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Showing posts with label Random. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Random. Show all posts

Thursday, August 25, 2016

~ Lettuce Entertain Me

I resist a lot of urges.  Mostly in the name of staying out of jail, the ER and/or the morgue.  Sometimes in the quest to achieve proper adult-ing, or not lookin' a complete fuckin' fool at any given moment.  As the saying goes, the struggle is real, yo.

Yesterday I was faced with such a decision.  Go with my natural inclination, or use reasonable judgement? 

As I meandered the produce section I momentarily vacillated between romaine, for Caesar salad, or iceberg for a wedge.  For the gazillion-th week in a row I chose iceberg because, bacon.  I started reaching for a head when I stopped, pulled my BBGhand back and silently started asking myself if I should buy the Stewie lettuce?







Or, like a real grown up select lettuce not based on its cartoon doppleganger-ness. 


(Ok.  Because, bacon.  Annnnd salad shrimp.)




(As you've probably already surmised) I tote ta lee bought the Stewie lettuce.  I felt a lil' like a modern day member of the Donner party as I lopped off a piece of Stewie's head for my nourishment.  Maybe tomorrow, grownupping.  Maybe tomorrow.


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Monday, August 8, 2016

~ Sew. This Is Happening.

I want to make this absolutely clear;  I do NOT know how to sew.

I can't read a pattern, or tell you what a dart* is.  I've never had an interest in sewing or a class.  In fact, I once had to throw away a dress because I couldn't get the two buttons I needed to reattach to do their fuckin' jobs appropriately.  As has been mentioned here before, I am not a hobby person (a weird ass 'n rambly post veering into the subjects of [naturally,] divorce and Tears For Fears).  I participate in no crafting of any sort.  Unless ya count that I paint my own nails every week or so. 

However, behold this fuckin' top I made:

JC Penney, are you seein' this *pay
attention to the pocket* action pose?

Honestly?  I don't even know what made me think I could sew sumthin'.  I suppose it was a combination of seeing clothes and just not being happy with some aspect;  ...I'd like the style hate the pattern or color.  Or, I kinda like that top, but I'd be totally sold if it had a square neckline.  And mostly, (because I don't like to carry a purse) 'I wish that dress had a damn pocket.'  One day I decided life is too short to not have things go your way, especially when you probably can do somethin' about that shit.  I figured if I could drive a vehicle and a forklift, I could drive a motherfucking sewing machine.  (A peddle and an engine is a peddle and an engine, rinse and repeat.)

Being one of those, if I put my mind to it, it's practically already done, sorts, I naturally started by making a potholder dress. 

I marched my ass to my local Jo-Ann store (Jo-Ann Store shout out.  BBGDisclosure:  They [nationwide] used to be my customer.  [Hi, JoanM!]  #AlwaysLoyal) picked a fabric that made me happy.  And it was on.  While I had zero experience, or even rudimentary knowledge, I set out on my, as I referred to it, figurin' it the fuck out 'science experiment' with the mindset of building (as opposed to sewing).  Building, putting things together, spatial orientations, how things work relative to the other pieces/components is how my mind is inclined, whether it be building somethin' tangible, or buildin' in the abstract and/or personal realm.   


  • That one time I decided I could build a table.  (Yea, bitches, a table.)
Wait.  Am I the Big Brown Mimi
(from the ol' Drew Carey Show)?
Once upon a time there was a dress that had become one of my faves.  It had a bow (as a closing mechanism on the shoulder).  It makes me feel like a present when I wear it.  What the fuck more could you ask from a garment?  I used it as a rough guideline, and ta-da:








(Pillowcase dress video)


Obviously, it's not a masterpiece of a frock.  Martha Stewart ain't gonna give me a medal or anything.  Hell.  It might fall apart tomorrow.  But I have a dress today, that I didn't have yesterday.  That I made with my own two damn hands, and the audacity to manage my life under the I-do-what-I-want rules   I feel festive in it.  And, admittedly, like a big ass toddler, which (Fact:) I, sadly don't feel as bad about as I should. (shrugs)   


Top attempt numero uno
The dress begat the notion that I could make a top too.  Once I created the top I remembered that if I hadn't have been a dumbass I would have made it with pockets.  Hence the black and white circle top, new and infuckingproved with pockets! 


The latest sewing miracle is this fine ass pair of jammy shorts.  (I don't wear pajama's for sleeping purposes, so due to my tooliteralism I don't feel right even calling 'em 'pajamas'.  I believe in bein' free when ya sleep.  Hotel, hospital and visiting others being the exceptions.)  I more, although probably less followed this [short video] recipe and sprinkled in some of my own personal tastes, like adding elastic and making the fanciful ruffling on the bottom of the leg. 


Who am I to think I can elastic?


Today's lesson?  Don't let the fact that you don't know how to do something keep you from
trying that shit. 




(BBGLegalDisclaimerThis helpful as hell tip does not apply to sword swallowing, fire eating, lion taming, running a band saw, or any other activity where an 'opps' would easily foreseeably result in death, hospitalization and/or legal action.  Bippity-boppity-boo.  I renounce culpability in any unfortunate events you may experience based on this recommendation.)  


