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Wednesday, September 28, 2011

~Media Whores

Today's pissed off-edness is brought to you by, well, apparently, all media outlets.  I woke up to seeing dead Michael Jackson sprawled out on a gurney on the national news this morning. 

(Please note:  The following post is not about Michael Jackson, per se.  Frankly, I do not, nor did I ever give a flyin' fuck about Michael Jackson.  My favorite Michael Jackson song?  Don't have one.  I think he was a child diddler.  Yeah, those of you who think he wasn't, cool, you're allowed to hold your own belief, there's a cliche about it called; To each their own.  I'm just sayin' I wouldn't have let him spend time without supervision-  as in, my actual eyes on them at all times/Glock within easy access supervision, with my Godkids.  I say when there's that much smoke there's either some fire or at least a burning ember, and that's not safe enough for me.)

I'm tick-y because that picture of him is not the crux of the story.  Showing dead MJ does not clarify the story.  (Wait...Did you think he was still alive and hangin' with Elvis at the Waffle House, until you saw that shot?)  So it wasn't a picture to illuminate the facts of the story.  It was a sensational shot that would garner viewership/hits/ratings.  It wasn't shown to demonstrate the journalistic integrity of the story or anything like that.  And while it does serve to satiate those with a passing wanderlust of all things dead celeb, is that a good enough reason to have to have his family see that picture splashed across the news, for the entertainment of strangers?

Admittedly, I might be a tad touchy about this.

A million years ago my college roommate was killed in a car crash during freshman year.  Obviously, it was horrible for her family.  It was a horrible experience for me and our friends/dorm mates, many of us learning our first lessons about death and dying, mourning and grief.  As we woke up to the early morning call telling us the news, somehow a newspaper made it's way to our dorm hallway where we'd all congregated, the front page picture showing in great technicolor detail the crumpled remains of the car she had been riding in.  I can remember immediately thinking that that newspaper would be sitting on the front porch of my roomies parents house waiting for them to try to wake up from an unimaginable nightmare only to discover in their stunned and sorrow filled state that painful picture.   It struck me that the story was the crash and her death, the picture was included to be salacious. 

Never again have I looked at some footage or picture shared by media showing some graphic detail of someones death in the same way. 

When the news ought to beI-270 is closed someplace due to a crash, the news seems to want to show me the crinkled up car with a sheet over a window-- and not that I'm even offended by graphic or gory.  ...Again, kid of a police officer and a police officer turned R.N. so it's not sumthin' I feel I have a wildly low stomach for, ya know?  Movie/tv graphic, gory and explicit, I gotz nooooo problem with.  Some of my favorite movies/tv shows are graphic.  But those aren't someones family or friend.  (Yes, actors have friends and family, you know what I fuckin' mean...)  Can't ya just show me how bad traffic is backed up and tell me someone died without going the extra step of causing some family an extra dose of pain?  You're the news.  You're supposed to be good with words and descriptions.



I know the business of news is to sell advertising, to make money for the station or network.  Actual transference and dissemination of news-y information is consequential.  It's simply the product put out there to facilitate the ad dollars, sell the slots that people (advertisers) will buy, during the programs that bring viewers in.  So I get that the media is essentially a whore selling her wares and the network is the fur hat sportin' pimp in this arrangement and we are the johns, but come on...  Even a whore has standards and won't kiss ya.  (<--info primarily gleaned from graphic and gory movies/tv programs)  It doesn't seem like not causing undue pain to people when an image only serves to be titillating is too stringent of a standard. 

Media:  class up your whoring. 

Stop bein' satisfied being a crack whore and strive for escort status.  We, your johns deserve a better class of news whoring. 


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Saturday, September 24, 2011

~Jail Worthy 101

Swung into the across the street gas station yesterday, while at the counter I overheard the other cashier telling her customers that "they stole it all".  I tossed an inquisitive look at my cashier, who told me that earlier in the day two people came in, diverted the attention of whoever was working at the time and stole an entire display of energy drinks.

Energy drinks.

Now people, I've stated this before, I'm not a "good person".  I'm a person who tries to do/be good as frequently as the world around me will allow me to do/be.  I never been locked up, well, I guess I haven't been locked up because every time I've ever done anything wrong or questionably wrong I've been some how, some way caught.  Every.  Muther. Fuckin'.  Time.  In large part it's the extra weight on the scales of 'do/don't do' that has kept me on the straight and narrow, as much as having a pretty decently calibrated moral compass has.  Clearly, I'm just not good at successfully straying too far past boundaries.  Noted.  Some people are, and I'm not one of 'em.  And of course, ya know, stealin' 'n stuff (breakin' the law) is wrong. 

Anyhoo, I, for some inexplicable reason felt the need to let the cashier know that I am not willing to go to jail over 5 hour energy drink. 



Murder? 

Sure. 

If it's gotten down to killin', some shit went down and somebody had to die.  That seems like a reason to spend the rest of your days debating whether shanking some big burly broad or committing to a classic display of straight up crazy (in my case, cocoa loco?) is the best survival technique for the next 20 to life.

But going to the pokey for some $2.99 (<-- I made that up.  I have no earthly idea how much energy drink runs) a bullshit bottle of liquid No Doze?  Pllllfuckin'eeeze.  

Occasionally when I'm glancing at my hometown paper online, I'll look to see if there's anyone I know at the mug shot section, and I like to take note of their crimes.  Sometimes I look and then read and think, 'yeah, that seems exxxxxactly right', as I compare the charges and the mug shot.  But more often I think, 'yeeeeeah, I'm not goin' to jail for that'.  (Technically, it's usually more along the lines of, 'you fucking idiot, why would you think it was a good fuckin' idea to throw away the next X # of years over that.  Dumbass'.  ...Tomato/tamato.)

