Saturday, July 30, 2011

~Touch A Truck? Hellz Yeah!


AnonD:  ...Blah, blah, fuckidy, blah, I saw where the city of AnonDville is having a Touch A Truck day at the AnonDville Sports Complex this afternoon, wanna


AnonD: go?  It says all things big and a helicopter. 

BBG:  I'm down.

AnonD:  Ok, but I'm gonna need you to make a promise...

BBG:  I cannot promise to be nice to the fire people.  I've already fulfilled my duty and I cannot with any sincerity, or honesty say I'll be able to keep my tongue in it's house.

AnonD:  I know, and that's fine, you've done your part, but I need you to promise you won't knock too many little kids outta the way to get to things.

(mentally noticing the usage of "too many" and envisioning how bad it would look to actually shove some kids to the side)

BBG:  Allllright.  I guess I can abide by that...

Next thing I know I'm pullin' up to AnonD HQ and we're off to Touch A Truck, which somehow for all of it's wholesomeness, sounds somehow a tad naughty.  Touchhhhh A Trrrrruck. 

I'd tell you what happened, but I think you already know.  But, in case you're new 'round the World:
(I almost got arrested.)

Nooooooo.  I didn't almost get arrested.  At least not today.  Fine.  At least not while at the Touch A Truck.

I did see all kinds of fun rides.  Dump trucks, tow trucks, moving trucks, semi's, a school bus, a city bus, a trash truck, a worker truck with a cherry picker, a bulldozer.  It was a 4 (and more) wheel extravaganza.  ...And some kid honkin' the horn of each and every vehicle.  This disturbed AnonD to no end.  I, however, was bothered nil by it as I knew that if I was in one of those seats I'd be honkin' too.

Yeeeeeaaaahhh.  "If" I was sitting in a seat...

We wandered over to see the helicopter, where I visited with the pilot who I knew back in my radio daze.

(Hello Mr. Bighouse)
Apparently, AnonD and I are the only two people in the area who felt like Touch A Truck was a place for grown ups too.  Every other adult had a small fry in tow. Of course, while they perhaps appeared more appropriate in the setting, than say, two grown ass women traipsing around wearin' too small, plastic, yellow, hard hats, at least I wasn't crying when it was time to leave which is more than I can say for 99% of the other attendees as they walked/were wheeled in strollers back to the parking lot. 

(See.  No cuffs.)

Policeman:  Do you want me to use the cuffs?

BBG:  That's alright, I know all too well about the cuffs.

Policeman:  I don't want to know...

BBG:  Oh, it's all on the up and up.  P.S.  when you're visiting your Dad's office in homicide, you're playin' with his cuffs and he says, "BBG don't put those on, I don't have the key" believe him.   Otherwise you just get dragged through the department until you find some rook who can unlock ya.

Policeman:  hahahahaha...I did the same thing to my son, who's now 32.  Came home we were wrestling around I cuffed him and then realized I'd left my keys back at the department.  

Ahhhh....bonding over family fun with cuffs.  And the love of big trucks. 

A good day.  Check.


Wednesday, July 27, 2011

~Things I Didn't Expect

Yesterday brought me an unexpected call from my former neighbor from a million years ago (alright, it was maybe 20ish years ago), who used to live directly downstairs from me, therefore aptly code named, Downstairs Neighbor.  There were several of us in our early 20's in the building that otherwise consisted mainly of old and weird people. 

How weird?

Well, there was one guy who we were pretty sure was gonna mass murder us all.  What else was there to conclude as he stomped through the hallways in dolphin (too) shorts, which even two decades ago were really only still being rocked by Richard Simmons, sans shirt with sunglasses on inside, sometimes a la Corey Hart, at night?  Alright, technically poor fashion choices, hard walking and UVA protective eye wear don't necessarily make one a serial killer.  But I swear to you, he was a straight up freak.  And not in the good way, in the 1,000 yard stare/some kinda psychotropic drug hazed way.  He never spoke to any of the residents in the building.  He'd walk right by you and there wasn't a "hello", "excuse me" or "have a nice day" to be found.  He also was prone to practicing the nunchucks in the front of our building.   (Notice:  I will tell you about another wackadoo neighbor, just gotta upload a few pics.  ...FYI:  I'm goin' to hell.  You'll see.)