Word.





----------------------------------
* Dart
Don't say ya never learned
anything whilst visiting 'da World




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Thursday, July 7, 2016

~ Dry Brushing

If you're not familiar with dry brushing, you're about to be...

I discovered the practice in this Buzzfeed story I stumbled on and read for, well, no real reason.  Now two things you should know;  1)  I have a terrible lotion ethic (how much so?  Enough that I wrote a post about it.  Lamenting Lotioning 5/15) and I probably only tried this because I already had the only item required.  Basically, if the effort level to try something is zero and it could produce an tangible goodness in my life, I'm willing to give it a whirl.

Now I'm the kid of two police officers;  I'm somewhat skeptical of pretty much everything I'm being led to believe.  While I don't live in Missouri I need to be shown, ya know?  Admittedly my expectation was low on this endeavor.  (...I'm sure this won't make any sorta reeeeeeal difference...)

I was promised soft skin. 

What I got?

Well.  The day after my second episode of dry brushin' I'd already recommended it to a friend.  (If you didn't check the link that I learned from) Here's the drill:
  • Get a brush like this:













  • Brush your limbs (apparently it's important to go from feet/hands up towards your heart.  Reason?  No fuckin' clue, I just followed the directions as they were laid out.)
  • Lotion post shower
  • Live your life and prepare to be consistently shocked by how impressive your epidermis feels

Fact:  Last night I woke up several times during the night.  Each time before getting back to sleep I found myself Jimminie Cricketing my legs together because the level of smoothness was that incredible. 

My friend, LEM's experience/feedback? 










If your skin is of the sensitive variety I wouldn't engage in dry brushing daily.  (I'm a 3x a week-er.) 

Soft 'n smooth skin (better circulation, blah, blah, blah) isn't the only benefit.  I'm one of those sticklers for stubble free gams.  It seems like I'm getting an extra day out of my leg shaving.  Even those last few shaves before it's about time to switch to a fresh blade. 

Dry Brushing:  Do.  It.
_________________

Dear Next Week You,
You're welcome.
Love,
~ BBG



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Monday, February 15, 2016

~ Guess Who's Taking Their Country Back? (Hint: Me)

Fact:  I don't have a bucket list and I don't believe in goals.  I believe in wanting sumthin' and doin' what it takes (as long as it keeps within the bounds of being legal, ethical, moral and generally not bein' a dick to others) in order to get it, or conversely, relatively quickly giving up and moving the hell on.  Scads of factors go in to which route I ultimately choose.

For instance, on a company trip a million years ago we rented a SUV.  From the moment I sat up in that seat and mashed the go peddle I knew it was a must.  I saved my pennies and the following year I purchased one.  I've only owned SUVs since.  Sticktoit'dness.

On the other hand, I, for a brief moment assumed I'd be Mrs. Adam Ant.  By the time Billy Idol hit the scene I'd given that up.  Giveup'dness.

But one of my most steadfast desires is one I've held onto for more than a decade, which is, as someone so easily distracted by the shiny thing that just caught my eye, an actual eternity.  I want to gain admission into the Daughters of the American Revolution.  Of course I realize this sounds refuckingdiculous.  I mean, what are the odds that any American can legit trace their lineage to an ancestor active in the American Revolution*?  Let alone a brown one?  While I'm certain there are other brown girls in the DAR, my guess is there ain't many.  And.  I.  Want.  In. 

( * ...Yeah, I got curious too.  It's estimated the DAR has 180,000 members while the boy version, the Sons of the Revolution has 33,000 members.  Meanwhile there are 322 million Americans, you do the math.  Seriously.  I'm shit at math
[Obviously there are those who can trace their ties back to the literal birth of our nation who aren't aligned with any number trackin' organization, but listen,
I can't Google everything...)

I have pestered my genealogy doin' (and saintly) Mom for yeeeeeeears.  Now it's important to note the I have contributed zero in the quest to bring such a thing to fruition.  Other than pestering.  And that shit is time consuming and more complicated than one might imagine.  I'm not a great daughter.  But I am the only one she has sooooo... 

To be truthy, not only have I not helped, I have actively attempted to dissuade the efforts, mainly when several months ago Mom told me she was doing that genealogy DNA test and asked if I wanted to also?  Pragmatically Immediately I was all, "just because I haven't had to commit a crime and/or kill someone doesn't mean I won't have to in the future.  I don't know what tomorrow will bring." as naturally, one does.  Rightfully so she did not listen to me.  ...Or maybe at her age she feels confident that she probably won't have to do a murder...  I donno.  (shrug)  Regardless, and obviously to my chagrin, she spit on a q-tip and slapped a stamp on it.   (As if to double down on my terribleness I subsequently mocked her upon reading this)

As you may have come to realize by this point I really, reeeeeally want to be in the DAR.  A) (and I don't know this to be true, in fact, it's probably safe to say it's not) I just suspect there are crested blazers involved in the DAR.  I must have one of those blazers.  (I imagine they're blue.)  I want to wear it every day.  I want a t-shirt underneath that perhaps in sparkly letters says I Want My Country Back.  2) I want to laugh as peoples heads explode when they are forced to see a BBG (big brown girl) free ranging the world in that get up.  Is that wrong?   In the past several years I keep hearing over and over again about folks wantin' their country back.  And frankly, I feel left out and I want in on that too.

