Wednesday, August 31, 2011

~Thank You Al Gore & Wackadoos Everywhere

For some time now I've been keeping a list of search words/phrases that have brought people to 'da World.  I'm sure some bloggers take note of such things to in turn work some magic to increase their readership. 

I, however, being the more direct sort would use this approach to accomplish such things...

Peeps who read BBGW: 

If you like it, tell (or send it to) someone you think would enjoy wasting time in the interweb reading miscellaneous shit from some chick in middle America they don't know. 

If you're not a follower (aka: People Who Like To Waste Time Readin' This Crap/Google Friend Connected) you can Facebook search; Big Brown Girl World (or click here ) for the page and 'like' it.  You'll get a feed of any new postings and other random ass crap I post there.  ...There blog whoring done.

The reason I take note of search words is that they tend to constantly surprise and crack me the fuck up.  The concept of someone sitting at their keyboard taking advantage of Al Gore's interweb, thinkin' 'yeah, lemme Google *this*...' just entertains and intrigues me to no end.  I very frequently find myself thinking, 'well...weren't you sorely disappointed'.

Some of my favorites include:

  • SEARCH WORDS:  "brown leather motorcycle pants" (I assure you there is not one damn mention of leather motorcycle pants in 'da World.  A)  I'm afraid of motorcycles.  2)  And as a chunky monkey girl I am also afraid of leather pants.)
  • SEARCH WORDS: "i saw a big, brown, moving thing in my garage what was it"  (now, even under the best circumstances, that query must yield some pretty sketchy results, and I'd bet the BBGW was the least sketchy.)
  • SEARCH WORDS:  "girl uses giant gummy worm as sex toy"  (candy kink much?)
  • SEARCH WORDS:  "united abominations" (Honestly, I have no earthly idea why such a string of words would have brought BBGW up as an option, [or what they are supposed to mean, or reeeeally was being searched for?] but I do find it tres amusing.)
  • SEARCH WORDS:  "random stranger pussy" (Now random stranger asshole?  That I'd get...)
  • SEARCH WORDS:  "big brown boom boom room" (boom boom room?  Awesome.)
  • SEARCH WORDS:  "little brown fucking machine"  (hummmm?  I think I don't wanna know.)
  • SEARCH WORDS:  "fucked by my pet" (Sure.  I have a pet.  But lemme assure you, that ain't how we roll at BBGW HQ.)
  • SEARCH WORDS:  ...of course big brown lends itself to many, many sketchy searches; big brown asses, big brown dicks, big brown pussy, big brown nipples, big brown name a body part.  I get a LOT of those
My all time favorite (so far)~ 
  • SEARCH WORDS:  "filling ass with potatos"  (Lesson?  Pervs are hysterical.  And evidently adventurous and quite crafty with produce.)
...I can't begin to fathom how disappointed to find my recipe for my kick ass potato salad that searcher musta been.  LOLLy!!


Tuesday, August 30, 2011

~Trust: To? Or Not To?

The other day I was chatting with a friend who I'd somehow lost touch with a few years back.  I've known her since my misspent youth.  Since our last chat she's has retired from her last post as a sex crimes detective.  As we chattered away on the phone about this and that and general catch up-y type stuff, I told her about some guy who had attended my recent(ish) H.S. reunion as the date of a former classmate, who had in the past few weeks been arrested on rape charges (bad).  On a 12 year old (badder).  While he was knowingly HIV positive (baddest). 

Obviously, we discussed the extraordinary heinous nature of his crime.  Generally, I might be one to use "alleged" crime, but as he was arrested based on DNA evidence of the semen variety matched from the child's sheets back in April when it was brought to the attention of the authorities, let's just go with guilty ass bastard and forgo the "alleged" bullshit, eh? 

I mentioned that even under the influence of PBR that night I had told a few friends also in attendance that my very limited contact with him had left me with a hinky feeling about him.  He hadn't done or said anything specifically that I could say, X made me feel that way, I just got a weird hit off of him.  Now, I'm not gonna tell you I thought, "that guy is a low down dirty, deserving to be strapped down and gone after with a potato peeler over every inch of his epidermis until he's a bloody, pulpy heap on a table, fuckin' child raper", but I definitely did not feel right about him.  And that now that this news about his arrest had come to light I told her that "this is the exact reason I trust no one."  It's been a long held BBG SOP.

That's right peeps, I trust nodamnbody.  In fact one of my favorite lyrics in a song is, "each betrayal begins with trust". 

...Alright.  I trust a few people.  But that list is pretty fuckin' short and is mainly comprised of people who gave birth to me and people who I've known for a long ass time and have witnessed and experienced their character over forfuckingever.  I know and like a lot of people, but trust?  Hellz to tha no.