How old?

Well, one night I came home from what I'm sure was some sorta inappropriate, booze fueled, splits doin' night, when I arrived juuuuust in time to hold the door open for the mortician who was wheelin' a neighbor out in a zippy black bag.

Four of us (Downstairs Neighbor, SuMac, Dr. Sue, et moi) became the kind of friends who are still in touch all these years later. 

Downstairs Neighbor and I stayed in touch after we both moved on to other places and then lost touch for a while.  A year or so ago we reconnected thanks to wonder of the interweb and the beauty of Facebook and have periodically hung out since.

So Downstairs Neighbor gives me a ring outta the blue yesterday asking if'n I'd like to meet up to see some local group he digs.  (I say "group", only because I'm not exactly sure what technically constitutes a band?  Seems like a drummer might be needed to be a band, right?  I donno.  Music people feel free to school me.)  Anyhoo, because I am the "yes, please" kinda girl and because it was outta the house, I was in.  Sold.

First of all, it was a simply beeeautiful summer's eve.  A stunning kinda day that you wish you could capture in a bottle. 

(Goodbye sun.  See you tomorrow.)

I arrived to find Downstairs Neighbor and his main man (come fuckin' on Ohio, it would be nice [and right] to be able to say spouse) had already scored a perfect table on the patio.  Because I was unable to procure my made in the U.S.A. PBR, and as it was an Irish establishment I selected a frosty Smithwicks as we soaked up the final rays of the day.

We caught up over some of the best spin artichoke dip I've ever had.  Only after Downstairs Neighbor impugned my BBG eating rules.  Granted, there are many of them, and it's fair to say almost all of them are odd.  I am legitimately a picky eater.    The thought of a lot of things creeps me the fuck out and I want no part of, but I'm not so bad that it's gonna pose a problem for others.  I could see him trying to catch me in my food crazy with, "she probably doesn't like spin art" (eye rolling included) and "would yooooou eat calamari?"  (Bam!  Yes, I would/do.  Suck it Downstairs Neighbor!!)

(Downstairs Neighbor and his
I don't have a BBG code name yet man.)

The aforementioned group, Hat Trick and catalyst for the impromptu get together were warming up.  Now, I'm not the type who follows any band, or frequently seeks out live music for my entertainment.  Listen to music (CD/playlist/radio)?  Of course.  Hit a concert here or there?  Sure.  But troll the city specifically to see some band?  Hellz to 'tha no, as the cool kidz would probably not say, as it's 2011.  (Surprise!! I'm lame.)  But I gotta tell ya, by a scant few songs in I was totally and unexpectedly hooked. 

They sounded great together, made fun and unexpected song choices and made audience participation part of their show.  Girls in sundresses had got to each pick a song.  The impressive part was that they were able to play every requested, random ass song.  Unfortunately, for everyone I was the first one to pick.  (Seriously people didja really think I wasn't rockin' a sundress?)  My first crazyass inclination was the Jerry Reed classic, East Bound and Down.  Not being familiar with their overall general stylings or depth of range, I consulted the table who suggested something more reasonable like Fleetwood Mac or Stevie Nicks.  So, Landslide it was as Tusk, even by my standards seemed unfair and I didn't have my baton.  Now, you know I'm not all about pimpin' shit 'round here, but if you are one of 'da World's local readers you should totally check them out.

It was a fun and unexpected evening.  And aren't those the best kind?  


Tuesday, July 26, 2011

~Summertime: Wild & Wonderful

Once upon a time, before tallness, fatness and oldness I was a Lil' Brown Girl (LBG).  Imagine if you will what this must have been like as a child... 

