramble #II)

Seinfeld watchers, do you remember when Elaine was visiting Jerry's parents, it was all stifling, she's in bed and is all, "...the air conditioner! Pleeeeease, Mrs. Seinfeld, I beg of you. Turn. The air conditioner ON!"? Well, that was how day two of the BBGWorld Tour kicked off.

Oh, and at 6:03AM, by the way.

Me, burning up hot. If I had them, I would imagine the term "balls hot" would be quite applicable. See, Nana had turned on the AC before I arrived. But being old, Nana is never hot, (side note: What is it about being old that completely hoses over ones ability to sense too damn hot?), so when I spied the thermometer I see it's set on 80.

Now for those of you not from earth, 80 degrees, windows open? Sheer delight. 80 couped up in a house with no meaningful air movement, with a dog touching you and throwing waaaay more heat than you would figure from his smallish frame, after 3 hours of sleep, after a night of tipsin' it up a bit? Well, let's just say if you're not careful this could be the catalyst to crankiness. But Nana was trying to make me comfy, and it's her house? I'm not that girl. So I sucked it up along with a much needed Dew and started my day. And a home cooked Nana breakfast. Yum.

Eventually, I left Nana's on my way to the second stop of the tour. The main reason for this tour in the first place was not letting Nana have to be alone on Father's Day, and taking one of Papa's hospice nurses, who we really bonded with, who lives near my godkids, out for cocktails. Alas, several days prior to the BBG show she had a conflict come up, but by this point I had already coordinated my visit with Nana, so I stuck with the original.

As there is an Air Force base within spittin' distance to my destination, I wasn't surprised, but was deeeelighted find myself traveling in the good company of a convoy.


Upon my arrival my little Mini Me, 10 y/o goddaughter commenced to schoolin' Aunt BBG. As you may know, I'm anti all technology. ...You know, until it becomes of value in my life. Otherwise my mantra is, technology is the harbinger of evil and I don't want any part of it.

Think I'm kidding? For sport I once made a CIO of a Fortune 500 utter the words, "technology is gonna be the damnation of us all". Yes, of course by reeling him in with a, "Come on!! You know technology is going to be the damnation of us all! Say it! Fess Up!." But dude said it none the less. And I still laugh at that accomplishment. hehehe ...But I digress...

Earlier in the week I'd feel brave enough to noodle around with the iPodNano Mom had given me, gosh, a few months ago, that has been sitting (mocking me daily) on the island in the kitchen ever since. All the while, "I have CD's...", "I have radios...", "and music on an online playlist..." ran through my tech resistant mind.

I don't even know what spurred it, but one evening I just picked it up, grabbed a pile of CD's and found myself sitting by the computer thinking, 'I'm a dumbass, but I'm not a moron, I can probably do this'. And next thing I know I'm all iTune-n' it up, baby. I'm a coooool kid! I'm a coooooooooooooool kid!!!

While I managed to download the train wreck which is my musical taste, I found myself not understanding how to charge, or manipulate the magic button that runs the Nano show. Or the nanotechonlogy, as I referred to it when I asked Mini Me to show me how to use it. Well doggy, she got me all the fuck squared away. I can take a video in 99 different ways, and most importantly to my needs, purposefully select the song I want to hear. Awesome!

I had a heart to heart with my godson which made me so proud. That stuff falls under none ya. Family stuff. That's all I have to say about that. (Before you worry-- no one is sick, or in trouble with Johnny Law or anything, "just" somebody is an irresponsible, emotionally manipulative asshole that's impacting the kids sorta stuff) I found myself 49% proud that he sought me out to chat with, hat I think it signifies that I'm being an ok Aunt BBG. I mean, no kid is going to open up to you if they don't feel ok about you, ya know. I always hope I'm not fucking up too badly, so it was nice to see such a big flag that maybe I'm not. Well, for the moment at least. 51% proud that at not yet 13 he's able to articulate and work out his feelings and thoughts on BFD shit that's going on in their lives right now. I'm grown and am I'm impressed by how he's coping with things. And very proud.

Mini Me, is, as the name implies, has no feelings. Well, ok, none that she's willing to share out loud. Or at least not yet. ...A girl spills when she's ready to spill, and if anyone gets that it's Aunt BBG.