Trust, to me, is just too valuable of a commodity to give away.  It's something to be earned, and can't be won with words, only with actions.  It's a way of life for me that is never far from the surface.  It's not a constant train of thought in a paranoid way or anything, just what I consider the proper boundary until people have proven themselves worthy of my trust.

A good number of my friends of course consider this to be BBG crazy, and work under the 'I trust people until they give me a reason not to' theory.  Which, of course, I find crazy as I work under the 'I trust people who give me a reason to trust them' plan.  With that said, it's important to note that I don't treat people poorly or rudely just because they haven't earned their trust cred with me, on the contrary, I try to be nice and cordial (as they will allow me to do so) to everyone I meet, encounter or know. 

TRUST? What's your S.O.P (standard operating procedure):
  Everybody gets it until they break it
  Nobody gets it until they've earned it free polls 

Frankly, I'm sometimes even weirded out about the trust people place in me.  Once while having dinner with my aforementioned friend, who was in town for some Po-po conference, we'd had dinner with another officer from elsewhere in the state.  After dinner the other officer needed to get something from her car as we stood there talkin' she handed me her purse and said sumthin' like, "don't let anyone take that, my firearm is in it" and I can remember thinking, maybe the BBG you just met, non Po-po girl, isn't the proper person for the job? 

Currently, I hold the keys to my neighbors home as she's on vacay.  I know her first and last name.  And the name of her dog.  To me, that doesn't seem like enough to turn over the keys to the kingdom.  

Thankfully for each of them, I'm a pretty trustworthy chick.  But only because of who I am did (is) nothing bad happen(ing).  Giving that trust to others so readily may well have resulted in some truly crazy ass outcome.  Even though it's me, so easily?'s still sumthin' I do not understand.

Of course, being the Po-po, having spent a life of 'seein' some things', my friend was squarely on my bandwagon.  Maybe being raised by folks who 'saw some things' too, contributes to my way of thinking?  It could be my MO of being an avid people watcher and seeing that almost all of 'em are seemingly capable of some serious crazy ass shit that generally I don't want any part of?  Perhaps it's more indicative of the trust I put in myself.  I trust my sense about things and people.  I trust my gut.  You should too.  (...Unless your gut says trust any ol' willy nilly person, in which case maybe you should trust mine too.)

"Trust your own instinct.
Your mistakes might as well be your own,
instead of someone else's."
                    ~Billy Wilder


Sunday, August 28, 2011

~Hurricane Hootenanny

In the 24 hour news cycle coverage of hurricane Irene, I dare to say none captures the human condition in the face of a natural disaster better than this:

Thank you live tv.  And it's probably fair to say; thank you booze.

(Thanks to PC for exposing this to me!)


Thursday, August 25, 2011

~Too Literal

Last night whilst flippin' through the tv guide I spied a show airing on some channel or the other called, Big Easy Brides.  Now, nothing about it particularly caught my eye, it's not exactly the kinda show I'm drawn to, but as I moved the remote button onto other prospects I did find myself thinkin', reeeeally?...there's a show about fat, slutty, brides?!?

Hours later I was putting myself to bed, giving Uncle John his pre doggy slumber celery treat when (Ding-DING-DING!!) it dawned on me that it was probably about brides in New Orleans and not chunky promiscuous girls in inappropriately, given their extreme sluttyness, white dresses.

It's not the first time I've taken away something completely different than the intended meaning of a message.

A million years ago while riding in a funeral procession we passed a residential area and I remember seeing:

...And thinking, 'that doesn't seem very nice.'  While wondering what the hell kinda town had an entire subdivision they mandated the Down's kids and their families of the area to live.

My self diagnosed, tooliteralism is a condition that extends itself and impacts areas other than the visual.

I recall a day hearing football coach, Bill Purcell being interviewed where he made mention of being superstitious.  For reasons I cannot explain, hearing it promptly made me pick up the phone and call a friend.  I dialed Somp.  Now, I'm one of those horrible, assy, just-start-talkers.  It went a little like this:

Ring a ding, ding...

MKO (unbeknownst to me answering Somp's phone):  Hello.
BBG:  can we just be semistitious?  Or must we be full on superstitious? 
MKO:  (silence)  (giggle)  ...Whoooo is this?  

Unfortunately, for her, MKO without advanced warning of my condition experienced an acute flare up of my tooliteralism.  Fortunately, for me, she had heard the same interview milliseconds prior while at Somp's house, making my statement only 99% crazy.
My condition manifests itself in other ways.  Surveys for example, are almost torturous to me.  Always/Never type options take me toodamnlong to complete, because very few things in life are, if we're being honest, completely always or absolutely never. Like most people unaffected by tooliteralism, you probably breeze through such things.  Me?  It takes f-o-r-e-v-e-r to complete the normally easy task. 