(Correction:  My t-shirt will actually read I want My Country
Back, Bitches'Cause I'm that girl.) 

Flash forward to two months ago.  I'm at her (Mom and her hubby's) abode (we call it Southfork), I don't know what we were discussing when out of the blue she says, "oh, there's something I've been meaning to show you" whilst whippin' out the iPad.  Before she can even get the sentence out I chime in with, "did you finally get me into the DAR?"  Super surprisingly Mom pulls up what, from a bit of a distance I recognize as the layout of a family tree.  She goes on to show me one the crazier turn of events I've had in my life.  Ya see, as sheer willpower fates would have it, and in an enormous shock to me, DNA links me up as being the descendant of an American patriot.  By the way, we're not talkin' the loose way 'patriot' gets tossed about these days.  Nope.  Not only are we talkin' a by-anyone's-measure, patriot, we're talkin' a drafter of the Declaration of Independence.  (suck it)  And a President of the United States of America.  (double suck it)   I am the 6x granddaughter of (drum roll) Thomas Jefferson.


As stoked as I am to discover this tie to the beginings of our nation I gotta admit it also fills me with, I guess for lack of a better word, sadness.  Sadness upon the recognition of how common place it is that I'm essentially 'other-ed' in my own land.

Fun fact, this happens all the time--

- What are you?
- But where are you from?
- No, seriously, what are you?

The subtext being very clearly, 'because you're not white, I assume you are not a real American'  ...Which is awesome to have pointed out to you.  Constantly.  By complete strangers in the grocery store.  Or while clothes shopping.  Or when queuing up for a movie. 

...How's that for a routine affirmation that entire chunks of society have trouble even conceiving that the vaguely brown chick in line with ya is, in fact, what America is too?  One must admit that it's a shitty reality when skin hue is the seemingly sole litmus for determining what an American looks like.

But congratulations that's our culture.  We're strengthening it every time we nod our collective heads along with the growingly popular takin' my country back mantra.   It's the contrarian in me that leads me to want to co-opt I-want-MY-country-backness to mean a country where we actually do that everyone's equal stuff we've been having well meaning 'conversations' about since good ol' Grandpa Tom was still alive.  My version of wanting my country back is progressing to the point where America isn't just equal in 'theory', but equal in actual fuckin' practice. 

That's of course, not its traditional meaning.  The mainstream meaning of I-want-my-country-backness is something I've found interesting since it became a thing.

On the surface it's usually explained as; 'I want ol' time-y economics.  Or morals.  Or standards.  Or educational systems.  Or workplace settings.  Or.  Or.  Or...'  None of which off the cuff sound like nefarious notions.  (Completely unattainable and unreasonable?  Yes.  [Fact:  Progress, nay, evolution, has been stifled, held at bay and obstructed, but never has it been kept from actually proceeding.])  Easily palatable to large and nostalgic segments of the country.  Except to those who notice that the underbelly, and in-practice version of yearning for the good ol' days is that those were days that economics were often predicated on harsh conditions for the labor of the day.  Harsher still if you were a POC, whether it be the goin' backness of the 1950's or the 1850's.  Going back to the morals of the day logistically entails a longing for an era that it was either moral to own other (browner) people, or that it was morally acceptable to simply not hire, or serve, or worship with, or provide equal educational opportunities to, or live in close proximity to Americans who were non-caucasian, because, black.  ...Not to sound all, everything is black or white, but if history has taught us anything about how skin color impacts POC it's that with exception of the premise that white men can't jump and that black guys have monster cocks, being black in America has never, like ever, been anything other than a disadvantage.  Yes.  Oprah and President Obama exists.  But there are always outliers.  There are always exceptions to rules-- that's why we have that fuckin' cliché in the first place.  The fact that exceptions exists doesn't negate the fact that the rule is the actual norm most will experience.  And the norm for POC historically, and currently, is a state of disadvantage.  Not because it's my opinion.  Because of the actual evidence of disadvantages experienced by Americans based on the color of their skin, in um, everyfuckingthing*.

(Please Note:  *Not e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.  Just employment opportunities, the ability to get a fair mortgage rate or car loans.  And;  the level of health care received from doctors, dining outemployment opportunities, housing options, treatment in the judicial system, employment opportunities, votingin education and appendicitis pain management.  Also;  if you may be in need of an ambulance, and whilst touring a college campus, and riding on a fraternity bus, and h.s. class photo days and when determining if a child is a child or an adult.  Or any of the literally hundreds of racial bias cases listed here that have taken place since 2003.)   


So, if you're keepin' track that's-- 
For contrast, I'll allow Tim Wise to detail some of the advantages of whiteness in America--  



So, no.  I'm not particularly interested in going back to any past era, no thank you.  Also the same reason I avoid plantations, and places with plantation in its name.  Just.  No.  Historically, folks who look like me haven't had a good time there and I'm not taking my chances.  My only interest is in moving forward and helping to create a country where melanin doesn't determine whether a person is randomly quizzed on their authenticity as an American, or used as a mechanism to put people at a disadvantage by the sheer fuckin' happenstance of being born with more of it than less. This?  This I want more than a blue crested blazer, ya hear me?  I.  Want.  MY.  Country.  Back.