Later LB2'd and her hubby and I went out to some neighborhood joint to meet up with a few folks. One being a guy who I've known since a year or so out of high school. He's been my Nana's insurance guy for the past forever, but before that he was a pal'ing around pal, and my date to Ree Ree's wedding. Thankfully, Ed remembers how we crossed each others paths initially. Me? I just know we're friends. Turns out he went to H.S. with another friend I've known since college, ALF. Surprise. And now he lives close to my godkids and his wife teaches at the H.S. they will attend in a few years. Again, I say: Small Ass World.

Also sitting in on the second leg of the BBG tour was a cousin of mine who also lives in the area. This marked the first time I've hung out with family outside of a wedding, funeral or reunion. Our outing was actually planned at a family funeral, after I uttered the phrase, "does someone always have to die before we can see one another?!?" It was so nice getting to spend time with my cousin, without a coffin in the room. We had such a good time that he came back home with us afterwards and sat in the garage while LB2's hubby played DJ for us from his set up in the Beat Lab (his home studio). Kids running around catching lighting bugs. A few cold pops. Good times.
In my, why??? WHY?!? Didn't I have my fucking camera with me news: While we were out we saw this meemaw. Technically a meemaw in training as the tot she carried seemed to be her own. Big ass poof of hair pulled on top of her head, too chunky for her tank and overly optimistic with her short-short shorts, all tatted up. Yeah. It was somethin' alright. Again, my apologies for not capturing her to share.
But...
I did bring this lil' that's incredible moment back for ya. (Are we square? Go ahead, click on it to make it bigger, ya know you can't help yourself.)

Father's Day, well, was as you can imagine, crappy. I took momentary refuge at my secret spot before returning to Nana's.

Where I hung visiting for a few hours before returning home. Tour complete.

...Until next time weird and random ensue.

Which we all know is just a matter of time... (tick-tock)



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Monday, June 21, 2010

~Weird & Random (aka: Ramble #1)

As I drove into my hometown, I spied a tot, maybe 18 months, standing on the sidewalk. Tot was butt ass nakid. Not a shirt. Not a shoe. Not a diaper. Parent-y looking folks seemed to be troubled by this zero. Uh huh. Welcome home BBG.

A few blocks away I see this cat ambling down the street. Well, hellooooooooooooo caucasian, chunky Prince.


Oh, it was only 88 degrees and approximately 152% humidity (but that is just a guess based solely on the increasing frizz factor of my locks), so, yeah, I'm gonna go with Purple Rain O' Stench.

I spent some time visiting with Nana and later darted out to an establishment serving only the finest barley and hops to the grey poupon-y-est best our community has to offer. Clearly, proven by my presence. HA! (Hummm...Why is that Denis Leary, "I'm an Asshooooooooole" song now in my mind?!?)

Anyhoo, there I am. There I am, not having any idea if I'd see any familiar faces. My "planning" was sketchy at best. My plan for this evening was something to the effect of 'hey FB peeps I'm going to be in town at x bar on x day @ x o'clock', therefore I wasn't too surprised that as I glided over to the outside bar that I recognized a grand total of noooooooooodamnbody. I ordered a beer and sat down thinking, 'well, dumbass, you can have a drink and if no one shows, leave with your dignity intact even though you are obviously a loser no one wants to see'. Which in all honestly is probably only half true. The Paul Harvey rest of the story is that I haven't even lived back home in 23 years. (Yes, fuck you very much I did use a calculator to determine that fact. Math teachers and parents everywhere are mortified.) And this is maybe the 10th time I've gone out there in almost a quarter of a century. A goodly number of my friends from there now live elsewhere. Plus, ya know, people have lives and obligations not revolving around me. I know, hard to fuckin' believe, yet true. So the pool of people this "invite" applied to was fairly small. So, loser/old and outta touch, you be the judge.

Yet milliseconds after sitting down and having this lil' inner dialogue moment with myself and I spy someone mentioned in 'da World before (Ahhhhhhh... entry, I don't know? Maybe April/May-ish? Look for the title if you give a rats ass.), if you have a good memory, you may remember him from such films as, 27 year Air Force vet who saved me from redneck/thug a while back. "Mr. (Insert Last Name Here)", which I only call him because it kinda ticks him off. And also because, 27 years of serving our country, well, that just deserves a bit of r-e-s-p-e-c-t, ya know?

