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Showing posts with label My Cute Ass Dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Cute Ass Dog. Show all posts

Monday, December 12, 2011

~Captive Wilding

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.'


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Friday, October 28, 2011

~How Uncle John Almost Died

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!


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Sunday, July 24, 2011

~Uncle John Is Trying To Kill Me

I can't say why, but clearly my little 15 lb. schnauzer is trying to hasten my demise.   

Exhbit A:

(He's serious:  Uncle John built in murder redundancy)

Dear Uncle John,
I do not think attempted murder qualifies you for good boy status.  Additionally, it's not even a good fucking idea.  With your lack of opposable thumbs how do you think you're gonna eat, or open the door to go outside?  I'm also your only access to all of your treats.  May I remind you that you do not posses the upper body strength to open the fridge.  You remember the fridge-- the magic box that houses all of your favorites; celery, baby carrots, strawberries, lettuce and blueberries.  And if I'm piled in a bloody, open fractured heap at the bottom of the stairs who do you think will help you play with your toys?  They don't throw themselves, you know.

Kindly stop trying to kill me.  I've got my eye on you.
Love,
BBG 


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Tuesday, July 12, 2011

~Regrets? I've Had A Few

Ok, I don't have many.   Which I guess at this stage of my life is a pretty fortunate thing to be able to say.  As life has presented opportunities, I've tried my best, whenever possible and/or when I've  wanted to, to say yes, please.

Play pool with Tears for Fears? Yes, please.
(I refused to call them by their names.  Strangely, they were very amenable to answering to Monkey Boy and Andrew Ridgeley.)

Drive a paddle wheel dinner cruise boat down the Ohio river?  Yes, please.  

(Turns out it's not as hard as one might think to talk Capt'n
into breaking numerous maritime laws and letting you operate a boat.)


Sport a Super Bowl ring?  Yes, please.  
(Subsequently threatening the member of the Steel Curtain to steal his ring, with the taunt that if I wanted that ring it was mine, "'cause even a fat girl could out run those knees".  --Seriously.  It's a wonder I have any friends or that people speak to me at all...)

 
Build a table because I thought I could?  Yes, please. 

(Look how impressed Uncle John is...)

Appropriate a paddy wagon?  Yes, please.


If it sounded kooky, interesting, fun and this side of legal and moral, I've probably said yes, please. (Alright, technically making a Police Officers paddy wagon your new joyride could be construed as being on the other side of legal...but damn was it fun.)

I guess, I've always figured if I'm gonna have regrets, they should probably be over things I've actually done, not things I wanted to do and passed up, ya know?

"...Now that was a bad idea" seems much more palatable to me than, "I wish I woulda..."

But even with that ethos, I've amassed a couple doozies of regrets that haunt me to this fuckin' day.

One is not cutting my godkid, Mini Me's cord.  There I was standing by the bedside having helped watched the new life who carries my middle name come outta LB2'd's vagina come into the world when the opportunity was offered to me.  In the spirit of trying to do right and be a good person, I insisted that her dad cut it, as he had the first born, godkid J. It turned out to be one of my biggest mistakes. Honestly, when else am I going to have the chance to cut a fucking cord?!?  I'm pretty sure some HIPPA law prohibits people from walking into random delivery rooms wielding scissors.  I assume.  However, if you find yourself watching One Born Every Minute (some cable show about babies being born filmed at a local hospital) and you see a BBG lurking in the background with a pair of large ass ceremonial ribbon cutting scissors, I think you'll know it's me.

In the moment, it just seemed like an honor a dad should get to say he did for the rest of his life. ...But I felt that way before they divorced and he contracted a case of terminal asshole-yness.   (A terrible affliction, with no known cure other than murder, although it can sometimes be managed with a brick to the head.)  Stupid me thinking the honor should go to someone who would always be in her life.  Turns out ol' Aunt BBG is the one who's still in the kids lives.  STUPID. STUPID.  STUPID

Now I wish I had a wayback machine so I could go back and snatch those scissors right outta the doctors hand kick DI in the balls and cut that cord my own damn self.    