I took a some survey that popped up regarding tv viewing.  The question was something along the lines of; You watch tv?:    
___ It's always on   
___ It's never on. 

...Well, my tv is usually on, however I'm not always sitting in front of it glued to it.  It's background noise.  I certainly actively watch far fewer hours than the tv finds itself in the on position.  Where the fuck is my 'usually on/sometimes watching' option?  I don't wanna lie, or provide faulty information.  I've worked in too many worlds where accurate demo and psychographic data is crucial.  I'm tryin' my best to be a good person, but now something that promised to take 3 minutes of my life is racking up significantly more time that I'm never getting back.  Ugh. 

Speaking of taking too much time, I used to have a car that had a warning label on it's visor that said:  "Caution see other side".  Sadly, I once spent what can only be described as an inordinate fuckin' amount of time flipping my visor back and forth.  And back and forth. (And sadly, back and fuckin' forth) until I realized it intended for me to see the other visor. 


I like to think although many signs point to yes I'm not a complete moron.  I mean, one of my favorite words is fiduciary.  Does Korky even know the word fiduciary?  But in my "moments" it seems my options are either hope that some major pharma company discovers the next big we-gotta-fix-it pill for the fictitious tooliteralisim, or movin' into that Down's neighborhood.  (...On second thought, that might not be too bad, I can probably run that shit pretty easily, no?...)


Tuesday, August 23, 2011

~Sunrise, Sunset

Son (sun?) of a bitch! 

My weatherman just told me that we're loosing 2-3 minutes of sunlight today/going forward.  That means summer MMXI is almost over.  I'd noticed that it was getting darker earlier.  But you know how noticing is... we notice shit every day.  About things.  About people.  But there's always that BAM!! moment when a fact about whatever we've been noticing ...and ignoring, denying or hoping some NASA space age (can I still say that anymore?  Space age?  Seems like we probably have to a space program to be allowed to say that, right?), Jetsonesque technology will come to fruition to address, before you have to actually acknowledge it happens.  And for summer, that moment was today.


(shakes fist aggressively)

I had so much I wanted to do with you.  Not goals.  I don't believe in goals.  I believe in:
  • Stuff I say I wanna do/have, but have no intention of actually doing/having. (Such as: Driving a semi around with my pet monkey, lookin' cute and helping people get outta their sticky wickets...being '6 tall and a size 2, running for president of the world, etc.)
  • Stuff I wanna do (have) that I'm gonna find a fuckin' way of doing/having (and it would be ill advised to get in my way). 
"Goals" are too regimented and conventional for my feeble brain.  Apparently, they work for some people, but I'm more of (surprise!) a, as our local colloquialism goes, the "bassackward" sort.  Maybe I'm just the stubborn, free thinkin' sort who doesn't cotton to things being 'put on me'.  You know one of my main mantras; I'm in charge of me.  A goal seems like it's tryin' to be in charge of me.  And me no likey.  A goal, to me, makes everything involved in the gettin' or doin' an enormous hassle.  It makes every step towards the experiencing or acquiring a grating colossal effort, who's ass I want to kick.  Whereas, just deciding to do something because it gets me what I want or where I want to be, while perhaps time/effort/labor intensive, is something that I'm in charge of.  A goal is a slave master and Ima free BBG.  (...And a digressing BBG.  Sorry.)

I have things on my summer to-do list that I haven't checked off and now it looks like time is tick-tocking away on me.

BBG Summer 2011 To Do List:
  • Master a yo-yo trick
  • Properly clean the garage
  • Hit the range and go shooting
  • Hit the cage and go batting
  • See if a too old to be hoopin' girl can still hula hoop
  • Read a book.  Wait.  I read a book this summer.  SUCK IT people who think I'm illiterate!  It was about a big league umpire
  • Break the habit of curling my left leg under my right one so all the damn time frequently
  • Paint the rest of the trim in here white
  • Bring back the Yosemite Sam mud flap
  • Make my creation, "LOLLy" the next new big thing.  (LOLLy = laughing out loud, loudly.  Ya know, when lol just isn't enough and ROFLMAO is too much.)
  • Bring back the usage of "twat" and "snatch"

As it'll be dark sooner, so I guess I'd better get on some stuff... (see ya soon long, crisp nights of fall.)


