Sunday, February 28, 2010

~Lent: The Update 11 Days in...

Lent is one of my favorite times of the year. While my family and friends think I'm a soulless, faithless, heathen, and they may indeed be correct, I love Lent. It's a time of reflection, a religious shower of the soul, generally including a sacrifice of some sort for the 40 day period betwixt Ash Wednesday and Easter.

One of the reasons I like it so much is the Ash Wednesday mass. It talks about not running around making a woe-is-me show and looking glum as you make your self appointed sacrifice. (aka: No whinin' or playing for sympathies) And that when you do good things, you do it in a manner so that "the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing", or in other more contemporary terms, don't call attention to your kindnesses for the hub and bub of the reaction, do it on the down low and be pleased even if you are the only one who ever knows of your kind act.

It's my fave mass of the year. I know this comes to a surprise to many as you believe a large lightning bolt would surely crash down if I stepped foot into a parish. For the record, I usually hit Midnight mass and Ash Wednesday with no (to date) lightning strikes. (Soooooooo SUCK IT!!)

I like it when I go to mass. I always feel good after getting down with the lovely and soothing rituals of mass. But as a rule, I'm usually entirely too lazy to make the effort to go routinely. And much like a bar, I wouldn't really go to church by myself. Plus, I'm a big believer that God is with me and not confined to the four, albeit beautifully bedazzled with flying buttresses walls of a church.

But this year I didn't realize it was even Ash Wednesday until, ya know, Wednesday. I'd put zero thought into what sacrifice I would make. Usually I flip and flop between chocolate and pop (or soda or coke for my non-Midwestern readers --Yep, your comfort is of my utmost concern, dear reader ;D )

(Blue = Pop-ers,
Yellow = Soda-ers,
Red = Coke-ers)

I know it's tres high school to still be resorting to those two options, but damn, St. Patrick's Day, my favorite holiday of the year, makes so many other options impractical, of not completely impossible. For instance, booze. Could I go 40 days without the hooch? Standing on my head, whistling Dixie and eating Pixi Sticks, yes. Hell. I've only had the one beer I had at Jake's dad's house in the past 40 days anyway. No problemo. ...But when one of those days is St. Pats? Hellz to the no's. Smokes? Probably. But we all know smokes and booze go together like peanut butter and jelly, so that's out. Plus, I fancy the Nat Sherman Fantasia's on St. Pat's. Their lovely gold tipped, green lil' cigs are one of my St. Pat's staples.

I considered both pop and chocolate this year. But due to circumstances beyond my control (and I think we all know how I hate that), I felt like I didn't know if I could, with any degree of certainty, be able to adhere to committing to be without. It's like you're going skiing...ya don't pick the week before to throw away your crutches, ya know?

So, later that day Nana & Papa's priest came by for a visit and while she was there I asked for her professional opinion on if I could manage a still receive a good standing rating, while not actually sacrificing anything but instead making a better effort to be, what you folks might call a 'better person'. Even though she's Episcopalian and not Catholic, and in the vein of tomato/tamato, I thought she had the juice to make the call. She told me that she feels doing something positive is better than necessarily giving sumthin' up. She was wearin' a collar and I was sold.

In the spirit of my favorite parts of the Ash Wednesday mass, I won't tell you what "good person" stuff I've been doing, but I can tell you what I haven't been doin'; Multiple drivers in the central Ohio area have not been flipped off or been honked at. No idiots have been yelled at twice at the gas station. And that asshole at the grocery who thought it was perfectly appropriate to park his cart smack dab in the middle of the isle was able to proceed to the checkout line without having a brick lodged in his skull. (This may have been attributed to the fact that I didn't have a brick in my cart at the time, more so than my vow of goodness, truth be told.)

Sure. It's not a Gold medal showing, but given the reality of my life at this moment in time. How I haven't gone on a spree is testament to my self control and my commitment of trying to be good. For clarification, I mean killing, not shopping.

Just 29 days to go.


Wednesday, February 24, 2010

~Things That Exist (Really)

...And that more troubling, someone, apparently is buying.

While I have never acutally purchased anything on an informercial, I would be a big ass fibber if I didn't admit that I am frequently sucked in to the lastest and wackiest item being hawked at 3:47am. Here are a few of my recent favorite, kooky and real products. Enjoy.

The HugEGram:

Yep. Fake, velcro'd arms...that's about the same as having contact with actual an actual person, for an actual hug?!?

The Booty Pop:

False eyelashes. Check. Padded bra. Check. Fake ass. ...Check. Now you're ready to go out in the world and be the real you.

The Neckline Slimmer:

What can I possibly add to this?

Comfort Wipes:

Exactly how fat or infirm do you have to be to need this item? I'm just askin' so I'll know how early to place my order.

The Body Snake:

Ahhhhh...the foot scrubber. How much longer after becoming a society that finds it too difficult to wash our feet will I hear the hoofs of the four horsemen?

Pajama Jeans:

The homeless must be all over this. No more need for pesky hobo bags full of jeans AND pajamas!