(LBG ~ Don't let the Cindy Brady curly pigtails
and wholesome Raggedy Andy doll fool ya.)

(If you are done laughing your ass off and have completed your silent pity prayer for my family, who to frame it in the kindest terms, had their fuckin' hands full, we will continue...)

To give you just a wee reference point of how LBGW HQ was run, by ten I had convinced my Mom that she was an entirely different age than she actually was.  Looking back I wonder if I had actually convinced her that she was several years older than she was, or if it was the stress of having a sick kiddo?  Hell, for all I know she was testing my mental acuity, when she answered the E.R. staffer collecting family/medical history with the age I had been brainwashing telling her she was, for I don't even know how long?  It was a long and annoying sustained campaign on my part.

I do know that for being sick enough to be hospitalized, I was still evil rambunctious enough to be proud of the fact that I'd won (the age game --winnnnnning!!) and was moved to laughter as I corrected her with her real age.  ...And that's when I was 10. 

When I turned 13 I declared that I thought I was old enough to start cussing and that "damn" would be my new word, and that each year I would take a new one going forward. 

Being a grown up the thought of having to wrangle and attempt to harness that--  well, it just sounds like an exhausting battle of wills.  The Ironman of wills!  (Perhaps, I'd just made Mom feel like she was older than she was...)

This time of year I always think of West (by God) Virginia.

When I was young, I would get loaded into the backseat of a car for a pre-dawn departure on the six hour trip to Kimball, WV.  Kimball was where my Auntie & Uncle Bob lived, along with her sister, Aunt Lou and Uncle Diddy, (<-- Suck it Sean Combs!)  who lived 2 houses away. 

I loved, loved, loved going to West Virginia.  The trip always included the ritual of a quick (car) change outta my jammies and stopping for breakfast at the Bob Evans Homestead.  One of my jobs was to look out for "the man" (aka: WV Troopers) as Papa sped down the turnpike.

All of these years later, I can still remember pulling into Kimball, a lil' poedunk, coal mining speck on the map deep in the hollars of WV.  Even as a small kid I knew my way around.  Mainly, because it was so small there were only a few roads leading in.  I remember the sloooooow creep of a car up the steep mountainous grades.  It's where I learned the value and purpose of a parking break.

(Uncle Bob,  Jimmy and
one steep ass mountain.)

I always stayed with Auntie, Uncle Bob and their son, Jimmy.  I have such vivid memories of, practically everything.  Waking up to the smell of Auntie fryin' apples and making bacon.  Sitting on my special appointed LBG red chair/step stool contraption*, waiting until breakfast was ready.  How the houses were practically carved into a mountainside.  Playing all day long and falling asleep to the transistor radio squawk of the Cincinnati Reds being called by Mr. 'Roundin' Third and Headin' for Home, Joe Nuxhall. 


At some point during my visit, I would be joined by my cousins, Monk and Go (not BBG code names, their actual family nicknames) in from Connecticut to visit their grandparents, Aunt Lou & Uncle Diddy.  Once they arrived it was on.  Full blown chaos on the mountain, baby!  There were many a Green Machine vs. Big Wheel race, down a precariously pitched mountain road. 

Followed up by a fun round of, 'I'm gonna shank ya' (fine.  That wasn't the name of our reindeer games, but was the essence.)  runnin' around with our rubber bowie knives.  ...Such were the days for a kid in rural West Virginia.  How one of us didn't loose an eye or actually die, is still beyond me.  Today, someone woulda put us on a leash, strapped a helmet and elbow guards on us.  But back then, ya' played, ya' had some Kool-Aid, changed your uber present band aid, had a bath and called it a day.

Maybe it's all of those good memories that make me think of those West Virginia summers when the weather gets warm and the days get long.  I know it's the reason I'll threaten to take someone "outside" if I hear them badmouthing West Virginia. 

