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Monday, May 30, 2011

~Honoring Our War Dead 24 Hour Period

Before you have some beer, some BBQ, some good times with friends and family on this beautiful bonus day, please take a moment to remember; 

Some gave all.

Safe and Happy Memorial Day kiddies.


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Sunday, May 29, 2011

~Book Club: I Laughed, I Almost Cried, I Almost Died

I can't believe I'm typing these words... 

I attended book club.   I guess I should say,  I finally attended the book club MGB invited me to months ago.  At first I delayed checking it out because it didn't seem like a BBG kinda thing... 

A)  I don't like to read. (I can.  I don't like to.) 

II)  The concept of sitting around with a buncha girls is generally, kinda not my thing either. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those girls who doesn't like other girls.  Honestly, I like the company of guys.  I'm a guys girl.  Mostly because a dude is never gonna make me have a conversation about Project Housewives Dancing Idol Bridezilla Survivor Model or whatthefuckever the latest show all the girls are a buzz about that I already hate just from the commercial, or why I think her boyfriend/husband said X, or try to impress upon me the merits of the latest diet, or hair dye, or any of the other 26,000 things chicks gab about that I want no fuckin' part of. 

With that said, I like girls fine.  And it's important to note that generally I am nice to all girls.  How nice?  I've had random stranger girls actually tell me they like me because I'm not one of those 'girl hater girls'.  Schweet.  I'm not a complete bitch

It takes a certain kind of girl to make me actively want to hang.  And the book club girls?  Well, those are my kinda girls.  So while I was still suspect of the literary aspect, I was totally down with the hangin' out with cool ass people part and last week that night happened.  The group was comprised of several girls who I've known for years from way back in my radio daze.  Girls who know me well enough to have been savvy enough to have sold the concept to me with phrases like, "you don't even have to read the book."   I, in turn, sold AnonD, who also joined in for the festivities. 

The git togetha was held at (code name) Marietta's delightful homestead.  Where I immediately made her very nice and accommodating hubby, well, my weather bitch.  "I need you to be in charge of monitoring the weather.  If it looks like we're gonna die, I'm going to need a heads up so I can go home put my car in the garage and get in the hole (aka: the basement)", was my less than Emily Post endorsed version of, 'hello, thanks for having me in your home.'   Not only was he johnny on the spot with those duties, I'm also considering code naming him Grillmaster K for his contribution to our yummy din-din. 

I got to see their little (and super cute) one playing in her "ring of fire" (aka: her baby gated circle area).  It made me want my own ring of fire.  And then I remembered I was a grown up and I had one, it's called here.  Instead of being gated, I have walls.  (That and realizing I could go to sleep/get up any damn time I chose, have cookies any time of day and can also have booze and drive--not in that order, or together, of course, I stopped being jealous of a 20 month old.)

(BBG and Marietta and Grillmaster K's wee one and tot I intend on stealing, Harper)


In addition to experiencing my first book club, I also officially tried the phenomena known as Skinny margarita.  It wasn't bad.  Although, once I understood what it was, not just that Bethany girls brand but that it is essentially diet booze, I may have been a bit mentally tainted.  Swayed if you will.  Diet/light/made "healthier" any and everything, in my mind equates pretty much to bad.  (Plus, usually, diet/light/made "healthier" stuff makes me wonder what chemical hocus pocus had to be worked in order for whatever was taken out to ostensibly not be missed.  And when can more chemicals ever be good for ya?  This will come as no surprise but the BBG is a full fat, full sugar kinda girl.)

In addition to Marietta and AnonD, the club that night consisted of MGB, her pal (and new person to me, code name: The Lunch Lady) and (code name) Steven Tyler Kissed Her Ass.  (Any guesses how I have bestowed upon her that code name?)

While book club ran from six until after 11pm, the book discussion portion of the evening consisted of approximately 180 seconds.  The remainder of the time was devoted to catching up, story telling and massive amounts of laughter.  There were some worldclass funny stories going around. 

I really had a grand time.  It's easy to say that I laughed more in those several hours than I have it seems in months, which was awesome.  (No, wait.  Fuckin' awesome!)  One of the best things about my friends is their ability to be such good mixers.  I can drop almost any one of my friends with any other friend(s) and pretty much know that they'll like one another.  It's such a luxury.  I absofuckinlootly love it.  Never having to wonder if somebody's gonna say sumthin' stoopid, or if somebody's going to feel awkward or out of place.  Nope.  They'll be making plans to hang out without me in 15 minutes. 

Of course fun and frivolity didn't keep near death experiences at bay.  Why would I be able to enjoy a near death experience free evening?  A storm moved in while we were book clubing, which necessitated a move from the patio to the garage, to accommodate the smokers (aka: everyone but 2).  It worked out well, that is, until the storm brought us the present of lightning to the party.  I became too afraid to stay seated in my metal-y folding chair.  (...I could already see the 10,000 Ways To Die actor portrayal retelling of lightning flying into the garage and gazillion ass jolt welding me to the chair.  #768 Fllllllaaaasshhhchance...)  I was mocked for my dedication to safety preparedness and stayin' alive instincts as I paced the floor.  But I knew as I stood there, safely out of my electric chair metal canvas covered lighting rod that when I was the one on the news recounting how I lived unscathed through the lightning bitch slap by Mother Nature, I'd have the last laugh.  (That's right.  I'm livin' for spite!)

Being a such a storm chicken and having survived the open garage door/lightning experience, I was starting to feel like I had already dodged death that evening and things should be pretty smooth and clear for the rest of the night.  

Wrong.

Just as I was coming down from my adrenaline (and too close lightning strike) fueled flight or fight frenzy and had reclaimed my place in the seating circle, something caught my eye. 

It was a free range Mickey scurrying across the floor, unfuckingcomfortably close to my flip flopped foot.  For the second time that night I found myself squealing in complete and utter fear for my life.  Even though I was assured that he was more afraid of me than I was of him, I was entirely sure he was plotting a way to skitter over to me and touch me with his bubonic plague carrying tail or something.  

