Big Brown Girl World

~Either/Or (...Maybe Both?)

2012-01-24T00:34:00.001-05:00

Well.

That was ~~unexpected~~ interesting.

I'm not entirely sure after what transpired if I am an asshole.

(Which I guess I can get on board with, I mean, it comes with it's own theme song 'n all:)

Or if I may be an actual, real life, big and brown, life-savin', super hero.

(~~Disturbingly~~ Surprisingly close to what I looked like
as SuperGirl one long ago Halloween.)

I was on my way back to BBG HQ when I witnessed some hinkyness. The kind of hinkyness that, seemed like it required some BBG intervention. In general, I'm not about stickin' my nose in the affairs of others. ...Oh, I may fuckin' have an opinion (even a conversation) about someone else's bidness, but insert myself into a situation over them? Rarely. And as a rule, only when ~~BBG deemed~~ necessary. ...Is this sumthin' I've 100% all the damn time mastered? No. But it is my SOP.

Over the weekend I felt I needed to get involved, as I say, in something that looking back seems equally as possible that I'm an asshole, who ruined their day and exposed them to untold scrutiny and/or hassle, as I am the person to be thanked for saving your entire family from some horrid, fire-y, mangled car crash. And even now, I'm not totally certain I did the right thing. ...But, if even Cher can't turn back time, what can I do?

I was the second car in line of a turning (left) dedicated lane. There were several vehicles lined up on my right/going straight or turning right. Light changes. All of the sudden the first car on line in the lane to my right swings in front of the car preparing to turn left which is the car directly in front of me.

Hink numero uno.

However, I, attempting to consider plausibilities pondered perhaps the first two drivers had made an agreement to allow it over because it ended up in the wrong lane, as sometimes happens ~~to people who don't know what they're fuckin' doin'~~. In the split second it takes me to think, 'Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch over some maybe/maybe not dick in front of you-- there might be a reason', the vehicle that pulled the big city move darts directly in front of a car what was crossing the intersection (aka: had the right of way). The fact that I didn't witness a TC right there can only be credited to the heads up driver coming across the intersection jamming on their brakes.

Hinky B.

So now this driver is totally on my radar. The car in front of me and I make our safe ass turns when I then see the same ride making a turn and driving completely up and over a big ass hey-don't-drive-here curb.

(Apologies. Apparently, I have zero future in crash layout & sketching. ~~Noted~~.)

Driver Man: Red

Moi: Blue

X's = Almost crashes

This is when I make the executive decision that somebody needs to suss out this situation. As I was the only one in the car I assumed it had to be me. So, I circled around and found the SUV in the parking lot and pull up to the drivers door while rolling down my passenger window.

A man maaaaaaaybe in his mid-late 60's gets out and I call him over...

BBG: Sir, are you ok? Are you having troubles this afternoon?
Driver Man: No, I'm not having any troubles.
BBG: I think you are. I just watched you cut off a car with an unsafe lane change, come this close to causing a crash in the intersection and then drive over a divider. I'm concerned about you hurting someone else or yourself today.
Driver Man: No, no, I am ok. God bless you. No, I am ok. God bless you.
BBG: Is there a friend or family we can call to check in on you?
Driver Man: No, no, I am fine. Ok. No problems. God bless you. No, no.

While he didn't display any vast command of vocabulary, he didn't slur, and his accent tipped me that English wasn't his native language, so I can cut some slack on repeating the same phrase, he clearly understood what I was sayin'. He had seemed steady on his feet when he exited his ride. And I picked up no hit of booze on his breath as we spoke. So, hesitantly I told him to be careful, wished him luck and started to head back home.

Which was the plan until I got about a block away and started thinking that I have enough stuff going on in my life and that I can't possibly take on, 'hey, remember when that family of 5 died and it was all your fault 'cause your dumbass, intuition ignoring ass didn't do sumthin'?'.

...And now I'm dialin' the non emergency number (yes. I'm the 1% who knows the non emergency number *just in case*. I am. That. Girl.) to the local constabulary as I turn around to go back to be able to provide his plate number in addition to the vehicle description. Being a non emergency number, guess what kiddies, it ain't answered real fast. So I somewhat reluctantly dial 911.

I'm tellin' dispatch what I witnessed and the follow up interaction I'd had with him and that while I didn't feel he was necessarily drunk, he seemed like someone official ought to put eyes on him. That I was afraid for the safety of, ya know, you (...me on a different day?) and him.

Finally. Mama, mama I'm comin' home. (Random Ozzy homage) But now I think, what if he drives away before Po-Po arrives. Thankfully, this crosses my mind before I'm out of the parking lot and sure as shit by the time I circle back around he's pullin' away.

~~Grrrrreat~~. Fanfuckingtastic.

I remind myself that doing right isn't always doing easy.

Plus, by this point I'm in for a penny in for a pound. (<-- probably not my best personality trait) Obviously, I am now following the cat and ringing 911 to let them know he's no longer at the reported location and telling them the cross street we're at. Within seconds I see cruiser hauling on my ass in my rear view and I pull over, as Po-Po now super sloooowly passes me I wave him on to the SUV in front of me to let him know that I'm not the black SUV he's lookin' for, even though I know he has the plate to Driver Man. Po-Po then lights up SUV/Driver Man who abruptly pulls to the side and makes his approach. I tuck in a respectable distance behind the officer, keepin' my hands on the wheel (<-- he doesn't know me. Tip: If you are ever stopped, for any reason, always place both hands on the steering wheel. If it's night time, turn your overhead light on and put your damn hands on the wheel before the LEO approaches your car.) A few seconds later Officer Delightful wandered back to me to inquire about what I'd spied with my brown eye. Opps. ~~(...But tee hee'd enough by it to leave it in~~.) I laid it out for him, asked if I was good to go, was sent off with some kind words before he resumed running Driver Man, and...finally. FINALLY returned home. ~~So much for my quick errand~~.

Honestly, as I mentioned earlier, I didn't get the hit that he was drunk. But sumthin' was up. Impaired due to meds, or mental status or age? I donno. Probably I'll never know...

I'm not certain I did the right thing. I certainly wouldn't want to cause a LEO involved ruckus for someone who was just bein' a dumbass for a few minutes. But I didn't feel like with 4,400 lbs. coming at ya, it was the time/circumstance to be cavalier, or complacent about the 'what if's', at the expense of the rest of the motoring population in the area.

I suppose to a degree it doesn't really matter, as again, I can't turn back time, and as AnonD pointed out, the only person who has to be able to sleep well over it is me and my conscience and in this case, given what I witnessed, I'm ok with being thought an asshole. (~~hehehe I'm usually quite fine with it, in fact.~~)

~Hey Baldy

2012-01-20T00:34:00.011-05:00

BBG Admission:

I dig a bald man.

(Not one specifically, ok, several specifically, but I'm not speaking of one in particular.)

(I do not understand this concept at all.)

The second best guy is a guy with hair, in my opinion. (Apologies fully folicled men. I'm not a hair h8tr or anything. [...Hummmm. I'm disappointed that turning that hip and coooool "h8tr" wasn't more fun than that. Is it official? Am I old?] I'm a fairly equal opportunity guy like-er, and certainly don't discriminate against those with full and lush locks.)

I'm an appreciator of everything from brissily, blunt wee hair nubbin's to a smooth as a newborn baby's ass. I seemingly have an ~~unmanageable~~ internal compulsion to take (create?) any/every opportunity to touch a bald head. (<-- yes, bald men everywhere consider that your warning) I love a feel-y head and find a shiny dome sexy. Therefore, I have trouble imagining why in the world a guy living in this era would have any issues regarding a ~~retreating hairline~~ expanding forehead.

Yet, apparently, some still do (click) (P.S. I'm not buyin' that 'for work bullshit').

~~Bad...wait, no need for redundancy~~ Comb overs still roam the earth...

As do bad, wait, there are no good toupees...

(And if Chuck Fuckin' Norris can't

pull it off there is no hope for a mere mortal man.)

(Random mid-post confession: One of my favorite Chuck Norrisisms? A: Chuck Norris is the reason Waldo is hiding. For more Chuck Norrisisms [click])

Listen, if anyone knows what it's like to feel like society generally says that your natural state of you-neses is not the pinnacle of attractiveness, it's me, a chunky monkey girl. Personally, I don't subscribe to it, but I acknowledge it exists. And just like I don't buy into the perception that thin (or blond and blue, or 5'4", or whatthefuckever) is the only measure that can be considered attractive, XY-ers shouldn't buy into this bullshit that hair atop your dome makes or breaks you.

I'm a pretty big believer in there being grace and honor in being comfy with who you are. Or in the terminology my peeps, LB2'd and Mrs. Mackey have coined; "just be who you is". Fine. Grammatically sketchy, yet ya gotta admit, colorful and wildly sage advice.

Being you and being at peace with you, breeds a sexy confidence that doesn't go unnoticed. The average lookin' guy who is settled and cool with his outer shell is waaaaaaay more attractive than some super great looking guy who's cocky (or worse yet, insecure an in need of constant reassurance about his look) after about 3 minutes. ...Which because I know some guys, isn't probably good enough, because ideally you'd like every boob'd persons pants to fall off at the sight of you.

(Attention Men: This is sarcasm. Back to reality.)

Granted, a bald guy isn't for every woman. Guess what? A chunky monkey girl isn't for every man either. Just like a small guy isn't for me. (And yes, you can take that anyway you want. ...Same rule applies.) Everybody has some physical deal breaker that isn't for them. But why the fuck would ya wanna have to overcome something that is the real you to have someone dig you? You wouldn't. Fine. Some people would. Ya shouldn't.

Don't despair, there are plenty of girls who feel that bald is not only beautiful, but dare I say better. Which is good news for the estimated 80 million baldy's in the U.S.

During my random wandering of the interweb I discovered a place where you can test out your bald look (click). It also provided these examples of what some famous peeps would look like sans hair:

...Proving that most men look, if not better, certainly, not worse for their lack of hair. Baldy's of the world unite! Show your shiny ass scalps proudly. Embrace your smoove dome and learn to love it. And don't be alarmed when a BBG touches it.

~Dear Martin Luther King, Jr. (A Follow Up)

2012-01-16T00:34:00.004-05:00

Dear Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.~

I wonder what you would think if you were here, experiencing 2012 as I am. It's been a while since I last checked in with you. ~~I know, I know, I should write more often.~~ (Dear Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. [2010] - click) A lot has changed. Too much has not.

When we last left off I made a few observations on the state of race relations in our society and the direction I felt in many ways they were heading. I re-read my last letter to you and found one passage to be so prophetic that I'm sadly considering a name change to BBGtradamous.

"In some ways, it's kinda an odd time in America. On one hand we've managed to vote a man into the White House who like me has the benefit of being made of multiple races. He was elected based on the content of his character, and of course his promise to manage our country better. While this demonstrates a sizable shift in the state of acceptance and perceptions of minorities in our society, I almost feel odd and eerie, as if we're on the brink of seeing some awful things from some of our countrymen.

We're in the midst of hard economic times. People are afraid. Fear of change and the unknown has historically been the catalyst for fervent and more demonstrative outburst of racial biased behaviors and actions in our country. The klan didn't start when Africans were brought to our shores, it started after the Civil War when so many white Southerners were frightened by what free blacks might do, how former slaves freedom might change their way of life, and when they were left in terrible economic straights as consequence to the devastation of the war. It was the easily plyable and those with overwhelming fear who took to the klan's message. The klan positions itself as an organization rooted in Christian ideals, making it's message more palatable and "acceptable" to the target audience.

Do I anticipate a cross burning in my yard anytime soon? No. But, I'm seeing a surge in a more subtle and subversive racially based tone happening in our nation. Some talking heads are busily making up all kinds of new buzz words and catch phrases under the guise of commentating on current events, that are just veiled racist rhetoric. Some times not veiled at all. I find it scary, because it to positioned as "acceptable" and many followers don't view it as anything other than that. I fear that too many good men (and chicks) will do nothing and let evil and hate gain a larger foothold in our society. "

With that commentary in mind, I feel like you would be very troubled by what, in some circles is passing as acceptable. For instance just a few months ago many felt it was acceptable, nay appropriate way to cover the Commander In Chief in this manner:

I know it seems like a President who has taken fewer vacation days than most Presidents in recent history (As of August 2011, according to CBS News (full article - click) by month 31 in office President Bush (43) had taken 180 vacation days. President Clinton had taken 28. President Regan had taken 112. While as of 8/11, President Obama's 31st month in office he had taken 61.)-- would reasonably expect to celebrate his birthday without being called out for missing (a few nighttime hours, mind you) an opportunity to 'create jobs'.

But as it turns out, when facts are still facts (vacation days are definitive, quantifiable things that cannot be skewed or spun), evidently once the President has a more colorful hue than past holders of the office, some reason goes out the window.

As does, apparently decorum, a modicum of subtleness (which I guess is good? I mean, it makes it much easier to see the content of someones heart and their character when worn so ~~ugly~~ blatantly on their sleeve. I guess...) and any desire to highlight the commonalities between us, but instead to, with Svengali-like deftness, highlight and perpetuate the superficial, meaningless differences with a malicious bent.

Really, now, Reverand Doctor King, regardless of one's political affiliations, what other motivation is to be extrapolated from the selection of Sir Round Mound of Rebound (aka: black basketball player)...The star of CB-4 (aka: black comic)...And 99 Problems But A Bitch Ain't One (aka: black rapper) as the visual overview, of a party with a guest list including; (either not famous enough, or not pigmented enough to both subliminally and overtly imply, 'see he's different than us', to rate featuring) Tom Hanks, Hillary Clinton, or any famous other non-black attendees?

I don't think it's being overly sensitive to raise the question; would a white President be able to have a birthday without the scrutiny of being positioned as being derelict of duties and subscribing to some ethnic/cultural stereotype? I don't remember headlines covering Presidents Regan, Clinton or either Bush's birthday celebrations as being Redneck Rodeo's or Hillbilly Hodown's when, for instance, country music artist were in attendance. Or with inferences that those Presidents were neglecting the substantive issues of their terms while marking the day of their birth.

Clearly, this shows we have not been able to divorce prejudices (individually and collectively) from how we choose to position our perceptions of reality. I doubt you would find that very palatable. Or acceptable.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." ~Martin Luther King, Jr.

To shed some more light on the darkness of what's going on, sadly, our societal prejudices haven't even been able to be curtailed by law.

Recently, Bank of America was fined $335 million dollars over Countrywide's (who BoA now owns) illegal, unethical and immoral lending practices that included; "over 83,000 loans that were originated in Illinois (<-- just one state!) between 2005 and 2007 was that, if you were African-American or Latino, you were three times as likely to be put into a subprime loan than if you were a similarly credit-situated white borrower." (PBS/NewsHour full report - click)

I know you would not find those practices and behaviors acceptable either. Don't shoot the messenger (horrible, horrible, [yet apt] cliche to use, my utmost apologies, I mean no offense), I'm just reporting the facts. And this is where we're at.

It seems in some ways your message of love, tolerance, the ties that unify us all, and the dignity and humane treatment we find acceptable are being tested more than ever of late. Not only in terms of racial aspects, but also regarding subjects from gay rights, to the recent arrival of "Arab Spring", along with a myriad of other topics, where people are deciding how much freedom, dignity, opportunity and protection-- and if not outright love, at least tacit acceptance, those deemed "different" will be allowed as we begin this new year. I wish that you were here to provide your wise perspective and guidance on such matters.

We could really use your kind of leadership these days.

"History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people."

~Martin Luther King, Jr.

As a culture, we need be reminded that simply not being the lowest common denominator, (or in cool kid colloquialism, a 'hater') is not good enough. That in order to benefit from the fruition of your dream, that we must actively consort to be the change. A refresher that any action, big or small that promotes inclusiveness, fairness, love, understanding and respect for any and all of our community is not only the right thing to do, but the expected standard of conduct.

"Every man must decided whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness."

~Martin Luther King, Jr.

As I often say, 'I'm in charge of me', so I can only speak for myself when I say that I will continue to be committed to your efforts, sacrifices and memory and that I will continue to let my light shine. In all directions, but particularly towards those who are subjected bigotry, hate and prejudice and the recipients of unfair, unjust treatment.

I hope that the next time I write the tide will have taken more of a turn towards the 'light of creative altruism', and away from the 'darkness of destructive selfishness' that seems to be all to common at the moment.

For now I will conclude with and introduce you to one of my all time favorite songs, by a cool cat named Garth.

(I think knowing this song exists will make your day.)

With ♥, gratitude and hope,

~BBG

~Gifts Of Booze & Friendship

2012-01-13T00:34:00.010-05:00

The other day I swung into the booze store to buy some Grenadine (What can I say? I heart Shirley Temple's [recipe].) when I noticed a display for Cotton Candy vodka. Being ~~obfuckingsessed~~ a lover of cotton candy, this interested me immensely, immediately. It seemed like a wonderful and potentially horrible idea. One one hand, I can't imagine that's really going to be as good as I want it to be. And you can't really mix cotton candy vodka with, um anything. At least nuthin' I can think of. So it doesn't seem like a very practical addition to the BBGbar.

...But on the other hand, it's cotton candy flavored booze y'all! And let's face it there is absolutely no fuckin' way I can live a life knowing there's cotton candy hooch out there and not give it a whirl.

However, as would exactly be my luck, they were out of it. (a single 1970's Indian by a trashy road tear sloooooowly drops down a BBG cheek)

However squared, as would be exactly my luck I returned to BBG HQ to discover this:

(Surboozyprise!!)

It's ~~sadly~~ not everyday you return home to find a gift of booze. Now the freaky deaky thing about it is that it magically arrived at the hand of one of my great joys in life, a friend. I'd love to tell you which friend, alas at BBGWorld press time I actually don't know who the responsible ~~Slim Shady~~ party is.