I guess I always thought going to see my family kin, being away from home for a few weeks runin' and rippin' that mountain was a big ass treat for me.  As Auntie & Uncle Bob didn't have any daughters or granddaughters, there were always presents involved.  Presents and lack of appropriate supervision coupled with total disregard for safety freedom?  It was a kids practical utopia for heaven sakes.  I should be ashamed to admit it (although I was always aware that the world didn't actually revolve around me, and still doesn't, much to my chagrin), but I really did perceive those visits as being all about me.

...Until a few years ago.  (Sadly, just a few scant years ago) 

I realized that those West Virginia summers were actually ship your kidlet away freedom breaks for my folks.  It took me 30 odd years to figure it out, but I've got your number now Mom/Dad, Nana/(Papa).  I've got your damn number now.

I miss those West Virginia summers.  I miss that mountain and those country roads.  I miss my aunts and uncles who've since died.  I miss those fun, skinned kneed times with my cousins.  I miss the illusion of things being all about moi.  (Damn growin' up and realizations.)  I'm not bitter and I don't begrudge them their well deserved respite from, well, me.  Maybe it's a lesson for all parents;  It's summertime send those damn kids away.  It's good for you.  Hell, it's good for them.  (As long as they don't crack the 'we are ditching you' code.)

*Damn it!  I just realized that wasn't a "special" chair for me, that was containment.  Ugh...


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.


Friday, July 22, 2011

~Half Dude

I mentioned it the other day, only later to realize that for readers who don't know know me, that it could have been open for misinterpretation. 

A wild, The Crying Game/Dude Looks Like A Lady/Chaz Bono misinterpretation, which made me think should set the record straight.  So for those of you who know know me and checked in today to get your daily(ish) dose of crazy; Congratulations, you get a free day!  

...Alright, since it's just us, lemme offer up a big ass and official WELCOME to the population of 'da World, new readers!!.  

Let the clarification begin:

Again, the other day I said something about being "boyish" or "a boy-girl".  If you're anything like me-- overly literal with a propensity for making up your own truth when ya don't know the real rest of the story, I want to go ahead and make the correction:  I am not a hermaphrodite, nor am I transsexual.  Nor whatever PC term for 'chicks with dicks' is being bandied about these days.   

In some ways I'm super girly, I present kinda prissy.  I'm almost always to be found in some dress.  (Not for religious reasons or anything, pious like that.  Nope.  All vanity.   I do not think I have the kinda ass that should be forced on everyone who walks slower than me who doesn't have the benefit of requiring a cane or a service dog.  I just think it's best for us all.)  I'm never outta the house without a minimum of mascara, gloss and a smudge of blush.  But that's :90 seconds worth of work, and the day I can't invest one actual moment into lookin' decent is the day you'll know I've just completely given up on life.   A chipped nail isn't going to be a day ruiner or anything, but you can bet your bottom dollar that it's not gonna fuckin' be there tomorrow.   Sometimes I can even be downright thoughtful, nurturing and sweet.  Sometimes.

But what the dresses, skirts, jugs and vagina don't show is that a good deal of my thinking and actions tend to be more boycentric.  Many times my natural inclination to situations are distinctively guy like. 

I remember noting the difference between me and most (girl) girls as I stood in the beer truck line while OSU football tailgating.  Some other girl in the gaggle had just spied her ex, which resulted in her standing in the midst of hundreds of beer fueled, high five'n, sports fans crying.  I saw some of the other girls in our group circle around her, hug her up and comfort her.  I, in true guy fashion, thought to myself, 'there's no cryin' in baseball' and decided that it was the perfect time for a beer run, er, walk.  I thought her emotional outburst, and the sanctioners consolers actions were weird.  And not only did I not understand it, in a, does.  not.  com.  pute. way, it was a behavior and response that was the anthesis of what my natural reaction to the situation would be. 