So, if you're keeping track that's BBG 0 - Mother Nature 2.

On the other hand, three sixty five x 67 years, carry the 2, well, I never was very good at math so let's just say it = I'm still alive so maybe I'm beating Mother Nature?  I donno.

I do know that I'm probably hittin' book club again.  I could always use more good times hangin' with good peeps in my life.  Who knows?  Maybe I'll even read sumthin'?  (But please don't hold your breath)


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Thursday, May 26, 2011

~Tornados

I'm feeling like a bad person this week.   All of this hub and bub about Joplin.  (On the off chance some alien life form finding this, or some teenager doing some research in the year 3062 about the olden days, this is what I'm talkin' 'bout:)  
As a rule I like being knowledgeable  'bout the goings on in the world.  I'm not necessarily a news junky, but I definitely keep up on my surroundings and world ta-doins.

However, I'm having a hard time watching the Joplin coverage.  I've found myself on several occasions having to turn the channel, or perform some ninja like techniques to avoid it online.  I guess it makes me feel like a bad person because maybe it seems like I don't care about what's happening to the people directly impacted.  The real deal is that watching the coverage freaks me the fuck out.  It makes my heart race.

I am so chicken shit about storms.  I was (apparently) scarred for life when as a child (5ish?) my Mom and I took shelter in the basement from a tornado which ultimately touched down in a city a too damn close 20 miles away.  I can remember being petrified as Mom made every attempt known to man to soothe and comfort me.  Being a terrible child, of course I was havin' nooooo part of that.  I can remember sitting on the giraffe my Papa made me, just knowin' I was gonna die.  Period.
(My Papa made little girl furniture, including my giraffe -far right)

That tornado practically took out the entire downtown area and claimed 32 lives. 
(http://www.ohiohistory.org/etcetera/exhibits/swio/pages/content/1974_tornado.htm)

Our elderly next door neighbor, Walter had been away from home as the tornado barreled our way and I can still remember what his old (newish at the time) white Oldsmobile looked like after it had been beat up by flying debris. 

Still today I work under the SOP that a tornado (or lighting) anywhere remotely close to my proximity, is in fact, trying to kill me.  Not maybe or possibly.  It is trying to end my life.

Needless to say, that leads to some stressful moments in state prone to tornadic activity.  This time of year I keep water (for me et Uncle John) and some sort of snack, candles/flashlight, etc., readily available in my basement (home office/tv room), in case we got stuck down there.  When the tornado sirens screech I head to the basement with my cell and charger, so that it has as much juice as possible, Uncle John food to get through a day, Uncle John, a leash, my ID (yes, for easy body identification) and shoes better than the flops I'm inevitably wearin' if'n I have to climb out dodging nails and other pointy and sharp debris. 

Yep.  I'm that girl.

And that girl doesn't need to know any other details about how fuckin' frightening tornados are.  That girl does not need to be extra amped up the next time bad weather is breakin' out.  So Joplin people, my heart and prayers go out to you.  But I've got to turn you off.  I'm sorry.  (And I'm sorry if that does indeed make me a bad person.) 

We've had near nightly tornado warnings around here and they're expected to continue until Saturday.  


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Tuesday, May 24, 2011

~Two Girls Helping 1 Guy At A Time

...Wait.  That title sounds like a threesome. 

WARNING:  THIS POST HAS ZERO TO DO WITH MENAGE ET TROIS.

Alright. 

Now that we have that cleared up...

Sooooooo, I'm starting to dip my tootsies into the dating pool.  Afuckingain.  I feel like it would be all to easy to not.  But I know that's not in the best interest of BBG happiness.  I tell ya though, the older I get, the more stuff that happens, the more I kinda understand how full-time bitter people come to be.   When I was younger, I used to wonder how some grownups were so unhappy or angry with, seemingly everything.  Now that I'm o-l-d I understand, I know it takes effort, determination and strength to get back up when life hands you a beat down.   It's infinitely easier to stay down on the mat, mired in bitterness and sad-sackdom, than to stagger back up to your feet and take another swing, ya know?  Here's the thing about the mat, sure it's safer there, but the belt can't be won from down there.  Choices.  We all have 'em.  And I'm choosing to stand up and take another shot at the title.

I'm "out there again".  It is what it is. 

And what it is, is odd

(Disclaimer:  Generally, I dig odd.  I think odd is wicked awesome.)

In addition to randomly bumping into guys, setups, etc.  Or as Somp phrases it in her cool kid Cali way , "meeting organically",  I am checking out the online guy options.  I was chattin' with Somp, who is also perusing the online guy meeting options, the other day when the convo turned to guys and the (in our estimation) crazy ass stuff we noticed or have experienced, particularly online.  (Hence, the 2 girls part.  See.  I told ya' no kinky sex.)

Maybe because we both have a background in advertising/marketing, we might notice things slightly differently than the average girlie.  We realize the vital importance of 'positioning', and how it can be a deal maker, or breaker.  But at the end of the day, while we might be a tad more critical attuned to things (like marketing yourself), we are still just people.  People who just like everybody else forms a judgement, and bases decisions on cursory info available to us.   

I know, I know, ya shouldn't judge a book by it's cover and all the rest of that happy horseshit...  But when all you have to go on is the book cover, what else can we make our assessment on?

As a aid to all guys we've selected a few of the most common don't's, in our opinion.  As advertising taught us many, many years ago, you don't get a second chance to make a first impression.  (Thank you Head and Shoulders ad team!) 



Might as well start with the first first impression. 

Photos-
This really seems to be a pitfall for the penis people. Before you post a picture. We beg of you, THINK.

Take a moment to think about to someone who knows squat about you, what that picture tells them you are. (Of course, we don't want you to post some pic that is what you looked like one day in your life, if that's not the authentic you. Be who you are. But be cognizant that the little thumbnail pic we see is literally all we know about you, make sure you're making your best case for why we would want to find out any more.)