But I know it's someone either on this exchange or someone who saw this crazy ass conversation:

(Who knew there were soooo many flavorful boozy options?

Apparently, everyone but me.)

As you know, I love, love, love to bitch and complain ~~another joy in my life~~ about random shit, but I also try to be cognizant and aware of the good stuff too.

And some of the best 'stuff' I have are my friends. Of course because I am ~~self centered~~ me I believe this is because I do such a good job picking friends. (Which is probably one of those things people shouldn't say out loud. ...Oh well, you're not exactly here for should's n' shit. At best this is a place of keepin' it realsies. At worst a comprehensive cautionary tale of shouldn'ts. Should's and perfect's are on some other blog, good luck.) It's why almost all of my friends like my other friends. I only really roll with cool ass, good people.

Update: Cotton Candy vodka is AWWWWWWWESOME!!

(If things start to get slurry up in here you'll understand, right?)

So an Open Letter to my friends~

(And no, I'm not really tipsy and gettin' all mushy. I've only had one shot and you know a BBG can hold her booze better than that.)

As you know, I make a pretty big distinction between friends and acquaintances. Acquaintances are fun to be around. But a friend, while fun to be around is something to be valued. Some of you I talk to daily. Some of you are I see far too infrequently. Regardless, you are my friend because you add to my life. You bring me laughter, comfort and ~~crazy ass stories~~ apparently booze. You've been generous of heart and spirit or offered some kindness, grand or small that I treasure. Don't get me wrong, if one of you wins the lotto and wants to make a substantial monetary gift to BBG Inc, by alllllll fuckin' means. But the reality is that some of the words you've spoken, words you probably never thought twice about, have been true gifts to me. That some of the most minuscule interactions and random times we've have together are shining little stars in the night sky to me. They're beautiful and sumthin' to be appreciated.

I don't say it often enough to any of you, well, because, look how fuckin' awkward I am at it-- even with time to think before some crazy confluence of words comes tumblin' outta my mouth, but for the official record:

I care about and love you.
That doesn't mean I think you're perfect. Some of you are asses (Jorge Estrada, Evil E, Jeffery Dahmer, Potatohead, etc.), but I care about and love you anyway. Trust me, I'm fully aware that you all take the same approach with me. (Again, just keepin' it real.)
I think of you more often than you know. In fact, the other night whilst hangin' in the hot tub I spied a shooting star. My wish was healthy and happy for my peeps. (I always feel like a self wish is greedy.) 'I did B with X so-and-so' or 'X reminds me of [insert friend name here]' is a daily occurrence to me.
You are important to me.
I wish we hung out more.
I appreciate you just the way you are.

Oh yeah, and...

(Not a big fan, but how could I not toss the song in?!?)

In other random acts of recent kindness, I also received some sunshine this week. I'm more blessed with good eggs in my life than I have a right to.

While it ain't a gift of booze ~~deeelightful, delicious, debauchery inducing booze~~ I hope knowing that I value you gives you a wee buzz.

Be good my peeps (that includes to yourself).

(Glass selected because it made me feel like a giant.)

Cheers, my friends!

(& Thank you to my mystery booze bringer!)

P.S. Haaaaappy Birthday Lupe Estrada!

~Walking 101

2012-01-10T00:34:00.010-05:00

The communal "they" say walking is good for you.

Maybe it is, who am I?? I'm not a doctor, so I can't, with any certitude say for sure.

I can tell you it's the precise opposite of my general feeling on the matter. Yesterday I spied a status update from Lupe Estrada about being "up & walking to nowhere but feeling good about it!" (...Now don't get me wrong; Hurray for ~~someone else~~ bein' exercise-y.)

See, I settled in on my feeling about walking years ago. I was traveling, my boss at the time was in tow. The whatthehellever we were in town for was over and our flight home was several hours away. It was mid afternoon and our only responsibility for the remainder of the day was to tell our ~~Robert DeNiro~~ taxi driver to take us to the airport and to get our asses on a plane. ...Which conveniently rhymes with, let's drink. (Of all of the skills I have, flying a plane isn't one of 'em, so what's it matter? I've never been too tipsy ~~to beat and climb over other passengers~~ turn a handle and/or if need be use a slide.)

As my several-th blue drink hit my system, I started to remember how fucking loooooooong the walk had been from the gate we arrived at to the outside of the airport. I know that DTW (Detroit) isn't the largest airport in the world, it's not even the largest airport I've been in, but by some hinky confluence of details I'm confident only Stephen Hawking can decipher, it was in fact the longest walk evah.

There's an old adage about the magical properties of alcohol and the appearance of truth that I, for one would have to vouch for. After arriving to the airport and clearing security I struck up a conversation with an airport worker as I waited for my boss to finish with TSA. It went a lot like this:

(a semi tipsy BBG sees a uniformed man with a WWJD lanyard holding his worker bee ID, randomness ensues)

BBG: (pointing at his WWJD) ...I know what Jebus wouldn't do, he wouldn't make me walk my fat ass alllllllllll the way to my gate, this place is crrrrr. Azzy.

Miscellaneous Airport Workerman: (obviously conflicted between being offended that I'd slurrily taken Jebus' name in vain and the shock and awe of having a passenger not cussing him out) He wouldn't? (uncomfortable, yet intrigued nervous laughter)

BBG: (more smart ass shit was said, more giggles were shared)

By the time my boss had ~~tied his shoes~~ joined the conversation a ~~magic carpet ride~~ cart had arrived to whisk us away to our gate.

(It's important to note that at no time did I expressly request a cart.)

As I was ~~getting in~~ wrapping up my random conversation with the airport worker bee, my boss was balking at the premise of riding to our gate, leaving me with no options other than turning my sales abilities on my boss. "...but this nice gentleman is already here to take us, it would be rude to waste his time. Get in." (throwing a ham-y wink at said nice gentleman/driver) As we zipped away I continued selling him on his decision to just do what I say and get on board with the BBG program du minute by launching into some mini diatribe about how 'walkin' is for suckers'. We hadn't traveled 20' before my boss was converted from a nice religious-y, family man into the ~~ass~~ guy riding on the back of a cart tossin' the gun finger at other travelers whizzing by saying, "walkin' is for suckers!!", as I waved at people as if I was indeed Elizabeth, Queen of England.

Ever since then I've held firm to the mantra, walking is for suckers.

Being a child of the 70's, The Jetsons apparently had a great impact on me. I just always assumed there'd be moving sidewalks for times that I didn't use other modes of transportation.

(Re: 'Other modes'... It's 2012. Where's my muther fuckin' jet pack?)

To this day when I do come upon a moving sidewalk, again at an airport (the world needs more moving sidewalks more places!), I always take it. Even if I'm wearin' just the perfect heels, have a light load I'm haulin' and am chocked full o' energy (aka: Mountain Dew) and could walk forever (aka: no real reason to take the 14 foot stretch of moving sidewalk), I feel it's my duty to support Jetsonesque technology.

Now of course I can walk without grumbling. I love a long stroll through city streets or a rambling walk through nature, under the proper circumstances. When not silently reciting 'walking is for suckers', I subscribe to the other 70's based true-ism of putting one foot in front of the other...

As the late Buford H Pusser taught us, it should be tall and with a big stick.

~Crazy Ass Cat

2012-01-06T00:34:00.000-05:00

(Apologies; I meant to post this yesterday and, well, look what didn't happen.... My double apologies that this post actually kinda requires a bit of homework. You'll find the 'Abandoned Babies' [link below] is helpful background to this post, 'All Things Catty' is too, although, slightly less so. Normally there isn't a pre-req for post enjoyment.)

Well, there's been another crazy cat incident at BBG HQ.

A couple of years ago I had what can only be described as a completely cracked out cat experience while hangin' in the hot tub one winter night. (Abandoned Babies Are A Buzz Kill & Other Minutiae). It was very quickly followed by another weird kitty experience. (All Things Catty [aka: The Meow Roundup])

...So as you can see, historically my feline interactions have been sketchy at best.

I don't know what this new year has in store for me, but I have been able to ascertain that expecting normal cat relations in '12, is evidently utterly outta the question.

I started to put this together as I noticed a blob in front of one of the windows in the BBG HQ hole (aka: basement, or more accurately BBGcave [<--if Batman can have a cave I can too. Suck it.]). As I closed in on the window I determined that the blob, was in fact, a cat. I watched it ~~watching me~~ for about an hour, apparently 60 minutes is the maximum length of time a human can be surveilled by a free range cat, without contemplating some sort of Itchy & Scratchy scenario.

I'd just hopped off of the phone from telling Nana what to watch (aka: checking in on Nana without her knowing I'm checking in on her daily), who after being alerted to the current crazy cat situation advised that I hold Uncle John up to the window to frighten the cat away.

Now normally, a Nana idea is a good idea.

...But this time? Oh, this time it was a...

...As it turns out, a pretty bad fuckin' idea.

What actually happened was this...

I gathered Uncle John and lifted him up to the window which is about 6" taller than me. And because I need him to be able to see the cat, to in theory, bark and scare the cat away from the window forever, I had him facing away from me. I realize that sounds like a fairly innocuous tidbit, however what I failed to process before I put this into motion was that turning Uncle John away from me is one of the ways I let him know he's in trouble.

If he gets into something or does something against the BBG HQ rules I pick him up facing outwards and take him to where the d oh double g crime was committed (tp/paper towel eating, miscellaneous drawer breaking into, etc.). So from go Uncle John is not pleased with this whole pickin' up facin' away bidness. He goes completely stiff. Riiiiiiiiight about the time that he notices that he's now face to face with a cat, who by the fuckin' way is now aggressively meowing at Uncle John through the window.

(Surprise!) This causes Uncle John to freak the fuck out.

About the time I felt him clinch his lil' doggy toenails along the skin on my chest leaving lengthy thiiiiiiiis close to breakin' the skin scratches was when I remembered that Uncle John is afraid of cats. (Again, I'm not saying Uncle John is a pussy, those cats outweighed him!) So, of course he wasn't gonna get all, bad ass/I'm gonna kick your kitty ass on the cat.

Realizing the error of my ways, I put him down to take a gander at my newly created chest scratches which were already turning into red, welt-y's outlining (in-lining?) the v-neck t shirt I was wearin'. Once I determined I wasn't bleeding I looked over at Uncle John who had taken sanctuary on the couch where he stood ~~traumatized~~ shaking.

Now, Uncle John is busy reliving some doggy PTSD and the asshole cat is on a constant meeeeeeeowathon. Meeeeeeow....Meooooooow...Meeeeeeeeoooooooowwww. Defuckinglightful.

(Sorry. I wish I was a better picture taker, however, I don't know the proper

setting for through a window/dark/under the deck with a dark free range cat.
Those two glow-y things are creeeeeepy cat peepers.)

With my only other possible plans being something that PETA would definitely NOT sanction, I opted for a squirt bottle filled with water, opened the window and started aggressively squirting the cat through the screen, like a stone cold freak saying, "out damn cat!"

(Look at meeee tryin' to be modest! I know it doesn't look like

much, however I took this snap 4 days after the,

as it will now be known, crazy ass cat incident o' '12.)

Skat Kat insolently just fucking sat there the first few squirts but finally was successfully shoo'd away. It's been about a week now and I haven't seen the ~~injury inducing~~ free range cat return. Good kitty riddance.

I'm hopin' my scratches leave soon too. Fireman, when he saw 'em ~~hopefully~~ devilishly asked, "what is that? Is that a map?!?", eyes big as saucers. ...Making the cat is not the only asshole in this story.

~Ideally

2012-01-03T00:34:00.003-05:00

Ideally, all comments and emails received to BBG HQ would be flattering, gushing with praise and compliments and promising gifts of precious jewels, chocolate, a bevvy of attractive men for my basest gratifications, and perhaps unicorn sacrifices.

(Daaaaaaamn. You can find anything on Google!)

Also, ideally I would be 6' tall, 60 lbs lighter and several million wealthier, people I loved would live forever and always be healthy and happy and I'd actually shit lil' soft nuggets of gold that I could Swap for Cash (<-- is that a real thing?) or some such deal. Unfortunately, like the control I have over Uncle John and myself (aka: PRACTICALLY NONE)-- is also the exact amount of influence I have over making *ideally*... reality.

I'm a live your life out loud girl for the most part. (<--The, *I have a blog part* is just one indication of that.) This is either extremely off putting or refreshingly appealing, depending on your disposition and inclinations. I know some people like me because I can be an ass, and I know some people dislike me because I can be an ass. And I'm fine with that. There is a statistic that one out of every 4 people doesn't like you. Just plain doesn't, never will. I've always figured I'm gonna have a damn good time with the other three, so whateves, the 4th can look away and live their own life....Peace be with you and all. Which is also predominately, how I chose to live my life. Generally, fuckers, assholes and dolts impact me zero, because I have nuthin' meaningful to do with 'em. I actively try to limit my exposure to them. Most of the time other than making good fodder for some cracked out tale I'll share here (or somewhere whilst sharing a cocktail as we laugh our asses off), I have no reason to engage with them at all. As you know I'm pretty much of a live and let live-er, so I keep steppin' and get on with my life.

Except when I can't.

And apparently ladies and gentlemen of 'da BBGWorld, we've come to the time in the program when ignoring stupid has passed...

The background on what is about to unfold is this: one of my besties, divorced geez, a decade ago? A few years ago she married a wonderful man. Frankly, every time I hear a story about how he continually mans up to care for my Godkids makes me love him more and more. Her ex has also remarried, a couple of times, most recently several years ago.

Now as any of you readers who's ever been friends with someone who is divorced knows, it's rare to be friends with both parties. This particular case is no different. I am 100% friends with LB2'd (<-- that girl is my sister by choice) and am zero % friends with the ex. Do I/did I ever wish a pox upon his house? No. Why? Because shit happens. Relationships don't work out. They were grown ups, making grown up decisions. And I'm a fervent believer in the power of 'you being in charge of you'.

In complete truthiness, I actually never had a problem with the ex even as they tried to figure out the landmine laden field of trying to deal with each other as ex's. And again, as anyone familiar with divorce knows, this is a field that can get gruesome if both (um, all) parties aren't to their very core focused on having it be a more peaceful or pleasant place.

Unfortunately, there came a time where because some situations directly involving my Godkids, I came to have a pretty fuckin' big problem with him. Those issues were worked out by the courts. Which to give you perspective, the courthouse was the last time I saw him, and the first time I'd seen him in probably 8 years. My interaction with him is, well, once in a decade. And we didn't even speak. ...So it's not exactly like a Springer show up in here.

Or it wasn't...

Until these started to arrive.

Completely outta the blue.

Like a tornado of crazy.

(The last name has been blocked out to protect the privacy of my

Godkids, not the sender. I would NEVER want them

exposed to this cracked out bullshit.)

Notice how that was sent to me on Christmas. Nuthin' says 'Merry Christmas' quite like ~~spending time with your child and spouse~~ sending nonsensical, erroneous emails (in as much as I've also NEVER mentioned his name... Go ahead, top left, that lil' search field? You can search any word; anyfuckin'thing to see what's (who's) ever been mentioned in the BBGW. I'll wait.).

Oh, I've mentioned him. This blog is about my life. And those fuckin' kids have been a large part of my life since they each drew their first breaths. I've even had a conversation with their mother about how if we ever were not friends, (<-- because I like to pretend never-gonna-happen situations of all kinds~ I have a very vivid imagination) that she'd just have to get ok with the fact even if we didn't talk, I'd still talk to the kiddies. After an aggressive giggle she told me, "those kids will have stopped talkin' to me before they'd ever stop talkin' to you!" Which is only funny because it's true. Not that the kids will stop talking to her, but that they're always gonna talk to me. I'm muther fuckin' Aunt BBG. And while they don't know e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g about an Aunt BBG, they do know that I'm 11 digits and 60 minutes away. Always. For anything. And forfuckingever.

But I digress, my point is that, yes, I have grown, by his actions-- (not by his relationship with their mother...again, they are grown ups and in charge of themselves, and I don't know they they've even spoken in more than a year?) -- and treatment of my Godkids to loath and pity him. And I have said things to that effect. Without, until now making it any sort of big fucking deal, certainly nothing that hogged up an entire post.

However two salient points should be understood here; A) *This *is my world. Officially. See (look up) it even has my moniker. So, I'll say what the fuck ever I want to, when the fuck ever I want to. If you like it, come, visit, play, comment. If you don't, there are without hyperbole, gazillions of other places on the web one can occupy their time that do not include here, and I cordially invite you to do so. I don't want people to hang out here who don't like it here. BBGWorld is a free range zone. ~~Nobody is forced to be here.~~ (Note to self: Concoct a way that people are forced to be here, that could be reeeeeally good for the blog.) II) If what I've said in the pages of the BBGWorld is the worst thing a bestie has ever said about an ex, then that ex would probably consider themselves fortunate, in the big scheme of things.

You may be asking yourself, 'but BBG, you can be an ass, what role did you play in getting this can of crazy stirred up'?.

Valid question astute reader.

In the name of full disclosure and hand on bible swearing: I opened that email.

Yeah.

Although I guess I should mention, that I opened that email after noticing that I had had a reader from coinkadinkily the same city/state as our above emailer (as I come to find out), who logged 53.25 hours between the day before Christmas Eve and the several days after Christmas. Which I only noticed as it struck me odd that someone would ~~be soooooo entertained by the random/wacky's that life brings me~~ have spent so much family/friends/holiday time wasting it here, but who am I in charge of? That's right, me.

So yes. I had the unmitigated gal to open an email. That's my official part in the tornado of crazy.

Much like a tornado hop's and scotches around randomly and frenetically, I also received several more emails to my Facebook. Now am I friends with this person? No. We have no connection. We have never uttered as much as a word to one another. Not even the day I saw her at the courthouse.

I, obviously wrote off the first email (and the subsequent 4) and the Friends Request as perhaps some fleeting lapse of judgement.