First of all, I would never give anyone, particularly an ex the satisfaction of letting them know they had the power to make me cry.  Um, NEVER!  (shakes fist aggressively) Especially at a sporting event for fuck's sake.  Secondly, unless pretty much someone has died, my idea of providing emotional aid, empathy and comfort is sharing a piece of gum.  Yeah, that's right.  If sumthin' is wrong expect a piece of:

(If feelings and emotions can't be avoided offer gum.)

I'd prefer to have a conversation about golf, cars, politics or guns than feign interest in the happenings of any Real or Desperate housewives, participate in any "what do you think he meant when he said X?" conversations, or engage in any sort of window shopping.  No. Fuckin'.  Thanks.

I'll always pick the Bruce Willis / action / something's gettin' blown up / somebody's gonna die movie over the chick flick offering.  Probably attributable to being raised on a healthy dose of The Big Red One, Guns of Navarone, Medway and Dirty Harry.  (Thanks, Dad!)  I'm never gonna wanna "go dancing", antiquing or to a bed and breakfast. 

I'm probably always much closer to scratchin' sumthin', cursin' (well, helloooooo obvious!) or spittin' than I am to sittin' at the salon for :90 minutes, reading a romance novel or discussing the merits of "diet" or "lite" anything.

Being a boy-girl also makes me approach things in a "fix it" mentality.  Something pointed out to me while in Chicago.  We were riding down the street when while stopped at a light a bicyclist riding along the cross street dropped some money out of his jacket pocket.   I picked it up, we turned the corner to catch him and as the driver slowed to pace him, I handed the $20 out the window to him, and told him:
  1. "Here.  This fell out of your jacket pocket."  (aka:  This is your problem)
  2. "Put it in your jeans pocket so it doesn't fall out again."  (aka:  This is how to fix your problem)
I can remember the people in the car all giggles as they cackled, "you are such a boy!" then telling me that they (the other girls in the car) would have just left it with, 'here's your money back'.  But that I, like a man, had to fix it

Like a man, I'm verrrrry good at directions (both reading a map and having a good internal compass for which way I'm going/need to go, and if I've been somewhere once I can always get back there).  Unlike a guy, I will ask for directions.  Regardless of what I require a knife for, I choose the big butcher.  It's not uncommon for me, when alone to eat directly outta the pot in lieu of a plate or bowl.  (It's just the pragmatic thing to do, ya know?) And in guy fashion, of the last 10 days I've eaten cob 9 times.  Sometimes for breakfast.  Activities I'd like to do yet this summer include going to a batting cage and going shooting.  My standard modus operandi is usually a two pronged approach:  1) Walk it off.  B) Suck it up. 

"Boy-girl" could be misconstrued, but as you can see is not wholly inaccurate.

So, now that we've established that my boy-ness is only from the neck up, and that except for some moments here and there (winky-winky) I am indeed cock-free, here are a few places you can go check how boy/girl your brain is:

BBG:  Your Brain is 42% Female, 58% Male

Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female
You are both sensitive and savvy
Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed
Logical and detailed, you tend to look at the facts
But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve 


Wednesday, July 20, 2011

~It's Official: I'm Out There

Soooo, yeah, it took me long enough.  But then again, as exhibit A:  I give you the GAP/Guys Assistance Program...  there are a whole lotta fuckin' weirdos and freaks out there.  I was just waiting for the right one to be my next first date.  In all honesty I've been more heartbroken than maybe I've let on 'round here.  I know I'm not good with feelings and junk and sharing.  As evidence by that exact sentence...  It's the boyness in me, which among other things puts my good standing with my girl card in constant jeopardy.  It's not been an easy past few months, but here I am feeling like it was time, that more importantly I was ready.   Finally, the last component came together, which was a guy interesting enough to have caught my attention. 

We met for happy hour margaritas at a little joint between where we each live.  So margaritas for breakfast it was!!  Probably never a good sign, but as it's balls hot around these parts eating had not been appealing earlier in the day.  And honestly, what makes for a better first impression than a easily tipsy girl and a cheap date?     