I know I shouldn't be using the power of the interweb to give crims career advice, but;  serious biz, before you decide to do unlawful works, please consider if what you are about to do is indeed jail worthy.  I mean, be pragmatic.  Sumthin' tells me the dumbass who's locked up for stealing energy drink gets punked out first.

Stay crime free my peeps.  (Unless it's reeeeeally worth it.)


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Wednesday, September 21, 2011

~Intolerance Intolerant

Good googily moogily.  I'm about to git all rant-y wit it, in the highest Free To Be You And Me order...(You have been warned.  Proceed at your own peril.)


So, I came home the other week to find an MSN article, blurb, whatever about, as it was worded "Bono" being on the So You Think You Can Fuckin' Dance show.  Evidently people are all the fuck up in arms about his participation with the show.   

Frankly, it caught my eye because I thought, wow, really? Bono is doin' that show?
But as I go on to, ya know, actually read the news report, turns out it's:

Chastity Bono.  Nay...
Chaz Bono. 

And apparently, being "different" is now cause for people to be straight up assholes. 

Wait. 

Vitriol filled, vile, assholes:

(Comments by up in arms contingent)
"HUGE HUGE fan of this show since season two and eagerly await each season to get my dancing/entertainment 'fix'!! But when I heard that Chaz Bono was going to be on, I was sick. Not that I have anything personally again her/him, I just don't want that lifestyle choice continually flaunted in the media esp ABC."


"Chaz Bono How low can this show sink. Well you have certainly addressed the gay commuity. Guess this will not be a family show any longer!!!! Lost my family!"

"YOUR choice to bring Chaz Bono into the mix goes too far. I am not about to risk the potential for on screen dialogue about sex changes and gender confusion while my 7 and 9 year old are watching. If you want the "anything goes" hippy culture, then soon that is all you will get. You've lost us. In case any of you are wondering ... no, we are NOT tolerant. We are not tolerant to allow any and all influences to come unfiltered into our home and especially to our children. This is truly a sad farewell."

I'm just so tired of narrow minded twits and dolts.  

Yes, God forbid your family should be exposed to people who live "that lifestyle", ya know, the one where a grown up decided to, while not hurting anyfuckinbody else in the whole entirety of the universe, follow the beat of their own drum and do what they believe is right for their life.  'Cause ya wouldn't wanna teach kids that they should, again when it doesn't impact others negatively, walk the path that is the authentic them, the course that brings them joy or satisfies their soul.  Nope.  Wouldn't want them to have that impression. 

And for sure you wouldn't want to teach them that lots of people make different decisions on how to live their lives, and there are lots of people they'll meet who are different in some kinda way--  all kindz ways, really, but that different isn't synonymous with wrong.  That just because *you* don't feel the exact same way, see it from the same perspective, haven't had the same experience, doesn't mean that that gives you the reason or right to treat another human being like they are somehow a less than you.  

What a terrible lesson to teach kids.  It reminds me of one of my favorite quotes, "You're no better than anyone, but nobody's better than you." (~Big Fuckin' Dealin' Vice President Joe Biden's mother) 

Fuck good sense, common decency, the Golden Rule and facts.  Call bullshit on teaching your kids how to discern the difference between murder and a white lie.  Wrong is wrong, right?  Hitler and Chaz Bono are the exact same and they should hate them both, right?  One truly wrong person who negatively impacted millions and millions of people and someone who's just different and impacts no one.  That's an excellent plan, and I'm sure one that will serve them well in life!!  Kufuckin'dos.

And then people are proud of bein' intolerant?  Really?  Reeeeeally?  Noted...

...And let me put you on notice, fuckin' narrow minded simpletons holding on to bigoted mindsets:

I'M INTOLERANT OF INTOLERANCE!!

Yeah, that's right. 

I'm tolerant of pretty much everything;  Shit I don't go in for.  Things I find either icky, stupid or ridiculous, to the downright I wouldn't X if you paid me copious sums of cold hard cash.  Basically, if it doesn't cause harm~ actual harm to others, I am fine with it.  The totality of things in the world I find not to my digging is immense.   But none of them are intolerable to me in the general sense, meaning, X might not be sumthin' I do, but that's not good enough of a reason for *you* not to do it, if that's what wheezes your gig.  Have the fuck at it.  Do you.  Let me do me. 

Many folks will call me a liberal, for that I'm sure.  As if that's a bad thing.  Which I call bullshit on that too.  Conservatives, who seem to be the group who's panties are all the fuck bunched up about this kinda stuff, and are the self appointed party of freedom.  ...Let people do what they want, without oversight and restrictions, right?  So where's the freedom to let everyone, not just people who are exactly like you be free to do what they want to?  Or is that freedom just extended to those who look like you and worship like you and vote like you?  How are you letting "liberals" out freedom you? 

Plus, for a group of folks who claim to hold religion as their Monopoly moral high ground card, it doesn't seem very Christian, to me.

Now, surfuckinprise I'm no theologian, but I did go to religious school, specifically Catholic school, so I've had a lot of hours in front of a nun or priest in the pursuit of religious-y knowledge and understanding.  As I understand, and remember my Jesus information, he washed lepers feet.  He fed the hungry.  He bud'd up with a whore.  He gave up his life like a present for the rest of the people. 

I don't remember any passages where he did those things just for the people who lived their lives exactly like he did, or believed exactly what he did.  He did so because he so loved everyone.