(Please note: Busy holidays, busy livin' my damn life and not being

Facebook obsessed and stalking strangers is not, I repeat, NOT an agreement.

Oh, and the fact that these weren't even found for days

because we're not friends and have zero connection and they didn't

arrive in my regular inbox, also, does not constitute an agreement.)

Like any child throwing a tantrum sometimes it's just best to let them wear themselves out and go to sleep.

Unfortunately, this time, no, that doesn't seem to be the case.

(Recieved yesterday)

Until now I have chosen to remain silent about these ta-doin's. Because while my Godkids know nothing about the existence of the BBGWorld, someday they probably (?) will, and I try to always be cognizant of the lessons they are learning from how I live my life, even if that won't happen for years.

I've also not replied because I'm reality based and reason-based, and it seems rifuckin'diculous to me, to get involved in some sort of tit-for-tat when the last mention of the subject was more than a year ago, making it a non-story in my book. Tryin' to stir some shit with people you know nuthin' about and have no legitimate reason to be screwin' with for absolutely no valid reason, strikes me as the actions of an immature high schooler. ...But I think we can all agree that that ship has sailed at the hand of the sender of these communications.

So let me say this once and clearly, and for the official record~

I don't know what you think is going on here. You Facebook stalked me (we don't even have friends in common, so that took some work) and made a friends request, emailed multiple times and for extra measure invoked some misguided threat. You spent 50+ hours in my World. We have never spoken. This isn't a thing. There is nothing between us. The mess you're trying to instigate is meaningless in the sense that other than you trying to stir some shit, there is nothing to be stirred. Your trying so hard to make it so, is thirteen. Wait. I actually know some 13 year old girls and they're not even that obtuse. Chronologically you are supposed to be a grown up. You've had every opportunity to leave well enough alone. (<-- like most reasonable, rational adults would find their way to do.)

And yet, instead, you've made 6 further attempts to stir some shit over stuff that isn't even happening. Which BTW looks nuthin' but crazy. While I seriously doubt your capacity for critical thinking, and doubt your receptivity for what really is sound advice, you should talk to someone mature in your life because, really, it's time to strongly consider what's actually going on here. I mean, 50 hours and 6 emails ~~by anyone other than the Unabomber~~ is a whole lotta dedication, commitment and time invested on someone who you don't know, and has never said literally 'boo' to you. I barely have time to do and care for and keep up with people who I love and care about and those who care and love me. So I obviously don't comprehend giving that type of time, effort and power to someone or something that is truly a non-factor in my life. But that's just me. The only person I'm ~~tenuously~~ in charge of.

Ideally it would be delightful if you'd use this opportunity to break contact entirely. It's the ~~non-kooky~~ mature thing to do. Bottom line? Other than sketchy scenarios by your hand, like, um, exactly this situation, I don't have any real desire/reason to ever mention, think or wonder about your (or your husbands) existence at all, or as I like to call it, exactly like until two weeks ago. This blog, as the title blurb details, is "Where my life converges with the interweb. Follow the wild, mild and wacky adventures of a Big Brown Girl as I navigate life." *This* is part of where I do my living with my friends and strangers who like it here. If you don't want to be part of it, simply stop inserting yourself into my life (and blog). Easy peasy. And entirely your choice. I've started a new label, "What's She Doin'?" to house this matter. Ideally, I'd like this to be it's only entry.

I already feel bad in my soul that I've given 45 minutes to this post that I'm never getting back, three quarters of an hour over actual no-reason-for-bullshit. Which is exactly how I know it's time to wrap this up and return to well, anything else more worthy of my attention. Whooooooooo's up for Tiddlywinks?

...Now, for the rest of you who are in fact contemplating how you can offer up a unicorn sacrifice, or provide me with the winning numbers to an upcoming lottery drawing, or strangers randomly stopping by for the first time (certainly thinking, what the fuck is goin' on here?); My ~~somewhat sincere~~ apologies for being exposed to this level of sheer, uncalled for nonsense you now have to know exists in the world.

This, I suppose is the good/bad/ugly part of me living out loud, and you being a reader/witness to BBG history in the making. You never know what is going to be going on in my world on any given day. And this was today. Ideally, we'll be able to continue with just my regular, standard issue BBG brand of crazy from here on out. Which not to ruin the surprise involves me and a cat. A crazy ass cat....

Until then:

~Fuck You, 2011

2011-12-30T00:34:00.001-05:00

Here we are again, tick-tocking down the last few hours and minutes of another year that is about to officially become history. And that makes it officially time to say; Fuck You '11.

I don't want to seem disrespectful of the year. Plenty of nice and lovely stuff happened this year. Trust me, I am fully aware every day how much I have to be thankful for. The blessings (big and small) in my life are, frankly, more than I deserve. But there have also been a plethora of super shitastic things, that I for one, could have done without, thank you very much.

Each year I like to do a lil' mental round up of what the year brought me as I prep for the new things a new year will bestow upon me. Here, for the official BBG record are some of the high and low lights of 2011:

~Ing's. This has been the year of the 'ing(s)'. From jeggings, to planking (which begat owling, that begat horsemaning, Tebowing and batmaning;)

~Thanks to AnonD, I learned how to make the worlds best kick ass chocolate chip cookies. (Recipe) Because I helped, I earned a new title, 'The Primary Whisker'. ~~Opps! Am I cracking a code?~~ If we're bein' honest, it probably shoulda been the primary eater.

~A local 'feel good' story unfolded (and then quickly disintegrated) with the discovery of the golden voice, Ted Williams who found momentary national fame for morphing from an addiction riddled homeless beggar to the voice of a Kraft Mac and Cheese spot aired during the Super Bowl. ...And then just as quickly from the voice of creamy cheezy goodness to an addiction riddled, 'what ever happened to' cautionary tale?

~In other local ta-doin's, this is the year I had to hear the news announce that some schools would be closed not for snow, (ice, heat, fog, wind chill too low <-- all of which have happened in my lifetime), no, for wild animals roaming. Lions, tigers and bears, free ranging due to a unstable individual making bad choices. (56 exotic animals on the loose)

~I was rreminded how many people love me, in big ways and small. And all I can say is, WOW! And, of course, THANK YOU. ~~And I know that I am a colossal pain in the ass~~.

~2011 opened my palate to several new things: 1st Fruity Pebbles. (Love them!) Nonpareils. (Hated 'em.) Shamrock shake. (Severely disappointed by Ronald's offering.) Wheatgrass. (Wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Sweeter than expected.) Quinoa. (Really surprisingly liked it.) Silk milk. (Thumbs down.) Hostess Pudding Pie (I thought it would be flaky goodness. It was not.) Pomegranate juice. (It tasted like if a grape and a blueberry had a baby.) Whole wheat pasta. (I'd rather eat actual dried and hardened glue strips.) And Chik 'N. (While not bad, soy based connective tissue is kinda creepy.)

(We can make soy based mock connective tissue,

but still no wayback machine?!?)

~Yet again, I remain flabbergasted and saddened that science and technology haven't been able to invent a 'wayback machine'.

~Got my heart brrrrrrrrroken.

~Got my revenge and made a new friend.

~Engaged in a lotta schadenfreude. Mainly at the expense of one of Virginia's newest residents. The score since he's been there? One earthquake. One hurricane. One super early ass and quite unusual winter storm warning in October. Free range zebras roaming the streets. ...It ain't a plague of locust, but none of that seems like a good sign. It's called karma, asshole. Enjoy it. I sure as fuck am. Good luck, Virginia.

~I heard 9,9,9, more frequently than a week long Hitlerathon on the History Channel. Farewell, ~~pizza man~~ Herman Cain.

~The BBGWorld hit 10,000 visitors.

~Finally, 2011 offered an option for when you can't decided if candy or booze is the answer. ~~Or perhaps when you're ready to make the step of gettin' lit at your cubicle~~. That's right, kidz, vodka gummies.

(Health nuts should probably use vitamin gummies.)

~My first gray eyebrow hair.

Dear 1 Gray Eyebrow Hair~
I accept that you are here as a reminder that I'm gettin' old (& that I'm STILL ALIVE). In theory I am happy to let you live and share my face with you. Frankly, I find your single whiteness randomly interesting, however you seem to insist on bein' all helter skelter and incapable of not pokin' out and pointing skyward, and I'm not ok with bein' Andy Rooney. *Pluck!!*
♥,
Me

~We became the home of World's Biggest Meatball (Finally. Last years BBG eyewitness account of the near miss)

~Dodged the rapture twice this year (May 21st and October 21st). So thank you Harold Camping and your predictions of the end of days for teaching me I just might be invincible. Or that I am part of the 'left behind' (at least I'm in good company, I mean, you're here too.)

~Nana became tech savvy. Ok, that might be an overstatement of the situation. Nana has made some semblance of peace with the laptop. Watching a DVD is out (it took all of 3 minutes and one ejection and putting it back in to determine that this wasn't happenin'), but she can Google, email and read her local paper.

~NASA provided me with an escape hatch from some of the assholes roaming this place. Helloooooooo Kepler22b!

~Uncle John tried to kill me.

~This is the year someone tried to tell me how to run my blog. (...Guess what's never gonna happen? Bueller?...)

~michigan won.

~We learned the names Casey Anthony, Rebecca Black and Jerry Sandusky.

~I learned of the magical existence of natatoriums.

~For the first time ever I lost a nail. Completely down to the bed. (In happy nail news: Thankfully a new one replaced it.)

~Continued to be stalked ~~and amazed by the existence and seemingly popularity of~~ by pink rides:

(Why would a person do this?)

~Ponytail'd men, for the 3rd year in a row continued to cross my path:

(Engaging in some St. Pat's ponytail pullin')

~Got some new lives to corrupt in Eden, Sammy and Asher. Congrats to Mrs. Steven Tyler kissed my ass (<-- really, I've seen pictures) and her hubby K1. Two kids have never been so wanted, or will be so cherished. And haaaaappy 1st boy congrats to Lupe & Jorge. Those are some lucky ass kids.

~Gone too soon...

A pioneer in how women deal with breast cancer. Before Betty Ford they were words that were whispered. After Betty Ford it became something that was fought. Betty Ford was also the catalyst behind ~~Amy Winehouse's biggest hit and~~ getting many of a celeb clean and sober.

Heavy D.

...Now what will we do? RIP Heavy D.

Smokin' Joe Frazier.

I once met 1/2 of the Thrilla in Manila duo (Ali being the other, for you non sweet science followin' peeps) at some black tie fundraiser shin dig. It was well after his boxing days, more the heyday of his BBQ days. He seemed nice. I mean, as long as I smiled, giggled and nodded in agreement, at least. Honestly, I never understood a word he said. The "discussion" made a strong case for headgear in the ring.

We lost Charles Napier this year. A name you might not recognize, but Silence of the Lamb's fans will never forget.

And Oprah, who while still alive did leave the airwaves this year.

As I put in a Facebook update: Well Oprah, you did many things over the past 25 years...built a school, got Tom Cruise to jump on a sofa, gave away some cars, introduced the world to a Phil and an Oz, birthed book clubs, carried fat in a wagon, but ya never could get Nana to stop callin' you Ofrah.

So good bye year.

Baby New Year, I'm ready for all of your 2012 goodness, bring it.

Dear 2011,

I'm out.

Love,

BBG

Haaaaaappy New Year!!

~Bah Humbug?

2011-12-20T00:34:00.002-05:00

Yowza. A full week since the last post. I don't even know the last time that happened. I seem to be having a difficult time gettin' into the yuletide spirit. Which in turn made it hard to sit down to type some ~~interesting~~ ~~entertaining~~ thing worth reading. Finally, I opted for the truth. I'm settling in to what is. And that is, is that I may be bah humbug? No specific reason. There's no extra, out of the ordinary drama trauma going on.

I just find myself feeling rather blah. (I guess that makes me blah humbug?) Fortunately, and I guess serving as proof that misery really does loves company, I happen to have several friends who are for various reasons having the same Fa-la-la-la-la La-la-la-blah season.

Last year was my first Papa-less Christmas, so it was sad. The thought of how the previous Christmas my family had been complete and now was missing one of it's best parts weighed heavily on me. It was the first sad Christmas I'd ever had. ...And I've spent Christmas in the hospital.

(- Stolen from my Mom's archives -)

But last year even though there was an inherent, sad undercurrent, I had a sparkily new love and thought I was possibly on the brink of setting off on the 'forever' part of my life. (Refer to 3 Things Last Friday Brought Me [click here] in your BBGW hymnal for how that worked out, or here's the short version; It didn't.) So this year, while I'm more settled, I suppose really, more accustomed, to the fact that Papa is gone. This year I feel the contrast of a, being alone (uncoupled up) Christmas vs. a heeeeerrrre's your new happy life Christmas of last year.

And while I was never really good at math, I do know that 2 somewhat shitty Christmas' in a row = Blah Humbug.

I'm not alllllll gloom and doom. It's not like I'm planning a Very Brady Suicidal Christmas or anything. But it is probably a little telling that this is my favorite YouTube of the season:

Why can't I get this to play live for you?!? Errrgh. Ok... Click Here to follow to YouTube video of it.
(I've watched and giggled 3 times.)

As Nana advises, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything, which explains my ~~radio~~ blog silence for the past several days. I don't wanna be the Debbie Downer who's bummin' folks out. T'is not how I like to roll. I've been trying, ~~by doing nothing, mind you~~ to shake my blah humbugness. However, as Somp says, "you can't help what you feel." But I think to some degree you can help how you mange how and what you feel, so I therefore I have vowed that I will not actually kick Santa in the balls. And am actively trying to focus in on the good stuff of the season.

For instance, yesterday I was happily stunned when I received an email from someone I haven't seen since, oh, 19fucking82. Being a serial random emailer myself, it was the highlight of my day to be on the receiving end.

I'm looking forward to having Nana over. I'm looking forward to Nana's I-can't-even-describe -how-good-it-is chocolate pie. And of course, to spending low key family time with Mom and her main man dude (who I MUST find a code name for!). And to getting to see some friends who will be around over the next several days.

To put my early Christmas present of mild malaise into perspective, I just had to talk AnonD off the ledge, who after calling someone a "dumb little cunt", whilst threatening to "kick her little cunt ass", (from 4 states away) before finishing her off with a, "what a dirty nasty butt", for good measure. Now the two salient details you should know of this story are: 1) The 'someone' she refers to totally deserves such ire. B) I don't know that I've heard AnonD use the word cunt more than twice in 20 years. Let alone 3 times in a sentence. As we wrapped up our conversation she finished with a, "Uggggghhhh. Christmas. I can't wait for it to be fucking over." ~~Ahhhh, that's the Christmas spirit.~~ Makes it seem like I'm lil' more mid line on the Ebeneezer Scrooge scale, right?

Perhaps today is the day I succumb and put some Christmas decorations up. I mean, it seems like 12/20 is shit or get off the pot time for stockings and wreaths, ya know? Decisions, decisions...

Lastly, (<-- which I like to throw in as an homage to a friend), an ode to Hanukkah which begins tonight:

To my Maccabees~

Enjoy pleeeeease,

Your festive 8 nights of light.

Get your dreidel spinnin' right.

Here's to tasty latkas to bite,

and Hanerot Halalu's to recite.

May your Hanukkah be filled

with love and good cheer.

And from this day forward

may you never know a tear.

So mazel tov, my peeps

as you light the menorah, get funky fresh
go wild and break out a hora!

Haaaaappy Hanukkah!!

~Captive Wilding

2011-12-12T00:34:00.002-05:00

People like to say how cute Uncle John is.  He routinely gets compliments wherever we go. Obviously, I'm biased, so of course I think he is too.  However, I'm also a realist, and often reply with, "yeah, he's cute. ...Until he's causin' some trouble".

When people see him, he's usually being pretty good. Which is probably why most people poo-poo my response. Sure he'll probably jump up on you when he first sees you to say hello, but if you (anyone) tell(s) him to get his 15 lbs. the hell down, he'll do it. (He knows his rules. He just chooses when to use them.) Essentially, if you don't have a baby carrot, or blueberry treat for him, he's probably wandered somewhere to lie down, watch tv, or occupy himself with a toy.  Uncle John is usually a pretty chill dog.

But what those people see when they have a brief interaction with him is different than the actuality of living with Uncle John, which sometimes is like a battle of wills.    It seems like a lot of our existence with one another is comprised of one of us trying to win. ~~Thank you opposable thumbs!~~ Who's gonna out fox who for total domination of BBGW HQ, type scenarios. As you may remember, just this year alone he's actually attempted to murder me and possibly committed a botched suicide gesture.   He keeps me on my toes as I never know what his plan for me is at any given moment.

Yesterday's screw you BBG move, and the Uncle John version of 'wilding' in Central Park was:

(What? Who? Me? Doin' sumthin'?

...Nope. Every thing's fine here. Move along.)

Apparently, every pillow had ta fuckin' go.

This is not Uncle John's first wilding. ..Which is how I know it's punitive. See, you can be gone allll fuckin' day and return home to lil' ol' Uncle John just sittin' there lookin' cute all nub wagglin' and happy to see ya. Every pillow exactly in it's place. Always. For 14 years, always.

But every now and again Uncle John gets some wild burr up his doggy butt and feels compelled to knock every pillow he can find off whatever it sits on. I honestly don't know what the fuck that's about.

Usually he contains his wilding to one area, however I have found where he's gone on a systematic room-by-room rampage.

Boots on the ground report;

Living room pillows: Down.

Bedroom pillows: On the damn floor.

Guest room pillows: Also not where they belong.

So yes, Uncle John knows both the phrases, "reeeeeally?!?"
and "what the fuck, Uncle John?!?"

...And he only does it when I'm home. (<-- which somehow makes it more irritating.)

I wish I knew what his lil' d oh double g mind is thinkin' when he's doin' this.