Sunday, August 21, 2011

~How To Survive A Breakup

All kindz folks will tell you all kindz things about breakups.  Mostly of the "in time you'll realize you're better off", variety.  Oh, folks mean well.  They really do.  But here you will find no bullshit platitudes, sage or contrite words.  No touchy feel-y, zen, conceptual things.  No, this my friends is real deal DIY gettin' through heartbreak directions. 

I often say, "you're in charge of you" and know that I shouldn't tell anyone how to live their lives, but if you don't want your head to explode from the hurt in your heart this is exactly how you should live your life...

  • Nutrition:  It is vital that a sad state is augmented with proper nutrition.  My last heartbreak brought me spending a week surviving on butter yellow cake and butter cream icing.  With a couple of Chic-O-Sticks, cobs of corn and gingersnaps thrown in for good measure.  Whatever strikes your fancy I say do it.  Some folks will go the 'I'm gettin' healthy route', (something I clearly have no working knowledge of or the blog would be named Slender Brown Girl World, but still) rock on.  Whichever way you chose, if it makes you feel better, do it.  It's not like a few days of sketchy (under or over) nutrition is gonna kill your ass.  This is about survival, people.  I've seen Bear Grylls eat coyote scat.  He's alive.  Survive by any means you feel necessary.

  • Hydration:   Even though the "bar" is stocked here at BBGW HQ, I'm not a home, or an alone imbiber (I believe alcohol is for public intoxication and tomfoolery, not to be wasted on the dog in the confines of these 4 walls, ya know?), so it took me a while for me to embrace better living through booze.   But once I did, I gotta tell ya, things started to take an upswing.  It's obviously not a good long term solution for coping, however, a couple glasses of wine, or a few pints can be a very, very good short term sanity boost.  (Disclaimer:  Booze is not a lifestyle choice, but a night or two of tipsiness will do ya good.)  I realize AA would not exactly condone my stance, but when's the last time fuckin' AA's live in beau staged a nutty, sooooo SUCK IT AA. 

  • Time: Select a specific amount of time to wallow. I mean, down and out wallow. In pj's, comfy, not talkin' to anybody, or talkin' to everybody (--whatever wheezes your gig), eating  what you want, veggin' out on the verge of catatonia or turning into a whirling dervish of activity and spring cleanin' everything, whatthefuckever constitutes "wallowing" in your world. But assign it a deadline. Then stick to it. If you allow yourself full on, hardcore wallowing, once your self imposed timeline is over it becomes pretty easy to let it all go.  You've already taken the time to process, obsess, accept and start to heal.  You've considered things from every possible angle and no matter how much you don't like it, it still it just is.  You're done.  Let.  It.  Go.  What's the alternative?  Staying in this place forever and giving your ex the power of ruining another day?  Come on now.  Let.  It.  Go.   

  • Physical Activity:  Move.  Whatever rings your bell.  Take a walk.  Learn to belly dance. (Or in my case, learn that you cannot belly dance.)  Work on your guns or get your downward dog on.  You don't have to go all Insanity on it or anything, just move.  Get your endorphins crackalackin'.

  • Music: Listen to depressing, sappy songs. I have a playlist called "breakup boogie" just for such adventures. It's chocked full of sad assed songs. Towards the end it segues into gettin' over it, moving on and strong songs.  Sing along.  Loudly.

  • TBWTGOABITGUAO:  The best way to get over a boy is to get under another one.  Really?  Does that one need elaboration?  (My apologies to my mother)

  • Top of Mind Awareness:  Remind yourself that you are fanfuckin'tabulous.  Remember that people are drawn to you, and that the opposite sex (or the same, if'n that's your gig, whatdo I care?  Answer:  I do not.) still finds a way to make sure to chat you up.  Granted, one shouldn't count their self worth by the hub and bub of others.  However, there's nuthin' better than some other guy reminding you of what a catch you are to make the cat who didn't remember that salient little detail more of a distant memory.   Wrong?  Maybe.  True?  Yes. 

  • Dead:  Once your dissection of, well, everything, has run it's course and when every minutiae as been re-re-hashed.  You've figured out what you own, what lessons you've learned and will carry with you going forward, you've accepted what is, pretend they are dead.  It's bad karma to wish ill on them, but to move on in your life like they are dead, not even breathing air on your earth is a good plan.  Because they are now dead to you NEVER call.  NEVER email.  You don't drunken dial/email/text the dead do you?  Then you don't dial/text/email/ your past love..  Not even for the "good reason" you concocted in your head that seems like a good/rational/reasonable/non crazy reason to reach out.  Just don't do it.  Period.  Not contacting them gives you 'hand'.  This is the official turn the tables of who owns space is who's mind.  Once you're done being miserable, it's time to let their mind wonder what kind of glorious stuff is going on in your world- without them.  Don't give your hand away. 