Next thing I know a pal who I've known since the 4th grade walks in. Not only have I known her that loooooong, we lived just a scant few suburban blocks from one another. Her mom was the secretary at our elementary/middle school and so I pretty much carpooled with them every day for 4 years. We sang 9-to-5 and My Baby Takes the Morning Train a gazillion times back in the day. I had my first sunburn on a sand bar with that girl on a camping weekend with her family. We saw E.T. together. We haven't been close since H.S., but we go waaaay back and she's good people.

The three of us hadn't been there long when a gaggle of bikers rolled up. Hogs a every one of 'em. Some very much smacked of part-time riders, others were full-time/ride harder's, they were livin' the life. There were a lotta tats going on. One of the gaggle immediately intrigued me enough to prompt a, "hey you!" as he bellied up to place his order. One finger wiggle later and he was within arms length and (toot-toot) I gave his pony tail a little tug. I donno. I couldn't help it. We also met one of his cronies named "Highway". Yep.

(Childhood chum, Ponytail biker et moi holding said ponytail. I assure you that's his happy face. He had his hand on each of our shoulders. Funnily enough, the photo op was not my idea.)

While there I also shared a moment with the Big Wig Head Police Dude in our hometown, who I've known since I was a wee lass. I shit you not, I evidently had a serious eye for talent. I had school girl crushes on a grand total of 5 hometown police officers during my pre-teen/teen years. One is in charge of our city department, another is the BWHPD of the county force. Back in the day when I was all kaleidoscope peeper-ed about them they were but patrolmen.

Then an ex-beau appeared. We were having a wee visit when he tells me he's getting hitched. (Again, not to be bossy, but please refer to Happy Wedding Day, or something very closely to that titled entry for background.) He's 49, 50ish now, never married. Don't get me wrong. We dated two times. Wait? Three times? At different points over the gee, 15ish years we've known each other. "We" obviously weren't meant to be. Accepted. Bitter about it? No. We've turned into friends, in fact as recently as when Papa was dying he was there for me, so my bad feelings about him are zero. He and I are good in the proverbial hood. But really now? News Flash: He's getting married? AND I'm having my first Papa-less Father's Day weekend. Ugh. Shot please. I told him I was happy for him, and I honestly am. He's a good guy and I want him to be happy. But you know who the fuck else I'd like to see lobstered up and happy?!? Yeah, this Big Brown Girl!!

A bit later someone who, and I can't explain why, but he's someone I don't know well. Hell, it's probably fair to say I barely know, showed up. Here's the rub...I immediately liked him the first time we met at a party, maybe 10 years ago, through my friend Beannie and her friend who happens to be his cousin. Yeah, I'll wait while you diagram it out. ...Ok got it? I can usually get along with most folks who cross my path. I'm generally nice to most people I meet. But really off the cuff like 'em? Eh. I can't tell you 12 things about this guy, but he's always struck me as a stand up sort. Even though we met and have always seen each other here in the "big city", we are from the same hometown. Boom there he was. He's having a rough as hell patch after losing his daughter earlier this year. It/he has weighed on my mind to an inexplicable level vs. our actual level of friendship. With it being his first Father's Day without a child, I was so happy to see him out surrounded by his friends. I can't imagine how hard that must be, but I know it ain't easy. At. All.

As we all know I ended up chatting with several of his friends. One of whom apparently, I went to grade/middle school with. File under: Small Ass World. And someone else who I christened, (Insert the next suburb from me here/where he resides) police officer. Was he 5-0? No. I decided that would be his name based on his hair cut. He answered to it so whatdo I care? I may or may not have poked (personal message to DAMN- I am sorry. I can now see a pattern of my poking behavior. I don't know what this will actually change, but they say the first step is admitting your problem, so I understand.), and by that of course I mean, did poke, a local boy done good, who pitched for several Big League Chew teams such as the Reds, Giants & Rangers. A fact I was unaware of when I put poking into play. Not that having had such info prior would have likely prevented my finger jabs. But for some reason it does make it all the funnier to me.
Tomfoolery at an elite level, no? Maybe I could go pro?
Stop 1 on the BBGWorld Weekend Tour complete.
The next nights gig tale will have to wait. I'm in charge of me and I say it's my bed time.


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Sunday, June 20, 2010

~"30-06": How Can This NOT Be My Fave Song (DuJour)?


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Saturday, June 19, 2010

~Congrats Laker People


Boston.


Lakers.


...I couldn't care less. I have nuthin' against them, they're just not my teams. I have respect for their storied history, individually and collectively. But interest? Nope. Nada. Nil.