While many may use his name to hold on to their baseless bigotry and intolerance, it is not Christ like.  And the definition of being a "christian" is to be and act Christ like.  The concept of being intolerant of others in the name of religion has always seemed to be the height of hypocrisy, to me. 

I would not be so audacious as to purport to know what God wants, but I don't for a nanosecond believe that God wants us to be awful and hateful to each other.  Especially for trivial things that have no bearing on your life.  Never felt like you were in the wrong body?  Bully for you.  Don't believe in sex changes?  Don't have one.  It's pretty easy to avoid...  

...As is, not teaching your kids prejudice and hate.  As all of us with any age on us knows, there are plenty of hateful things in the world.  Kids will have an abundance of lessons on hate to learn as they mature.  As a parent, shouldn't you be teaching them about love, respect and acceptance? 

Not as long ago as we'd like to think, some people taught their kids to be intolerant of epileptics, or Downs-y folks, or black people, or Jewish people, Asian folks, or the Irish.  And people of that day, and mindset had a myriad of "good" reasons to hold on to those beliefs.  But things changed.  They always do.  Things are changing today.

"The only thing constant is change"

Holding on to intolerance and bigotry shows an inability to deal with the world at hand.  It smacks of fear, not of power or righteousness.  It demonstrates bubble living at it's worst.  To a degree we all like to live in our personal bubbles.  But when your world is only THIS big, that's all you know about the world.  When you travel and see other customs, cultures and societies, when you meet and get to know people of different faiths, ethnic backgrounds and lifestyles of all kinds, your world and what you know to be true/false based on actual knowledge and experience vs. hearsay or propaganda becomes THIS big, as does your understanding that no matter how many differences we have, we share many more commonalities.  That regardless of skin color, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, political affiliation, socioeconomic status, certified morons or MENSA members we all want (and deserve) the same things:
  • To be loved and accepted for who we are by family and friends
  • To do right by our families, friends and community/nation/earth
  • To be treated with dignity
No matter how different someone is from you, or how much you disagree about, the things that are important, really important in life we share in common with 99.44/100's* of all people.  And it seems that's the lesson you teach kids.  To teach them otherwise is akin to not teaching your kid about computers and technology because you don't believe in 'em.  It's an antiquated view in light of how the world, ya know, actually fuckin' works, and is not helpful for your kids future.  You might not like the interweb and computers, but your kid is going to have to deal with them to manage life when they're grown.  Setting up a scenario that everyone else has the advantage of being very comfortable, knowledgeable and accepting of them, while your kid is hampered by their ignorance of it is no bueno.  If you wouldn't think of hogtying your kid in such a integral way, what would make a person think they should follow that plan for teaching tolerance? Ya might not like it, but the intolerance party is o-v-e-r.  It's time to adapt.  Or be left behind.  (Darwinism anyone?)

Serious biz, you don't have to like it, but you do have to accept the reality of the world. (Australia allows "X" as gender option - click)  and the changes taking place (Bye-bye Don't Ask/Don't Tell - click).  Reality doesn't cease being real just because ya don't like it.

Lastly, of allllllll the places to draw the line in the sand about people and their "alternative" lifestyles and get all the fuck up in arms... Glitzy costumes, over the top makeup, show tunes and jazz hands?!? That's where you're not having "that lifestyle"? Really?

I've never watched dancing shows. Not out of some deep seeded bigotry, simply because I disdain dancing. (No, I didn't grow up in Footlooseville or anything, I just have no rhythm, no dancing abilities at all and I generally want no part of it, but I gotta tell ya, this hoosafudge almost makes me wanna DVR it just to increase it's ratings and show people living out there thinking that the bigots are the majority of our country are really just the loud minority.)


(*allowing for members of the Klan, Talaban
 and of course, michigan fans) 



Oh, I've just been made aware that that Dancing show has already happened.  (Guess who started this post and then putz'd around until after the show aired to put it up?  Two guesses.  One doesn't count.  Maybe next week...  Note to Self:  Find out when that show is on.)

Peace out people. 
(No, really, peace, look into it.)


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Monday, September 19, 2011

~Report: New Age (So Far)

My new BBG age has been interesting.

First I should say, I had a very nice day o' birth.  In I gotta tell ya news:  All of the people who took time outta their day to jingle me up and wish me a happy day and the Facebooky and blog-y messages I received, really made my tiara wearin' day.  I don't care if the following statement makes me an official geek, sporto, motorhead, dweeb dork, or not, but I like to be truth-y sooooo;  It feels good to have those lil' reminders and tacit acknowledgements that others are glad you're alive too.  Not to get all Sally Field ("...you like me, you really like me...") wit it, but I count that stuff as a blessing in my life. 

The evening started with a brief phone chat that had me standing in my Underoos (Note: Not actually Underoos, sadly.), looking bewildered and befuddled at all of the contents of my closet,  answering the benign query of what I was doing with an unduly assy; "attempting to not be nakid".   Upon AnonD's arrival, I was well on my way to full on testy that due to cool temps I was being forced to wear jeans on my special day.  I don't have a grudge against jeans, I don't hate jeans and want to kick jeans ass or anything, but they're just not my thing.  I'm happiest in a sundress and some flops.  But spending the evening being bitter because I was chilly didn't seem like the prudent thing to do, so fuckin' jeans it was. I actually had to have a come to Jesus with myself along the lines of, 'if you're wearin' a tiara, your outfit is not exactly the first thing people are gonna notice about ya'.   Accept.  Move on. 

Once I came to grips with my clothes we wandered out to a local alcohol serving establishment.  A few minutes later we were surprised joined by Blond Maria and MKO, who is in from Nevada visiting the fam for a couple of weeks.  Hangin' with fun (and funny) folks was a great present.  Drinking began, cracked out conversation and immense amounts of laughter commenced.  It was simply fanfuckin'tastic.