  • Get back to the future.  No.  Don't rent the movie, unless for some wacky reason you find McFly and DeLorean's emotionally comforting, eh, to each their own.  I mean, get back to your future.  Unless you've always dreamed of a future of singleness and bitterness, take actions to facilitate what you want.  Yes.  Meeting new prospects.  Ya gotta get back out there.  As important as putting yourself back out there, you've got to do it with a sense of openess.  This means no holding X (whatever your situation was with your ex) over the heads of every new guy/girl you encounter.  Whoever the next person that rings your bell is, is not your ex, so don't make them pay for his/her dumbassidness.  Clean slate time.  Of course, your latest break up experience will have given you new things to add to your deal maker/breaker list, and that's fine.  But don't move forward carrying baggage of from some other person.  It's not fair to them and it's no good for you. 
After my last heartbreak a couple of people commented on my ability to move on and not be bogged down by unfortunate things.  The first time I heard it, I kinda poo poo'd it.  But after I heard it from different people I started paying attention and noticed that that's not everyones SOP.   A few people said it as if it's luck, some fluke-y personality quirk or some magical internal birthright-y power that I keep steppin' and am able to regain a positive mindset.  It's not.  It's a conscious decision.  Again, we allllll get to choose how we live our lives and certainly I'm no expert or authority of livin' a life, as these lil cyber pages are clearly a testament of.  ...Unless you're lookin' for pointers of how to live a wacky and weird life.  But I do feel qualified to tell you that how you react to situations is something you are in control of, even if you weren't in control of the situation you find yourself in.  At some point having bad days because of a past relationship is your fault and ceases to be their fault.   I know...that sounds a little harsh.  But it also sounds a lot true, no?  It ain't easy.  Neither is staying in heartbreak a moment longer than you have to.

None of this is self help-y.  I'm not that girl.  But tucking this away for your next heartbreak will allow you to help yourself.  (I hope you never need it.)


Friday, August 19, 2011

~A Canadian, A Peruvian & An Irishman Walk In A Bar

Yep.  Sounds like a joke....

Nope.  Fortunately, it's just my life.  And a night out with my pal, Beannie and a few of her neighborhood friends.  It started innocuously enough, with a glass of chard and some good live music.  Before the sun could make it's official farewell for the evening, three blonds and I had moved on to some local, quasi dive-y join for a few beers. 

I'd imagine the suburban-y, tennis club-y, stay at home mommy (plus one BBG) mini gaggle of girls musta seemed a tad outta place in the snausagefest predominately male inhabited bar.  Very quickly, as I am prone to bouts of mischief and minor amounts of mayhem, oddities started to take place.  As you by now are well aware, sumthin' weird is gonna go down.  Always

Because I am skillfully adept at ropin' in strangers of all varieties, our foursome was quickly a moresome.  It started with some youngin's, one of which broke my beloved, and until now trusty yo-yo.  Had he not been such a pleasant and entertaining youngster, who tried to convince us he was "old" with all of his 26 years, and had he not broken my yo-yo by regaling our group with yo-yo tricks, I might have considered kicking his ass. 

(RIP green Duncan yo-yo  May 2011 - August 2011, you will be missed. 
Yea, though I walk the dog through the shadow of... whateves.  Bygones.)

Unable to come to grips with the demise of my yo-yo, and perhaps in denial of the inevitable, I beckoned to two strangers who were apparently leaving, to come to our table, figuring perhaps a boy would be able to fix my yo-yo problem, which is how we met our newest stranger/friends, Irish K and Canadian R.  Alas, they were unable to resuscitate Duncan.  They were able to bring craic to the table.  (Noooooo not crack.  Craic = Gaelic for fun)  After a few laughs, and perhaps a few inappropriate statements on my behalf (what can I say, even under the influence my assy inclinations are not to be curtailed).  The international contengent found themselves in our fair city by way of their current city, Boston.   This detail contributed to a round of 'paaaark tha caaaar in Haaaavard yaaaard' type bad accent imitations.  (Lesson?  Don't tell a pack of semi tipsy midwestern girls yaaar from Boston.  Baaad things will haaapen to yaaar eeers.)  It wasn't all bad accents.  I did overhear conversations of some trying to out Catholic-ing the other.  "...Ima family of 8 kids..."  pfffft  "...8?  I'm one of 11."  Eventually they exercised the good sense of leaving our obviously trouble bound crew in search of greener pastures (aka: a joint with a with a better girl ratio).