(Is it just me, or does Uncle John look indignant

that I've returned the pillows to their rightful spots?)

Since I'm not the Dog Whisper, and as I don't speak schnauzer, I'll just have'ta keep assuming that it's some canine Charlie Sheenesque version of, 'it's called winnnnnning, bitch.'

~O Christmas Tree

2011-12-08T00:13:00.004-05:00

...It's a CHRISTMAS tree. A fuckin' CHRISTMAS TREE! Not a 'holiday' tree. Mainly, because there is no such thing.

Yes, Virginia, there is no 'holiday tree'.

The only thing it is, is another example of a case of; just because ya say sumthin' doesn't make it true. (<-- I know. I say a lotta shit. A disproportionately small percentage is ever true.) People also say: Irregardless, that the amboolance is coming when they call 911, and that people's impact on climate change is as fictitious as The Grinch's escapades in Whoville, yet, also zero of those things is true.

(Yes kidz, you've joined my annual rant

about the holidays already in progress.)

Recently the Governor of Rhode Island, Lincoln Chafee, decided to call the tree erected in his statehouse a "holiday tree". His misguided reasoning being that it "is inclusive and reflects Rhode Island's origins as a haven for religious diversity.", which only holds H20 if Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, et al, symbols traditionally include a big fat Christmas tree all ~~tricked~~ decked out. ...But that's not the case. So let's stop fuckin' fibbin'.

A tree put up this time of year, regardless of how non-Jesus-y it's decorated, or how non-religious the tree putting up entity (business, government, individual) is, by function of being put up, is a nod, a keeping of custom of a Christian based holiday (Christmas). Just like putting up a Menorah, is a acknowledgement, a celebration of a Jewish based holiday (the Festival of Light). Calling it sumthin' different doesn't, in fact, make it sumthin' different. If a non-Jewish household puts up a Menorah, that doesn't make it a candle stick, ya know? It's still a Menorah. So in my opinion, calling a Christmas tree a 'holiday tree' is equally as disingenuous. It's not a sign of inclusiveness. Being inclusive is a sign of inclusiveness. Acknowledging basic printed on calendar events is just a truth.

(It is. Christmas. )

My argument is less about religion, as it is accuracy.

Because regardless of one's religious, or non-religious inclinations, it's not the Spring bunny. It's the Easter Bunny. It. Just. Is. That's the reality. Sometimes you can spin shit, position it, frame it, but sometimes the truth is just the truth. There's a reason this blog isn't called Curvy Brown Girl World, ya know?

There's not another holiday we can't seem to call by it's name, so why is 'Christmas' too troubling of a term to use? I'm not sayin' you've got to celebrate it, but ya can't just put blinders on, rename it and pretend that it doesn't exist if you don't speak it's name.

Here in the good ol' U.S. of A., many people would argue that it's a separation of church and state issue. Funny, to me at least, nobody ever gets their panties in a bunch when they're at the local government office and see hearts plastered everyfuckingwhere for Valentines Day, or shamrocks abound for the festive mid-March day. Ya know the one- SAINT Patrick's Day. (And for the official record, that's SAINT Valentine's Day.) Hummmmm..."saint"? Seems religious-y? Oh, right. That's because their origins are Catholic. How, exactly, is Christmas any different? It has (like the others) in large part morphed into a very secular and revenue generating (think: presents, drinks, greeting cards, big box stores, chocolates, travel, etc.) celebration, than its original inception as a faith based celebration. But somehow we're sooooo offended by it's (Christmas-y) religious nature that we shall not speak it's name?

What's next? Once everyone puts that whole saint/religious thing together, are we gonna have to start calling February 14th Make A Grand Display Of Your Love Day or something equally as dismissive of the history of it's existence? ...Although, honestly, I could get behind a, Hey Ya'll, Let's Get Lit Day held March 17th. Maybe we'll start a Potato Day, later in the year to make it up to the Irish. (<-- See. THAT'S offensive! "Christmas"? Not so much.)

For the record, not only do I call bullshit on using 'holiday' instead of Christmas, when Christmas is appropriate. I also call backwards bullshit on things that say 'holiday', but instead of meaning ALL of the yuletide holidays, really still only mean C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.

Or as I call 'em, Haaaaappy Hypocritical Holidays!

Exhibit A:

(Says Happy Holidays, but that bearded fat man says CHRISTMAS)

(Says Happy Holidays, but Christmas tree denotes, um, CHRISTMAS.)

(Says Happy Holidays, but guess what? Christmas bulbs mean CHRISTMAS.)

(Says Happy Holidays, without Christmas festive icons means HOLIDAYS.

...Congratulations! BBG Approved.)

BBG Rules On "Christmas" Usage:

Starting with Thanksgiving I say, Happy Holidays, because I'm wishing you a good everything between now and the first of the year. Coverin' all the bases.
If I know you're Jewish I say Happy Hanukkah, and ensure I know when it's observed. (I also make it a habit to know when Ramadan starts for my Muslim peeps, Stonewall Day for my gay peeps, and Pi Day for my geeky peeps. I am an equal opportunity celebrator. It's how I roll.)
If it's after Hanukkah and before Christmas, I just say Merry Christmas, because Christmas is the next big celebration in line, whether you celebrate or not is up to you. (This is not the case this year. Hanukkah begins sunset 12/20 and culminates 12/28.) Everyone should be happy if someone wishes you a good any Day. (...Have a Haaaaapy Nipple day? Well, yes. Yes, I will. Thank you, you too!)
If it's in reference to something specifically Christmas-y, I say Christmas. For instance; "this is my Christmas tree". Fine. "This is my fuckin' Christmas tree..."

I'm not trying to be disrespectful of anyone's beliefs (or non-beliefs). I just don't think that telling fibs and spinning things to seem like you're being inclusive and respectful is the answer. It seems like we can be straight forward, accurate and sensitive to others who may not hold my/your traditions of the season, without ignoring what is. Anything less makes me rant-y. Obviously.

~Gift Ideas (aka:These Exist II)

2011-12-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

T'is the season for the (drum roll) 2nd annual BBG Gift Ideas post (aka: Things you probably didn't know existed). If anything strikes your fancy you'll find a link (= "click") accompanying each cracked out, fuck'd up or 'hummmm' inducing item you see, because yes, these exist. And you can have 'em. For the official record, no, I have noooo affiliation with any of these products/companies, other than the ~~mis~~fortune of randomly discovering them on the interweb. Hence, I cannot vouch for the veracity of any of the following products and/or companies.

With that said~
Enfuckin'joy!!

For the man who has everything except a date, and because I guess ya can never be too ~~prepared~~ fit for whackin' off:

The Free Flexor (click)

My Pet Fat (click)

For $59.95 you can give the gift of a 1lb. "anatomically correct replica of body fat." Of course for those of you on a limited budget this holiday season a $10.00 Krispy Kreme gift card can probably achieve the same, without the pesky nuisance of having to carry your fat in your hand.

Personally, I think they're limiting themselves by marketing only to Spock devotees. Why alienate the 'talk to the hand' contingent? (Details - click)

Party all night and sleep all day (without being noticed)!

No more bullshit trying to stay awake while sitting in some boring ass conference in Vegas after an all nighter of ~~free booze at the slots~~ studying pertinent materials, noooooo Eyelid Stickers (click) will allow your favorite recipient to be hungover and sleep in ~~creepy~~ peace.

I don't know what I could possibly say that would be better than just getting to the fact that this exists (click), so I won't. That's right kidz. Pussy in a can.

(Special thanks to MOK who discovered this while on vacation.)

When squatting is too much trouble...

The Off Road Commode (click) provides jusssssst the ticket when your favorite outdoorsman needs to answer natures call. Speaking of tickets, indecent exposure, anyone?

A perfect ~~disguise~~ gift for any ~~crime committin'~~ livin' in cold climate friend on your list. [Beardheads (click)] Or perhaps a great way to tell that special someone, 'I think you're so unattractive you should probably cover that up at least half the year'. They also offer a more ZZ Top version, vikings and a Santa dome/face warmer.

I question exactly how much time you actually have to spend lookin' at your dogs asshole before this becomes a thing.

Rear Gear (click)

You've named her Cinnamon. Perhaps purchased her some baby high heels or the pole dancin' doll, (<-- yes, those exist too, Google it. I'll wait...) but if you reeeeeally want to secure her spot in the champagne room as a 'featured' dancer you'll wanna give her a (ahem) head start with this super classy (and instructional) t. (Available in 0-6mos and up) Tassles for tots t-shirt (click)

Please keep in mind, I'm in no way suggesting that this is a good idea. But, I am saying it is an awesome idea! Serious biz, what could possibly go hinky from carrying around a big ass flask filled 64 fluid ozs. full o' your favorite hooch? Giant Ass Flask (click)

...Of course, that probably means you'll need to get one of these (click) too:

I find it distressing on numerous ~~faux phallus~~ levels. But it claims to have helped "thousands of women's sleep". I suspect if they added a battery it would help more women sleep, but the Kush people (click) didn't ask me how to best market their product. Whateves.

Lastly, to leave on a classy note; Bald is beautiful on a grown ass man. However, no so much for a tot. And I ought to know. I was bald until I was 2. Spare the newborn on your list the shame of baby baldness with the Baby Toupee (click)

(This is 'The Donald')

If this page didn't supply you with everything you need for your Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus, Kwanzaa, Boxing Day, St. Stephen's or National Bouillabaisse Day (<-- yep. That exists too. 12/14) gift giving needs, please refer to last years list (<-- click), chocked full of other ~~equally weird~~ quality suggestions.

(Indulge an Aunt BBG)

Haaaaaappy Birthday to Godkid Mini Me!!

~Comeuppance

2011-11-30T00:34:00.001-05:00

come·up·pance (kəˈməpəns)
Noun: A punishment or fate that someone deserves.

I spent Saturday at AnonD (& her hubby, AnonR) HQ. We gathered to watch the OSU/michigan game.  AnonD is a michigan fan. AnonR and I have the good sense to back The Ohio State Buckeyes. It was a beeeeautiful day that allowed me to be in flip flops at the end of November. Can I get an amen?  Nosh and drink were in plenty. The Buckeyes had won 9 of the past 10 meetings. It was stacking up to be a grand footloose and fancy free kinda day.

Earlier in the week AnonD and I were chatting on the phone when she told me a friend of AnonR's was joining in on the game watching festivities.   AnonD: "AnonR invited some guy over to watch the game...I don't know what his deal is, but he used to be one of AnonR's martial art class buddies. I don't know if he's single, or cute, I've only met him once and that was a while ago, but I feel like he's...old."

Now AnonD is a self proclaimed cradle robber. Or as she likes to frame it, a "pre-vette". She's always liked a younger man. Long before "cougar" was ever a thing. AnonD is a couple of years older than me and AnonR is a few years younger than me. Often, when I say a guy is a 'child' (aka: under 35, in BBG speak) she says he's cute. As her "old" might be 42, I took her words with a grain of NaCl.

That is, until as I was sitting at my appointed BBG island in the (almost done!) kitchen, when ~~Gary~~ Gramps came walkin' in and AnonR introduced him to me. I shook his hand ~~careful not to exert enough pressure to break any metacarpals~~ and resisted the urge give AnonD the look.

Once the guys were safetly in another room ~~drinking sake~~ watching the game, I mentioned to AnonD that she *thinks* this guy is old, because he's OLD. We ~~laughed our asses off at the old man's expense~~ enjoyed a hardy chuckle. We'd left the big ass tv and the front room to the guys, while we chattered our way through the game watching in the living room. Around half time we wandered in to ~~not be antisocial~~ check on the guys. As we were heading that way, AnonD said that during an earlier pop in, she thought Gramps might have a hearing problem. While hanging out with the guys, a conversation about moonshine broke out. The question on the table was, "how old were you when you first tried moonshine?"  AnonD answered. AnonR answered. When it was Gramp's turn he replied with, "my two sons?" ~~Whaaaaaaat. The. Fuck?~~ I again resisted my natural inclination to look at AnonD, knowing that if I met her peepers there was gonna be laughter. Bad, bad, cackling, unstiffleable laughter. And that would be rude. So in a louder voice I rephrased the question and this time Gramps appropriately responded. As quickly as we could, AnonD and I fled the scene.

As we entered the safety of the kitchen, she said she felt very "Chuck Woolery".    Since the days of 'two and two', Chuck Woolery has been our code for doin', sayin' or feelin' sumthin' onrey, sometimes bordering on evil.

Chuck Woolery, TV host

(How the fuck did a 'shine question sound

like something about your two sons?)

For some reason we found ourselves whispering (?) about how, "How old were you when you first tried moonshine?" sounded anything like an inquiry on your children, and how when "my two sons" popped out, how neither of us was able to look at the other. ...And how it was going to be sooooo nice to have company in hell.

Now a few weeks ago, AnonD had informed me that a finger can be used to make a penis. Of course, this information was accompanied by comments of how that's probably better than nuthin', however that neither of us ever wanted to see one. Never. And of course, this was peppered with school girl like giggles. Shortly after that conversation and YouTube video on the matter (click) sharing, AnonD was mysteriously stricken with a spider bite on one of her fingers necessitating a trip to the Urgent Care and several days of antibiotics. Karma bitch slapped. Mock a finger penis, almost lose one of your own.

AnonD brought that up as a cautionary tale as we tried to settle ourselves from our now tear inducing laughter over the Gramps situation. AnonD wandered out during half time to perform shit patrol in the back yard. (3 chocolate labs, plus one visiting very active free range pooper [Uncle John] make such a patrol a necessity) I kept her company and used it as a soakin' up the sun/ smoking opportunity. I stepped off of the cement patio to put my cig* out on the side before throwing it away. As I was doing so, the red hot end of it bounced off the cement off the grass and on to my toe.

(Comeuppance: Burned toe. See the ashes left behind?

That'll teach me to be an ass. Actually, it probably won't.)

While the red hot ember resting on my toe hurt, my only reaction as I knocked it off was, "yep. That's about right." I walked out into the yard to tell/show AnonD of my comeuppance for being Chuck Woolery.

Sometimes comeuppance takes a while to rear it's head and exact it's revenge. Sometimes it's by the end of your smoke. What we put out always comes back. Be nice when you can, but when you can't be ready. And watch your toes.

*Smoking is bad. I realize that. However, as I'm not a BBG of "means"
and have no dependants, I consider it my retirement plan.

P.S. The Buckeyes lost.

~Boysgiving

2011-11-25T00:34:00.013-05:00

I think on the surface what I'm about to say seems odd. It kinda goes against all that society seems to perpetuate. We live in a 'thin is in' culture, where the perception is that only small girls get play. As I've mentioned before, it's something I've never subscribed to. Maybe because I've never let that vibe define what I think I am, I put off a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' different and therefore get different results, I donno. Frankly, I'm all tryptophan'd up from two days of eating turkey, stuffing, rolls, mac & cheese, mashed potatoes & gravy, green beans and chocolate pie, so critical thinking may be suffering from the blood flow being diverted from my brain to my tummy. Or perhaps my hometown is just plain good for my mojo?

Regardless of the impetus, the result was hometown boy o' rama. ~~I'm seriously considering moving back.~~ It started when a random stranger guy who was leaving the bar where I was meeting JA, her hubby J and few other folks at, walked by on his way out. He doubled back, stood beside me and bent in to tell me that "you are really beautiful". And kidz, ya know what isn't a sucky way to start an evening out? When you're old? And fat? And honestly, not even lookin' that stellar?

A: A guy tellin' ya you're doin' alright.

I'm thankful for my family and friends every day.

And I am thankful for guys who feel like this:

Of course, nobody's worth or value comes from other's opinions of your exterior shell. ...But when it's a flattering surprise, I gotta admit, it does not suck. In fact, it's the kind of spark that can elevate your spirits. And not that I'm all woe is me, but even though it's my second Thanksgiving without my Papa, I'm still not used to it. It still seems odd going through such days without an integral part of someone who helped make those days special in the first damn place. Plus, ya know, it's been since late winter/early spring since I've been coupled up, and I'd be a liar if I tried to assert that it too isn't a hole. So a pick me up for the spirit was welcome.

We hadn't been there all that long when I saw my cousin. ...Or who I thought was one of my cousins. As we chatted I pointed out JA's hubby who was one of his HS classmates. They chatted, then I mentioned to my "cousin" that his dad had been over to see Nana earlier in the week. My "cousin" then mentioned that that was surprising as his dad had been dead for years, at which point, "well then who the hell are you" came tumbling outta my mouth. Turns out he looked familiar not because we're related, but because he used to run around with the cousin I thought he was. We had a laugh and then he suggested that perhaps we should consider marriage. Since we're not ~~in danger of producing three eyed offspring~~ related, I'm considering his proposal.

(JA et moi having Thanksgiving Eve fun)

Then one of my ex's popped in. Which sounds like the opportunity for less than pleasantness, however as he's a grade A, #1 guy, was a delight. He even gave me a Thanksgiving goose (pinch on the ass). And I ran into another HS classmate, (code name) Mr. Karaoke.

Shortly after those surprise exchanges another friend arrived, BC, who I haven't seen in a few years. I'm not one of those girls who dislikes other women. I have girl friends. ~~Some of my best friends are girls.~~ But because I am half dude (click) I also have many close men friends. We're talkin' life long, I come along as part of the package deal friends. BC and I have a long and storied past that goes back to when we were about 14. We were talking with a few other folks, including a girl (and sister of my Birthday Buddy who I've known since grade school) and some other girl (who didn't seem to find the fact that her name was Denise Richards nearly as funny as I did) when I overheard BC state that he'd made out with each of us. BC and I shared a heart to heart where we declared our undying love for one another. (<- Surprise: Not a euphemism for sex.)

I touched a few heads. How can a girl help it with so many bald and brissily close cropped heads? One of whom spent a bit of time trying to throw his game. While he was cute, I don't actually live there. But I was given a little something else to be thankful for when one of his gaggle o' guys informed me that "you have great tits".