(AnonD trying to avoid being put in some
stupid blog, MKO and Blond Maria)

At some point one of the girls mentioned our child waitress's ass, apparently it was perfect.  They lamented about the level of perfection girls like us, (aka:  chicks of a certain age) can not without the assistance of a plastic surgeon, or a deal with the devil, achieve.  I, perhaps due to the power of the tiara, offered up a semi tipsy reminder that we might not have that ass, but we're still here and that ass can't doesn't know if it'll ever be lucky enough to get here (this age), so cheers to us (clink-clink-clink-clink) and our imperfect, but still alive asses. 

We encountered several random other people.  Including this guy:

(O - H!!)   
(--For those of you not in the know, that's not "Oh", that's "O"  "H",
it's a Buckeye thing that once uttered automatically elicits an
"I"  "O" response from anyone in earshot of your O - H.
In math-y terms:  O - H +  I O = Ohio)

He made it into the mix when MKO spied him and made comment that she had the exact same shirt.  And that because of it's letter placement it gave her O nips.  In a small ass world turn of events, this guy works for the company who makes the Oriffic nipple t.  I can't recall his name, but obviously can only surmise that it is in fact, Somefirstname O'Nip.

We made the acquaintance of Corey Hart.  Serious biz men, if you're gonna be walkin' 'round wearin' your sunglasses literally at night, I have no choice but to name you Corey Hart.  In continued small ass world-dom once I christened him Corey Heart he disclosed that a million years ago had actually met the real Corey Hart and regaled us with the story.  (I like when offending people becomes fun for us.)

I judged an impromptu best head contest during one of my trips to the ladies room, what else could I do when fate puts a table of 7 guys of various degrees of bald and buzzed-dom'd heads in my path?  (Thank you fate.)

We were momentarily joined by another interesting person. 

(He said a lot.  I never understood one word. 
I'd like to blame it on the lip ring,
but I don't know if that's fair to the lip ring.)

And I was mesmerized and intrigued to discover that diminutive magical cancer sticks exist:

(Who knew?--  Yes, there are 20 in there too.)

(Teeny tiny and regular smokes.)


After many beverages were consumed, many smokes were "eaten" as MKO turned the phrase, and an abundance of ridiculous interactions with our fellow humans, AnonD safely returned me to BBG HQ, where we partook in a late night snack in the form of:

(Yummy, ice creamy Dairy Queen gooooooodness*!)

The first 27 or so hours of my new year were a ton of fun, I reflected, as I closed my peepers and went to sleep. 

A very few hours later sunshine pryed me outta my slumber.

People, I felt less than super.

I woke up thinking man, 'I did not think I drank that much.  I should not be feeling this terrible.'  ...Oh, I was makin' nice with the PBR and all, and even downed a shot of some citron-y vodka, but I not once during the evening did I think that I should be slowin' down or anything, making my acute head splitting ache and body ache a surprise.  A craptastic surprise hangover. 

The day wore on and I felt worse and worse, my thinking changed from did you drink too much, to has the final fun bell tolled?  Seems abrupt, right?  But what do I know about being this age?  I'm new.  It's only my second day.  Did this birthday push me over the edge to you're-too-old-to-be-whoopin'-it-up-like-this age?  Fuck!  I had more 'I wanna have fun times' in me.  Granted, I've had a lifetime of good times accumulated, but who doesn't want more?!?  Again, I donno what the hell is supposed to happen-- to be the new older me norm?  Maybe this is what happens when you over indulge at this stage of life?  ...This of course made me sad.

As I tried to make peace with my partying it up good days being behind me, I started to realize that my nose was runny.  (Sorry, TMI)  I searched my brain for other times I've been hungover, and if a runny nose had ever been on the list of 'Fuck, I've Gotta Hangover'.  Too hot/too coldness while I sleepness?  Yes.  (Check)  Headache?  Yes.  (Check)   Desire to evacuate the contents of my belly?  Yes.  (Check)  But runny nose?  No.  Never.  Then it became the coldover.  Maybe hangover, maybe cold.  As again, I was feeling worse by the moment, I decided that I needed a nap before I could render my diagnosis.  At the time I was still unsure whether I should be mad at myself for getting me hungover, or to be cognizant to take care of myself because I was legitimately ill, so I did what any reasonable person would do and reacquainted my head with my pillow.

And then my body sneezed.

And a friend who'd called mentioned that I sounded stuffy.

And I realized that I couldn't really taste the food and drink I was forcing in.

Even with that evidence it really wasn't until I woke from my 6 hour nap, at 9:30pm (Saturday), that I made the final ruling that yes, I have indeed received a cold for my birthday.  A fuckin' cold.  I'm not sure a cold is better than a hangover.  It's less torrid, I suppose.  Although a hangover doesn't have the lifespan of a cold.  I am thankful that it wasn't some nature sign sayin' fun times are over toots.  So if this fuckin' cold is the price to pay to know I'm not too old to turn it out from time to time, so be it.   

This cold has turned me into some shell of a BBG exhausted by returning a few texts which caused an audible sigh that even Uncle John seemed disturbed by, and prompted yet another nap.  Due to my seemingly complete inability to stay awake for periods of more than 90 minutes at a time and lacking the energy reserve needed to make any real food, I have been sustained the past 48 hours by birthday cake (both of the ice cream and cake variety), several Shirley Temples, some Pringels and bacon.  (Feed a cold, right?)