* Even if they don't call 'em 'goals'.  (ahem)  True story.


 HAPPY PRESIDENTS DAY, y'all.



Things you can do right now to help create such a place:
     - Inform 'yo self.  (Here [source: The Ohio State University])
     - Watch this YouTube of White Like Me
     - Stop waiting for the change and start bein' the damn change
     - Take the Harvard University Implicit Bias Test


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Thursday, June 25, 2015

~ I'm A Loser, Baby: The True Heritage Of The Confederate Flag

Soon we'll celebrate 239 years as a republic with all of the cautionary mannequin burning, exploding watermelon, 'annnnnnnd that's how I lost my eye/hand' firework-y glory we can muster.  It's (July 4th) a celebration of winners.  Ask any American and they'll tell ya the story of plucky patriots who kicked Team King George's ass. 

They'll probably leave out that roughly 20% of the boots on the ground at the time were Loyalists.  For those historically challenged, Loyalists were colonists who took the side of the redcoats. 

Things you never hear: 
"...My 5x great grandfather was a loyalists."
 
Things you always hear: 
"...My 5x great grandfather was a patriot."
 
Mathematically this doesn't hold up.  ...Somebody's lyin'. 
Apparently, about one in 5 of everyone that tells ya of their looooong
line of American lineage has a pants on fire problem. 

By all rights up to 20% of Americans capable of tracing their familial roots to Revolutionary times should shake out to be what we would call, losers.  We don't.  But only because A) as a whole we're pretty shitty at knowing/understanding history and 2) Loyalists got to the 'bidness of lickin' their wounds and assimilating, (or movin' to Canada/hoppin' the boat back to England) and not to the 'bidness of holding onto a symbol of their traitorous beliefs and behaviors.   In short they had the good fuckin' sense to stop drawing attention to their participation with the loser side of history. 

...And that's the part of the confederate flag debate I've never understood.


For the life of me I can't grasp the concept of highlighting loser endeavors and affiliations.  There's a reason Coke doesn't remind us about New Coke, Ford isn't pushin' hard to feature the Pinto as part of their corporate heritage and the Cubs don't have a big ass mural devoted to the '19 scandal team in the outfield.   It's the same reason I, as a staunch Buckeye fan, don't rock a commemorative t-shrit from the '08 BCS National Championship Game.  (Or listen to, with any measure of enjoyment The Eye Of The Tiger anymore) Thanks, LSU

Reminder:  #LoserStrong (Is not an actual thing.)

That anyone would choose to hitch their heritage to the most spectacular attempt of sedition in our nation's history is batshit crazy boggling.  ...For ya know, folks who ostensibly would like ya to believe they're grrrrreat 'n loyal Americans.  'Cause nuthin' says 'loyal citizen' like, yeah, I'm down to wage war to overthrow our government.

The fact that 150 years after the end of the Civil War the confederate flag, the official symbol of a failed insurrection, is still so widely and popularly displayed leaves me only to assume that somewhere there's a large contingent of those who do fly a confederate flag who are also probably involved in petitioning for a National Benedict Arnold Day and in the push for Aaron Burr to replace Hamilton on the $10.   


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Wednesday, March 25, 2015

~ Lamenting Lotioning

BBGConfession:  I loathe lotioning.

Pretty much every time I have no choice but to lotion up I find myself thinking, 'it puts the lotion on its skin'.  ( -- James GumbOf course there is a choice.  It's called ashy

When I see advertisements put out by the big moisturizing complex the end user always looks ecstatic over the endeavor.  Meanwhile I just feel a bit bitter.  (Dear Epidermis,  I've already washed and shaved [most of] you.  What the fuck more do you want from me?!?) 

I've tried to make the task as palatable as I can create it.  I've
Sunday @ Nana & Papa's
purchased products that I think are funny.  ...Oh?  You're cocoa scent-y?  A brown girl smellin' like a chocolate bean? HA.  Sold.  Or sentimental.  (Chime-y flashback music)  When I was a Little Brown Girl (LBG) I lived one house away from my Nana and Papa.  I'm just realizing I'm probably the only person I know who grew up with two bedrooms spread over half a block.  I could be either place at any time.  But Sunday evenings I liked to take my bath at Nana and Papa's.  It was a whole thing y'all.  Looking back it was like being at a kid spa.  Nana would git me all squeaky and then like a miniature body builder getting tanned and/or oiled I'd get splashed with Nana's Jean Nate after bath splash, lotioned up with corresponding lotion and then reaching the the bath-y promised land, a coupla bops with the Jean Nate powder puff.  It was tres grown up.  Once pj'd up I'd retire to the tv room to watch the Wonderful World of Disney and Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom, whilst Nana clipped my toe nails.  ...So, yeah.  I thought when I randomly spied Jean Nate on the shelf for the first time since 1984 it was some sorta divine intervention leading me to the path of not being pissed off for havin' to do something I don't want to do.  PositiveReinforcement.com, ya know?  As for how that's workin' out?