Then my Birthday Buddy's lil' sis tells me some boy who looks remarkably like one of her other brothers (Remember: We're Catholic. Everybody has 17 siblings.) wants to meet me. I'm later introduced to him when he grabs me up and tries to slip me the tongue.

Boysgiving also included a call from Potatohead (we talk every holiday) and a lovely email from DJP. Earlier in the week I'd thought to myself that I needed to send him a lil' message. He's far away from home and is one of the sweetest souls I know and I wanted him to know that he was on my mind. As I logged on to FB to send him a note, I coinkidinkily found an email from him telling me how he thinks I'm great.

I know this night ~~means I'm wickedly blessed and possibly living in some alternate plane where fat chicks get an abundance of guy attention~~ of tomfoolery is a big fuckin' finger in the face of conventional thinking about the lives of big girls. ...Chunky monkey girls are *supposed* to be sitting on the sofa eating pints of ice cream. (And sometimes we do. Mmmmmmm...ice cream.) We're not *supposed* to be turning guys heads, or getting brown chicken/brown cow propositions, or marriage proposals. (But sometimes we do.) Boysgiving is contrary to a lot of peoples perceptions about being a big girl, but it's the reality, and a signifier that it's time for conventional thinking and society's impressions and stereotypes to catch the fuck up. And a signifier, as LB2'd and Mrs. Mackey phrase it, that "be who you is" is a far better mindset and more productive than obsessing about the thin thighs you're not.

~Over The River & Through The Woods

2011-11-23T00:34:00.002-05:00

Yep, to grandmother's house I go.

...Well, not so much over the river/through woods (as the old song goes) as much as down the highway and makin' a turn, but I am heading over for the best meal of the year. Mmmmmmmmm... And fat girl can't wait.

Thanksgiving is my favorite meal of the year. We've had the exact same menu prepared by lil' Nana hands every year of my life. Except for one year. One year Nana and Papa friends, Mr. & Mrs. Walls were invited. They brought rolls that year. That year we didn't have lovingly handmade, fluffy, uber delicious Nana (and Papa) rolls. No. The Walls' brought some shitty store bought rolls. Needless to say, as I'm still ~~holding a grudge~~ talking 'bout it 30 years later, they never returned to another Thanksgiving. They are both dead now. I'm not sayin' it's because of that roll faux pas, but I can't necessarily say it's not. I don't know how the Grim Reaper makes his picks.

What I can say is that I'm gonna eat the hell outta some stuff(ing). I know Thanksgiving should be about family, but I've seen my family more recently than I've seen turkey, stuffing and rolls. Nana was just here a few weekends ago, staying at Mom's for a few days. I haven't seen stuffing since last year. I'm on pins and needles in anticipation of building the perfect gravy reservoir in my mashed potatoes and creating a plate that has all of my likes, but doesn't have my food touching. (Who's a freak?) Ideally, being consumed with my baby fork. (Answer: Me) I really can't wait!

Nana has been plotting and planning Thanksgiving for weeks now, with the precision of an Army General with a battle plan. Measuring this and that and putting in containers so that actual cooking day goes smoothly. In addition to her ability to create yummy, delectable, goodness, I'm always amazed at her talent for timing things. (Meanwhile, I can't seem to time fuckin' toast and a scrambled egg...)

While I'm responsible for zero cooking ~~for obvious reasons~~, Thanksgiving will require some preparation on my part. I must remember to take plenty of containers to bring back leftovers. And to wear something with the give to comfortably allow a second helping, and a post-gorge nap. Perhaps the biggest effort I'll have to make is to give myself the pre-drive 'don't let your head explode' pep talk, so when you see a BBG behind the wheel of a black SUV screaming Kramer's mantra, serenity now!! and flipping people off, you'll know it's me.

I can also say that I'm going to have a chance to visit with a few old friends while I'm there. It seems like I'm too old to be going out Thanksgiving Eve like some kid home from college, but it seems like I'm too young to be hanging around a house where Nana's bedtime is 9:30. Once again, I have failed to make firm and hard plans with anyone, making the who I'll actually see a complete surprise (which I'll report in on later).

For those of my peeps traveling over the next few days: SAFE TRAVELS!!

Until we visit again...

The Official 2011 BBG Ode To Thanksgiving:

Consume too much turkey and drink too much wine.

Stuff yourself until it's nap time.

Watch a parade and oooooh at balloons.

Catch a football game (they start after noon)

Enjoy your family and visit with friends

To miss such times, indeed is a sin.

Eat until your britches band itches

And above all else...

Haaaaappy Thanksgiving!!

(And Haaaaaappy Birthday to Godkid J!!)

~I Am Woman: Hear Me Roar (& Flush)

2011-11-21T00:34:00.004-05:00

Know what's never a good sign?

(A: This)

Don't get me wrong, I love Lowes. The people are always very helpful as I wander in with my bewildered look and cracked out line of ~~there are no~~ stupid questions. I suppose people go to Lowes for good reasons, but I'm not one of 'em. If I'm at Lowes sumthin' wrong. (Maaaaaybe I'm workin' on some project, but odds are something is askew at BBG HQ.)

Wrong du jour?

(Whilst on a middle of the night tinkling field trip

I went to use the handle to flush when nuthin'.)

The plastic doohicky that makes a flush happen broke. Snapped clean the fuck off. Reminding me of two things: A) It sucks not to have a guy around. II) I can do anything. (...or so HGTV leads me to believe.)

Calling myself crafty, I snapped a few pictures of my drama trauma and headed to Lowes. Reminding me of one other thing; I have boobs.

...Now boobs are not the answer to all of lifes problems, but they sure as shit help. I found the plumbing section, a worker and a random shopping man who as soon as I turned the corner looking completely outta my depth stopped their conversation and started helping me with my project.

Are you there God? It's me, BBG~

Thanks for boobs.

Love,

The gents looked at my photos, found the proper piece and gave me salient details such as; "these come in different lengths, but this is the most common" and "these turn the opposite direction" (which is when one of them had to dumb-girl break it down with, "you know left-y loose-y, right-y tighty? Go the other way."). The kindness of strangers got me all set.

I ~~smoked~~ watched a YouTube on fixing my toydee issue. Gathered a few tools (an ultimately unrequired wrench, a twos-y screwdriver and a fours-y screwdriver [because I'm too lazy to make a return trip for the other screwdriver. Some call it lazy, I call it coverin' the bases.]) and other items I thought I might need (my ever helpful and super stained 'project towel' and latex gloves). This is where people tend to mock me. With me it's always about the latex gloves. I keep them tucked away everywhere (car, kitchen, gardening kit, bathrooms, first aid kit, etc.). Whenever people see them they always ask why I have 'em. Fine. Technically it's usually, "why the fuck do you have latex gloves?". I usually don't have a better answer than that "I might need 'em someday." Today my answer would be 'so that I don't have to reach into the toilet bowl to retrieve the plastic nut that fell into it'. ...Because, yes. That happened. And yesssss, I did have the lid down at the time. I'm only 1/2 a dumbass. Suck it.

(Old ass broken piece)

(New thingamabob.)

The video told me to allow about an hour to fix it. I was done in less than 10, much to my complete and utter surprise. Possibly even more surprising is that it was super easy and worked perfectly.

Tafuckin'Da:

Project Lessons Learned:

Measure shit before setting off to Lowes. I was lucky my piece fit and that I didn't have to make a return trip.
Immediately ask for help. Don't waste time trying to figure it out, or find it yourself, it's a suckers mistake. Consider your dumbassidness your part in the stimulus package. Take pride in knowing that you offer job security for that worker.
Never fear asking a stranger/customer for help. Many, many home improvement store shoppers are guys, and even a guy who wouldn't necessarily hold a door for you is eager to ~~show off~~ share his handy knowledge.
Have boobs. (Sorry guys. Life ain't fair. On the bright side, you do still have writing your name in the snow, higher incomes and the ability to procreate indefinitely.)
Take photos. They say 10,000 words. And I don't know about you, but for me that's 9,999 fewer possibilities I'm gonna say sumthin' stoopid. Score!
Watch a video. For clarification; In this case I don't mean porn, I mean take your ass to YouTube and type in your project. It only seems like the bad stuff only happens to you. Rest assured someone else has already had your bad day and is offering somewhat clunkily produced advise via 'da web (DIY.com and HGTV.com are also handy).
ALWAYS have latex gloves.

~Jonesing

2011-11-16T00:34:00.024-05:00

It's been a few days...

Where've I been?

What have I been doing?

Jonesing. That's what.

Not for make your skin itch, give ya meth mouth, possibly OD ya drugs. Jonesing for internet access. Thanks to a brief power outage that apparently broke my modem, I've been without the interweb since Monday. (RIP 6 year old modem.)

On the surface that doesn't sound too bad. However, in reality it was awful.

Spending more time with the tv was only the tip of the awful iceberg. For the first time in my life, tv felt like punishment. I have to watch tv, there's nuthin' else to do, type stuff. Then there were the actual options cable provided me with. Holy shit network programmers! Ya'll sure know how to create some craptastic offerings. All I can say is; THANK YOU DVR! I love you. You may have been all that stood between me, a riffle with a scope and a bell tower.

Another side effect from lack of interweb was feeling like I was totally outta touch with the world. Sure, Anderson Cooper and Brian Williams were able to keep me somewhat in the loop. But they're not gonna tell me the wacky and obscure news items I've cultivated a high tolerance for. I mean, a girls gotta know about the goings on in Syria, but she also needs to scratch her itch for gay penguins, criminals copulating in a cruiser (Huffington Post ~ Sex In Police Car - click here) and babies soothed by Christopher Wallace, nay Notorious B.I.G (aka: the original Biggie Smalls).

(I don't usually pass along this type of stuff, but I found

this a smidge more than mildly entertaining. Enjoy.)

Not to mention, it's possible I'm experiencing some degree of atrophy in my mouse clickin' finger from lack of playing Dynomite (click if I've bored you already). (<-- yet another sign you're visiting a bad blogger. I'm actually providing an opportunity to go play some game mid post. I should be ashamed. Sadly, I'm not.)

By far the least pleasant side effect from not havin' 'da web was having to deal with AT&T. Talk about some bastards to have to deal with. All automated system not recognizing the words coming outta my mouth this, and listening to some person who does NOT care about my inconvenience reading from a script, "I apologize for the inconvenience" that. (Note to AT&T: If you cared about your customers inconvenience you wouldn't INCONVENIENCE them so fucking much.)

After 5ish hours of being on the phone with them (Note to AT&T: you're lil' ~~experiment in torture~~ looping recording advising me that I can find help quicker by logging on to att.com is a real asshole move when customers are calling because they cannot access said interweb.), having been disconnected, having to deal with inept "customer service" (as AT&T isn't really providing service to their customers it's hard to say that without the Quotes of Irony.) and having to explain to the last person I spoke with that, "I didn't start out being an ass, I was a pleasant, chill girl when this all started. But AT&T has turned me into the bitch you're now having to deal with." (<-- her name was Kendra. Kendra at AT&T, wherever you are; Girl, you deserve a raise.)

Before you think, 'BBG you are probably being unfair in your critique', 'overembelishing' and/or being completely unreasonable. (Oh, were you already thinkin' that?) Know that this is my conversation with the first person I spoke with...

AT&T-er: we needed to do sumthin' (blah, blah, technical speak, blah) to ensure the power outage has passed.

BBG PCB (pre complete bitchiness): the computer is on and I suspect it's a connectivity issue because the computer is on and it won't let me get to the interweb and one of the lights is off on the modem.

AT&T-er: but in order to verify that the power outage has passed we need to do XYZ (pain in the ass, time consuming shit) to ensure it's on.

BBG PCB: I'm sitting in front of the glow-y computer screen with a light on next to me and the tv on in the background. I assure you, the power is indeed back on. I don't know what the problem is, but it isn't with the power. It's a connection issue.

...At her third attempt to verify that I wasn't calling because my computer magically powered up without the benefit of electricity, therefore rendering the modem unable to perform, and I was just too stupid to figure it out, I asked to be transferred to a different tech, who possibly I could more clearly communicate with. Know what? That girl told me she couldn't transfer me. Really? Reeeeeeally AT&T?!? Ya can't transfer a call? You're the fuckin' phone company, right? Seems like transferring would be in your wheelhouse. That was the starting point of the ordeal. Things went down hill with each new person I spoke with.

The only solace I find is in knowing that this is my final AT&T problem. (Unfortunately I have had numerous issues with AT&T, both on my behalf and that of Nana, none of them easy or quick to be rectified. Every time a complete and colossal pain in the ass.) My next one will be my last one. Conveniently, my cable company (Time Warner) who I've never had a customer service issue with, offers internet and home phone. (Note to AT&T: I've been your customer since I was 19. Your poor customer service and support straw is breaking my back. *This* is exactly how you lose your customers. You are on borrowed time with me. Enjoy it while it lasts.)

Thankfully, as you can see, I have managed to get ~~my fix~~ back on the web and I feel ~~like a kool kid at a rave with a glow stick, a lollipop and a pocket full of e~~ goooooood.

(Yeaaaaahhhh, that's the stuff.)

Well, gotzta go ~~troll~~ see what else I missed while interweb cold turkey-ing before I commune with the sandman for the night. Young Me/Now Me (click) and ugly, crackedout & tragic tattoos (click) here I come!!

~Size Matters (Yes. A Penis Post)

2011-11-14T00:34:00.041-05:00

Granted, there are a lot of things I don't understand in life. The sheer volume of things I am completely ignorant about is substantial, including, but not limited to:

How metrics work.
Why people like soccer.
If Pi Day should accurately be celebrated on March 14th, or June the 28th.
How people can eat carrot cake.
Why I can't get a moonburn.
How we have culturally gotten to a place where "reality star" is an actual thing.
How jake brakes really function.
Why guys always have to inquire about penis size.

It's framed in different ways. All ways I hate. From "I hope I'm big enough for you", to it's sad sack kissin' cousin (generally proceeded by some self effacing statement) "...blah, blah, fuckidy, blah, I know I'm not the world's biggest guy".   As soon as I hear those words starting to tumble outta his mouth, well, in truthiness, first I get all 'don't say sumthin' stupid' and quickly work my way to, 'oh Lord, what kinda words am I gonna have to string together that sound ~~large~~ positive but that aren't actual lies'.

I guess, ultimately I don't fundamentally understand two things about the big (sorry, no pun intended) deal of the subject. I) The seemingly compulsive need to get a status update from everyone who sees it on their feelings of its size, or Dos) how, even at middle age, it's still somehow a subject ~~you still haven't come to terms with~~ worthy of some kinda uncomfortable discussion.

I guess I can't speak for all girls, but I'm equally as confident that I do not just speak for myself here; Penis' unless they are crazy ass small or crazy ass big, just are. Don't get me wrong, we heart them, we just aren't obsessed about matters of length and girth.

We're girls for fucks sake. If we can't hold our own hand out and guesstimate with any sort of accuracy of how many inches it is, then what makes a guy think that our vagina has the magical properties to discern the difference between 6.75" vs 7.25"?

Like I say, we're gonna notice a micro-cock. And for some this will mean that they will immediately disengage themselves from the ~~discovery moment~~ situation, go directly to the bathroom and return with a Meryl Steepesque deliverance of the following line; "Drats! I've started my period." (Apologies to a blond, blue eyed, dreadlocked, ska band dude from a million years ago.) Perhaps it makes me a bad person, but ~~a lie~~ period fakery seemed like a far better option than any kindly delivered version of the truth I could come up with at the time, and while I didn't know what to say, I knew where it was time to be. A: Somewhere else. Far, far away from the land of Ohhellzno...

Conversely, we're gonna ~~worship~~ notice a monster cock. (tee hee hee...Monster cock. All of the sudden I think I should alert the Monster drink people that I think I can be a verrrry helpful addition to their marketing team. Feel free to email me to discuss my salary requirements: thebigbrowngirl@hotmail.com)

A monster johnson is indeed a special kinda blessing. But it's like gossamer, the Loch Ness monster and Arsenio Hall. Hardly seen. Well, I guess maybe I shouldn't say "hardly seen" when referencing Biggie Smalls. (<-- Code name: He's about 5' 7". But he was born with the schlong of an NBA-er. And not Spud. We're talkin' full on Shaq territory here.)  Everyone ~~with good reason~~ has seen his cock. I've been seeing that cock for 20+ years. I've seen it because we used to get it on back in the day. (Fine. And more recently, so what's that make it, back in the hour?)  And when I say everyone, I mean e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e:

...LB2'd has seen it.
...I've seen him drop trow more times in public than my abacus will allow me to figure.
...Once a coworker who had a part time job at a concert venue who I told Biggie Smalls to find and say hello to as he saw the whatever show, returned to work the following morning to report that she'd seen his junk.

Biggie Smalls is fully aware that he has nothing to worry about size wise. The only thing he has to worry about is how he's gonna explain the public indecency charge he's bound to rack up some day, but whateves.

Most guys aren't as unfortunate as ska dude, nor as fortunate as Biggie Smalls.

Most guys are The Other 69%:

(The Penis Spectrum)

As you can see, most guys fall within the parameters of perfectly acceptable. (Also known as "regular", "fuckable", "normal" and "you are here".) Study this. Know this. Accept this.

There is no shame being in The Other 69%.

It's the sweet spot. You can get laid, but you nobody's bothering you with pesky plaster casting sessions, or giving you nicknames like 'The Hedgehog' (unfamiliar? - click here).

So men, here's the deal. This is what you need to know about penis size~

Asking us about your penis offers up waaaaay too many opportunities for your girl to hurt your feelings. Or lie. How are either of those good for you? The truth is that if we've been with more than two guys, we've probably seen bigger. Now, you don't reeeally want us to say that do ya? On the other hand, do you want to be with a fibber who tells you that you're walkin' around with God's gift between your inseams? It puts us between a rock and (clears throat) a hard place.