'Cause here's what we think when we see this stuff:


...to show me how to flip a picture...
(mentally finishing your headline)

Do you reeeeeally want to introduce yourself to us by saying ya don't know how to use that lil' rotate button? That's too advanced for ya? Or you're just sooooo not detail oriented that you couldn't bother with the 1.3 seconds it would have taken to have flipped that around? It makes us think dumb or lazy. Neither of which tend to be on many skirts wish lists, ya know? If you're making me throw out my neck to even see if ya might be appealing, now, how thoughtful will you be of us in 3 weeks when best foot forward behavior is weaning?

Don't plant that seed in our minds. Make us seeing you easy. Don't use a fuzzy photo that we can't reeeeeally see ya. Make sure at least one of your pics is a clear face pic. ...And don't make us break our necks to do it.


...What? Maybe with the sunglasses nobody'll recognize you?
Somebody like, let's say YOUR WIFE?!?...

This also makes me think something else, oh, what was it? Mmmmm? Oh, yeah, ASSSSSSHOLE I guess there are girls who don't care about helping you commit adultery. Good on ya for being upfront in your infidelity, I guess. (P.S. You're parents must be proud.)




...Get to know you?
What?  So I can judge whether we could hang or not?...

What kinda crazy ass statement is that? You may not be doing yourself any service if your headline brings to our mind words like incongruent, ironic (in the not good way) and kinda kooky. Or if our mind starts to wander and considers if Mr. T did have a lovechild? (Although, that's just a personal impression. I'm confident that many girls totally go for the starter kit vibe.)


...And kinda creepy...
(mentally Paul Harvey-ing the rest of the headline)

Really, unless you're looking for former illusion assistants, this might not be the very best "hello" choice of pics. Let you're freak flag fly and all, but know that this cuts out a huge number of girls to consider you as date potential. This is akin to postin' a pic with your Star Trek/Wars costume attending a "con" of some sort. Sure, we know you guys like that stuff and junk, and that's cool, whateves, but it's not exactly the way to reel people with boobs in, ya know? A showman like this should know how to play to his audience better.



...Bitter much?...
(Because I am who I yam, I also think LAW BREAKER!
You're not supposed to wear buds whilst driving.
It's dangerous, dumbass.)

That's riiiiiight, nuthin' brings the girlies in like offending them!  The headline, and other variations of the whine-y same theme, "are there any good honest women left?", "nice guys finish last", which no matter what words are selected or what order they're lined up, all just scream; negative(!), childish(!), bitter(!), hot mess(!), again, none of which are in any girl's pro collum. Listen, we all have our negative, bitter moments. ...Maybe that's just not the moment to write your profile/email/headline. Honestly, this headline also makes girls wonder what kinda craptastic vibe he must be throwing out there to seemingly, illicit such negative responses from the girls he has "complimented"? (raises eyebrow)



..When I was seventeeeeeeeen, it was a verrrrrry good year...

If you are actually closer to being a senior citizen than being a teen, ya probably shouldn't use your senior picture.  First of all ya know who has a good senior picture?  That's right, nodamnbody.  Which should be enough of a reason to chose another fuckin' picture.  But if it's not, consider why we'd even give a shit about what you looked like 20+ years ago?  Exactly how's that helpin' us now?  Do you posses time travel technology that would allow us to go hurl back in time so that we could be on the arm of your 18 year old self?  If the answer is no, please use current photos. 



...Who's also a skilled barber for me and my tragic pal...

What can we possibly add to this cautionary photo tale?  Uh, other than don't, and nexxxxt!!




Remember the camera adds 10lbs.  And a mobile home.  BTW, something girls in a tornado zone rarely find appealing.  Again, we're girls.  We notice everything you're telling us, whether verbally or visually.  Consider not only what you look like in your selected photo, but what assumptions we'll make from background details.

That's it for today's class.  Next time we'll delve into some other prevalent pitfalls.  For now study up, there will be a quiz. 

Class dismissed.


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Thursday, May 19, 2011

~Uncle John's Cast Iron Stomach

It was a regular, average Wed ness day Wednesday evening.  I was downstairs munchin' on my ol' school mini pizza that earlier I'd popped in my now beloved toaster oven.  I was flip floppin' between watching tv and being on the computer, I could hear Uncle John upstairs playing.  He sounded like he was havin' fun.  Hoppin' here and there overhead.  I paid nooooo attention to him and remember thinkin' 'Awwww...Uncle John, still bein' spry, havin' fun.  Good on him" and goin' about my general BBG bidness.

A bit later, I wandered upstairs for whatthefuckever, and discovered that Uncle John had indeed been having fun.

...Yep. 

Havin' fun destroyin' shit:

(So long oven mitt.  How 'bout them purple nails?)

Ugh. 

For starters that was my 2nd favorite oven mitt.  Of the precisely two that I own.  (TMI:  the other being of the silicone variety.)  Then I considered the heavy duty silver stuff, that I can only imagine is not particularly good for d oh double g consumption.  Double ugh. 

I, of course watched Uncle John like a hawk.  I gave him a press on his belly area to see if he seemed tender, or troubled by it's contents.  Thankfully it seems Uncle John has the constitution of Hercules.  By virtue of some crazy ass strong canine digestion and evacuation system he seems to be feelin' fine. 

For the official record, I'd left the damn oven mitt on the counter.  Evidently, not far enough back that on his lil' schnauzer tippy toes he couldn't reach that mitt.  Something has to be super close to the edge for him to be able to appropriate it, so I could only be sooo angry with him, as I, apparently, share in the blame.  Great.  Now I'm losing to a dog. 

(Note to self:  Don't cook anything big.  You now have no way to hold sumthin' hot with two hands.)

Never.
A.
Dull.
Moment.


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Wednesday, May 18, 2011

~Learn Something New Day

I love learning something new.  Doesn't really even matter what.  I'm just curious by nature, which I guess is slightly better than being naughty.  (My humble and utmost apologies for that sad ass OPP maker's reference.  That was uncalled for.)