Now after my Rip Van Winkle-esque schedule of the past two days, I found myself sitting at this glowing screen Sunday night, 12:34am wide the fuck awake.  Outstanding.  Simply, outstanding.

...Sooooo it could have been better, I could have had a birthday without a cold.  However, I guess it coulda been worse, I would have hated my present to have been; surprise you can't consume booze anymore without suffering the mother of all hangovers.  So be it.  

Holy shit birthday Batman.  It's come to my attention that I had a cold last year on my birthday.  (Side note to new birthday/cold trend:  You suck.  Cease and desist.)

(fingers crossed)  See you next year tiara.  Preferably, cold free.



*I made AnonD take the rest of the cake (after I cut an obscenely large piece to keep for myself) home to share with her hubby, AnonR.  You don't give a fat girl an entire ice cream cake and expect anything other than a fat girl eatin' an entire cake is gonna happen, I newly more maturely rationalized.


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Friday, September 16, 2011

~I'm STILL Alive Suckas!!

...Or as some less crass people would say, 'tis my birthday.

(In fairness, I tried my hand at "less crass" when I left the word fuck outta the title.)

It's my second favorite day of the year (behind St. Pat's Day).  The elusive and mysterious "they" say birthdays are less fun the older you get.  I've never really understood that concept.  ...To each their own and other happy horse shit, but I really don't.  The older I get, the more appreciative of my peepers poppin' open and livin' another day I am-- which is more exciting and fun each passing year.  And come on now, an excuse for people, strangers and friends alike to do and say nice things?  Howz that ever bad?  Plus cake?!?  Pfffffft.  I say birthdays get better the older ya get.  Everyday you're beating some odds.  Foiling some crazy ass set of events attempting to kill ya.  It's really a 'I'm winning day!'  A day to be celebrated.

One of my besties, AnonD feels the other way.  She'd love nothing more than for everyone to go out of their way to not acknowledge her special day.  It's why I never get her a birthday card.  I'll get her a Ramadan card, a Rosh Hashanah or even graduation card, but never a birthday card.  Hell, it's her day she should have what she wants, even if I can't comprehend it.

Nope.  I chose the more obnoxious route.  How obnoxious?  Well for starters, this will be my headgear for the day:

(It's my birthday tiara!)

Sure, I look a fool.  (...And?...)  But I'm a foolish lookin' girl who hasn't been killed by Uncle John, my kidneys, my last break up, my cooking, allergies, any of the plethora of stupid ass shit I've done and gotten myself into, or any of my fellow humans who've pissed me off in some form or fashion this past year, so say it with me now;  SUCK IT!  I'll be a foolish looking girl who is alive another day and having a drunken good time. (Which I will certainly report in on later.)

In the meantime, my birthday wish is that everyone reading this is having a fanfuckin'tastic day, that good times, good health and an abundance of happiness comes to you and yours.

Slainte!


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Thursday, September 15, 2011

~The Tale Of The Tag (& Warning!)

Each year residents of Buckeyeland have to get their car registered with the state.  They give us a lil' colorful tag to place on our license plates denoting we are lawful, at least in terms of registration.  Unless you are a car renter, they are required to be placed on your vehicle on by your birth date.  If you lease they have to be on the car by, well, I don't fuckin' know.  The car's birth date? 

Failure to comply really is only problematic if 1) you're doing sumthin' illegal, get stopped and the kindly law enforcement officer runs you.  Or B) if it's the following month and you're driving around with a small but reflective and glaring lil' sign that says I HAVE NOT DONE WHAT I WAS SUPPOSED TO WHEN I WAS SUPPOSED TO PULL ME OVER PLEASE.

Although I definitely do not suggest it, one can very easily mange to drive around (assuming one isn't caught; speeding, or DUI-ing, getting into a crash or driving with a corpse half outta the trunk) until the end of their birthday month with old tags with no problem.   Again, it's technically illegal and let's face it, ya never reeeeally know when somebody's gonna piss you the fuck off and you're gonna have to transport a body, so again, I don't recommend it.  ...But, clearly, even not having it after your birthday isn't (probably) going to be a big deal.   They don't exactly issue an arrest warrant the day after your birth, ya know.

As you may know, I talk to my Nana each and every day.  To bring you up to speed on recent events, what that means is each and every day since September has bloomed, Nana has reminded me that I need to get my shiny, new, fresh tag.  About a week ago she went from 'reminding' me to 'instructing' me, as if I'm a 6 year old, that "you need to go get your tag, don't wait until the last minute".   Finish your vegetables BBG.  Practice your piano BBG.  Come sit and do these math flash cards BBG.  Oh, flashback.  Apologies. 

Now, I have some rules about going to the DMV.  No Mondays.  No Fridays.  Not when they've just opened, lunchtime or at the end of the day.  In fairness I should mention that the state graciously mails a form to you 30ish days in advance of your birthday that allows you to register your ride, pay for and receive your new tags by mail.  However, in the entire span of that option, I've never exercised it.  Call me old school, or a dumbass, but each year I haul my cookies down to whichever DMV I find myself near, stand in line and wait my turn to step up to the counter. 

My retort to each of her proddings was that I had plllllllllenty of time.  The other day as we had our chat when she mentioned it, I reminded her that I still had 4 days to accomplish the task. 

Nana:  Ugh, it just makes me too nervous to wait until the last minute like that.

BBG:   See, maaaaaaybe that's because you seem to have a pretty sketchy concept of what "last minute" means.  I have 4 days.  That's not last minute.  Last minute is rollin' into the DMV at 4:30pm on your birthday (Note:  resisting the urge and demonstrating the good sense to not mention that last minute is arriving at the DMV on the last day of the month...).  That's last minute.  This is still in advance, not well in advance, but still ample time and opportunities to get it done. 