Now, if you've never spent any time with me, consider yourself lucky you'd be surprised to discover how much weirdness fun can start with "hey you", a simple and classic 'come here' finger waggle, or because I'm not one to concern myself with bullshit details like names and junk, "(insert color you're wearin') shirt".  In this case, red shirt.  Red shirt was visiting with his childhood chum, of Peruvian decent, in from Florida as a birthday present from his Mrs.  They had grown up in Steubenville.  (<-- home of Dino Crocetti, or as you may know him, Dean Martin.  There.  You might have just learned a lil sumthin'-sumthin' so stopping by wasn't a complete brain drain today.  You're welcome.)  They were a hoot of an addition to our table.  At some point someone mentioned something that prompted me to wander to my car and return with some emergency supplies I stock in the ride;  latex gloves, sparklers and a glow stick.  (What?  Like you don't have those in your car?)

The next person sucked into what had now been named the vortex, was reeled in with, "hey blue shirt"...

(Sucked into the vortex-- once you're in there's no way out: 
blue shirt & one of our gaggle)

So yes, practically everyone we saw was somehow engaged into our shenanigans. 

There was one person I purposely didn't holler out to... 

Or make direct eye contact with...

In fact, I outright tried my BBG best to fuckin' avoid...

Q:  Who remembers storytime a few weeks ago when I mentioned the former neighbor who I was sure was gonna mass murder us all ? 

(Ta-fuckin-Dow:  [L to R] Mr. Peru 2011,
Former Neighbor / Future FBI Most Wanted Member
et Beannie)

I spied him the moment he walked in.  Although I hadn't laid eyes on him in 20 years I recognized that crazy right off the fuckin' bat.  Shock and awe didn't even do it justice.  I couldn't believe what my peepers were seeing.  Of all of the kooky shit that had happened during the course of the evening, which by the way included a conversation involving a girl who had never seen a circumcised cock and the rest of us who'd never seen an un one, so the bar for weird and kooky was pretty fuckin' high already.  Seeing Mass Murdering Us All was absoufuckinlootly mind boggling.  And scary.

Once I knew I'd been made, I was forced into a momentary conversation.  I'm proud to say I was able to out crazy crazy and extricated myself rather quickly.  Beannie and the rest of the folks in the mix were not so lucky.  In large part due to alcohol, in some part due to lack of finely honed crazy recognition skills. Luckily, I can report everyone is still alive.  Although, no worse for the wear, would be an overstatement.  I can't speak for the rest of the peeps involved, but it was squarely 15:51 (3:51pm) before I felt lucky to be alive good today.   

Just so you don't think I'm really some ass who gives no more consideration of humans I encounter than to identify them as some stupid, random descriptor, ahem:

Red shirt = Eric
Blue shirt = Tim
Green shirt = Rich
Peru = Michael
Irish = Kevin
Canuck = surname Ryan
Yo-yo breaker = Alex
White shirt = Scott

(So suck it people who think I code name because I have to.  I code name because I can.)

Thursday.  As.  It.  Was. 

...Cracked out.


Tuesday, August 16, 2011

~Elvis Is Dead. Let The Fun Begin

Sooooooo you're good at sumthin'.  Probably, like many people, you're good at several, or maybe even a lot of things.  (Fuckin' show off)  ...Do you remember when you discovered you were good at it?  Had a penchant for it?  Realized some gene, personality quirk or even education, training or practice had made you excel at sumthin'? 

The headline that greeted me this morning reminded me of the first time (perhaps the last time) I can remember that I noticed I was good at something.  There it was all MSN-y staring at me:

"34 Anniversary of Presley's Death"

I was about 8.  I was never a big Elvis fan, but I certainly knew who he was.  Back in tha day, before the 24 hour news cycle of CNN, before TMZ monitored and reported every non panty wearin' night out of every minor celebrity and when it was still uncommon and scandalous to hear of people ODing, Elvis' death was a seminal moment. 

It's fair to say it was one of those, 'you know where you were' when you found out moments that captivates practically everyone.  Three years from now, or hell, :30 minutes from now, nobody's gonna remember where they were when they learned of Amy Winehouse's demise.  But back in tha day?  Elvis' passing was as big as my parents and grandparents finding out about JFK's drive through Dealy Plaza, and in my time, OJ and AC's slow ride.

Like with I suppose anything, seeing it from a kids perspective skews things a bit.  I don't really have clear memories of the actual news breaking of The King's final moments on the throne, but I do vividly remember the aftermath and the first time I was cognizant of something about me.  It very well may have been my first Lil' Brown Girl moment of self realization.  