(Random side note:  I just spent :30 of my life, that I'm never getting back, mind you, attempting to figure out why a semi colon [after the word 'for', above] kept happening when I thought I was touching the period key.  Backspace, delete, push period key, see semi colon, repeat x4.  Turns out I have an errant fleck o' dust on just that spot on my screen.  Welcome to my life.)

A few postings back I made mention of not knowing that it was a wheelbarrow.  All my life I thought it was a wheelbarrel.  (A Day In Review: Saturday/May 2011)

I think I've also mentioned that I was a grown ass girl before I knew what a foundry is.  Honestly in all of my Catholic school education I don't think that word was ever uttered.  I remember the night I discovered the existence of the mythical "foundry".  How can I recall so clearly?  ....(insert harp-y music here)...

I was out 'Schmidtin'" (aka: going to a joint called Schmidt's) enjoying an adult beverage and enjoying flirting with some guy who at some point told me he worked in a foundry.  Once he fielded the question, "whaaaat's a foundry?"  My follow up was "what do you make?"  His answer:  $21.00 an hour. 

...And how do you not remember a conversation like that

Foundry (fowndree)
noun
Definition:
1. workplace for casting metal or glass: a building equipped for the casting of metal or glass
2. making castings: the skill or practice of casting metal or glass




I've never been one to be ashamed of what I don't know.   Some would say that's because I don't have the good sense to be embarrassed.  I say better to be the real you and learn some shit vs. pretending you know something ya don't and not learning.    I guess, I'd rather be looked at as the girl who learned sumthin' than the girl who just went on being ignorant.  Maybe that's just me?


The total tonnage of things I don't know about stuff and junk is staggering.  But today the load got a little lighter.

The other day when I met up with LB2'd and the Godkiddies, I spied this sign:
Because I'm not ashamed, I don't mind tellin' ya, not only do I not know who the fuck Paul R. Gingher is, I also have noooooo fuckin' clue what a Natatorium is.  Do you?

Of course it sounded like a fanfuckintabulous place.  I said something like, "whaaaaaat's a Natafuckintorium*?  (Due to small ears, and my strongly honed ability to censor myself when necessary, I did manage to leave the fuckin' outta the Natatorium question.), and the next thing I knew our legs carried us to the magical and fanstatical NATATORIUM!!!  We opened the door and peeked in.  Eh.  It was ok.  I mean, it was just a room, albeit a room bedazzled with murals and interesting and random seating juxtapositions.  Honestly, somewhat of a disappointment.  No offense to Paul R. Gingher, who I'm sure is/was a tremendous individual.  I guess I just expected a bubble machine, unicorns and a tiara station, or sumthin' equally as appealing.  It did not live up to what it's moniker suggested.

I found myself Googling doing some research to discover what in the world this crazy, new to me word is about.  Turns out..."A natatorium is, strictly speaking, a structurally separate building containing a swimming pool. In Latin, a cella natatoria was a swimming pool in its own building, although it is sometimes also used to refer to any indoor pool even if not housed in a dedicated building (e.g., a pool in a school or a fitness club).[1] It will usually also house locker rooms, and perhaps allied activities, such as a diving tank or facilities for water polo. Many colleges, universities and high schools have natatoria."   

Thank you Wiki.  I cannot attest to the veracity of that info, it is Wiki.  ...There was only so much research I could do, ya know?  (Google.  First entry.  Sold.)  I can say I did not see a pool whilst peepin' in the great Paul R. Gingher.

Sooooooo.

If'n ya didn't already, now you know a new word Natatorium.  (Say it out loud.  It's more fun to say than to actually see.)

...Look at us.  Doin' some learnin' in 'da World.


Update:  I've, of course, been asking people if they knew what a natatorium is.   Much to my surprise, several people did.  Which made me feel slightly stoopid.  While chatting with AnonD I asked the same of her, she like me, was unfamiliar with the lovely sounding natatorium.  I read her the blurb about it and she got very excited as she discovered that she has a natatorium!!  And she really, really does.  She and R have a training pool, which is bigger than the usual training/resistance pool, that lives in it's own separate room in their house.  I've been in the AnonD natatorium!  Needless to say, it's been an exciting day for us both.  I'm proud to say I'm 1 degree from a natatorium. 


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Monday, May 16, 2011

~May St. Michael Watch Over 'Em Harder

It's a gray ass, drizzle-y day at BBGHQ.  It feels like an incredibly appropriate setting for the beginning of Police Memorial Week.  I thought about writing something new about my feelings on the week and the folks who strap up, but find myself of the ilk that May St. Michael Watch Over 'Em (May, 2010)  (http://bigbrowngirlworld.blogspot.com/2010/05/may-st-michael-watch-over-em.htmlstill sums it up best.
The troubling update from the past 12 months is the tragic surge in "Police fatalities" of 37% over the prior year ('09).  The headlines make the reality seem so, I donno?  Distant?  Sterile?  Detached?  I donno, maybe I'm over sensitive about the subject?   But from my personal experience and vantage point, can ya be too sensitive about the 160 regular, and yet stellar Sam Browne wearin' professionals who were taken from their loved ones and friends in service to their communities during 2010?   How can the other 69 Officers have died in the line so far this year, and their families not occupy space my mind, thoughts and prayers? 

While all of the deaths "strike home", it's been a particularly painful year (2011) here in Buckeyeland where we have already sadly lost six LEOs, including Deputy Suzanne Waughtel Hopper, of my hometown. 

I vowed to remember her name.  I generally recall the names of local officers who've paid the invoice of helping keeping me safe with their lives.  I feel it's the least I can do, to remember their name and sacrifice.

Once again I find myself thinking of the families.  The mom's and dads, siblings, spouses, and where maybe where I still identify the most, the kids who are having this week without a parent. 