Until, I watched Laker Coach Phil Jackson's post win interview. When asked the legitimate question of what he'd told his team at half time? Phil's answer included the statement, "keep getting those loose balls".


HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!


Thank you Phil for cracking me the fuck up!

Uncle John sat up and looked at me I cackled so loud.

Some day I guess I'll grow up. I guess it just ain't this day.


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Friday, June 18, 2010

~World Cup? I Don't Give A Fuck

Soccer.

Football to the rest of the world.


Regardless of it's moniker, I do not get it.

I know nuthin' about soccer, other than Pele...don't use your hands...and a tie is an acceptable way to have a game end. Those few sketchy details and the lack of likelihood that any fight on the field will ensue, are reasons I don't care for (or understand) the sport. Frankly, I don't really understand hockey, but I still enjoy it. Even if I don't know the nuances, what's not to like about a sport where there's always an even enough shot that there will be blood shed? Droppin' of the gloves and beer? Sold. ...And I was almost killed at a fuckin' hockey game! (But I had a grrrreat time and it made for a grand story, thanks SuMac!)

Somehow, I missed soccer. We didn't play it in gym class. We were more the unfortunately and un-pc titled, "smear the queer" set. Particularly dismaying as I went to Catholic schools. I promise they were very inclusive and open-minded schools. We went on field trips to learn about other religions for fuck's sake. But, yes. We played smear the queer. And, yes. In good Catholic fashion, I still, all of these years later, feel fuckin' guilty about it. Oh, we were all about volleyball, dodgeball and kickball too. But I can remember our gym teacher in around the 8th grade trying to teach us this new fangled and seemingly overly intricate game called soccer. And I remember collectively, our class taking to it like the metric system, or lima beans. We were having no part of it. ...Back to a game ending in "ball", thank you very much.

One of my friends, BC, who is all of 6 months younger than me, but because my birthday fell funny, was a grade behind me, he's somehow magically all the fuck about soccer. He played in H.S. I know right this very second he's sitting somewhere in Chicago getting all ole, ole, ole, ole with it. Talkin' "red card" this and "forward" that, and clinkin' beer high fives with some stranger/new friend.

Hell, every person I know who has kids, they know all about soccer. Every one of 'em. Yet, I have no logical understanding of why soccer is becoming sooooo popular? Honestly, it strikes me as being unAmerican. I mean, this is America, baby. We like winners! Hell, we even like losers! It's why we (well, not me because I was never on his bandwagon) like Tiger and John Daly (who's train wreck/drunkin', good ol' boy, always entertaining and sometimes impressively skilled bandwagon I've always been on). It's why we love (again, not me, I want to hit him in the head with a brick), Tony Stewart and Dick Trickle (seriously, how can you not root for a cat named Dick Trickle?!?). We save room for both extremes in our hearts.


But...a tie? Unnatural! Unholy! A true sin against nature in my book.

America wasn't made great through being as good as someone else, it was built on beatin' someones ass. Exhibit A; All buildings would be three stories if it weren't for some old school titan who wanted to build a bigger building so he could beat his rivals ass. Bill Gates isn't sitting in his office with the mindset that if his next release is just as even Steven as Job's and his Apple outfit, that it's an acceptable outcome. He's looking to drawl blood. Dominate market share. NASA wasn't successful by letting the ruskeys plant a hammer and sickle on the big cheesy luna. Nope, we got to "one giant step" hurdled by a strong desire to win! Henry Ford built his empire on taking other auto builders to the mattresses. That's the American way, kids.

What's even the purpose of engaging in something where if you give your best, it's touchy-feely good enough to not appoint an actual winner? Pfffft. Why even get up? And I'm not even the competitive sort. But please know, if we're playing anything, I am actively trying to beat your ass. I'm fine if I lose fair and square. Cool enough. But I would never play anything that we might tie. Nope. So screw you soccer.


Plus, how do you even get your trash talkin' on? My mind can't even begin to fathom how to taunt someone when you've just tied. I can trash talk from both a winner and losers position, but even Steven?!? Pluheeeze.


Go ahead, gooooooooooooaallll it up. Toot your crazy ass horn dealy. Wake up at 3am to watch some sport tearing away the winning spirit of America. Enjoy all that. Me? I don't give a fuck.


P.S. If I did play soccer. I would totally wear this t-shirt:


(Trust me, my amusement of this t-shirt is not the reason I'm going to hell. I've got like, 1,032 other reasons. Thank you for your concern.)