In the days after Elvis' death I remember playin' with the only kids in my neighborhood.  I remember the sunny ass, Ohio hot day out on the sidewalk and how we were demonstrating and competing with our best Elvis dances.  The others submitted their hip swingin', leg poppin', karate kickin' best for consideration and rating of the other mini judges.  When it was my turn, I laid on my back on that hot sidewalk, closed my eyes and crossed my arms across my chest.  That was my best Elvis dance.  I was rewarded with my smartassy irreverent display with rousing laughter.  I'm sure I'd done something cackle worthy before that time, but to me it was the first time I realized I was good at being funny. 

Admittedly, it's probably not a good sign that an 8 year old was able to conjure up funny outta someones death.  Although, it probably is telling of, and explains a lot about how the grown up version of BBG came to be, which I don't necessarily say proudly.  Nor am I proud that all of these years later as a grown up I still think it's funny... 

I was, am and will probably always be an ass.  But at least I'm good at it.

Rest in peace Mr. Presley.


Monday, August 15, 2011

~Surprise, Surprise, Surprise

For a girl without any plans for the weekend, I ended up having a lot of surprising things pop up. 

The first was a surprise call from my ol' friend Fucker (one of my first BBG code names ever!) a friend I've known since I'm 14ish.  A million years ago we worked together at our first job at the local Dairy Queen.  (Yes, people, in addition to being "The BBG" I also hold the dual title of being "The" Dairy Queen.)  Fucker, who dated my bestie (LEM), who also worked there, as did his two besties (code name; Skeletor and Mad Dog [yes, as in 20/20]).  If you find yourself thinkin' 5 teenagers workin' together had to have been t-r-o-u-b-l-e, you'd be exactly right (and when the statute of limitations expires, I'll tell you all about some of our shenanigans).  All through high school the five of us ran amuck causing minor mayhem in the hometown while seeing each other through general growing up drama traumas.  Even though none of us see one another often, they are the kind of people who have your back for life. 

While LEM and I went to school together at St. Questionably Bad Cathoic Kids H.S., the boys matriculated together at Public School High.  The boys were having their 25th reunion this weekend, which meant Skeletor and his lovely girlie were in town stayin' with Fucker and his delightful (and obviously as the moniker "Fucker" suggests, saintly) wife. 

On the spur of the moment I was off to Fucker's house to hang out for a bit of pre-reunion fun.  I gotta tell ya, nobody hugs you like people you've known since you were 14.  Although Fucker and I talk fairly regurally, we hadn't seen one another in probably 18 months, it had been easily 5 years since I'd found myself in the same room as Skeletor.  The thing about people you really know is that when you see 'em again you always pick right up where you left off (inappropriate digs, pointing out of personal flaws, rude and curse-y comments and an abundance of giggles).

(Skeletor, BBG, Fucker)

I came thiiiiis close to crashing their reunion.  (I'm still not entirely sure I made the right decision.)  I wish all of our hometown schools held their reunions on the same weekend.  Our town is so small that we all know other peeps from other schools and it sure would be nice to be able to see 'em all.  (<- yet another thing that would be better if I was put in charge of things.  Can you say BBG for world ruler?)

In other surprising turns of events I was later FB friended by The Hat, a boy I used to run around with back in the day.  Because I suffer from bad memory disease and it was a quarter of a century ago when we knew each other, details are hazy.  But I remember him as a nice, sweet, fun boy, a category that all too often a teenage boy doesn't qualify for.  Happily I can report that it appears he's grown into a nice, sweet and fun grownup and it delights me to be in touch.

The last surprise of the weekend came in the form of a nightcap with a 6'4" bald, Catholic cutie.  While technically there's nuthin' surprising about me agreeing to a cocktail with an interesting tall bald man (bald is beautiful), or the post good hangin' out time smooch we shared as he walked me to my car to leave, what transpired next was a surprise. 

After we returned home to our respective places (look whoza good girl) around 2am, (whoza nightowl?) a few texts were sent back and forth commenting on the nice time we'd had which resulted in our reconvening back in the parking lot of the place we'd been (right, like I'm having an albeit cute, but otherwise stranger to my house, or going to his place in the middle of the night.  Surprise!  ...Just when you thought I didn't have any good sense...) where makin' out like 17 year olds and conversation continued until 5am.  Being a grownup single girl is awesome! 

Having no plans and having surprise fun things magically appear is fanfuckin'tastic. 

Update:  Before I could get this posted 6'4" and I have already made a plan for din-din tonight. 


Sunday, August 14, 2011

~Gardening: The Update

I'm not exactly the "gardening" sort.  I like to have flowers around in the warm months as much as the next person (ya know, the next person who likes to have flowers around in warm months and all...).  But I don't like a lot of the bullshit that accompanies having pretty flowers. 