...And hoping that St. Michael, the patron saint of Po-po, is more diligent in his duties this year. 


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Sunday, May 15, 2011

~Medals, Mack & Brass Monkey (Yes, That Funky Monkey). Oh, And Lesbianisim.

I had the best time visiting with my Godkids Saturday.  LB2'd brought both Godkid J, who had a karate tournament here, and Godkid Mini Me.  It was a sheer delight to get to hang with them, which I don't get a chance to do often enough.  They are growing up so fast.  Too fast for ol' Aunt BBG.  He's 13 and she's 11.  ...Seems like it was just yesterday I was putting them in pillowcases trying to steal them.  Despite having been subjected to the trauma of surviving an attempted kidnapping They are really, really good kids.  LB2'd is a really, really good mom, and I'm so glad they have (code name) H2B#3 as their dad figure. 

Godkid J earned two medals (or as LB2'd observed, he's "6 medals and a bong away from Michael Phleps").  It was his first tournament, I was so proud to see him compete so well.
(Congrats Godkid J!!)

Mini Me, code named because even though I literally saw her pop outta LB2'd, she, from pretty much go has demonstrated many, many BBG qualities (oh, and whatever the opposite of "qualities" is) to not be mine.  She is a mini me.  Not being lesbians, we have yet to figure out the logistics of it, but somehow that girl is mine. 

Because she is me she didn't even question when I said we were going to get our picture taken in front of the big ass, ol' school Mack truck we spied as we walked into the venue.
(Mini Me and a Mack)

It was a proud moment when I got to tell Mini Me about cab over engine trucks and BJ et the Bear.  (single tear slowly drops) 

(Random:  My favorite Mini Me quote;  "Everything is ok with Aunt BBG, even in war."    While I've never reeeeally been entirely sure what that meant, I've always taken it as very high regard.  Good to know I'm not fuckin' up being an Aunt too much!  Until them I'd had no Aunting experience, you know.)

And yes. 

Of course I had my photo taken with the truck. 

Did you really think I didn't

DO YOU NOT KNOW ME AT FUCKING ALLLLLLL?
(Note to self:  While you still look big, mainly because you are,
you look slightly less big in proximity to huge things. 
Strongly consider dating NBA and NFL sized guys,
touring tall circus freaks and Ron Jeremy.)

At some point (as it always does) things took a turn for the, "well.  Isn't that sumthin'".

LB2'd, Mini Me and moi had wondered to the concession stand.  On our way back to the competition area (...I know right about now you're envisioning some grand the Kid and Johnny Lawerence leg sweepin' event, but it was really a somewhat sketchy gym.  Nuthin' bad happened, but there were no mats.  I think there probably shoulda been mats, right?  And a Mr. Miyagi?), one of Godkid J's pals stopped us and said that J was "looking for his parents".   Which struck me as kinda odd.  But I didn't say anything.  

As we proceeded to the no mat/Miyagi free competition zone, we came upon the same kid's father, who also mentions that Godkid J is "looking for his parents", as he seems to be addressing both LB2'd and me.  Which, again, seems odd.  

I can only surmise that somewhere an hour west of here, some parents of some kid Godkid J knows is tellin' a story about meeting Godkid J's two moms.

LB2'd and I spoke later in the evening once she was home and we had quite a chuckle over the fact that both of us noticed, and picked up the vibe that that's what these folks seemed to believe about us as they were sayin' it, yet neither of us corrected them.  Laughed our asses off, in fact. 

I figured, what the fuck do I care if two strangers who live 50ish miles away think I'm battin' for the other team?  Answer:  Much like I feel about many people, and many things, I don't.  I felt like poppin' out with, "ohhhhh, we're straights" was just setting two people somewhat newish to our country up for feelin' assy.  Like mistaking a girl for preggers, when she's not.  Nobody wins.  Nobody.  (Except  when this has happened to me.  I have looked at people and said, "noooo I'm just fat".  Ta-dow!!  Frankly, grown ups ought to know better and in such a case I have no compunction for making them feel stoopid.  I win!)  However, I didn't think they deserved to feel stoopid, so I didn't correct them.  Plus, aren't we getting a little closer to evolved and enlightened when being thought gay isn't somehow the same as being thought of as being bad a good thing?  I guess maybe I felt like them not having to feel like asses was their reward for being accepting folks, even if they were wrong in their apparent assumption.  LB2'd and I decided that was our small part of the acceptance for all people fight.  We're probably not hittin' this years Pride, but at least we've done this.  (pats self on back)

After our shenanigans and medal winnings we grabbed a lil' grub before they all headed back to the vaguely Dayton area in hopes of seeing Godkid L on her way to her first prom (awwwwww...), we were standing around chattin' and Mini Me found her way to the front seat and in charge of the radio when she cranked up the tune they'd been listening to:

...Next thing ya know there's a BBG doin' the Brass Monkey dance in the parking lot.  Lookin' a fuckin'  fool.  And so it was; Saturday.  I hope in your own, less weird, less foolish lookin'  way yours was good too!



(BBG Fact:  I fully believe that seeing a cab over engine (COE), or as Izzz calls 'em, 'flat face' trucks, is a good omen.  Always.  Under any circumstances.  I don't know why.  I just love 'em.)


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Thursday, May 12, 2011

~Goodbye Ol' Friend

Well...the remote finally drew it's last breath.  It lived a good looooooong life.  It worked out regularly, as you can see from the numberless and nameless buttons. 
(RIP Old Remote 200? - May 2011)

~Obituary~
Remote, Old
Born sometime in the 2000's was a state of the art digital magic cable box tell-er what to do-er who performed diligently for many years of service to BBG.  Until that fateful day it was dropped for the 32,000th time when it suffered a fatal battery hold-y in-y flap break.  Survivors include;  BBG and two AA batteries.  Services will be closed to the public.  In lieu of flowers contributions may be made to:
BBG Shits and Giggles Fund
c/o BBG
123 Fake St.
Somewhere, Ohio

In happier news, please join me in welcoming the new version:

(Born May 2011)

 
It even glows.