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Saturday, June 12, 2010

~Welcome To The World


Only hours old and already a BBG code name! Welcome AOK who arrived today at 7.4 lbs and 20" tall. Congratulations new Mom (MKO) and Dad (BO)!!!


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Friday, June 11, 2010

~6/9: Hardcore

Yep. Hardcore weird.

Jingled my pal Ghoulia, who I suspected would be up for such random shenanigans as marking 6/9 with a cocktail. The evening started off with a pomegranate boozy treat that Ghoulia brought over, and a chat on the deck.

And then we went out. Things went weird-er from there. Thanks to:

* Stranger man from Minnesota who in a great display of monkey see, monkey do solidarity, jumped on my BPR bandwagon. He, coinkidinkly was seeing a girl a year or two ahead of me in H.S. who ownes a local beauty empire today for an appointment. He bought us a round and plyed us, mostly Ghoulia with his pizza treat. Not so much me for two reasons: 1) When you're eatin'. Eat. When you're drinkin'. Drink. No need to mix the two. Dos) Toppings I'm not down with. Mostly, #1.

* Seeing the our first lightning bugs of the season. Weeeeeeeee! This demonstrating the power that shiny, glowy and twinkly have over us girls. You should have seen us reachin' out from our table and grabbin' 'em up to play with. Until we killed one. We poured a bit of our beer out on the ground in it's memory... Yup, just a couple o' girls playin' with bugs.

* The Big Ass lighter. Allllllways a conversation starter. Why? 'Cause it's big ass, baby! Everyone is interested in the ridiculous. Or so I find.



* Running into some stranger guy who is from near where Ghoulia hails from in upstate NY.

* Dancing with some stranger man before we'd even sat down and ordered a beer at some other place neither of us had ever been to. Just the other day I was telling someone of my hatered for all things dancing. (With the exception of Irish Step) ...And there I was, there I was... all hand in hand, hand on shoulder, twirling around. I guess Jamie Foxx is right. Huh.

* Having the same stranger guy rub my feet. Yeah. For those of you who know me, you know this didn't start by me sayin' anything to the effect of, 'hey, rub my feet'. I could go the rest of my life and be a-ok if my feet were never touched by another person. But at the time I found it tres funny so there I sat, getting a tootsie massage from a stranger heilo pilot.

* Foot Rubbin' Guy (FRG) was there with a guy who I renamed the Fidget of New England. He grew up in New Hampshire, so he had a cute lil' accent and he reminded me sooooooo much of my pal Fidget, that yes, I had to inform him that he was in deed the New England "Fidget", which obviously meant nuthin' to him, but really, amused me to no end.

* I used my only phrase in Spanish to some other gent. Which always brings kookyness in response, because the phrase I know is, "where's the gun?" Not tremendously relevant to any situations in my life, but it's what I know, so why not use it?

* Some older light up (or glow in the dark scrunchy investor-- seriously? How? Why? Could I make shit like that up?) guy who I'd had a brief conversation with, enough to have thanked him for his service in the Army, a little while later dropped the n word. Ugh. People. I'm out here tryin' to locate my mojo, tryin' to do some living instead of existing that has been my recent SOP, and you're bringing me down with your racism? And that was that with that guy.

* Until-- and I sware, I had not one fucking single thing to do with this, I look over and he is backing out of the bar onto the patio as the big blond girl bartender is pointing and hollering at him as he continues to back out. All the while, telling him if he steps foot back in she's calling the police, that he's cut off, blah, blah, fuckity blah. Which is kinda wicked karma awesome, right? Never did find out what that was all about. But I did find myself compelled to hug that girl.

* Wicked karma incident prompted big blonde girl bartender instruct us to put up our hands if we wanted a free shot to the 8-ish or so of use who'd been out there as it played out.

* Which in turn prompted some free range karaoke-ing on my part. Thank you Brad Pasiley, "When I get where I'm goin'"-- which kinda blew New England Fidget's mind. I don't think he knew that the Big Brown Girl was country when country wasn't coooooool.




By the time Don McLean and American Pie happened, everyone was in the zone and singin' their lil' hearts out. It's part and parcel of my, 'I'm less obnoxious, if you're being obnoxious too' plan. See. It ain't all looks, people. And when the Lee Greenwood classic I'm Proud to be an American came on. It. Was. On. Full on, hardcore, top of lungs beltin' out.

* Of course, I touched a few heads. I talked and thanked an old Navy guy. Well. Honestly, neither of those constitute weird in my world.