Bonus BBGConfession:  Occasionally on a Sunday evening I'll find myself wondering if I lived close to Nana if she'd be willing to bring back our Sunday ritual?  Don't judge me.

I adhere to a fairly strict If It's Seen Routine, eliminating any unnecessary lotioning efforts.  (Dear Skin, Sorry to be a pest, but seriously?  Everything swimsuit covered?  It's doin' fine on a live and let live basis.  Why are your limb-y areas so fucking needy?)  Unless money and/or cotton candy falling from the sky as a reward for lotioning is something I can arrange I don't know what more I can do to make it a better experience for me. 

...And yet the other day I caught myself bein' momentarily mad at my vagina for being self lubricating while this skin had the nerve to make me do all the work.  Ugh.  Once I took the step to imagine how that'd work (if flip flopped) I decided that all-in-all the current arrangement was probably for the best. 

 

 


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Friday, February 20, 2015

~ The Day The Pope Called Me Selfish

Scroll.  Scroll.  Scroll.

Minding my own business.  Trying to be knowledgeable of the worldly ta-doin's.  (And schnauzers going rogue to find their people)  Deciphering raw data to determine how many layers will equate to comfort when the mercury takes its impending sub-zero nosedive.  Internally embellishing the phrase 'checkin' the weather'.  Then.  Bam.

Pope Francis: "Not Having Children Is A Selfish Choice"

What.  The.  Holy.  Fuck?

I pride myself on keeping the expectation level of any given day to a minimum.  Like, a bare minimum.  It's why each morning when my peepers pop open I my first reaction is, 'oh?  This is happening.'  The fact that I wake up alive is considered a win accomplished even before my feet hit the ground.  Anything else decent-to-good?  Is quickly classified as icing on the cake.  ...It's one of the tools I use to keep from shanking every dumbass I come in contact with.  

BBG General Daily Expectations:
  • At some point something inexplicably stupid and/or ridiculous will tumble out of my mouth
  • I will learn sumthin' new
  • Someone or some circumstance will cause my head to explode which will in turn cause a smartass or ass-y ass comment and/or gesture on my part that I will be unable to hold in
  • I will then remind myself that whatever cosmic infraction has happened is nothing compared to being dead (#Perspective) and will is THAT something shiny? 
  • An interaction with someone will make me happy to be a human
  • An interaction with someone will make me sad to be a human
  • My food pyramid will be constructed of ill-advised food sources
  • I will laugh at something no one else finds hi-larious (which will make it even funnier)
  • There is a high probability I will sustain some self imposed injury
A Day In The Life...  Getting in the BBGmobile. 
Hit head on garage door opener clipped to the over head shade thingy.

But of all of the things I expect on any random day?  Having to defend or offer any explanation of why I've never put my baby maker to work has never crossed my mind. 

Ok... that's not exactly the truth, the whole truth and nuthin' but the truth.  Exhibit A:  Aniston, Jennifer.  Now I'm not one to be all up in some celeb's 'bidness.  Generally?  I could not give less of a fuck about any celebrity.   But on the other hand, it's 2015.  Good luck trying to watch any news program that doesn't report on shit that in my opinion should be left to the likes of EnterAcessExtraMZ.  While I have no real feelings good or bad about Jennifer Aniston I've always found it weird that she is frequently questioned about the unused state of her uterus.  Weird in the sense that, how the fuck is that a question a reporter thinks germane to any press junket proceedings?  Weirder still that her personal reasons for not populating her personal uterus becomes fodder for negative and judgmental commentary, as if it has any bearing or impact on anyone else's life.  ...So, the thought of having to (if you're a XX chromosome'd human) defend one's like-new state of their uterus has crossed my mind.  But I sure as shit never thought I'd be caught up in such a thing. 

That was before Pope Francis called me selfish.

So here we are.

Dear Pope Francis,
Long time listener, first time caller (ahem) random blog-y cyber letter writer.  I am one of the never used uterus people you called "selfish" last week.  Like you, I think selfishness is a very poor character trait and habit.   It seems more prevalent than ever these days.   It diminishes our connection and understanding with each other.  I'd go so far as to say it blinds us to our own ability to be empathic -- which is kinda the root of everything terrible humans manage to do to one another, no?  

Selfishness is when my needs and desires automatically supersede yours.  That's what you called me.  As it's clear you wanted me to know that, here is what I want you to know*;  I am a registered bone marrow donor.  While a friend's toddler battled leukemia I added myself to the potential donor list.  I knew I wouldn't be a match for him, but I knew maybe I could be a match and offer health and life to one of God's other children.   I am a registered organ donor, meaning when I don't need them any longer my organs are up for medical grabs to provide a second chance at living or an increase to the life quality of some stranger.  I also am a regular blood donor.  And have donated hair.  I use my able-(non-baby'd filled) body to fulfill acts of kindness, generosity and service to others routinely.  And even though cells have never multiplied in my uterus I have helped mother children.  And if we're keepin' it real, other adultsLiterally down to a molecular level I have tried to lay a foundation that builds my character and legacy as unselfishly as I can cobble together.  Don't get me wrong.  I realize I'm no Mother Teresa(Mother Teresa probably wouldn't have dropped 'fuck' twice already.)  But, clearly, I'm trying to be cognizant of putting efforts into being the antithesis of selfish.  Meanwhile, according to you the fact that I've never birthed a baby denotes some kind of latent selfish streak?  Not cool, Pope Francis.  Not cool.