(Evidently,  I do not know the proper camera setting for glowing remote in a
not a very bright room.  Or maybe how to keep the camera still? 
Who knows.  Either way, sorry.)




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Tuesday, May 10, 2011

~Operation: HA F'n HA

Maybe the stellar, stealth-y works of our Navy SEAL Six team recently is rubbing off on me?  I donno. 

I do know that I'm engaged in some super elite Psychological Operations.  Yep.  That's what I'm involved in.   Psychological warfare!  And kidz, the BBG is gittin' crafty wit it.  A fact, I'm not particularly proud of, but it gives me a tee-hee, sooooo say it with me now;  SUCK IT!  

As a tactical mastermind, I know that by all rights he shouldn't hold any space in my head.  He still does, albeit far, far less frequently.  I'm trying to frame it as a testament to how much I have the capability of loving, that I can be so heartbroken. 

As opposed to many folks who aren't, for whatever reasons, able to love someone, anyone fully.  They never fully feel the pain when things don't "work out", but they also never really love or feel love fully either.  You've seen those folks.  There out there.  And I'm thankful that after 100 years of dating that I haven't turned into one of the walled off people.  My heart, while still a bit bruised, is still hopeful and open.  Perhaps, that's just my silver lining thinking to avoid bein' pissed off that he crosses my mind at all.  (Ain't rationalization grand?)

But serious biz, let's face it, a whole lotta girls would have handled things in a more (hummm) booyah kinda way, for loss of a better term.  Alas, I'm no car key-er, email hacker or brick throw-er through the window-er.  (Yes.  I do know people who've done exactly those things.  Guess what?  You do too.  I'm sure of it.) 

I am (usually) much more of a, 'the world will bring you your comeuppance', kinda girl.  I (usually) don't feel the need to do something to ya myself.   I'm (usually) pleased enough to just to cut you outta my life, end of story.  While I feel like I'm almost there, I also feel like right now a wee Ha Fuckin' Ha/Psy Ops mission is precisely what is needed for the good of my soul and psyche. 

(Wrong?  Maybe.  You be the judge.)

Ok, let's set the mood.

Yeah, this requires a mood...



So to bring you up to speed, since the breakup I was contacted by one of his ex's (code name: Peaches), who has actually known him since middle school.  A few emails were exchanged and the next thing you know we're sitting across a table from each other.  She's a lovely person and we had a very nice chat. 

While we were chatting we cooked up a lil' mini (fuck you redundancy!) mind fuck.  (Yes.  I did just use fuck twice in a sentence.  You're welcome.)

...And let's just say, somebody is gonna get a surprise when he sees this:
(Moi et Peaches - aka: the ex's)

Oh to be a bug on the wall when "somebody" logs on to FB and sees my posting of these two faces together simply containing the caption, "Yep."  (In her own independent shock and awe and for extra good measure, Peaches emailed the same picture to him.) 

I'd imagine seeing us together is going to be quite a WTF?!? moment for "somebody".  Two people who's paths had never crossed, and would never have crossed if "somebody" had conducted themselves in a better, less chicken shit manner, standing there photo gawkin' at ya.  Surfuckin'prise!!  

I gotta tell ya, I don't think I'd like to see two of my ex's together, gabbing.  Of course, as much as I wouldn't like the thought of it, I don't have anything that anyone could say that would be embarrassing to me, or that I would feel really shitty about.  (--A side benefit of being a decent person.)  I would guess two ex's knowing scads of less than stellar details would be more disconcerting than, if let's say, PotRoast and Mr. Man ended up sitting across a table.  I'm gonna guess that seeing this precious moment captured on a digital memory card will cause a jolt to the system.  ...And that, for right or wrong, totally and completely in my core makes me laugh.  Hard. 

(Reminder:  I never said I was a good person.  I've only ever contended that I'm a person who tries to be good as often as possible.  Clearly, today it wasn't possible.)

Before our meeting I had been feeling bad for myself (only from time to time).  Now I just feel bad for "somebody".  I have no shame to my game.  I'm not always right, but I'm strong, I'm kind, I'm true and I'm a girl of my honor, which is leaps and bounds beyond how "somebody" is capable of comporting themselves.  And that's sad.  That must be miserable to look in the mirror and see each day.   

In my nearly uncontrollable side splitting laughter subdued and appropriate level of glee I'm reminded of the ironic words "somebody" is fond of sharing; "Love is giving someone the power to break your heart, but trusting them not to"  (...Really?  Tell me fucking more.  I'd love for you to expound on that...)...

...And the eternal, sage words of one Nelson Muntz;



Update:  Apparently the pic has been spied.  I have been FB defriended.  (sniffle, sniffle, tear, sniffle)  ..With friends like that, blah, blah, fuckidy, blah, right?

I now feel weirdly giddy.  And strangely free.  

Mission Accomplished.



Related Post:  3 Things Last Friday Brought Me




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Sunday, May 8, 2011

~Mother's Day 2011

I was looking through some old school pictures the other day (Yes, I am being forced by Facebook to post a pic of your/my Mom, for Mother's Day.  I usually do not go for such things.  I don't enjoy doing things because others do.  I'm not a contrarian, but I do like to run my life by my rules, not necessarily ones put on me by others.  I never post those "if you're brave enough to post this even for one hour world hunger will be eradicated, Sea Monkeys will be mailed to every man, woman and child in the nation and unicorns will henceforth shit cotton candy," type comments.  I'll buy cotton candy before I'll jump on some bandwagon just because a Facebook status told me to! [except just this one time, I'm scumming because my mom is one of my FB friends and I wanted her to be included in the parade of mom pics.  I'll go along with things for my Mom but nobody else.]) 

Anyhoo, I found a few pictures that seemed appropriate.   All the other kids had sweet pics and stuff and junk.  I almost picked this one:
(Sweet huh?  Hard to believe this used to be that...)