The other biggie is when I took a flight crew to the airport, back in the day when a hungover flight crew could give a Big Brown Girl the entry code to the tarmac so she could drive them to their jet. I suspect post 9/11, Big Brown Girls can't just drive around on the tarmac of a major metropolitan airport without causing some massive shutdown and being hauled in by Homeland Security. The flight crew was kind enough to invite a lil' Big Brown Girl up to see the gaudy awesomely tricked out MGM Grand jet up close and personal. While they were showing me the cockpit and the gold plated this n' fine corinthian leather that, they asked if I'd like to hang out to meet their passengers.

Tres nice out of them. I mean we're talkin' about some probably overly chatty and smartassy stranger girl they'd known for 20 minutes, who hopped in the hotel van and took 'em because there were no available bellman/real drivers at the time. But nooooooooooooooo. I felt like I shouldn't abuse my field trip from my real job at the hotel where I was working at the time. That I again, should be a good person, I thought I should head back....  Fuckin' sense of responsibility and work ethic!!!  Damn parents and their good parenting.  So I left. Missing my chance to meet Jerry, Phil and the rest of The Dead boys.

Yep.

Private jet.

No outsider people.

A nice gold plated spread of crudette and brie. And The Grateful Dead.

Jerry died about a year later. I've kicked myself for not sticking around ever since.


...So, yeah, Frank. I know what ya mean.


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Thursday, May 19, 2011

~Uncle John's Cast Iron Stomach

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

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

...Yep. 

Havin' fun destroyin' shit:

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

Ugh. 

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

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

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

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

Never.
A.
Dull.
Moment.


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Monday, May 2, 2011

~A Day In Review: Saturday

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

  • I saw this beautiful butterfly:

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


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

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

Fine.  It is mostly ridiculousness.





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Sunday, January 16, 2011

~So, I Sez To Uncle John...

..."you smell very cherry", as he kissed me squarely on the nose.


In longer than I'm comfortable admitting, but am, I thought, 'why does Uncle John smell very cherry?'

So I wander upstairs, where I keep my cherry Lifesavers, in my bedside table for middle of the night coughs or need of sweet.

And Scooby Doo mystery solved:



So long cherry Lifesavers.

Uncle John with one of his trademarked, 'who me? wrong? whaaaaat?' looks.


He's lucky he's so damn cute.

(Uncle John turned 13 on Christmas)


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Thursday, December 30, 2010

~Fuck You: 2010

It's the sanctioned time of reflection over the past year as we watch the ball drop and smooch to the new year. I've had another interesting year. Not, perhaps in the conventional sense of "interesting", but certainly in the, "well, thats sumthin'...", kinda way.

Here are some of the things that happened in ott-10:

-Ate my first deep fried Snickers, McRib, Cold Stone cake batter ice cream, cranberry outta can jelly goo, corn dog, Manwich, Lucky Charm, skim milk & Bocca burger.


Rating: Cake batter ice cream, by far my favorite new find. I've had it several times since. The others? While I wouldn't feel the need to have another one, #1 Snickers. All the rest? Last, Laster & Lastest. At that point does it really matter in which order?

-Increased my ugly, gaudy magnet collection with the addition of Philadelphia and Seattle.

-Grew something from a seed: A moss rose, created by moi!! From a seed people!! Me?!?!

-Found love. He's a good egg. And we make a good match. In a year overshadowed by loss, Double D has been an unexpected highlight and blessing.

-Finally! I have finally mastered the thermostat!! The nights I've woken up too hot only to be followed by too cold are o-v-e-r. The thermostat is on the first floor, the bedrooms on the second, so it's always warmer upstairs than down where it's reading. For longer than I'd like to admit at various, pre-programed points of the night one of us will wake up too hot/too cold, only to stumble downstairs in our hazy half slumber to find that the thermostat says it's 71. Or 60. At 4am, neither 76, nor 66 is within our indoor comfort zone. We've both tried to adjust the temp. On several occasions. Double D even read the fuckin' directions. Once again, my sheer willpower and perhaps random pushing of buttons has WORKED!

-Discovered that plastic measuring cups will be completely mangled by the garbage disposal, if'n one is not careful. Perhaps I should have added measuring cups to my earlier Christmas wish list?