Nana:  Well, I just think that's last minute.  I'm going to get my tags this week and I already feel like I'm running behind.  (says Nana who's birthday is October.  ...OCTFUCKINGTOBER!!)

BBG:  I promise I have not forgotten.  I promise I will not forget. 

So yesterday off I treked in the sweet spot of after lunch time/before it got towards the end of the afternoon (closing time rush).  20 minutes in and out. Easy, breezy.  I enjoyed checking out the freaks my fellow citizens, who never disappoint me in their flat out weirdness.  And now I'm legal for another year. 

Today, in payin' it forward for the debauchery I'm sure to be involved in over the next few days, I'm off to give the gift of life.  Here's hopin' it goes better than last time

Also, I'd like use this post to serve as official notice to the universe;  I feel like causing a ruckus.  I can't seem to shake this Samantha Fox classic from my mind:


Samantha Fox - I Wanna Have Some Fun by jpdc11
 
...Which cannot bode well for the next few days.  (Poor defenseless, innocent days.  My apologies for waiting until the last minute to warn you.)  Bodes seriously well for me and those with me though. 

Look out people, fun and ridiculousness is coming!! 


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Wednesday, September 14, 2011

~Good Sign? Probably Not

So, I've come to a realization.  Don'tcha just love life's little epiphanies? 

I've been out with a guy four?  5 times?  He's nice.  Honestly, I've enjoyed the time I've spent with him.  We seem to find many of the same things funny and entertaining.  Have good conversation.  He was dually impressed the other week when we were out that just by seeing the headlights I pegged a MR2 pulling up and parking near our window.  ...I mean really now, what prissy lookin' girl you're out with remembers, and can pick out a Toyota MR2 by headlights?  He's, as he put it, "is a white guy who grew up in tha 'hood", has a penchant for rap and a little bit o' country, while I go in for country and a little bit of rap (among other equally as unlikely offerings).  He's tall and bald, both things I dig.  He's a good kisser, and has made it clear that he wants the BBG, but has been respectful and appropriate in letting me know that.  As an added bonus he literally lives around the fuckin' corner, and geographical proximity is paramount to me.  What can I say?  I might wanna do sumthin' in 15 minutes and if'n ya live across town that rules out many spontaneous shenanigans one two can engage in.

All of those positive things, but I gotta tell you, unless he's in front of me, he occupies no time in my head.


I feel kinda terrible about it.  Not like hang a rope from the nearest rafter, terrible, but terrible nonetheless.  I'm not sayin' 5 dates in I feel like I should be scribbling Mrs. BBG Von Hislastname on the back of my school book cover or anything, but it does seem like in that amount of time I ought to be thinkin' 'I wonder when he's gonna call next?', or have him seep into my gray matter somefuckin'time.  The fact that I don't, and he hasn't, really, is the sign that this isn't goin' anywhere.  And not for a bad reason, but serious biz, isn't that enough of a reason to recognize the reality of the 'sitch?  I mean, I don't want anybody wasting my time and I don't wanna be a time waster for anyone else. 

I've mentioned this to exactly three people, who've all responded with something along the lines of, "but if you're having fun spending time together...", and I know that seems valid.  And probably is reasonable and sage advise.  But if I already know that this guy, nice and fun though he is, ain't my guy, then what's being achieved by continuing?  ...Wasting time, that's what and I'm just not that girl.  It keeps him from finding his girl and me from finding my guy. 

While this didn't start out as a Guy Assistance Program/GAP posting (click here) my lil' blog-y exercise in typing and figuring shit out at the same time is a lesson for you single men;  Sometimes it's not you.  Sometimes it's not even us.  Sometimes it's just a simple case of no spark.  Better a girl  tell you that than let you continue on a sparkless road to nowhere, right?  So next time a chick cuts you loose, remember that even if you can't see it is good for you, it frees you up to get to someone who is right for ya, be thankful that she's not stringin' you along.  ...We're not always the bad guys, er gals as you may perceive us to be. 

Girl lesson: Don't stick with a guy just because he's around.  It's not a good enough reason.  Even if he's nice, tall and bald.  It's not fair to be a convenient time waster.   

Alright.  Official BBG decision made.

Nexxxxxxt....


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Tuesday, September 13, 2011

~Just To Spite Me

...That's the reason I'm pretty sure my friend, (code name) Potatohead, came to visit.  Potatohead, one of surprisingly my favorite people in the world, had missed his annual visit for a Buckeye football game for the past three years, after making it every year since he moved back home.   ...Ya know, life stuff, weddings, the logistics of having 3 wee potatoheads, etc. 

The first year was no biggie. 

The second, I remember telling him that if he misses three years that's it, he will have firmly established a new habit and that he'd never come back.  (Which in full disclosure when I told him probably sounded a lot like "nevvvvvvvvveeeeerrrrrrrr!!"  What can I say?  I enjoy being overly dramatic for sport.)

Third year?  I officially wrote him off (see theory of year 2). 

Potatohead and I met when we both worked at a hotel a million years ago, while he was living here boozin' and adding notches to his bedpost matriculating at The Ohio State University.  To tell you the honest truth, I hated his ass when we first met.  Couldn't stand him.  Thought he was a complete and utter dick and didn't understand why any of my coworkers seemed to like him.  Eventually something happened, and if I had to make a guess I'd say it was the magical properties of booze, and we ended up becoming really good friends.  For people who live different places, have vastly different day-to-day lives, even after all of this time we stay in pretty good touch with one another. 