Realize that "bigger" might keep us there and happy until breakfast, but "regular" combined with other factors (personality, compatability, etc.) can keep us happy for life. And I don't know a girl who'd trade great until breakfast, for good for life.

Accept this as a read between the lines thing. Q: Do you know when I have a, 'so you're ok with me being a big, brown girl' chat with a guy? A: Never. Why? 'Cause if they're calling me, kissin' me, or roundin' third and headin' for home (Apologies Joe Nuxhall) I can read between the lines enough to know that he at least likes this big, brown girl. Good enough. No awkward conversation needed. Listen, if we've spied it and didn't flee the scene, what you're packin' is workin' for us. Can't that be good enough?

The size convo never comes off as confident. At best it's needy. At worst it's compliment fishing. It's the 'does this make my ass look fat' of men.

Confidence adds an inch.

Knowin' how to most effectively use what your maker gave ya adds 2". ...But that's a post for a different day.

In the meantime, say it loud, say it proud: I AM THE OTHER 69%!

~Nittany Nastiness (Dick O' The Day)

2011-11-10T00:34:00.005-05:00

(And a day seems woefully short.)

An Open ~~Rant~~ Letter to Nittany Nation~
(and anyone else who's mysteriously found their way to this spot on the web)

If you see a child being raped, in front of your actual eyes, the correct next step is to pick up something heavy and commence to beatin' the shit outta the raper. What you don't do is walk away and 'tell someone' whos name doesn't begin with 'Officer' or 'Detective'. You don't worry about losin' your job, saving face (which is just fancy phrasing for 'coververin' up') for a football program, or anything else that bounces around your mind. You stop it.

Unless you're this big strappin' guy:

(Mike McQueary, current Penn State coach, former Nittany Lion QB who in 2002,
while a grad student saw this lowlife, Jerry Sandusky raping a young boy in the athletic center showers. And felt his only human responsibility was to report it to school officials, and not to immediately pull Sandusky off of the kid and
begin manually unhinging his limbs from his body.)

If you hear about a member of your staff being a full on, child rapin' perv, you do not distance yourself in such a manor that you can keep "deniability" while allowing the perv to continue on with his pediphilic ways.

Unless you're this guy:

(Joe Paterno [aka: Joe Pa], 84 year old, 46 years as Head Coach at Penn State,

who last week reached 409 wins and did nothing substantive to ensure that his underling, the child raping Jerry Sandusky was stopped and punished for his abusin' ways. Nothing. He watched out for his ass. He watched out for his football program. He watched out for his legacy. But didn't watch out for the safety of [so far] 9 known boys over more than 15 years.

Apparently, to Joe Pa their asses didn't matter.)

And then there were these Penn State fans who after the details of this story broke went to Joe Pa's home to sing alma mater show tunes and show their support for their long time coach? Please note: People who put themselves, their own agenda before the safety of any child in the midst of a sexual predator do not deserve "support". What the fuck is wrong with you? There's sumthin' to be said for having someones back and being loyal n' all. But is the guy who essentially is a co-conspirator in kiddy sex abuse really the guy who deserves good ol' school loyalty? You might like what he accomplished for you on the field, but once knowing his personal involvement in this scandal, how in the hell do you rationalize being proud of his affiliation with your school? His actions are not meritorious of a 'atta boy pat on the back. You should be disgusted at his "handling" of this situation. His management of his knowledge of the perv-er-y, while it might not be illegal, it sure as shit isn't the way you'd want to see things handled by someone revered for their judgement and ability to make the right call in the fury of the moment. (Now imagine instead of it being that kid or those boys it was your child? ...Still "proud"?)

I certainly don't wanna sound like I'm taking any of the responsibility for such heinous behaviours away from Jerry Sandusky. But a pedophile is gonna be a pedophile. It's like asking a tire to be a book. A tire's job is to be a tire. And that's just what it's gonna be. A pedophiles job is to be a ~~an oughta be caught, strapped down, stripped and taken to aggressively with a potato peeler until a bloody, pulpy mess~~ pedophile. I can't expect him to not be a monster. But I do expect that my fellow bi-peds with a soul and IQ greater than 43 will not be monsters themselves with an astonishing inadequate response. (<-- And that's the fuckin' minimum level of my expectations.)

To the "Ya never know what you'd do" peeps. ~~Fuck. Off~~. Wait. You're right. Ya don't ever know what you'd do in a situation. For instance, I don't know if I would have picked up a baseball bat and started a whalin' on Jerry Sandusky's head, or if I would have ~~efficiently~~ simply double tapped him in the dome. ...So ya really don't know what you'd do. But the rest of us decent people know what we wouldn't have done. We wouldn't have walked away while some wet kid stood in a shower being used as a sex toy for some old, skeeved out perv abusing his standing, power, and an actual human being. We wouldn't have sat in silence while this guy had another 15 years of access to unsuspecting kids and their families.

It was announced that Joe Pa would *retire* at the end of the season. Apparently, that was the deal struck by Penn State and their head coach. Penn State leadership should be embarrassed by the message that sends. Allowing someone who chose to go unethical and unconscionable routes under the color of your school to stay on to coach out the final games of a season is a both a tacit and yet repulsively overt endorsement of his choices and actions.  Would Joe Pa being drummed out tonight be fair to the team? Hell no. But it would certainly send a message that child safety, integrity and respect for the honor of the institution is paramount. And that failing to uphold those tenants is not acceptable. Period. While it might not be fair it is the right thing to do. <--...A lil' sumthin' Penn State could use more of right now.

(Evidently, as I was typing this post last night, Penn State administration clued into this fact and canned Joe Pa. The result? Riot police being deployed [click here])

Until now, I've had nothing against our Big 10 brethren. I had mad respect for a coach who's been at the helm at such an elite level for such a long time, and with such a winning record.  But I've said it before. I'm sayin' it now. And unfortunately, I'm sure I'll end up sayin' it again... Decisions people. DECISIONS. I don't know why all of them had to be so poor, cowardly and short sided in this case. But they were.

So Jerry Sandusky, Joe Paterno, Mike McQueary, Tim Curley, Gary Schultz (click here) et al:

(In fact. I know you are.)

Usually, I like to have a corresponding Gold Star of the day. A little yin to wash tthe dumbass yang of Dick O' the Day off of ya. But it would take a platoon to compensate for the ick factor of today's yang. Therefore, today's Gold Star of the day: Marines (Happy 236 Birthday USMC)!

~Daaaaamn, Duggars

2011-11-09T00:34:00.002-05:00

If'n your not aware of the ~~creepy people breedin'~~ Duggars they are a family who yesterday announced that they are preggers with their 20th child.

The 45 year old Mrs. Duggar, when asked if 'this is it' answered, "well, how ever many the lord seems fit to give us."

Alrighty.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Things the Lord will give us that aren't necessarily good for us:
(Partial list)

Plagues of locus
The ability to consume ones weight in Twinkies
Andy Dick
The BCS system
Angry Birds
Tang
Nickleback
Taliban & michigan fans
Autotuning
Forever Lazy (click here)
Fracking
KFC "bowl" meals

Because I'm ~~weird~~ curious, I actually did the math. At lets say, 9.5 months per pregnancy x 20, that kidz, is 190 months of gestation-ing. Or 15.83 years of bun in the oven time. Now no one can say almost 16 years of bein' knocked up is somehow good or healthy for a body. No way. (And that doesn't even take into account any miscarried pregnancy time.) XVI YEARS!

I guess if she's fine with being at the Piggly Wiggly in the cashier line and havin' her uterus fall out and splash on the floor one day, I should be fine with it too. So, Happy Bun-ing Duggars. I think you're crazy.

~Election Day Makes Me Sad

2011-11-08T00:34:00.002-05:00

Weird reaction, right? How could Election Day make me sad? What could possibily be so screwed up in the inner workings of a BBG that I'd be saddened by this day?

Today makes me think about the countries where people don't have the right to vote, to shape their collective future. And how even though we have those rights, sooooo very many of the ~~fucktards~~ candidates we have to choose from will ultimately prove to be disappointments, if not downright criminals or moral and ethical hypocrites. Only then do I make the leap to the complete dumbasses who will be allowed to vote today. Frankly, I feel there oughta be a test before you're ok'd to cast your ballot. Not to weed out voters from any party, just to affirm they are knowledgeable about what/who they are voting for in a way more substantive than, 'I'm voting for X because they're the X (party) canidate' or 'I'm voting yes on this matter solely based on my extensive research by watching commercials'.

It's a sad state of affairs.

I'm no political junkie, but I am informed on subjects out there and make sure to look into things before settling into a viewpoint or stance. And I'm ~~lazy, apathetic, somewhat cynical and generally uninterested in the world outside of my BBG bubble~~ not the high falootin', egg-head, academically gifted sort. So it seems like if I, and other ~~regular-like folks~~ voters can manage this, there's really no fuckin' reason that every voter couldn't. The democratic process doesn't always go your way. Accepted. I don't mind being on the losing end of the stick because informed voters disagreed, but to think the lowest common denominator of voters swayed things one way or the other pisses me right the fuck off.

And that of course makes me think how disappointed some of the greats, who's concepts have made America, would be to see how cavalierly we treat such a honor and responsibility. From forefathers who got this thing goin', to some of our tenacious and courageous Presidents and other leaders who've set us on course to give us some of the best opportunities known to man world wide. And of course our brave and Badass Americans who help secure us and serve us in the military to protect and uphold our lifestyle and freedoms. If I'm saddened, how much do you think they'd dislike some of the sketchy stuff happening today?

I don't care how you vote. That's between you, your conscience and your Board of Election. I do care that if you vote you do so with the honor this liberty deserves. I care that you love what's right for and by your community and fellow man more than you love some party, or some slick produced and one sided commerical about a matter up for vote.

Oh, and if you don't vote? Well, I want you to shut the fuck up.

But I also wanna thank you for knowing your limitations. There is honor in that too. And I think I speak for the rest of us when I say, we appreciate it.

Election Day Info:

7,200 Americans died during the Revolutionary War, 8,200 more were wounded and as many as 10,000 died in military camps from disease or exposure. Many soldiers from the Continental Army were never paid for their service. They were fighting for the right to vote.
In 1996, among the world's 20 biggest democracies, voter turnout in the U.S. was lower than every country except Switzerland. Belgium was top of the list with 94 percent
It took 72 years of crusading by women like Susan B. Anthony to earn all women the right to vote.
One vote brought Texas into the Union in 1845.
in May 1765, Patrick Henry introduced his famous anti-stamp tax resolution to a shocked Virginia House of Burgesses, denouncing England's policy of taxation without representation. It was the first step toward American independence, and the resolution was adopted by the Virginia Assembly that day -- by just one vote
In a recent poll, more than 25% of the people who do not vote say they don’t have enough time in their day to vote.

Election Day Tips:

~ Do write down your voting intentions.
~ Don't be the dumbass stumblin' and bumblin' around reading every initiative or race, know who/what you're voting for before you get to the screen.
~ Always buy sumthin' at the bake sale.
~ Never eat anything some random stranger, who's kitchen, hygiene and judgement you know nothin' about.
~ Be proud of your participation in the process no matter how the election breaks. It's an opportunity many would die for. And many have.

"Government is merely an attempt to express the

conscience of everybody, the average conscience

of the nation, in the rules that everybody is

commanded to obey. That is all."

--Woodrow Wilson

~Disappointing Mr. Rogers

2011-11-06T00:34:00.007-04:00

As any kid weened on the cordial and civil ideals of Free To Be You And Me, Schoolhouse Rock and Mr. Rogers, I want to just get along.

(Wow. How'd Rodney King [click here] wind up in that mix?)

I was raised to be play fair with others. I'm not the fightin', unreasonable, causing a spectacle kinda girl. Which isn't to say I wouldn't throw down. (There's at least one Chicago cop who can attest to being decked and put in the bushes by a BBG. And ever sooooo kkkkklassily told "and don't get up.") It just means, I'm not of the natural disposition that I'm wakin' up any morning wanting to be a bitch.

I certainly didn't wake up today thinkin' (ding-ding!!) time to get your bitchy on. I woke up pretty good in 'da hood. Because of day light savings I'd been given the gift of an extra hour of sleep, there was bacon in the house, the sun was shining, and we were expecting an unseasonably nice warm fall day. But about 5 minutes after being up and gettin' reds to take Uncle John out for his morning constitutional, I went from peace lovin' and sweet to 'I might have to go to jail today'.

Walking to the door I noticed a piece of paper hanging on the window beside my front door. I open said door and retrieve the paper. Guess what kids? It's the note I put on Kooky McBean's front door in like May. (Yes. As in 6 months ago. ...Where it's been ~~to my surprise, and yes amusement~~ hanging ever since. And no, it's not like she just noticed it today. She's been H20ing her plants 3' from it every single day since I taped it up.)

(The E True Hollywood Kooky McBean backstory - click here)

(The note I taped to her door after geese shit all the fuck

over our shared courtyard/front door entryway.)

Yeah, I know. I'm kinda an ass. It's pointed and bitchy. In my defense, I tried to be nice. (*This* is me resisting being terse.)

On the other hand I had discovered goose shit peppering our sidewalk! Not because of some natural occurring phenomena, but because my dumbass neighbor kept leaving our muther fuckin' gate open. ...So guess what? She deserved a lil' verbal back of my hand. Serious biz, this broad is probably in her 60's, which seems p-lenty old enough to know A) if you open a gate, 2) you close a gate-- and shouldn't have to require me to have to write a fuckin' note at all, but clearly (dodging geese poo) I kinda had no choice. Right?

(In fair and accurate news; Kooky McBean has managed to keep the gate closed since then.)

So imagine my surfuckingprise to find this note hanging on my window this morning? Had someone been here to visit me who left the gate open? No. Have I left the gate open? No. I ain't all that smart, but I am smart enough to know not to throw stones from a glass house that I live in, ya know. It being returned to me makes no sense. I had a message to her (close the gate and clean the shit you allowed, nay invited in the fuck up) when I posted it, but what exactly the fuck is the message for me in this lil' crazy ass scenario? Not to worry, being perplexed is not keeping me from being all the fuck ticked off about it. Before you could sing one line of It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood (<-- click) I'd gotten all, "I'm gonna haveta hit that bitch in the head with a brick today".

I'd like to think I was a better person. I'd like to think I was a size 4 and some great 6" tall ravishing beauty. ...But lemme tell ya two things that are not, in fact, true...

Sadly, instead of ~~changing sweaters and shoes~~ considering ways to be nice and neighborly, my mind went immediately to "This. Is. War."

This is probably not how Mr. Rogers woulda approached things.

On the other hand...

(Exhibit A)

Dear Kooky McBean~
The fact that I have not hit you in the head with a brick is directly correlated to my desire to not be locked up, and is not indicative that you are somehow any facsimile of a decent neighbor. I don't expect to be friends with people just because of our proximity to one another. I do expect that you won't be a fuckin' bitch and complete dumbass every time I have any interaction with you. Apparently, my expectation is woefully outta whack with the reality of our situation. And by "our situation", I mean your continued lack of generally accepted minimum standards of neighbor etiquette.

I'm tryin' real hard not to beat your ass. But you are increasingly leaving me with few other options. Am I really gonna be forced to put a cap in yo ass? Mr. Rogers isn't the only one packin' ya know.

You are gonna wanna choose your next steps with me very carefully toots.
Love,
~BBG

(Note to BBGWorld readers: If you don't see any new postings for several days, please consider contributing to the Free The BBG legal fund.)

(Special Note To BBGWorld readers & Friends O' BBG members: Please create a Free The BBG legal fund should I wind up in jail.)

Haaaaaappy Sunday-ing.

~De Plane!!

2011-11-04T00:34:00.002-04:00

Sorry. That was completely misleading. This is not about Tattoo (the only wee person who doesn't give me the heeby jeebies).

(Hervé Villechaize

1943 - 1993

You are missed.)

(Apologies. I felt like I should use the smallest print

available in honor of the late, the great, HV.)

Wee people, always makes me think of a time visiting Chicago. Who knows what had transpired the night before, although, it's fair to say booze was involved. The next morning in an attempt to save my life, or at least me from an impending, and probably well deserved hangover, Ree hopped me in the car and drove us to McDonald's for the only true effective and sanctioned hangover cure; Grease and bubbles. It was early. I was still in my pj's. The sun was blindingly bright. And as we zipped up a street I saw a small person, a woman. ~~Standing waiting on a bus? Fetish whoring?~~ She was tiny and blond, with her lil' spiky hair. And in the 7am hour she was wearin' this strapless white dress with a peplum overlay and diminutive white shoes. ~~So probably fetish whoring, right?~~ The moment I laid my bloodshot peepers on her I began to laugh hysterically. While simultaneously bursting out into tears. It was sumthin'... Due to my lack of control of my emotions, and appropriate response reflex, Ree did question if I was having some sorta mental break. I tried to ~~pretend~~ assure her I was not. Ronald provided his bounty of nutritionally questionable but tasty bacon-y biscuit-y goodness and enough high fructose, caffinated, carbonated elixir to fill a 55-gallon drum. I thought I had composed myself and was beginning to reap the benefits of a big ass fountain Coke when we passed her still standing there on our way back, again prompting cackling laughter and tears.

Again, my visceral reaction to the wee ones is not the point of today's story time, but I cannot think of a tattoo without thinking of the Tattoo. (And apparently his street walkin' Chicago area mini ho.)

Sooooooo. I don't have any real feelings about tats. I'm not a pro tat person, but I'm not anti them either. I don't have one.

...Yet.

For the past few years I've been seriously thinking of getting one. Years ago I always thought I'd have a yin/yang symbol wearin' a Dr. Seuss chapeau. I don't know why, just popped into my mind one day and struck my fancy. I also considered the possibility of getting a claddagh ring (click here) ring tattoo'd on a toe, like a toe ring.