-Saw Touchdown Jesus. Right before it burned to the ground from a, (I swear it's true) lightning strike.

-Learned to make kick ass potato salad. And over easy eggs, which seem like an awful idea, but Double D loves. While I didn't actually "learn" in a way that I could replicate it at home, I did make bread, chocolate no-bakes and fudge with Nana in '10.

-Met a baby who didn't like me. At all. Wanted nuthin' to do with me. With these ta-ta's, babies usually love me. I can put a baby to sleep in no time flat when I'm holding one. This one said nooooooo thanks big hootered brown girl. (Hummmmmm...new blog title for the new year?)
-Wrote my first obituary. Of all the things I never wanted to do.

-Painted trim.


-Found out how hard, boring and labor intensive painting trim is. Straight aways are easy, but cuts on stairs, spindles, etc., holy fuck are those a pain in the ass.

-New lighting: Here, there, everywhere. (PF3 TCB'n, with help of Uncle John, who helps any situation by just sitting and looking cute. Note: Trim before it was painted and sheers before curtains were hung.) (Entry way, Thank you PF3!) (Guest bath, Thank you PF3!! Note: Holes have been patched and painted, yes by me. I'm afraid of electrocuting myself, I'm not afraid of patch and paint.) (Master bath, Thank you Double D)

-Got some new lives to corrupt. Welcome to the world, Maya, Harper and Athen!!!

-Saw a girl cow pee. I'd never seen that before. I must say, it was disturbing.

-Was seemingly stalked by various and sundry pink vehicles.

-Had the mantra I started out the year with beat outta me. "New year, new mojo" scummed to "livin' ain't for the weak" after Papa passed.

-Pulled a biker's ponytail. I just revisited last years roundup posting (Fuck You 2009/December '09) and it seems that this is the second year in a row there has been a 'ponytail incident'. Hummmm.... That probably can't say anything good about how I live my life, can it?

-Purchased a toaster oven. Turns out I think it's outstanding, I'm happy to report.

-Got these outfuckingstanding peeper shades.
-For another year I resisted the urge to bash some dumbass in the head with a brick. You're welcome world.

-For another year I tried to be a good person.

-For another year I was disappointed that a "wayback machine" hasn't been invented.

-Got new tires for ride. Realized that tires can make a discernible difference in the ride.

-Tinkled between mine and another car at a festival, much to my badge carryin' guys chagrin. When a girls gotta go...

-Had BBGW readers from every U.S. state and each continent. Who'da fuckin' thunk it? I mean, reeeeally? Honestly, that's the sign that y'all need to find sumthin' better to do. But from my standpoint, I must admit, that's pretty fuckin' cool.

-New lighting (Part II). (Thanks Ikea and Mom)

-New kitchen phone. Wait. Lemme rephrase, the grooviest retro lookin', 'hello 1954 calling' ringing phone in the world. Added bonus,it has an ol' time-y heaviness in the handset.

-Uncle John ate my toothbrush. Twice. (2nd w/new replacement brush) ...Yes,I know. It's my fault for leaving travel bags still packed where Uncle John can get to 'em. Bad pet owner.

-Was high fived by a random stranger in the grocery store as I exited. To this very day, I have no idea why.

-Was honored by my mini me Goddaughter when she named her SockMonkey after me. It's not a street or plaza or anything, but it's a start. And it warmed my heart. HA! I'm a poet and blah, blah, fuckity, blah.

-Said goodbye to my favorite big brown dog, Gus. Sometimes when Uncle John takes an extra tinkle I think perhaps he's pourin' a little out for his lost homie.

-Made a couple of groovy movies. Wait. That might be misleading. Not like mini Scorsese pieces, or Paris Hilton types, but using pics and movie maker. They're not Oscar worthy, but they're 3 minutes of non boredom. For some reason, my inability to stop to read the upload directions? My lack of computer savvy? My sheer dumb luck? I am unable to share them with the BBGWorld.

-Found the shittiest yo-yo ever.

-Lived long enough to see a political candidate make a public proclamation that they were not a witch.

-Got cable in my bedroom. Every other room had cable except for the bedroom. Yes, that was irritating. Thank you Double D!