While I do not agree that baby free equates to selfishness, I'm even  more confounded how that even began being a consideration or working theory?   Not having a baby is arguably one of the least selfish things anyone can do. 

The Top 10 Selfish (and uber common) Reasons for Having Babies (-5):
- To 'save' the relationship
- Because, Opps 
- Wanting a mini-me/legacy/someone who'll never leave/love me always
- All the cool kidz are doin' it (societal expectations)
- Someone to care for you in your old age

A lot of babies are the result of actual, straight up legit selfish reasons as anyone with more than 5-7 friends who are parents, or is super self aware and honest can attest to.  Those of use who, for whatever reason (couldn't/didn't want to, etc.) did not (are not) procreate(ing) do not deserve the head of the Holy Sea labeling us as selfish, especially when our actions indicate exactly otherwise.

I don't mean to be impertinent, your Holiness, but you are so off base on this that it seems you actually believe being child free is some sort of radical choice.  Fact:  Some people have no choice.  (7.4 million U.S. women have sought medical intervention for infertility issues)  Some people decide they are not parent material, again for whatever reason.  Personally?  I think *I don't want to do that* is a perfectly valid enough reason to not have children.  (I never really understand why parenthood is so ripe and rife, for and of, mass coordination's of peer pressure to jump on the bandwagon?   Parenthood is the last thing a person should be talked into.  Talking people into trying a new food? Good.  Talking people into trying a new brand of toothpaste?  Fine.  Bearing other actual human beings?  Nooooo.)  Point of fact, I never decided not to have children.  I always assumed I would have them.  I also assumed some guy, who if he never became a millionaire, or short stop for the Cincinnati Reds, or discovered the cure for cancer would still think he was among the luckiest men in the world because he had become mine would come along.  That hasn't happened. (Yet.)  So I ask?  What exactly was my choice?  Settle for a guy I knew wasn't for me just so I could pop out a few wee ones before we inevitably divorced to avoid shankin' one another?  Or to have lived a life that put me in likelihood of becoming an single parent?  (Which as I recall from my years matriculating at Our Lady Of Bad Catholic Kidz is Catholic-y frowned upon.)  Those were the two choices that have presented themselves.  Your error is in not recognizing that not choosing to exercise either of those options (in the event life doesn't unfold to bring the right mate by the right date) is an unselfish act. 

But it's not just me. 

Last week my selfish babyless friend shared her lunch with a homeless man.   Another selfish child free friend spends her time on works to end sex slavery, participates in several charities providing health and education for disadvantaged children.  Yet another of my friends who has never used her uterus is a mother figure to her nieces, nephews and grand nieces and nephews.  As someone who has no children and started of his career being called 'Father', I would think recognizing that those without kids do indeed serve to benefit the lives of others in great and small unselfish ways would be easy to accomplish.  It wasn't last week when you called me selfish, but I hope it is now.
Love,
~ BBG

      

   _____________________________________________________

 * Apologies for breaking the Ash Wednesday Rule  (But ya kinda forced my hand, didn't ya?)   "...my favorite mass of the year is Ash Wednesday.  One of the readings is about how you're supposed to do your 'good works' on the down low.  So much so that your left hand shouldn't know what your right hand is doin'.  Basically the passage says if you're making a big show and/or tell in order to let others know how fucking awesome you are, you're a dick.  Obviously, I'm paraphrasing."  


‘Be careful not to parade your good deeds before men to attract their notice; by doing this you will lose all reward from your Father in heaven. So when you give alms, do not have it trumpeted before you; this is what the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets to win men’s admiration. I tell you solemnly, they have had their reward. But when you give alms, your left hand must not know what your right is doing; your almsgiving must be secret, and your Father who sees all that is done in secret will reward you.  ‘And when you pray, do not imitate the hypocrites: they love to say their prayers standing up in the synagogues and at the street corners for people to see them; I tell you solemnly, they have had their reward. But when you pray, go to your private room and, when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in that secret place, and your Father who sees all that is done in secret will reward you.  ‘When you fast do not put on a gloomy look as the hypocrites do: they pull long faces to let men know they are fasting. I tell you solemnly, they have had their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that no one will know you are fasting except your Father who sees all that is done in secret; and your Father who sees all that is done in secret will reward you.’

 


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Tuesday, December 16, 2014

~ Separated At Birth

When I was a lil' brown girl I spent my hard earned money on this book:



In fairness, my Mom probably spent her hard earned currency.  I likely invested my funds in shares of Lic-A-Stick.  Nonetheless, this book was one of my LBG faves, as demonstrated by the fact that I still fuckin' have it. 

Obviously, sumthin' rubbed off on me...