In tha olden days, we would often go out as each others wing person.  (Guys~  Q:  Know what's better than a good wing man?  A: A good wing girl.  Ladies: vice versa.)  Many nights the phrase, "I'm with him/her because we're friends, not because I'm with him/her" (sometimes because he was salt and pepper even back then, my version was, "that old man?!?  We're friends.")  was turned to head off confusion as we honed in on our prey flirted with others.  Budweiser should have composed a jingle about us.

In addition to assy comments and jabs, we also enjoyed practicing the art of creating possibilities for the other to look/feel like an ass.  Like it was yesterday I can remember seeing someone I had checked in at the hotel in line about to checkout.  His name was John Long, which in hotel world is listed as Long/John.  Now that, to an easily amused BBG starts to get funny.  Due to my lack of impulse control and inherent assnatious nature, I timed my transaction with the person checking out with me so that Potatohead would get John Long (Long/John).  ...As I stealthily updated his record to add the last name Silver.  (Silver/Long/John)

One of the rules of our desk was that we would use the guest's name.  Even now, 20+ years later a smile still takes over my face when I think about walking back towards the office, hearing Potatohead greet the guest with "blah, blah, fuckityblah, Mr. Silver".  By the time I hit the threshold of the door I was in full on, hardcore cacklin' mode.  I can still see the look Potatohead shot me as the man told him he was Mr. Long and his likely hungover mind started to put together my lil' seafood-y themed shenanigans. Don't worry, as much as I can dish it out, say and do inappropriate things in the name of heathen-ness and/or humor, Potatohead can double down on that without exerting even a modicum of effort.

It's not always who can out asshole the other between us.  We see each other whenever either of us is in the other city.  On some random long ago visit Potatohead and (code name) Jeffery Dahmer actually taught me a heartfelt lesson.  Irish-Catholic Potatohead, pretty obviously, (Irish + Catholic) comes from a sizeable family, and Jeffery Dahmer also has several siblings.  We were out at an establishment serving adult beverages that one might see while watching a Cubs game when sumthin' happened.  What, I can't accurately recall?  I can't even say if I heard it or if they heard it and didn't like it, but some guy was apparently bein' mean to me in some form or fashion.  What I do know is that in the blink of a fuckin' eye Potatohead and Jeffery Dahmer were on their feet and preparing to take that guy outside.  No jokin'.  No playin'.  No posturing.  Just ass kickin' time.  I've never before, or since seen either of them ready to throwdown.  It was the moment I knew what it was like to have brothers.  I mean older brothers.   I love them both for lots of misguided and mostly pity-filled reasons, but I might love them most for that.

I got the call last week alerting me to his impending arrival.  This trip was a tad different as he was bringing his boys on their first trip to Ohio and their first OSU game to meet up with a couple of other guys (college pals) he's (I've) known since back in tha day, while his lovely and saintly wife stayed home for a respite of her sanity girl weekend with their daughter.

A few other ol' hotel workers joined in including; (code names) Mr. GinCat (I've known GinCat since the 4th grade, and have known Mr. GinCat since before they met.) and Uncle Buck (not a BBG designed code name, just what some coworkers called him when he was chunkier and when John Candy was still alive...Yeah, we're old:  suck it.) and his wife and kiddies.  The small fries were placed at an adjacent table playing whateverthehell kool kid(die) games they were playin'.  While the 7 grownups tried real hard not to curse too loudly.  Or bang empty beer pints on the table too much.  ...We really did an a craptastic waitress.  Frankly, it's fair to say the wee ones were better behaved than the grownup table.  Although one of the kids did steal a orange slice from someone's sangria.  I "helped" by reassuring the parent that while their child might get a little buzz, at least they wouldn't contract scurvy.  (Always helpful.  Check.)

(Ice cream and games for everyone!)

After many stories had been told and laughs had been had, we all headed the 20' to our former stomping grounds/the hotel for one last nightcap.  Which naturally turned into several nightcaps.  Which turned into, 'hey, is that Orlando Pace sitting at the bar?' (For those of yins not familiar with Orlando Pace - click here)  Some said yes.  Others said no.  So being the shy wallflower I am, I decided to fetch a drink, mosey up beside him and suss out the deal.  I remembered him.  Of course I remembered him in his pre NFL days at OSU (mid-late 90's) as an early 20ish year old.  My report back, after exchanging a minor amount of small talk with him was that it was not Orlando Pace.  Well kids, so fuckin' much for my recognition skillz...  Lastnight I Googled Mr. Pace and spied more recent pictures of him, sure as shit, I had indeed talked to Orlando Pace. 

(Uncle Buck, moi, Potatohead et Mr. GinCat. 
Oh, and Orlando Pace, sittin' at the bar.)

It was a grand time hanging with folks I've known since my early 20's.  But I still find myself a tad pissy because A) I was wrong about Orlando Pace  and  2) I'm pretty sure Potatohead actually waited 3 years to return just to prove me wrong and spite me. (...See.  I told ya he was a dick.) 


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Sunday, September 11, 2011

~A Thousand Words

That's what "they" say a picture says. 

This one is of a piece of the World Trade Center erected a suburb over, in AnonDville as a memorial to 9/11.


To me this picture speaks of the worst of humanity and yet for it's dastardly intentions, simultaneously some the best.

Fanaticism  

Hate        
Bravery
Terror
Unity
Heroism  
Duty
Intolerance
Fragility       
Strength
Resilience     
Grief  


Ten years ago...

Times of impact:
8:46 a.m. and 9:02 a.m. Time the burning towers stood: 56 minutes and 102 minutes, respectively.