-Ate probably more cob than the Surgeon General recommends. But damn! It was sooooo good.

-Started a new life experience by living with Double D.

-Witnessed the lengths some people in my life will go to, to help me, or make things right in my world, or take the time and make the effort to do, or say something kind, or make a gesture big or small to be there for me. (You know who you are, and I THANK YOU!) I realize every day how blessed I am with the presence of so many good and loving people in my life. I hope that I am able to show or convey how grateful I am to have them/you in my world and how much I love ya.

-Saw entirely too many kids in bars. People. Bars are for grownups. Not kids. Is it really dependant on me to notify parents of this fact?

-Spied 1/2 of the tubby cycle ridin' Guiness Record book twins.



Dear Ten~
You brought me a lot of shit. Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed the weird, random, cracked out and crazy. Probably, many times, more than I should have.

I do, also acknowledge, and am thankful for the loving moments and good times and good people you brought across my path. But for all of the bad, sad and awful you brought I will never forgive you. Leaving me only to say: FUCK YOU!
Love,
BBG


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Tuesday, June 29, 2010

~Crazy Cracked Out Corn And I Don't Care

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


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


Evidently, Uncle John is too.


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Monday, June 7, 2010

~Ta-Doin's: The Weekend Edition

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


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


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



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

This is how Uncle John rolls.


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

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


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



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

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


Peace out BBGW peeps.


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Friday, January 15, 2010

~Abandoned Babies Are A Buzz Kill & Other Minutiae

(my view from the tub)


So, there I was, gettin' all kindza relaxed. Just a BigBrownGirl trying to commune with the hot tub and find a lil' peace. What do I do, oh-so stressful that I need peace? Ok. Nuthin' out of the ordinary. But, really now... IS there such a thing as being too peaceful?!? No, I think not. Don't begrudge me my chillaxin'!

Alert! Alert!! Now is the time to conger up the haze of a fade out as the scene transitions into a flashback sequence. (A blog that's making you do sumthin', is that wrong? I donno. If I'm faux pas-ing, apologies. I do not like being a rule breaker.) Cue: chimey music to signify flashback.

...I was out in the hot tub scopin' out some stars. The water was the perfect temp. The air was still. At any temp, uber windy makes tubbin' less fun, in my opinion. (Oh, it's still tubbin'(!!), it's just not optimal, ya know?) The snowfall from the other day (past 17 days, in fact) dampened the sound of the world to nil. Until I was jolted into to wondering if I was on the cusp of having to give the police my statement on the child abandonment case seemingly unfolding in my hood!

Whaaaaaaaa. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Period of quiet. Whaaa. Is exactly what I heard.

I went from all delightfully submerged and floaty goodness to a rush and bundle of adrenaline. At first I tried to figure out which direction this cry was even coming from, trying to simultaneously process why anyone would leave a baby on a step here. I mean, outside of hospitals, police/fire stations, and maybe churches, ummmmm, ok. But leaving a baby on some residential cul de sac-y kind of place on a cold winters night seems like a pretty fuckin' bad idea.

All turned quiet on the hot tub front, then I heard crazy ass rustling in some bushes. And the distinct sound of two cries. Figuring that an abandoned baby probably wasn't tusselin' (I don't even know...with an animal?...with another baby?!?...I donno.) in the landscaping, only then did I decide that cats were the more likely culprit of the night time ta-doin's.

While I was relieved to find out that no babies were harmed during my hot tubbin', I can not say I ever achieved the peaceful feeling I had been in search of when I hopped in.

Honestly, I may have found myself extra perturbed because I don't even like cats to begin with. They seem very hoity-toity. They usually seem to look at people with contempt and condescension in their wee weird peepers. Everything seems like a big ass favor for them to do. Ugh. Cats. The only good feeling I have associated with cats are the Garfield sheets I had as a kid. I loved those damn sheets. Took 'em to college with me. There was something sooooooo uncool and square about it, it somehow seemed kinda coolio to me, at the time. Yep. I was that girl. Eh? Probably still am.