This was even an option:

(Awwwwww...)

And then I decided on this one:

Mom's smokin', there's a Coors (which I'm not entirely sure is even hers.  I am entirely sure that that Coors is bootlegged. [I remember exactly who brought it back in their trunk, across state lines, but due to my unfamiliarity with the statue of limitations on bootlegging, I will not identify here.]  Acquired pre-Smokey et the Bandit days, ya'll.), some Little Brown Girl has not brushed her hair, which really means, would not allow anyone to brush her hair.  And there's tongue sticking out of it's house.  You know she deserved a drink and a smoke.  On the surface it looks like a cautionary tale of some sort...

...Join us for this after school special presentation:  Bad ass kids and what happens to their moms, starring Pam Grier and introducing Kim Fields.  Watch a mom attempt to preserve her sanity as she goes toe to toe with a free thinking, strong willed, crafty and determined to have her way child...

Leading people to believe Mom had it easy with some cutie picture seemed disingenuous, so I went with the more realistic view of what my Mom had to endure.  Which was, and probably continues to be, what would be classified my most, as "a handfull". 

Since there is no gift adequate enough to say thank you for everything you have done, given, sacrificed, taught, dealt with, picked up after, made right and soothed, I am left with THANK YOU and I LOVE YOU

Happy Mother's Day Mom!! 





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Thursday, May 5, 2011

~Thank You For NOT Askin'

The conversation started out with the statement, "I don't know if I need your boy help, but I do need your boy advice".  Probably, behind "we gotta talk" or "does this make my ass look fat", not the most welcome words to any guys ears, right? 

I explained that I may have dropped at least a quarter and two pennies down the garbage disposal.  Of course, by "may" I meant, I totally dropped some fucking change down the disposal.  And that my solution, at first, had been putting an orange down the disposal, running H2O and turning it on.  Looking back, even I'm not really sure why that was the best fix-it solution I had.  ...I'm just sayin' it was.

Guess what?  As you probably already have surmised, that didn't exactly produce the fix I searched for in my feeble, girl, fix-it mind.

My next move was to look up a video of how to fix the disposal.  Clearly, this should have been my first move.  Oh, well...If Cher can't do it, what hope do I have to turn back time?  Anyhoo, there I was on the floor usin' some crazy ass doohickey (aka: Mr. Allen Wrench) and pressing the reset button.  (Good News:  If you should ever have a [reasonable] clog or sumthin', it's a super easy process and you will definitely be able to do it.)  Unfortunately, $0.27 and an orange isn't exxxxxactly the same as, 'opps!! too many mashed potatoes down the drain'. 

The game plan then switched to a recovery operation.  Out came some tongs and in I went, grasping, and eventually aggressively poking at the orange to bring it back from the disposal.  Think of this as what it would be like to actually have to push a newborn back into mom once it's already out.  ...With tongs. 

It was not natural. 

It was not pretty. 

It was not easy. 

But I did get it done.

Another BBG helpful hint for ya, change is extremely hard to see in the disposal.  It's those damn black flappy things.  You can't really get a good vantage point on anything that's not directly in the center of the disposal.  Sooooooo of course my next thought is, I need a magic telescopic magnet.

Which is where my need for guy advice began to directly impact Dole Pineapple, who because he works 6 seconds from my front door had stopped by for a post workday check-in.  After hearing my cracked out home maintenance tale, and a query as to if he actually happened to own some magic telescopic magnet (and a head shake, eye roll and stifled laughter later), Dole Pineapple asked if I needed a new disposal installed.   Honestly, he got half giddy at the prospect.  I explained that it seems to be working when coins are not jamming it.  (Again, thank you YouTube video gleamed knowledge!) 

Once he informed me that change isn't magnetic and blowing my telescopic magnet solution, he offered to fix it on the spot.  I declined as A) he had just stopped by to say hello, with no expectation of dealing with a home project-- at someone else's home for fucks sake.  2)  I'd already re-birthed this orange.  So I was still operating on the misguided assumption that I could do anything.   ...Why not have the satisfaction of remedying the situation myself?

As we discussed some other catch up stuff and consumed a glass of wine, I asked where on the scale of 1 to 10 that he thought I could accomplish getting those coins out myself.   I'm fairly sure he flat out lied to my face as the words, "I think you probably could" hit the atmosphere.  (I knew it was a lie because it was presented in the same tone I hear when I think in my head, 'I could be a size 6'.  The semi mocking tone of, unlikely possibility to bordering on full on thaaaat's never gonna fuckin' happen-ness.) 

He then followed that up with, "but I wouldn't want you to get hurt so I'd feel better if you just let me do it". 

I then followed that up with thinking, 'I wouldn't want me to get hurt either.  ...And now I'd feel better if you just do it"

Decision made.

He told me part of his plan included turning off the breaker before he goes in after the Washington and Lincoln's.  Something that in all of my how-to approach of this trauma never ever once entered my mind.  Proving that I require adult supervision.

As Dole Pineapple headed out to go attend to his d oh double g after a long (and now BBG made ridiculous) day, we made a plan for him to swing by with the express purpose of disposal fixin'/coin retrieval.  He offered to swing by the following evening.  I'm not trying to make *you* doin' me a favor more of a pain in the ass, ya know?    And what Dole Pineapple doesn't know is that I rarely use the disposal.  Why?  'Cause a constant cycle of grilled ham and cheese, cob, peanut butter and jellies, wedge salad and Chick O Sticks don't demand much disposal usage.   Plus, there is no food in it so it's not like sumethin' is getting stinky in there.  As it's obviously zero of an emergency we made a plan for the rainy day this weekend.

I am thankful that he happened by in my time of dumbassidness need, has the skillz to do something about it and the kindness to offer to do so. 

...And this is probably something that makes me a baaaaad person.  I found myself mostly thankful that during this conversation Dole Pineapple never asked me how the change got in the garbage disposal. 

It's not a bad/I'm goin' to jail/hell story. 