Time they took to fall:
12 seconds

Toll: 
2819 dead from 115 different nations
343 Fireman/paramedics
37 Port Authority officers
23 NYPD 


My wish for this anniversary is that we may never forget what evil is capable of and why it's important to stop it when we see it, in all it's iterations. 

That we may remember to show our generosity, kindness, love and understanding to our fellow man.  Often.  As it's the difference between the unbearable and bearable. 

I wish that the past decade has brought those directly impacted by and involved in the day a measure of peace that sometimes only time can bring. 

That we do better by our warriors and their families who've served and sacraficed, sometimes at an ultimate level as a result of the day. 

And that we each strive to live in a way that honors those lost, who didn't have the chance to see September 11, 2011.






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Thursday, September 8, 2011

~The Trashman Cometh

Once again, some innocuous thing in life has turned into a catastrophic cracked out adventure.  By now this should come as no surprise to me, but it always does.  (Is this the sign that I'm an optimist?  That in the face of so much tangible proof to the contrary, I still believe things are gonna be better/easier/nicer than they usually turn out to actually be?  Hummmm.)

There have been several trash issues going on in my 'hood.  The most disruptive and downright irritating is a bad neighbor who allows their dog to run free range, among a few other thoughtless things.  (Like honk-honk-honking horns to signal a kid that it's ride is here.  Come fucking on...it's 2011.  The kids have cells.  The parent/driver has a cell.  But this doesn't prevent the driver/parent/neighbor from disturbing the whole neighborhood by honkin' the horn 6 times 6 longer than damn necessary times.  There seemingly are two bad neighbors in the 'hood, Kooky McBean and these irresponsible rude dickweeds award winning parent-ers/dog owners, and I have the good fortune of living in close proximity to both.)  Of course, a free range dog on trash day toofuckin'often results in:


(Free range dog dabbling in trash vandalism)

Because of these assholes, I now am forced, unless my idea of a 'good time' is picking up trash strewn across the yard that day to put my trash out as close to the arrival of the trash man as absolutely possible.  (Yes, that's right.  A dog is forcing me to play chicken with the trash man!)  Not a difficult task, really, however it seems we are the starting point for his run, so I have to have my refuse out by 06:45.  Again, I'm not complaining about the early ass time I have to do this task.  My "issue" is more with the how it happened...

I'm not now, nor have I ever been what anyone would describe as a morning person.  Back in college, my roommate and I had the same first damn thing in the morning class, and we didn't speak until we arrived in the classroom.  I can get up at the ass crack of dawn.  I've had several reasons that I've had to be up regularly as early as 4:30.  ...But I sure as shit don't like it.  Honestly?  I just have nuthin' nice to say that early in the morning.  Especially before I've consumed my morning Dew.  Most days I feel like turning a 'good morning' is a true hallmark of my magnanimous nature.

My trash man on the other hand, seems to be at the very least, kissin' cousins with Mary Fucking Sunshine.  He's quite gregarious, and as far as a professional garbageman goes, really all a resident could ask for.  Uber prompt on his route, which as I'm playin' a weekly game of 'don't let the trash get ripped apart' with that damn dog, is super.  He been known to hop off and take the trash from me half way down the drive, score for the lazy girl.  I've even found him waiting at the end of my drive instead of driving on by if my trash isn't out yet, so that I don't get missed, which is very conscientious and on more than one occasion I've been grateful for.

...But as a past Facebook update noted:

Dear Trashman,

I know how long you've been with the company, how much you make per hour, how many days of work you've missed over those 11 years , your name and that your big truck is called a front loader. My "good morning" to you was a greeting and not a quest for your biography, but thanks for sharin'.

~BBG

He is overly chatty and chipper, for my taste, at least soooo damn early in the AM. 

The past few trash mornings have been rainy, which means instead of taking the trash out, I chuck it from the dry and relative lightning safety zone (whoza baby?) of my garage to more or less the end-ish of the drive, (and likely due to  the rainy conditions with traffic, because 2 drops of rain 'round here means everyone feels the need to drive 26 or so miles per hour under the speed limit, has put him just a few minutes behind his usual arrival time) I haven't seen him.

This morning, I thought I was moving fast enough to get it out without seeing him.  This, of course, is not what happens.

What happens is I'm out before the sun has made it's festive appearance for the day, taking out the recycle and trash, thinking I was making a clean get away until I'm making my final few steps when he and his big ass front loader rounds the corner.  Ugh.  Out he pops, "goooooood morning!!!!"  Now, it's 6 fuckin' 45.  I'm "clothed", but only enough to not actually be nakid.  I haven't brushed the chompers yet.  I have not managed to don a bra, or brush my hair or any other things I generally like to have engaged in before I find myself having a conversation with near perfect stranger.  And now, I'm being interviewed about if I went to the fair or not this year. 

(Are you there God?  It's me, BBG;  This is not ideal.)

I don't know if you've ever spied a big hootered, bra less, sketchily breathed girl with sleep still crusted in her peepers, but it's probably fair to say, it ain't pretty.  And for future reference, if you do come across me such a sight, this is not the time to have a friendly chat.  No sir, this is the moment to toss a friendly wave and allow her to continue on with her hasty retreat back to whateverthehell rock she just crawled from under.  In fact, trust your first instinct and flee the seen immediately.  It's best for everyone.

Hehehe Update:
Bad neighbors?  Gone!  Moved yesterday after this post.  I've never been so happy to see a moving truck.  Lesson?  Don't mess with tha BBG!!


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Wednesday, September 7, 2011

~It Can Be A Group Gift

September is my birthday month.   As a service to those who like and love me and find themselves wondering what I might like as a present to mark my birth, I give to you the Marauder:



This.  Is.  Awesome.


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