The Wearable Towel:

A perv's dream outfit. Goin' out to get the paper, when...oppsie! Your sex offender registration for your local law enforcement agency included with every order.

Random ending:
I recieved an email outta the blue from a friend. He simply wrote: "men's bathroom means men's bathroom". Nothing more. I laughed my ass off.

...And then I started thinkin', man, for a girl, I have spent a lot of time in men's rooms!

-As a teen I was kicked out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show for being in the men's room drinking screwdrivers outta bottle with numerous others. Just a chattering away. Swillin' back what must have been high quality cocktails. Looking back, I wonder, was the issue the girls being in the boys room or the underage drinking that got us the boot?

-I once came thissssssss close to being arrested by the suburb LEO's at Schmits, when we used to go Schmitin'. Girls line too long for bad kidneys so I made the executive (tipsy?) decision to use the guys. As I'm mid tinkle I hear the police come in and tell the other girls who'd followed my lead to get out. Luckily, once I was done and making my 'get away' the police had their hands full, and backs turned to the men's room door talking to those girls and I darted the opposite direction.

-I was once proposed to by a guy at a local gay bar, in the men's room, who wanted me to be his, as he put it, "hag". This was moments before I ran into someone I know who was at the time running for elected office, who as I introduced him to one of his would-be constituents, slid his hand along my ass. BigBrownGirlWorld is never dull.

-At another gay bar, a million years ago, I can remember ReeRee making like a door in the opening of a stall without a real door in the men's room. I also remember talking to some cat wearing butterfly wings.

-And yes. The author of the cackle prompting email, 20 years ago once found me outside of his shower curtain in the boys dorm allllllllll ready to have a chat. 'Cause why wouldn't he have been prepared to hear my voice coming from the shower room whilst he was soapin' up?!? I can still see the look on his face when his head popped out to shockingly confirm what his ears were hearing. Why he even still speaks to me, I'll never know. I think that of a lot of my friends. And then I'm just thankful that they do.


Monday, February 22, 2010

~Quil. Don't Fail Me Now

So, after last night's Benedryl debacle, and showing my optimist streak (my hope for sleep springs eternal, evidently), I downed a shot of Quil. (I again remind you of my exclusion, by simply sharing, of any culpability should you make any attempt to replicate this in your own world. I'm just sayin', somebody told Michael Jackson Propofol was a good idea and instead of using his good judgement...blah, blah, blah, dead, blah. Bottom line, I'm not goin' to jail for your dumbassedness. We all know I'll have plenty of opportunity to go to the pokey due to my own dumbassedness.)

Dear Quil~
Should you be able to provide me with a full and restful night of sleep, I will marry you. I am fully prepared to live out my days as Mrs. BigBrownGirl Quil. Honestly, I don't even know what kind of name Ny is. Is it a masculine name or feminine? Will we be a hetro couple? Or will I have to switch teams? Really, at this moment, I don't even care. Wait. Do I not care because of the Quil sparked wooze I'm starting to feel? Have I finally been darted?!? Oh, this would be awesome.

A yawn!

A yawn!!

In what I like to think of as my body justifying my ill advised quest for Zzzzzzz's, as soon as I tossed back my shot o' Quil, I sneezed. HA! It was like my body wanted to keep me from the embarrassment of having to take something against the rules to make it do what it's supposed to. Thank you for that show of solidarity body.

Well. Let's go see what Quil has in store...


Sunday, February 21, 2010

~Damn You Benedryl

The Sandman is making me mad as hell. And I'm not gonna take it anymore!!

...Or so I thought.

Normally, a recreational Benedryl will put me down like a darted lion on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. By all rights about 45 minutes after .25mgs of Benedryl we should be hearing Marlin Perkins asking Jim Fowler how long the lioness will sleep before she rouses from her drug induced slumber. But, heeeeeeeere I am. Wide awake. Nay. Downright fucking bushy tailed.

Are you kidding me Sandman?!?

I've been sleeping 3-4 hours. I've had precisely two nights that the Sandman has granted me 5 hours. It's like my body simply refuses to click on to hibernate mode. This has been going on for weeks now. My usual M.O. is 6-8 hours during the school week. (Yes. I know. I do not go to school. But school nights are still how I identify Mon-Fri) On a weekend, oh, I can easily pull 10-11. So needless to say my sustained lack of the proper 40 winks is irritating.

The inability of achieving Benedryl induced sleep is now making me bitter. And of course now, as it is after midnight (fanfuckintastic...and now I have Eric Clapton stuck in my head), it's too late to take another Benedryl.

To all readers: Taking medications outside of the scope of their prescribed and/or intended usage is dangerous. Do not try this at home. Certainly, and this goes for all content of the BigBrownGirlWorld, do not substitute your good judgement with anything seen, suggested, implied, inferred or laid out here. Trust me.