More of a, some Big Brown Girl is a world class dumbass tale. 

Alright, alright.  I guess as I am trying to be a solution I should share to help others avoid my pitfalls... 

Even when it casts me in a bad light.  Fine.  

Reality is still real, even when I don't like it.  Accepted.

Ok.  Short version:  Don't try to clean all of the free range salt that's accumulated in your purse by wackin' it a few times upside down over the sink.  At least not the side with the garbage disposal.  Unfortunate things can transpire.   You're welcome.



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Monday, May 2, 2011

~A Day In Review: Saturday

Uncle John and I hung out with AnonD, her hubby R and their 3 chocolate labs Saturday.  It was a day of firsts, some gardening, some mockery and some old treasures revisited.  Here's what happened:
  • I tried some pomegranate liquid.  It tasted like if a grape and a blueberry had a baby.
(Also test drove this purple nail polish.)
  • I decided, once I saw this:
That their wackadoo neighbor was 100% probably dead in her home.  I couldn't fathom any other reason that a single lady's fence to her heavily wooded back yard would be open.    AnonD mocked and attributed to my Po-po parents that I immediately, so naturally decided that they now lived next door to a dead body solely based on an open fence.  I am very aware of my surroundings.

It turns out that their weirdo neighbor chick is still alive.  And still lookin' a hot mess.  I swear, I don't know why that lady insists on introducing herself to the world everyday lookin' that bad.  I've always suspected she owns several too many cats and doilies.  I donno.  I was relieved to see her pull out of her driveway later in the day, as was R, who by now I had convinced that house next door would soon be available.  (Sorry, R.)

  • For the first time ever I planted bulbs.
I didn't hate it. But I'm probably never gonna plant any bulbs 'round these parts. Although, I can't wait to see what they become at AnonD's


  • AnonD and I frightened a child.
Because my head is always on the swivel, I noticed some kid rounding the corner down yonder walking door to door.  (I'm on everything in my parameter, people.)  I showed the kid to AnonD as we were about to go inside, we decided to stay outside so that kid didn't have to have the livin' shit scared outta him when 250lbs of chocolate lab came to the door to say helloooooo.  All d oh double g's are really well behaved, but let's face it, lotza people are afraid of large dogs.  So because we're some fuckin' nice ass people instead, we stood in the yard chattin' as girls do.  This kid, maybe 14ish.  Goes to each and every house on our side of the street.  Knocks on the house next door, comes down the driveway 4' from where we stand...and starts to walk the fuck across the street.  Really.  Reeally?!? 

So if you know me, you know I'm not havin' that

I sez to the kid, "are you sellin' sumthin'?  Or..." as I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.   He tentatively comes back towards us and tells us he's going around with his dad who is painting addresses on the curbs for a donation, or whatever ya feel like paying.  As AnonD and R are already set up, she declined.  But the kid, once he decided we weren't going to lure him into the house with breadcrumbs and put him in the oven, he was very polite.  A trait not as common place as it should be with kids these days (...wait, whaaaaat?  Am I officially old enough to turn a "kids these days" phrase?  Fuck.  Damn you cold hard truth!)

I don't know about you, but I like to do what I can to promote good behavior out of kids.  I'm just tryin' to be a good villager, ya know?  So as he walked away I said loud enough that he could hear how polite he was.  I think it's good for kids to hear. 

After taking a wee break once we returned to the great outdoors I saw the dad walking/painting.  As he walked on the other side of the street I found myself wanting to say something to him.  But, because I'm o-l-d (remember the "kids these days" incident?), and couldn't reeeeeally see his face, I couldn't decide if I should "sir" him, or "dude" him  (Ok, so I never say duuuuuude.  Honestly, I'm more of a "hey mister" or "excuse me" type.  Anyhoo...), I somehow ended up giving him the 'come here' finger waggle.  Go bless the finger waggle.  Works every time.  He started across the street and I asked if he was that kid's father and he said he was and then I told him how mannerable he had been.  Again, just 'cause you're a grown up doesn't mean you don't deserve a little acknowledgement of your good work too, right?
  • Uncle John supervised our work:

  • I saw this beautiful butterfly:

  • I was the operator of a wheelbarrow for the first time!  I really kinda liked it.
 
Honestly, until just a few years ago, I thought it was a wheelbarrel.  (so much for that great Catholic school education, huh?  They also didn't teach me what a foundry is.  On the other hand the sheriff still talks about how cute I was in my "Catholic schoolgirl uniform", so there's that.  --And yes, that does kinda creep me out to hear.)  I was shocked to discover it was a barrow.  None the less, there I am mastering it.  Whoo-hoo!  ...And being once again mocked that I have multiple sets of latex gloves in my car, "just in case".  AnonD asked, in case of what?  Fine.  Really I donno.  But if I ever roll up on some accident at least I won't be too afraid of contamination to do something, so suck it! all you people who'll have to let some stranger bleed out rather than get your hands covered in their bio hazmat juice.  (If I'd had a penis, apparently, I would have made a fanfuckin'tastic Boy Scout.  I am prepared for any glove necessary emergency.  Latex merit badge please.)


  • I indulged in a lil' sumthin' sumthin' I hadn't had in forever.  I'm not sure how the subject came up but next thing I know we're talkin' about Shirley Temples and AnonD is saying words like, "we have everything needed". 

They were soooo good!  Yes, that's right, "they".  You don't really think I just had one do ya?  The count ended up being 4.  And I was seriously considering purchasing Grenadine and 7-Up/Sprite for my own personal home gorging usage.  Then I caught a glimpse of the back of the Grenadine label, which listed it's first ingredient as high fructose corn syrup.  Even a BBG knows I probably shouldn't invite another opportunity for added high fructose corn syrup consumption into my body, or home.  Yep.  Look at me wearin' my big girl panties.   See.  It's not alllll ridiculous-ness.  Sometimes there's a modicum of pragmatism.

Fine.  It is mostly ridiculousness.





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