(Check, check, check, check it out- my Garfield sheets in my dorm room. Also note we had been trick-or-treating. Yes. In college. For beer, I suspect. I was the Great Pumpkin that year as you can barely see as I "drink" from my big ass High Life inflateable. Yep. Classy with a capital K, even then, baby!)

For the record, it's not like I want to pick up a cat, grab it by it's tail and start swingin' it around over my head like a lasso or anything. I've certainly never harmed a cat, although I can't say the same for them in return. Those fuckers make my eyes swell shut. FYI, not a particularly good look in a BBG. Plus, one beat Uncle John up! ...Poor ol' Uncle John being pummeled by the paws of a big ol' mean alpha kitty. This is when I learned Uncle John is not a fighter. His solution was very Gandhi. He sat down and put his little doggy nose in a corner with his back to that cat. Before you think my d oh double g is some kinda wimp dog, that damn cat had six or 7 pounds on Uncle John. Hardly and even match up.

I have no idea about the equity of, or outcome of the match up between the crazy (infant sound alike) clawin' cats. Even though I don't like them, I did find myself saying a silent prayer that they left each others company with their eyes. (I don't know why, but I always think a cat wants to scratch out an eye. Yet another reason I think they're shifty and not to be trusted.) And one for babies on door steps. What can I say? You can take the girl outta Catholic school, but you can't take the Catholic school outta the girl, I guess.

So, lessons for the day:
-BigBrownGirl has allergies & cares not for the felines.
-Leaving babies on doorsteps = bad.
-Uncle John is NOT a pussy.
-Begrudged and chillaxin' can be used in a sentence.
-Hot tubbin' is not always relaxing and peaceful.
-Reason #581 why my mom is cooler than me. She taught me the term "chillaxin'".
-Cats are assholes.


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Wednesday, December 23, 2009

~Christmas time is heeeeeeere


Well. Look at me, bloggin' like some kinda cool kid!


There are certain things I love about this time of year. And there are many things I fuckin' hate about his time of year. Christmas ott nine seems a tad topsy turvy...

I love that this time each year I know I will see that Folgers commercial, that has easily been runnin' since I was 15. It's turned into a Yule tradition for me. You know the one. Peter rides up at daybreak in the blue bug, hops out in front of his parents house, sneaking in, having just made it home from college. Peter makes himself a cup o' joe. The aroma promptly permeates the air-- oddly serving to only rouse the sole member of the household who doesn't drink coffee (I'm not entirely sure what this says about the product??), his "surprise" lil' sister. (Little sis is of such an age gap that there's no waaaaay fictional Folgers family parents planned her.) I remember this ad from back in the good ol' guys-were-sportin'-Cosby-sweaters days. A longstanding fave. Well... It was. Zero 9 has seemed fit to bring me some new fangled version of the Folgers son coming home for Christmas. Spied it the other day. There it was. A new fictitious Folgers family exalting the wonders and glories of instant coffee. This edition has a guy coming home from some do good-er trip to Africa (it's quite possible I made the location up. So for accuracy, let's go with, some far away land, deal?). New fangled surprise sibling is still the first to wake up and greet him, but it's just not the same. Ugh. I suppose I shouldn't be so disappointed in Folgers choice to update, as I've never been a coffee drinker.



I also love other holiday commercials. Clap on..Clap off...Clap on...Clap off...the Clllllllllapper!! Then of course there's Chia. Which is really two gifts in one. I mean, that "hair" is alfalfa. It's the Razzles of cheap ass gift giving for heavens sakes! It's a gift of stunning decoration and sustinance. A holiday two-fer miracle.

Lately I find myself really starting to gain appreciation for the ubiquitous Liz Taylor perfume spot more and more of late. It's like, bam-- Liz Taylor: The Audacity to Avoid Acknowledging Aging!!! Meanwhile, everyone in American has likely seen her splashed across some checkout line rag mag in her wheelchair, lets just say in the holiday spirit of kindness, looking her near 80 years and practicing living well through chemistry, I suspect. But sure as shit they roll out with this footage of her from the days of Dynasty and Falcon Crest. (In the name of full disclosure, I assert this time frame solely based on the wings and feathers in her hair and the pads on her shoulders. ...Now where did I leave my carbon dater?) Slinging her diamonds baby. Slinging her diamonds.