Selecting flowers:  Full sun/partial sun/no damn sun all mean very little when your inclined to a pick a flower because they fit into your desired color scheme (blue, pink, white, etc.) ya know?  Therefore setting me up from go to have a sketchy summer flower experience.

Watering:  Doesn't seem like such a big deal.  Until sometime in August when I'm over spending so much effort keeping something alive that isn't me or Uncle John. 

Weeding:  Hate.  It.  Mostly because I have no idea what poison ivy looks like.  Because of that I suspect any unBBG planted errant growth is in fact, poison ivy.  (Yeah, I know, I could just fuckin' Google "poison ivy", but I think we all know I'd have a sense of security for a little while and would promptly forget which was which and eventually touch the wrong thing and (drum roll) get poison ivy.)  My BBG method of approach is to treat everything like poison ivy and wear latex gloves when pulling things.  (see using my regular fanfuckingtastic gardening gloves leaves the possibility that once I touch maybe poison ivy I could touch myself with the ivy'd up glove.  Whereas latex, pull, put in trash bag and take infected glove off and trash without the worry of gettin' ivy juice on me.  ...It ain't all looks, people.)


Deadheadin':  Come on flowers!  If it lives in nature without people, then why do I need to provide daily maintenance to it.  Isn't my personal daily maintenance enough to be shackled with doing? 

Buggin' Out:  1) Each morning when I walk out front (repeatedly) with my bucket of water carried through the house (now you know why watering becomes so loathsome by August....  And yes, I could use the hose in the garage, but it seems like more of a hassle than bucket carrying from the deck.)  I find one moth who's decided my screen door is the place to bunk down for the night waiting to spook the shit outta me as I open it.  Sadly, each and every morning this catches me by complete surprise.  B)  Ants and bees.  Need I elaborate?  Or is the fact that they're laying in wait to attempt to kill me creepy and disturbing enough?

The Update (aka: After):
(Before = Turn, Turn, Turn, Turn June 3, 2011)


Bonus:  My favorite flower of the year.  I don't know it's real name, but I call it the Everlasting Gobstopper plant because it changes colors as it blooms.

Added bonus:  Some other plants that came out to play.


Thursday, August 11, 2011

~The First Move: Us vs. You (GAP/Guy Assistance Program)

If you're interested, wait, if you're interested and you realistically think that we would have any interest in you--  that somewhere on the plane of "that could happen" reality that we would date you, you're going to have to make the first move.



It puts undue pressure on you and creates many more opportunities for possible rejection.  Boo hoo.  Too fucking bad.  Know what else isn't fair?  That we have to expel seven, 8, 9 pound, slippery, wiggling humans from our vagina's.  ...Oh, and after 9-10 months of having no booze.  Bras.  That we bleed 4 days a month.  Pantyhose.  'Come on now, you wanna talk fair?  Howz about earning less than your male counterparts?  Or paying more for everything from razors to clothes and car repairs, haircuts and dry cleaning.  Plueeeze. 

If you want to get into a pissing contest about fair, women are going to win every time.  So put your big boy pants on and suck it the fuck up. 

It's not to say we won't/can't make an initial contact, but the fact is we're girls and we're probably not going to do that.  We realize there are a blue bazillion arguments you can make for the case that girls should/could make a first move, no matter how persuasive or merit based those points may be, they all will ultimately leave you with a big ol' terminal case of blue balls.  This is a classic do you wanna be right, or do you wanna ultimately get laid conundrum.  If you feel we should meet, step up and hit the muther fuckin' send button, walk over and say hello and stop being so chicken shit.  Sometimes things you want simply, inexplicably fall into your lap, but most things in the world that you want require work, effort and attention (and a bit of luck).  And like with all things, sometimes your work yields bubkiss.  And sometimes, yes rejection.  But sometimes it pays off big time.  It's the the lottery rule.  You've got to play to win.  With limited exception, we aren't going chasing after a guy.   Again, not fair.  Again, suck it up.

First of all, this isn't some "rule" thing we're subscribing to.  It's an ingrained thing.  It's the natural order of courtship.  It's the guys responsibility to make an initial move.  That's why guys send a girl he fancies a drink when he sees her across a crowed bar.  You've got to capture our attention.  It's contrary to our DNA as women to make a move.  (Again, sure there are girls who are more comfortable and likely to do so, but most of us are not cut from that cloth.)

Think of the myriad of things skirts do to in order to be with you guys.  Do you really think the women you see at MMA want to be there?  Hellz no.  Basically you owe it to us, for all of the things we do after, because you to make the first move.   Consider it a pay it forward investment.  You're men; man the fuck up.

It's not fair.  But It's the truth.

Jump if you feel froggy.  (If you're not, rest assured, some other smart guy is.)

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