* Met a birthday man from West Virginia, who was an Army vet, so you know we had to talk. And then at some point, and yes, it seemed wrong even at the time, he brought a round of shots for the table. But, really now? Who's to argue with a stranger birthday man when he doesn't want you to be thirsty?

* New England Fidget knocked over my beer, which succeeded in sopping my dress. No harm no foul, he brought me a replacement, while West Virginia quickly supplied a few towels. I was good in the hood post haste. I may, or may not have been found guilty of holding New England Fidget's hand at some point. Fine. Guilty. But there was sumthin' appealing about that guy. Or am I just a sucker for an accent? Hummmm. The world may never know.

Weird? Yes. Fun? Hellz to tha yes!! And honestly, if on 69 Day, the whoreiest thing I've done is have my BBG hand held, you know I didn't over celebrate. But a grand, weird time was had by all. Or at least Ghoulia et moi. And really now, it's that all that counts?!?


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Monday, June 7, 2010

~Ta-Doin's: The Weekend Edition

-Imagine my surprise as I'm standing in line at the gas station with the 6 other patrons, to see the po-po pull up, hop out, come in and ask if there's a fight going on in the parking lot.


Three units responded from two different departments. ...Reason 101 why I feel pretty safe 'round here. Oh, apparently, I'm in no man's land over here. Yes, I live in a very populated area, but boundaries of coverage seem to be somewhat hazy. Additionally, not 100 yards from my front door is a sub station for our suburban force. Often I'll see them at the end of my street doin' paperwork. Making any one of 3 departments who watch and respond in my area. Crims not welcome! Check.


-Nana holding her very first ostrich egg. Mom and I kidnapped her this weekend. With it being kinda the first big day without Papa, not that every day doesn't seem like a big day without him, but we thought it would be better, whatever that means, ya know, I mean, nothings "better". Should I have issued a run on sentence alert? Opps. Feelings. This is why I don't talk about 'em. This was also Nana's first trip to Whole Foods. Some nice hippie gave her a package of cashews for free after schooling her on organic cashews. If for no other reason support your local Whole Foods because they are nice to old peeps.



-Just because he's so damn cute...

This is how Uncle John rolls.


-Remember that silver light from Ikea I fell in love with a few months ago? Guess what now lives at my house?

I'll have to try to get a better picture. This doesn't do it the glow-y justice it deserves.


-Just a lil' sumthin' I spied whilst watching Top Gear that made me giggle, because I'm 14:



-The MetLife blimp heading over to the Memorial Tournament yesterday. My guy, Jim Furyk wasn't even in the hunt.

I know, not a great pic. Hey, you try to drive a 4 lane road, in somewhat heavy (Tournament) traffic, holding a camera outta the roof and trying to eye the sky for a Snoopy blimp.


Peace out BBGW peeps.


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Saturday, June 5, 2010

~Woulda Been

Today would have been Nana & Papa's 63 Anniversary.

Yesterday we picked out Papa's stone.

It's raining cats and dogs.

The weather is the perfect reflection of my mood.


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Wednesday, June 2, 2010

~Riding Dirty? Nope. Ridin' Coooool!!

I realize most girls care not about the implements that keep the air in their tires. Hell, guys for that matter. But I'm a lil' odd, (which I know comes as no big surprise). Whenever I look down at the little black tops pokin' outta my tires, they just rub me wrong. Mostly, because I know there's sumthin' better out there.

See, on my old ride I had these wonderful tire stem valves I stumbled on once upon a time. They looked like casings, brass casings. They were so spectacular, in fact, that I sent a set to one of my customers who is an arms manufacturer who supplies our military. My CIO contact promptly put them on his BMW and became the buzz of the building. ...Now, when folks who build and design 50 cals and weaponry that pops off hundreds of rounds per minute, think your tire dealys are kickass, you're rockin' it cool, baby! When I traded in my white Explorer for the new black one, I didn't swap out my groovy ones for the stock black ones. My wheels on the new ride are too silver and I thought the brass would clash. Ever since I've been rollin' around with the standard issue valves. Ugh. Sameness...borrrrrring.

While chattering away on the phone last night I spied these:

Color me fuckin' thrilled!!

I also saw several varieties that look like bullet tips, but these are my faves. Who says money can't buy happiness? $12.99 is gonna do it for me.

Next time you see me I'll be the BigBrownGirl ridin' cooooooooool.


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