Of course, Christmas isn't just about my enjoyment (and/or disdain) of what Madison Ave. pumps out.



There's the Christmas music. Which in these parts (O-H-I-O!!!) starts playing approximately 48 hours after Halloween. I've always thought I hated Christmas music because by the time the actual day rolls around I've had to restrain myself from some showy display of extreme violence because I've been hearing it for so loooooooong that I am rendered unable to gain any joy from it and have been pushed to near breaking point (whew), I've heard it so much by the time it's really time for mortals to be subjected to carols and the like. My personal preference? No Christmas music until, ideally the 20th. But as it turns out I just plain ass don't like a good amount of Christmas songs. I've done some soul searching and these are pretty much the only Christmas songs I enjoy hearing:




(No ranking order. I wouldn't be fair to the songs, man.)


  • Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas time - Sir Paul MacCartney

  • Last Christmas - Wham (I played pool with that guy! Nooooo. Not really. But I'll tell you that story another day)

  • Father Christmas - Kinks

  • War is Over - John Lennon

  • Christmas Time is Here - The Charlie Brown kids

  • Skating - Vince Guaraldi

  • J-I-N-G-L-E Bells - Frank Sinatra ("I love those j-i-n-g-l-e bells"...NOT Jingle Bells.)

  • White Christmas - Otis Redding version (mainly because I'm the warped sort that thinks it's somewhat tee hee-able that it's a black man with a red name singing about a white Christmas. I'm not sayin' that's right. I'm just saying I find it funny.)

  • Little Saint Nick - The Beach Boys

  • Christmas in Hollis - Run DMC

  • 2000 Miles - The Pretenders

  • Holiday Road - National Lampoons Christmas Vacation (I've never seen the movie, but like the song)

  • God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen - Barenaked Ladies

  • Santa Clause is Coming to Town - Dave Brubeck

  • Christmas is the time to say I Love You - Billy Squire

  • Must Be Santa - Bob Dlyan

  • A Few of my Favorite Things - Tony Bennett

  • Santa Baby - Eartha Kitt

  • Cool Yule - Louis Armstrong

  • Mambo Santa Mambo - Enchanters

  • Fairytale of New York The Pogues

  • Oh Holy Night - Charlotte Church

  • The Chipmunk Song - Alvin & The Chimpunks (...meeeeee I want a hoooooo la hoop!!....)



One of my hates about this time of year.... Ye ol' debate of whether to Happy Holidays, or to Merry Christmas. Personally I come down squarely on the side of Merry Christmas. 99 and 44/100's of the time. Especially when we are within hours of Santa's arrival. Uber especially when I'm walkin' around in my Santa hat. The HAT is a clue to the well observe-ed, that I am a Christmas celebrator. I'm Santa sanctioned. It seems odd that I would be wished a happy holiday, when atop my head is an actual, literal sign that tells you I celebrate Christmas? But, much as I wish I could, I can't control other people.

I only have tenuous control over me. Here's the deal... When it's mid March, I don't spend a nanosecond contemplating if *you* celebrate, or observe St. Patricks Day. (My favorite holiday of the year, btw. Rounded out with my bday, Waitangi Day & Bastille Day) No, I wish your ass a Happy St. Pats. I don't expect that if you're of German or Swedish decent that you're going to be offended. It's a real, honest-to-God, on the calender day denoted in red, that I (over???) celebrate, and am wishing you a good one. What the hell could be wrong with that?!? I'm not Muslim, but if someone wished me a Happy Ramadan, even though it's not a period that I observe, I would hardly be offended. On the contrary, thank you for wishing me 30 days of goodness, ya know? Obviously for friends and acquaintances I know who are Jewish, I make it a point to be aware of when Hanukkah begins and tell them to get their dreidle on. "Happy Holiday's" is for pussies. Yep. I said it. Just like I'm sayin' to you now, regardless of your religious beliefs and with no ill will intended: Merry (and safe) Christmas...Jingle, Jingle!!

P.S. For the uninitiated, the coolio d oh double g lookin' oh-so festive and natty in his Santa suit is Uncle John. He's one cool ass dog.




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