 
 
Dear Mark & Ethan,
Stop being the same person.
Love,
Everybody

 
 
 
Please note:  Fame is not necessary for doppelganger-ness.  Kid?  Of course everyone knows Kid and his esteemed colleague, Play.   But unless you find yourself watching tv in Buckeyeland, Rob Nestico may be an unfamiliar face name.  Now, I donno what kind of an attorney he is, but he makes a strong case for starting the rumor that Kid entered witness protection, changed his name, got a haircut, moved to Ohio and passed the bar.
 
(Rob/Kid's commercial - Here)
 
 
Separated at birth can even happen to things not actually born.  



 
Did I take the picture of the Brussels sprouts because up until that very moment wanderin' the aisles of Trader Joe's I believed that Brussels sprouts (aka: mini cabbage) were made in the same way regular cabbage is made, in the ground?  Yes.  Yes, I did.  (So, thank you Trader Joe's for being both a place to buy things and a learning opportunity.  Love,  ~ BBG)







 
 
I'm not suggesting Son of Sam and the Top Chef-er have the same mother/father.  But without conclusive DNA results I certainly can't rule it out.  Can you?


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Tuesday, August 5, 2014

~ I Like Those Titties

...Was exxxactly the reaction I was hoping for when I dressed myself today. (Disclaimer:  ...Now the other day because, I'm a shit blogger.)  So, thanks, three guys' sittin' in the car in the parking lot at Lowes. 

It was pretty awesome to be minding my own fuckin' business running benign errands like buying screen to re-screen my slider and to be put in a position where my choices were to stride over to you and start slappin' every one of your guffawin' faces (which, P.S.  your Mom, sister, wife or daughter would have totally sanctioned upon discovering your behavior towards some random ass DIY capable chick) or ignoring your crass ass comment. 

Today I chose the latter.  You may be wont to believe that I chose that course of action because;  A) It wasn't any big deal.  2)  It was just a joke.  Or III)  It was a no harm/no foul situation.  ...Or any of the other completely bullshit reasons one uses to justify being a, well, I'd say dick, but that would be doin' a disservice to dicks.   It wasn't.  It was because there were three of you and I knew I couldn't take ya all when things inevitably got contentious.  So, congratulations.   You used your time here on earth today to be an asshole to some skirt who had the audacity to need to leave her house to buy something, and have boobs. 

Now these were grown ass men.  Forties?  50's?  Old enough to know that, "I like those titties" (replete with laughter) is lame, rude and as I mentioned earlier, asshole-y.  I've always found it vexing how guys, especially ones old enough to, ya know, know better (otherwise known as: older than 5) and those with daughters (/mothers/sisters/grandmothers/wife/et al*) somehow delude themselves into thinking speaking/treating someone else's daughter in a "I like those titties" way is acceptable and appropriate. 

In fact, if I were a bettin' chick I'd wager tens of dollars that if any one of those guys heard some other guy(s), "I like those titties"-ing their wife/daughter/sister/etc., as she participated in mundane tasks-- like, getting out of her car,  it'd be ass kickin' time.   

Today it wasn't. 

But only because I displayed a judicial use of good judgment.  Not because it wouldn't have been an appropriate reaction.  As I told one of my besties, AnonD, "it wasn't a, I had to fight 3 men situation."  In the moment nobody on the face of this earth wanted to fight 3 men more than me. 

Which for those keeping score cards is when and where the line is crossed between a dumbass comment that one may find offensive, and one that no fuckin' bones about it is offensive.  

Pro Tip: 
If a woman's reaction to your 'flattering' comment is
contemplating committing a violent act on you? 
Consider your approach a fail. 


Yep.  Always...  WTF, guys?


Obviously, "I like those tittles" isn't the biggest problem in the world.  Hell, it's not even the biggest problem of my day...  The point is that considering the possibility of fisticuffs with several dudes, due to that kind of 'everyday' type of comment as the result of pointing out that what they've just done/said is fucked up, shouldn't be a normal part of a (any) skirt's day.  ...And look.  I'm a big chick.  I'm average man height.  I'm not one who tends towards being intimidated, or feeling vulnerable to a guy simply because he's a guy.  But imagine that if a grown ass girl who's cold cocked a Chicago Po-Po flat on his ass into some bushes feels intimidated and vulnerable, what your 13 year old daughter (who hasn't had a lifetime of similar experience to draw from), or 5'2" sister (who isn't in any position to, even if need be, tussle with a 6' 2" dude) must feel in similar situations?  And what her situational 'coping' tactics must be limited to when she knows that speaking up and calling straight up bullshit, bullshit, is never going to be seen as an opportunity to reassess how much of an asshole he/they're bein', and is always going to be taken as an invitation to escalate to a situation. 

I wish I were one of those quick with a comeback folks.  I'm not.  Which is why my options are narrowed to ignore/cause bodily damage (and go to jail).  I know violence isn't the answer.  Or so I am told.  But ignoring isn't the answer either.   Not for women, and honestly?  Not for men.  I loathe the term catcall--  it does a disservice to what's really at play here...  There's nothing kitty cute about a man/group of men making a chick feel like she's in potential peril (from either doing nothing, or doing something) because he/they happen to cotton to the looks of her lady parts.  "I like those tits" and all of the iterations most XX-ers reading this are all too familiar with, isn't a 'boys will be boys' thing. 