I only count on Benedryl for two things: 1) Alleviating my allergy symptoms, both acute and seasonally chronic and 2) Helping me sleep a few times per year. I have turned to you tonight and you have failed me. Shame on you Benedryl. Shame. On. You.


Friday, February 19, 2010

~It's Been a Long Time Since We Rock and Rolled

A lot is going on. Ain't none of it good. For the first time in three weeks I'm trying to get my relax on for a moment. My shoulders find themselves wedged, seemingly inextricably, just slightly beneath my ears. The fuckin' Sandman has seen fit to deem that I only need 3-4 hours of sleep per night. Except for the two times he's granted me 5 hours. My face is a mess. Please explain how in the hell I'm supposed to keep my sanity while battling both pimples and wrinkles, in addition to everything else? I can feel my heart fracturing a bit more with each beat. To say I'm overwhelmed is an understatement. In the spirit of trying to chillax I'm going to discus the goings on at a later date. Not to discount what is happening, just to grasp at a moment of normalcy. Or is that, denial?...

I thought I'd share some stuff. Mindless minutia. I'm not sayin' you'll be a better person with the following info, but it's not going to hurt ya. And besides, what else are you doin? You're already bored if you're here.

In no particular order--

Where I come from:

Dooleys are king! I'm always surprised when someone doesn't know what a dooley is. If I didn't know already, that's when I know they didn't grow up in a smallish town. Only big city folks don't know dooleys. So for all you big city kind...

"Dooley" (doooooo lee): 1) A truck with double tires on back axle. 2) Midwest rual version of the late 80's/early 90's era Camero. 3) Vehicle carrying a certain cache in Midwestern communities. 4) Cool.

Fine. I made that "definition" up, but I'm confident that if you Google it you'll find something similar-ish as a descriptor. (I now challenge you to do so. I am too lazy and tired to do so myself. The gauntlet has been thrown down, do with it what you will.)

Easy? Yes.

Good? No.

The conditions during my most recent drive to my hometown, about an hour away.

Some country back road? Nope. I-70. As those of you who know me, know, I'm not usually one to get passed. (I'm not one of God's Slowest Angles behind the wheel.) On this trip I was passed by two drivers. One in a semi. One in a Bug. Really?!? A Beetle and an 18 wheeler. Aren't those the last two vehicles that should be driving faster than me in such conditions? Peculiar, no?

But I like Curling:
Instead of watching the opening ceremony of the Ooooooooooolympics (which I HATE), I chose to que up the Top Gear Winter Olympics Special I had DVR'd a few weeks ago, last week. Yep. ...Now I did wrap that up by catching the last 87 seconds or so of the O's opener. Just in time to discover that The Great One (aka: #99 Wayne Gretzky), who I used to find quite the toothless, skatin' cutie, now looks like a woman. Yes. Arrowsmith was right. Dude looks like a lady. Now that I think about it, Ellen DeGeneres, in fact.

Am I wrong?

I know I should feel bad, 'should' being the operative word, that the only part of the ceremony-- that I can only imagine cost a dollar (or is that loon?) or two, that I caught was the precious and comically uncomfortable moment when Superman's ice palace went hinky. I know it's not exactly "right" that as the torch bearers, including Wayne/Ellen (Wellen? Wayen?) stood for, well, what-seemed-like-ever as one of the sub-grade doohickeys refused to rise in order to provide a magical conveyance to allow the hallowed flame to reach the gigantic ice like cauldron, thus beginning the O's, I found such glee. I should have felt empathy. But. Nope. There stood Wellen and his athletic super brethren looking totally and utterly flummoxed. Nervously perspiring to the Tricky Dicky degree. Craptastic John Teshesque music being replayed ad nausem. And I found it to be a hoot. (Thank you Oooooolympic gods for bestowing the blessing of not having to watch all that crapidy McCrap Crap I loath, yet allowing me to see the most wonderful production/ debacle O Committee and O Canada currency can buy. That. Was. Awesome.

Where I come from II:
Soooooo. I'm at a Speedway in my hometown. I see this gal hop outta this SUV. Then I spy this gal dropping a brick. Behind her rear tire. Yep. Some body's having break system malfunctions. You don't see many peeps using bricks as anti-roll devices at the gas pump all that often. Ok. Ever. Of course I had to share. (Click!) Besides, if I'd just told you, would you have believed it? Ahhhhhhhhh. My hometown. It's someplace special alright.

(Hint: Passenger side, back tire)

News Flash:
BigBrownGirl discovers yoga pants. I don't know why. I just thought they were not for me. I'm not a big pant wearer. I'm a skirt/dress girl through and through. But my Mom who's been sportin' them for years now, (reason #692 why Mom is cooler than me) and lookin' cute doing so, finally convinced me to give 'em a whirl. I love them. In fact, in the 48 hours I've had them, I've started considering training as a yoga instructor just so I can legitimately wear them every day for the rest of my life. Do you think there'll be much of a market for a chunky monkey girl yoga instructor? Hahaha...The more even I think about it the funnier it gets.

Until next time... Peace out peeps.

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