Mainly, I've resisted getting one because as I understand it, if I don't manage to die some fluke-y ass death (which we all know is the most likely way I'm goin' out), I'm gonna be old someday. And that involves saggy skin. I just don't wanna be the old lady in room 420 gettin' a sponge bath and havin' to look down at some Dali-esque design that used to be sumthin' and now is just melt-y shell of itself. (Of course, by that time I'll probably have bad eyesight, so really, it'll be someone elses problem, won't it?)

The past couple of years however have made me strongly consider getting one. It started when I had a bit of surgery leaving me with a vertical scar running just below my bellybutton. I have several other scars from other surgeries and injuries, so I'm not particularly distressed by it. Or as I gather some people are, embarrassed by them. They just are. Ima roadmap. (Accepted.) But this one? This one makes me think that I might like to festive it up. Maybe because I see it everyday when I hop outta the shower. (Thanks full size, wall length mirror mounted directly opposite of my shower! Good fuckin' morning to you too.) I think I'd like to get a zipper tab tatt'd on the top of it.

I donno why but it just strikes me outfuckingstanding. If I'm shackled with this scar, shouldn't it be doin' sumthin' for me, like entertaining me? It wasn't any fun getting, shouldn't it offer some fun now?

While I think it's a stitch. (<--- see what I did there?) I don't know if others will think it's crazy.

So, others...

~Halloweening

2011-10-31T00:34:00.001-04:00

While not my favorite holiday, I do enjoy Halloween.

I am, as I'm sure you would imagine, one of those grownups who likes to dress up. This time of year makes me think about how much I loved my costumes as a kid. I loved them all. The store bought, hot ass sweaty, rigid mask with the rubber band pinchin' my skull and the homemade costumes. I was fortunate enough to have a crafty Mom & Nana who didn't believe in half assin' things.

As a grownup girl I've been the Great Pumpkin, a clown, a boxing nun* (based on a hand puppet I just had to own.)

I've been an angel. (Wow. A ~~poor typing~~ rearrangement of letters almost made me obtuse. Glad I caught that before one of my dumbass friends found it and gave me a ~~deserved~~ new nickname!) I've been SuperGirl. Because of my enormous love for my pillow stuffed and belted around me giant ass pumpkin face overlay and a stem hat, I've also been the Great Country Pumpkin (I added cowboy boots) and the Great Drunkin' Pumpkin' (I added copious amounts of booze).

(You can ever soooo slightly see the Great Pumpkin costume - Click Here/2nd pic)

But my favorite adult costume was two years ago. Inexplicably I had an overwhelming desire to be the big brown Bee Girl. Ya know:

Why? I. Do. Not. Know. But I did. It has now eclipsed all others as my favorite. Mainly, of course due to it's sheer ridiculousness-- It was an old school, random pop culture homage to a semi popular-ish band and their one (I'm too lazy to Google to discover if that's true or not, so kindly grab your grain of NaCl.) hit. And it was a crazy ass idea to think it was even a good fuckin' idea to be the Bee Girl, as both a fat ass and a grownup. But you know what stopped me? None of that. Nope.

Behold, for all of your mockery and ridicule, have the fuck at it:

(What were the odds that some random song from

1993 would pop on the radio 10 minutes after arriving

at MBG's party I was ~~ruining~~ attending?)

[re: photo inclusion; You're welcome PF3]

Tonight I will be participating in the annual tradition of going to AnonD & AnonR's to help hand out candy. AnonD and I sit on the front porch to ~~critically assess costumes~~ hand out candy. AnonR pops out to grab candy and say hello from time to time. AnonD and I catch up, eat ~~too the fuck much~~ candy as we ooooohhhhh and aaaaaahhhhh over the treat wantin' tykes. I also serve double duty by running the fog machine. While I'm lookin' forward to that, there are things I'm not looking forward to...

Each year I inevitably see two things I don't want to see. 1) Slutty tweens. I expect to see an array of adult slutty Strawberry Shortcakes, naughty nurses and the like. I do NOT however expect to see whore'd up pre-pubescent girls inappropriately dressed. (Attn: Parents-- START FUCKIN' PARENTING!!) And B) Babies trick or treatin'. Listen, if Halloween candy actually poses a choking issue, that kid is too young to be trick or treatin'. I understand your 9 month old makes a cute pea pod, but you carrying it around the neighborhood taking candy from people? That you're gonna eat? What the fuck? You're a grown up. Get your own bag of candy. You'll have exactly the type of candy you like and I won't think you're an asshole. I get you wanna show ~~that you had sex~~ off your baby, I'm just sayin' maybe you could walk it around giving a piece of candy to your neighbors. Social. Showin' off your tot. And people will think you're super nice. (And, again, not an asshole.)

*The year of the boxing nun the party I attended also included a Jesus and a priest. Talk about an unholy trinity... First of all, our intern/Jesus came as Jesus because I had named him (as I am wont to do)...Jesus. I would pretty much only refer to that poor intern (who's real name I can't even begin to remember) as Jesus. Except for when we were in front of clients (or similarly real people), when I would call him Jesus in Spanish. (aka: Hey. Zeus.) I'm not a complete ass after all. Anyhoo, the priest, for some reason had an enormous fake cock. God, I wish for the life of me I could remember why the priest had a big ass fake johnson, but needless to say somewhere out there someone has a photo of a big brown boxing nun on her knees givin' fake holy head to a priest. With Jesus a step away watchin'.

...Well. Now that I've ~~creeped you out and giving you a sight your eyes may never recover from~~ shared waaaaaay the fuck too much;
Haaaaaappy Halloween!!

~How Uncle John Almost Died

2011-10-28T00:34:00.002-04:00

Uncle John and I were having our nightly bedtime routine. Uncle John had a lil' stick of celery and a couple of baby carrots. While I gobbled the rest of the 3/4's of a Hershey bar I had started the night before. (Girl can't keep her blog titled Big Brown Girl if she doesn't keep her fat ass figure you know...)

Sometimes we play for a minute, sometimes we just plop down and prepare for the Sandman to creep in. For some reason Uncle John hopped off the bed and left the room. While it was unusual for him, I just figured he needed one last drink of H2O before slumber. When he didn't return I called for him to come. ...And he didn't.

Now, I've had a loooooong ass day and am kinda tuckered out, so I call for him several more times. Still, nuthin'. Now I'm getting pissed. Mostly because now I have to get outta my warm and cozy bed, leave my blue cave room and go on a walk about for my ill behaved and noncompliant dog. I know in theory, I should be able to let Uncle John have his doggy sleep any place he fuckin' pleases, but here's what happens if I do:

At the ass crack of dawn Uncle John will see something; Someone out walking their dog. The newspaper 4:30am deliver-er, a 'I'm free! I'm free!!' taunting squirrel. Whatthefuckever.
Uncle John will bark.
Uncle John will wake me up making me cranky.

Which is why I insist he sleep somewhere upstairs, which usually ends up being my bed. As he's 15 lbs and an indoor dog for the most part, and get's regular baths, I don't care that he sleeps in the bed. To tell you the truth, that lil' dog really throws some heat which is kinda handy during cold months.

Anyhoo, I'm clearly digressing.

So I traipse downstairs expecting to see him obdurately sittin' on the sofa giving me his pattented 'whaaaaat? Me? Doin' wrong?' look. But he wasn't to be found. Then I go to the top of the downstairs-downstairs steps and continue my verbal pleas for him to now, "come the fuck upstairs, Uncle John". Even for Uncle John this was a high degree of insolence. I walk down to BBG HQ, turn on the light-- gettin' ready to really get Uncle John in trouble as I saw his lil' schnauzer ass standing, looking in a corner. With a bag over his head.

Earlier in the evening I had called dinner one of my world class grilled cheese sammies and the last 5 ginger snap cookies remaining from my recent house sitting adventure (click here) scavenger hunt. Usually, because I'm lazy, too lazy to want to have to clean up some big ass mess at a later time, I put stuff in the trash on my next trip past a bin. But for some reason I'd left it on a table where tv is watched. Apparently, that was too much temptation for ol' Uncle John who was compelled by his canine genes to get into it. Literally.

By the time I wandered downstairs Uncle John was standing with his doggy face against a wall, shaking and hyperventilating. Poor pooch. When I discovered Uncle John and freed him from his bag-y death chamber, his lil' face was all sweaty and hot from his heavy (recirculated air) breathing. I'm soooooo glad I didn't just roll over and think, 'oh, Uncle John's just off doin' Uncle John junk' and fall asleep.

I've grown accustomed to Uncle John tryin' to kill me (click here) but Uncle John tryin' to kill himself? Well, that was a first. And hopefully the last.

Viva la Uncle John!

~Down With Nazi's

2011-10-26T00:34:00.003-04:00

So I'm riding in a car. Shotgun, of course. I see this kid, a toe head boy child, maybe ten-ish? Anyhoo, he's walking down his lil' boy sidewalk (frankly I felt dangerously close to a heavily traffic'd thoroughfare, but I'm not his parents, who were standing right there on the porch) and he's walkin' with his lil' boy arms outstretched and high steppin'. Like. Full on goosestepping.

So immediately, I'm all, why the fuck would those parents be training their kid to be a Nazi?!?

...And then, after we were well past the youngster mind you, it registered that he was (DING!!) probably bein' a zombie.

Probably, just a zombie and not an abhorrent ethnically cleansing zombie.

When I had the 'regular zombie' epiphany my first thought was 'awwwwww shhhhhhhit, I'm suchhhh a dumbass'. That's when ~~in a delusional attempt to make myself feel better~~ it hit me that I eventually am gonna hone in on the more reasonable and rational plan/explanation/self made truth, etc., but that my natural inclination (obviously) is, more often than not, going to take me to the cracked out first. It's a present my mind gives me of having everything as an option-- everything is on the table. Kinda, momentarily at least, making all possible. Which in a warped way is nice (helpful? amusing?). It might take an extra minute to get to the reasonable path or thinkin', but sometimes my kooky allows me to approach things in such an unlikely fashion that it can result in borderline brilliance*.

I routinely come up with ~~surprisingly lazy~~ innovative ways to approach things because of my lack of initial conventional thinking. They say there's more than one way to skin a cat and my mind wants me to consider 9 other ways before it goes to the most commonplace method. So I guess having to eliminate the ridiculous is the trade off for being creative, outta the box, and a free range thinking BBG. And I'm ok with that. Fuck. I'm kinda grateful for it.

...Or at least that's how I choose to 'silver lining' the workings of my mind.

Here's hoping you encounter zero zombies today, and that if all of your thoughts aren't reasonable and rational, that at least they're entertaining.

*This NOT being one of those times.

P.S. In non-zombie, or crazy thinkin' news: Haaaaappy Birthday to Abby's Dad!

~I See Dead People

2011-10-24T00:34:00.000-04:00

And frankly, I do not like it. I've mentioned before that I'm not exactly the squeamish sort, which I know is all subjective 'n junk. So for perspective purposes, allow me to share a childhood day seared into my memory. Seared, in only a way your mom being pissed the fuck off to the nth degree can stick with you after so many passing years.

Let's suffice it to say I was a headstrong, gonna-have-my-way, just smart enough to be crafty, kinda kid. Being quick with a smile, a tad gregarious, and ~~occasionally~~ thoughtful, probably saved me from both daily ass kickings in school, and from being dropped off at the local home for obstinate and incorrigible youth. When people say I'm a handful, I always suspect they mean Andre The Giant's...

(Andre The Giant, you are still missed.)

...And if I'm bein' honest, I can't really offer up refutable proof to the contrary.

I was maaaaaybe eight? 9? My Dad was studying for the Sargent's exam on the local constabulary at the time. One day I stumbled upon some of his text books and being an avid ~~picture looker at-er~~ reader, I found myself immediately captivated and totally enthralled by the pages. Everything from fingerprinting and other identification techniques (pre DNA days, don'tcha know. Yeah, I'm old. Suck it.), teaching me accident investigation proceedures and new shiny words like yaw (if'n ya don't know - click here) to how to determine trajectory of gunshots. I know you must find yourself thinking ~~get to the fuckin'' point BBG!~~ what about reading could make my Mom flip her lid? Reading is good. According to Carol Burnett, it's fundamental for fuck's sake.

Well. It wasn't so much the practicing of literacy that made her lose her mind up in here, up in here (Apologies for the random DMX-ness.) as it was the subject matter. On this day Mom wandered into a room to find her sub-10 year old daughter perusing pages showing in great graphic, up close and technicolor, in stark morgue-y detail gunshot head (and other body part) entry and exit wounds. There I was learning to discern the difference between a entry and an exit hole, a wound from 1' vs. 8' and long gun vs. handgun wounds. I remember I thought it was the neatest thing. Not in the, 'I'm gonna start wetting the bed, starting fires and harming small animals' kinda way, I just thought it was cool knowin' stuff other people didn't know. (Public Declaration: I, BBG am fully aware that this story signifies that I am an odd ball. Next time you're visiting 'da World and you reading some of my cracked out ridonkulousness, at least you know I come by my odd ballness naturally. No juicin' here, baby.) Mom expressed her displeasure at Dad for leaving such subject matter easily accessible by a Little Brown Girl. Let's just say it wasn't pretty.

So there. That is my level of squeamishness with dead people. So when I say I'm seein' too damn many dead people, I think that's sayin' sumthin'. And I am seeing too many dead people these days. First it was dead MJ (click here for my version of the story if you missed it) then this past Thursday it was Gaddafi (Kaddafi or any of the other 17 various spellings). Until these two, I don't recall the news showing dead people like that here in the U.S.

Things are changing rapidly.

When the news broke of his demise Matt Lauer gave a big ol' danger-danger Will Robinson! before they showed a still photo of the dead Gaddafi. Here's how fast we as a society changed that day; By the 6:30pm news they just jumped the fuck in with rollin' video of a floppin' around, bloodied, dead and dying, Condi lovin', Just For Men abusin' Lybian dictator. It struck me that over the span of the morning news to the evening we went from not being accustomed to seeing dead people, with seemingly little, if any uproar or outrage. I haven't heard of anyone gabbin' about being appalled. But I'm kinda shocked.

I know that it's very commonplace in other areas of the world for dead people to be aired on tv. I'm sure the watchers of Al Jazeera are phased zero by catching a glimpse of some news worthy corpse.  I'm not even making a judgement on that. Who the fuck am I to say just because it's not sumthin' I'm used to it's wrong just because I'm unaccustomed to it? I mean, I can see how that's (our until now not being exposed to dead people on the news) perceived as provincial. And maybe even hypocritical, we are after all, the sausage people of death. We don't mind engaging in it (death penalty, wars, etc.) either outright or tacitly, but like snausage, we do not wanna see how it's made. We don't have the societal stomach to see the result of such actions. Noooooo, sir. Not in America.

Until (mark it down, kidz) Thursday, October 20, 2011.  When it all changed. Sometime between 8:30am and 6:35pm EST.

I gotta tell ya this change leaves me a tad melancholy. To see that content and images that once would have struck horror into a parent if their child saw it/them, now is the new, and seemingly unnoticed status quo. Perhaps it's just the natural evolution in an era of saturated by CSI this and Call Of Duty that. Back in my day it if ya wanted some snuff a ~~sick and twisted fuck~~ person had to know somebody familiar with back channel sources to procure their death porn. The interweb made it easier to access such things, but still, *you* had to purposefully seek it out and troll for deadrus.com. Today we've morphed into a society where ya might get a corpse with your coffee.  Death porn has officially moved from some sketchy $.25 booth on the outskirts of town to literally Time Square. (Irony ruling, Mr. Giuliani? [for out of U.S. visitors, Rudy Giuliani, former mayor of New York City cleaned up Times Square transforming it from a collection of porn emporiums and other adult fare to a family friendly tourist ~~trap~~ attraction. Essentially driving porn into more residential areas.]) I gotta tell ya, these death depiction ch-ch-ch-changes make me yearn for the good ol' days of Small Wonder and PacMan. (<-- Well. I guess now you can mark down today as the day I turned old. (Stay tuned! Stories of how long my walk was to/from school and how much snow there was and the price of gas and bread when I was young to come.)

Although in fairness, while this is a "new" turn of events in our culture, we should acknowledge that 100 years ago many American families would have considered packin' the kids up, hitchin' up the horses and taking the wagon to the town square to watch a hanging with a nice picnic lunch to have been de rigueur.

It's important to note that much of my panties in a bunchedness over seeing dead people is that every time I do my brain silently whispers 'I seeeee dead people' to me. And then it's a double whammy for me; dead people image and that creepy Haley Joel kid in my head (Jealous? No. I thought not.).

Sooooo group participation time...
Seeing dead people on tv? Yea or Nay?

~Lions, Tigers & Bears: Oh, My!

2011-10-19T00:34:00.011-04:00

First, I wanna thank whoever is responsible (God? Mother Nature? The kind hand of fate? Jacob and/or Edward? The Beebs?) for letting me live to see such a day.

My how I do love those, 'well, I didn't think I'd ever see/hear that' moments/situations.

'Round these parts, we're coming up on the season where kiddies benefit from snow days, too bitterly cold days and even fog days. But today was a first when I heard some area schools were closing due to an unusual situation unfolding. Specifically, Don't Let Your Child Get Eaten/no school day.

For those of y'all not in central Ohio, to bring ya up to speed:

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Because I am a horrible grandchild, my first inclination was to torment my granny with these breaking news details. (I'm sure that's some kinda sign, and likely, not of the ~~mentally stable~~ good variety.) Anyhoo, there I was 7:12am jingling Nana.

(Early ass ring-a-ding-ding)

Nana: Hello.

BBG: Just wanted to let you know Uncle John and I have already been out and are still alivvvvvvvvvve.

Nana: Good. What's that mean? What's going on?