Boys Will Be Boys Things:
- Leaving toilet seat up
- Cultivating toe nails as weapons
- Nut tapping
- Fart amusement
- Differentiating Phillips and ...honestly I don't even fuckin' know, I just call 'em "Twosies" and "Foursies" screwdrivers
- Bets resulting in embarrassing tattoo pay-ups

It's a far less nebulous thing than boys bein' boys.  And it sure as shit isn't a display of how any man worth his salt comports himself.  It's verbal sexual intimidation. What it's not is flirting.  Or being complimentary.  It's being a USDA grade-A douchebag.  Regardless of how many Axe commercials ya've seen, douchebaggery is not a quality chicks are searchin' out.  For women, the it's bad for you/us is pretty obvious.  For men, sexual verbal intimidation of chicks is bad for all guys isn't as readily recognizable, generally, but in case ya hadn't noticed societies who treat their women poorly are shitholes.  Get a globe.  Fuck.  I'm so old.  ...At least I didn't suggest an encyclopedia (for you youngin's an encyclopedia is the paper version of what we used to look shit up before Ask Jeeves was born.)    ...  Do a lil' Googling on regions where women are treated (mostly-ish) with a sense of equality (aka: r-e-s-p-e-c-t) and you'll see places you'd (if you had to move to another country for 5 years) be ok with livin'.  Places where women aren't tend to rhyme with; La-molly-a  and Math-gan-a-stan.  Societies that don't treat their women well are places that aren't even good for men.  (I'm not saying women are better than men.  I'm saying men are better when/where women are shown the respect of decent treatment.  ...Ya know, like being able to run an errand without 3 leer-y guys verbally accostin' you over the existence of your hooters... )  ...Which I know, is big picture-ing, but on a macro level?  Do you really want the cute girl you're about to chat up to be fresh off a "I like those titties" incident as her last point of reference when a male stranger making contact was involved?  Is that good for your business?  No.  No, it's not.


Verbal Sexual Intimidation,
here's what you can do about it:
(Guys)
If you are guilty of "I like those titties"-ing someone --  Stop that shit.  Immediately.  Seriously.

If you know/have seen/are witnessing guys who "I like those titties" girls/women --  Tell them it's bush league bullshit.  Remind them how little they'd appreciate some dude yelling that at their mother. (aka: See sumthin' shitty, say sumthin' shitty.)

(Girls)
If you are looking for alternate ways to address obnoxious assholes insistant on alerting you to their enjoyment of your rack, check out these options:

This...   #YouOkSis 

...These passoutables;   (BBG Legal Notification:  I, BBG being of sound-ish mind do hereby call dibs on the invention of the word passoutables.  Copyright pending.)




...And (what I wish I'd have been quick enough to have retorted myself, and am definitely gonna remember for the inevitable next time)  "You sound like you have a small dick." 


And now, some P.S.'s...

P.S.  The * she's somebody's sister, mother, wife, 3rd cousin 2x removed reasoning for why a guy shouldn't "I like those tittes" girls is actual bullshit.  A woman ought to be free from such things because she is a human fuckin' being.  Period.  End of story.    

P.P.S.  For the Official Record, I love when guys make their presence known and that they dig what I'm workin' with.  I'm a big fan of a man complimenting and/or flirting with me.  Big fan.  I've had entire days made by a non-asshole-y compliment.  Hell, a few weeks back I encountered some random guy who completely busted a move to hold a door open for me and commented on how pretty I looked in my dress.  (BBG:  "Thank you--  you just became my day-maker!")  Now did I catch him takin' a gander at my hooters?  Yes.  They rarely go unnoticed.  The point is at no nanosecond during this unsolicited interaction did I have the urge to hit him.  And honestly?  "I like those titties"?  If a guy who has actually seen 'em says that to me?  I'm gonna get very, 'yeeeaaah, baby' real quick.  To write this post off as the musings of an overly sensitive prude-y/opposed-to-any-overture chick is erroneous. 

P.P.P.S. (...Now I'm just tryin' to set a P.S. world record)  What was I wearin'?  What the fuck difference does it make?  I will say this;  I'm not so naïve as to think that clothes don't have the power to predicate how people treat you, they do.  Which is exactly why I didn't show up at Lowes sportin' a nippleless bra top and daisy dukes.  Even I'm sorry for that visual.  Ok, good sense and decorum kept that from happening, but honestly unless I've accessorized with an actual pole, slammin' soundtrack, some ping pong balls, a minimum drink requirement and a bouncer?  ...I wasn't dressed in a manner that one would reasonably expect to have to be dealin' with some assholes "I like those titties"-ing ya.  So what I was wearing doesn't really matter, now does it?  Fine.  Now that I've mentioned nippleless bras I feel like I should specify to avoid rumors gettin' started confusion;   A dress.  A lil' run of the mill summertime dress appropriate enough to pop into damn Lowes, and it literally revealed zero cleavage.


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