BBG: (surprised that she was unaware of the ta-doin's. Her local news, all of 60 minutes away isn't carrying such unique news, as if there's just a ton of more interesting tales outta Buckeyeland this morning?) Well...blah story details, blah, fuckidy blah. (massive amounts of childish and likely inappropriate laughter)

Nana: My God! Next time you take Uncle John out you take a chair and whip!

(I love that Nana's got me all top hat and black taile'd up! Awesome.)

The story broke last night and needless to say I was sucked in from go. This morning I woke to my local news reporting that Jungle Jack Hanna (Columbus Zoo, Director Emeritus and national wild life celebrity) was on scene directing things, reassures me that everything will be jussssst fine soon.

One of Jungle Jack's sage pieces of advice was, "if you see an animal, stay indoors." (Noted.) I think you can see why I'm so confident in his abilities to rectify this situation.

While I am ~~over?~~ filled with glee because of this crackedout, crazy ass ~~tail~~ tale. In seriousness, I do feel sad about animals who have been put down. Apparently today one of the things Jack is overseeing is trying to tranq the remaining roaming animals instead of shooting on sight.

News Flash:
(Who fuckin' knew there'd ever really be a news flash here in BBGW?!? ...It truly is an amazing day, kidz.)

My inside scoop, who will remain anonymous, has friends in the area, tells me scuddlebutt is that the owner of the animals was recently released from the pokey on gun charges and that his wife had just left him. My source also tells me that he opened the cages/gates and free ranged all of the animals, left a note saying something to the effect of "Marion, you hated these animals now their yours to catch/deal with" and shot himself.

I'm sure as the day goes on we'll be able to check the veracity of that you-heard-it-here-first story. The only thing to make this day better would in fact be that I scooped Ann Curry, ya know?

STAY ALIVE my peeps!!

Update:

The Sheriff in the jurisdiction, along with Jungle Jack held a news conference about 1/2 hour after this was posted and confirmed that the owner had committed suicide and was the person responsible for freeing the animals. (Note to Ann Curry: Suck it!)

Since then my source reports that he may have done this on his estranged wife's birthday. And that this guy has a history of crazy. Apparently the former Vietnam vet (pilot)/owner once landed a plane at the local fairgrounds while a horse show was happening for reasons unknown, and had had some legal troubles over starving a herd of longhorn steers as part of his record. ...Watch out Brian Williams!

~And The Hunt Was On

2011-10-17T00:34:00.002-04:00

As last we left off, I was engaged in a deeeelightfully wacky scavenger hunt whilst house/dog/carsitting.

Items retrieved include:

Mini Mt. Dews. I'm 99.44% sure were placed so that I could feel like a giant when drinking them. (P.S. I did. P.P.S. It was fuckin' awwwwwesome.)
These things that I'd only seen on TV prior to discovering (making me super excited to try 'em!):

(They tasted just like I thought they would. Like a host/wafer/Jesusbiscuit

[I possibly have made the last up.] with nonpareils, hard chalky nonpareils.

Honestly, I kinda really liked 'em.)

Some Mike & Ike bubble gum
Magazines
Pringle's
Barrel O' Monkey's (Jealous?!? Yeah, that's right I got a Barrel O' Monkey's. Suck. It.)
Mini candy bars
A blow up bop-it type toy:

Sadly, this wonderful and entertaining turtle toy had the life expectancy of a goldfish. A sad, overheated, livin' in dirty water, possibly rabbies ridden goldfish. (Dear Anyone new here: I am fully aware aquatic life neither carries, nor is susceptible to rabies. I enjoy making things up from time to time for my own personal merriment.)

Yesterday I blew it up and bopped (punched) it a few times, causing Abby Cadabby (Mom and her code nameless main man's lil' d oh double g, to skitter for shelter and safety, while Uncle John jusssssssst fuckin' stood there. Lookin'. Like, 'what could be weird about this situation?'. (Which may be very telling of poor ol' Uncle John's BBG HQ existance...) I wouldn't swear to it in a court of law or anything, but I think I saw him shrug his wee doggy shoulders.

(Side note time: A big ass shoutout to my Mom, who sat there, watched her grown ass daughter come in, sit down and proceed to blow up an ages 3 and up latex turtle and begin to play with it and didn't immediately Google the local straightjackeotorium. Lady, I bless the day you were born.)

After a ~~probably too damn long period of time~~ few minutes of playing. ...And of course after making my Mother stick her finger through a turtles tail and whack it around a few times, ~~likely for seeing something else shiny or sparkly~~ I sat it down. We continued to gab away and all of the POP!! Turtle toy that I hadn't even named spontaneously exploded.

RIP Latex turtle

Sunday, October 16, 2011 - 4:45pm

--to--

Sunday, October 16, 2011 - 4:58pm

Always in my heart.

Of all of the things I found durring my Adventures In Sitting (click here), perhaps the most surprising was a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' I spied while looking for ~~um, well, I'm quite the wordsmith~~ something (remote?). I'm pretty sure that somewhere on YouTube if you type in "WTF" you'll find footage (<-- complete fib) of a BBG, somewhere in middle America, in a room alone with two dogs witnessing the biggest double take ever. Followed quickly by actual ol' time-y peeper rubbin' to ensure that I was seeing what my synapse's were telling me I was seeing.

Behold:

In case you also find yourself thinking whaaaaaat, lemme clarify that:

So, yes. I am leaving you today with big ass squirrel balls. That's right. It's squirrel ball Monday kidz. And may it be the best one ever.

~Adventures In Sitting

2011-10-12T00:34:00.003-04:00

Uncle John and I have left the ~~general crackedout'dness~~ solitude of BBG HQ for a few days of house/dog sitting at AnonD HQ. Their eldest chocolate lab, Logan, has a few health issues, of the 'I'm gettin' to be an old dog' variety. He's not bad off, just not good enough off to be traipsing through every sketchy trail in the Upper Peninsula of michigan with AnonD, her hubby AnonR and the two 2 year old pups.

This does not mark the first time I've been in charge at AnonD HQ. The running joke is that 33% of this place is mine, when they both are here. (50% if I'm visiting and AnonR is at fight club, but the first rule of that, is of course, that I cannot speak about it...) My household responsibilities generally include safety issues. Occasionally I'm in charge of some minor chopping or stirring if I'm serving KP duty. I've been voted Most Likely to blow out a candle or lock a door for all my life straight, which is probably a good trait in someone you've turned over 100% care for your homestead, pet and with a quick, "here are the keys, there is the car if you need or just wanna drive it", a sporty AnonDmobile.

Because AnonD HQ is also on the BBG Annexed list, other than having to pull my toothbrush outta a bag and having to adjust to a different cable provider/remote, it's like being at home. I know where everything is and how it works, so out-the-door details are usually helpful data like, "we'll be back Xday", "the gun is here" or "I left brass knuckles on the table for ya". (Note: Contrary to those real statements, AnonDVille is a very nice and safe suburban hamlet, all elementary school this and community pool down the idyllic beautiful established tree lined street that. My actual safety here is much closer to Amish safe than to name any big city safe. But always nice of a friend to arm you with a lil' sumthin' lethal as a departure gift, no? Tres thoughtful.)

Seriously, who wouldn't like a few days get away to a place with a big ass backyard for Uncle John to free range in, a natatorium (unfamiliar w/ a natatorium? - click here) flat screens in every room, a laptop left for ya, a fridge full of your favorites and brass knuckles? Oh, P.S. that's only 10 minutes from your house in case you've forgotten something? Talk about a no problem, win/win, easy ass favor to do. Sold.

I was welcomed to my sitting adventure with flowers and a thank you card informing me of a scavenger hunt within the confines of AnonD HQ. (Man, does somebody know how to entertain a BBG or what? I mean the only better entertainment woulda been, 'hey, Vin Diesel or Rick Rossovich/Michael Rappaport/Bruce Willis/Edward Norton/Stanley Tucci/Bob Saget [I like a lotta different guys] is your co-sitter who's duties also include everything you say to do, ya know? <-- Funnily enough, prior to my arrival, AnonD did sanction any BBG gettin' it on that needed to happen. I assured her that if'n I needed to be involved in brown-chicken/brown-cow, I could probably just manage that at my own place. But again, it's a good friend who tells ya you're free to get it on in their home, a good friend indeed.)

Because I ~~watch too much tv~~ am safety conscience, before they departed I asked if either of them had seen 127 Hours. AnonD then started to describe some movie commercial where you pay 4 minutes for coffee, which was about when I knew we were talkin' about two entirely different movies. I told her how 127 Hour guy had to cut his muther fuckin' arm off because he went wild-ing and nobody knew where he was in order to dispatch a rescue, and that I felt like in addition to having their house still standing and their dog still alive, one of my responsibilities of sitting should be helping to direct life saving rescue crews, if ~~hopefully not~~ needed. This of course making me have to utter a sentence I didn't know I'd ever be called upon to construct; "I love you guys enough to not want you to haveta chop your muther fuckin' arm off, so text me to let me know your general whereabouts in case I need to get all 911 wit it."

As they pulled outta the driveway my parting words were, "have fun doin' some shit that sounds horrrrrrrrrible to me."

Camping.

Camping with God's creatures who are trying to kill you (hey, it's called the food chain for a reason, people. And yes, we're supposed to be on top, but out in nature, they've got home field advantage and the ability to diabolically inter species team up.) while dodging roaming wilderness-y adept psychopaths ~~on the run/loose/lamb,~~ and possibly yeti's, does not sound like my idea of a good time. Sherpa-ing days worth of provisions and the actual, albeit fabric, roof over your head, while traversing rocky and pitchy trails while attempting to not fall the fuck down? Hellz to 'tha no. Being exposed to bug bites and ivy's o' poison? Pfffffffffffft. Nofuckin'thanks. ...But serious biz, ennnnnnnjoy allllllll that.

I'm happy "camping" on an inflatable (bigger than my actual bed) bed, that Uncle John seems to believe is his own personal canine bouncy house. Where there is Direct tv. A shower, microwave and gourmet bottles of ginger ale. ...Just one of the items discovered on my scavenger hunt, so far!

Also, so far:
~House still standing (Check)
~Logan still alive (Check)
~No need to use any lethal weaponry (Check)
~AnonD & AnonR still alive (As of last text; Check)

...But, ya know, totally keep your fingers crossed and all.

~I Believe

2011-10-06T00:34:00.001-04:00

Anytime I see a man alone in a car in a parking lot, particularly parked as far away from any other vehicle as possible, that he is whacking off.

Love,

~BBG

~Tatanka, Tires, Glow Stick Dildos (& Apologies)

2011-10-04T00:34:00.014-04:00

Saturday AnonD swung by after errand running to pick up Uncle John who was heading over for a doggy sleepover while I hit the road to have a sleepover at LB2'd HQ, about an hour and 1/2 away. (FYI a trip which can be made at 04:30 in the morning, at least, if you are told a new life is about to pop outta your besties lady business, in approximately 45 minutes. ~My apologies to Buckeyeland law enforcement.)

There are several (too many?) houses I visit that are de facto BBG annexes. Homes where even though they ~~technically~~ belong to others, I treat as my own upon my arrival. I know where everything is. I know where my stuff goes. I'm free range coming, going and doin' whatever the hell I please places. Those you're visiting, but not a visitor locations. I love those places. (And their owners.)

Anyhoo, I spent some time with the Godkidz catching up, getting school pictures, seeing new accomplishments, even got to do some ohhhhh and ahhhhing as Lenz prepared for her Homecoming. It was all very wholesome, in fact Little House on the Prairie was discussed, oddly enough. After the requisite fancy dance pictures were taken and Godkid J and Mini Me were fetched some food and entertainment for the evening, the grown ups (LB2'd, Hubby To Be #3 et moi) headed out 7 minutes down the street for some adult fun, which I think as we all know turned into a randomness-o-rama.

That probably started when we inquired about the "tatanka sauce" listed on the menu at the college adjacent establishment. Weirdly, last weekend Dole Pineapple and I were hanging out when the conversation turned to tatanka and resulted in the both of us gittin' all Dances With Wolves wit it making the hand signal for it, a la Kevin Costner (nee, John Dunbar).

(Damn you Google for not having a

pic of him with fingers as horns!)

("Tatanka", so says the timeless classic Costneriffic epic, is a Native American word for buffalo. If you're curious, feel free to relinquish 17 hours of your life to watching Dances With Wolves to verify the veracity of my description. I dare ya.)

We were all a beer in when we ~~frightened~~ amazed our blue hair'd, facial pierced, flannel wearin' waitress when spontaneously both Hubby To-Be #3 and I took ~~fingers~~ horns to head as we queried what the fuck tatanka sauce was? Because A) we're old and 2) our waitress was born into a world where everyone has always had a phone in their pocket, not only was she taken aback by our synchronized hand gestures, she also had not fuckin' clue one what it meant. Putting us in the impressive position of not only being assholes, but being teachers of pop culture history. It was a proud moment indeed.

(Side note: Tatanka sauce, as it turns out is kick ass goooooood!! Especially with deep fried green beans. ~My apologies to all foodie and health nut readers who are now repulsed to discover that we will actually batter and deep fry any veggie. But it does keep one of the B's in Big Brown Girl, so suck it.)

A high school friend, who I saw at my recentish reunion (Reunion-ing v2.5 click here) who also lives in the area joined in our tomfoolery, which was deeeelightful, as one of my all-time favorite BBG hobbies is looping my friends from one area of my life with other friends from another. It's indicative of the cool ass nature of the people I select as friends that they all seem to get on great when I combine them. Are all people I know gonna wanna go on to be new best friends? Well, I donno about that, (more power to 'em if the mood strikes) but they all seem to like each other well enough to want to be included next time shindigery breaks out, and that's good enough for me, ya know?

Her arrival, apparently ushered in some new and interesting additions to the clientele. I found myself surveying the new arrivals when I noticed this guy with glasses (however sans a fuzzy ball topped chapeau) who was wearing this wonderful chunkily horizontal striped orange and light gray sweater. Prompting me to proclaim that I found Waldo. (~My apologies my wasting time online reader, I am kicking myself for not snapping a pic.)

Soon we were being ~~given some PsyOps potential for future audio-torture musical offerings~~ entertained by a local "artist". Prompting Hubby To-Be #3 (H2B#3) to show his appreciation for the emo/lounge-y guy doin' a cover of Adele:

All the kool kidz where present and accounted for...

Animal hat wearin' girls? (Check)
Oddly mullet'd man with bald spot? (Check)
Girl with extra large and colorful hula hoop? (Check)
(Asked girl to let me borrow her extra large and colorful hula hoop so a BBG could hoop' it? Check. ~Thank you hoop chick. Check)
The Gague'd Up Gang? (Check)
(BBG translation: This seems to provide very comprehensive all things gauge related details, click here.)
Guy with dildos hangin' from his belt? (Um. Check)

...Or so I thought when I first noticed this guy (which when you see a man who seems to have two plastic cocks hangin' off his belt will happen pretty fuckin' quick).

Exhibit A:

(After)

Oh, after what?

After Blue Hair'd Waitress (BHW) stops by our table.

BBG: Do you know what Sideshow Bob has hanging off of his belt?

BHW: Who?

BBG nodding towards this outrageously wild, fro-y curly topped tall guy a table over.

BHW: Who? Mike? (kinda pointing)

BBG: Yes, Sideshow Bob.

Followed by my "come here Sideshow Bob, whatcha got goin' on over there?" (Yes. I am a shy and shrinking violet of a girl.)

Apparently, they were not, in fact, a grand display of his sexual proclivities, as I had surmised. After a brief ~~interrogation~~ chat, it turns out they were a fantastical light show on the go, behold:

(Sideshow Bob doin' it to it groovy LED style)

The joint was still filling in with the, cooler-than-any-of-us set, when we headed home at the very decent and respectable hour we did. As we drove away I couldn't help but wonder what other ~~sources of entertainment~~ people that lil nondescript spot on the map was gonna draw. I do hate missing out on adventure and cracked out situations.

I also hate to have to get all back in time (outta my head Huey Lewis and the News!) wit it, but I need to wrap up story time...

So on my journey over to LB2'd HQ, I noticed that my ride seemed to be pulling. I knew that it could mean an alignment issue, but I couldn't recall bangin' into something, so I took all good medical show advice on making a diagnosis and thought about the adage that when you hear hoofprints think horses not zebras. Deciding to start with seein' if my damn tires were properly inflated. (<-- Girl Smart Move)

As I rolled on down the interstate I started to consider that while I have my own tire gauge, know how to use it, know how to put the air in myself...I. Just. Really didn't fuckin' want to. Thus, making my "helloooooo" to H2B#3 sound a lot like; "I need you to do sumthin' manly for me. Blah, blah, fuckityblah, possible PSI issue... Now before you answer, know that I'm fully capable of doing both the checking and the filling but that I just don't want to." (<-- Horrible Horrible Lazy But Honest Girl Move)

(Filling the BBGmobile - Good egg: H2B#3)

Since he was already workin' all of the fillin' tools (BBG translation: the air compressor), H2B#3 ended up checking and filling the tires on his ride and on LB'2d's too. He told me one of LB2d's tires was pretty low as well, so he was glad he'd checked/attended to it.

BBG: So what you're sayin' is I just saved your wife's life? (You'rrrrrrrre welcome LB2'd).

Making my take away lesson: Laziness saves lives!!

Weekend: You were festive and fun, and really what more from you could a girl ask? Thank you.

~Media Whores

2011-09-28T17:13:00.003-04:00

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.

~Jail Worthy 101

2011-09-24T00:34:00.010-04:00

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.)

~Intolerance Intolerant

2011-09-21T00:34:00.002-04:00

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.)

~Report: New Age (So Far)

2011-09-19T00:34:00.034-04:00

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.

~I'm STILL Alive Suckas!!

2011-09-16T00:34:00.001-04:00

...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!