I arrived about two minutes before he did and only then did it dawn on me that I ought to be nervous about the first date I was having in more than a year.  But by that point the bartender was bringing me a margarita so large that you practically have to take your head to the glass instead of bringing the glass to your mouth, so my attention was diverted in the nicest frozen strawberry boozy way before nerves had a chance to set in. 

Happily, I can report that I had a grand time.  He offered all of the things good dates are made of, mainly good conversation.  Oh, and good looks and a lovely closely shorn head that practically dared me to touch it from the moment he sat down.  And if you think for one second that eventually I didn't touch that dome, then I must ask you this question:

Q:  Do you not know me at allllllll?!?

A:  Of course I touched that damn head.  Several times, in fact.

Which may seem like a dating offense of the highest nature, however, in my defense, I mentioned that I was resisting the urge to touch it, at which point he leaned down to give me easy access to it.  So kindly put your foul flag/red card back in your pocket.  (FYI, I literally just stuck my tongue out at you, well, the glowing screen at least.) 

Looking back, I made several seriously fucked up faux pas.  Probably starting with the fact that when he mentioned his hometown, I felt compelled to share a crazy ass comment about how his head seemed to be the appropriate size and that I'd always been told that people from his 'hood had small heads.  Yes.  You read that right.  I think he comes from a village of pinheads. 

(Nope.  Not these pinheads.)

(These pinheads.)

Klllllassy, no?  Technically, I don't think it's a town o' pinheads, but that was always the rumor when I was a kid. 

In a make right attempt I did let him play with my yo-yo.  (Which now that I type those words, is probably something he's jotting down in his con collum right the hell now.)

Also, I may have taken an exit off of Good Dating Rd. when once he told me about his job, which while not directly involved with heavy machinery, does have a relationship with those who do, asked if he had enough juice to let me operate sumthin' cool and groovy.  I felt a lil' flutter in my heart when he mentioned operating an enormous dump truck thingy.  I only want to operate everything large!  (Still on my to-do list are semi, train and helicopter.  And this would put me closer to the semi.  I'm getting chicken skin just thinkin' about it.) 

I donno what'll happen next.  I no longer have a Magic 8 Ball, and I'm the kinda dolt who literally needs a guy to hit me over the head before I know if they're interested and I'm the only one who did any head touchin', so who knows? 

But at least I'm back out there.  For better or worse. 

(Fine.  Worse.)


Sunday, July 17, 2011

~Social Media Shenanigans

It started with this status update around 20:15 Friday:  "This Throwback Pepsi is doing something bad to me. All of the sudden I feel like causing a ruckus."

Several minutes later my phone rings.  The screen says it's Beannie, so I answer not with the conventionally accepted and appropriate "hello" but with a more assy BBG like, "Beannnnnniiiiieeee", only to find that it was not in fact Beannie, but her hubby E, who had spied my update and obviously taken great pity on me.   "We're on the deck, come on over, hell bring Uncle John too". 


Like a pizza, I was there in :30 minutes or less.  As I rounded the house heading towards the laughter emanating from the deck I realized the laughter was at my headlight.  Prompting yet another very BBG version of "hello" sounding a lot like, "yeah, I see you laughin' at my headlight, but I also see myself not fallin' the fuck down in the damn dark; so suck it peeeople".  (I've said it many times, I don't know why people speak to me at all...  I'm just thankful that they do.)
(Not this headlight.)
(This dorky and super useful headlight.)

Beannie and I have known each other since the late 90's or so, when we became co-workers.  Her hubby E is someone I've only known since they got together, however in a fun case of small worldness, I had known about him from another friend, Brad Gray, waaay back in my radio daze (well before I ever met Beannie), as they all graduated from H.S. together. 

Dear Small Worldness,
I love you.  I think you are one of the greatest things in life.  Keep up the good work.

As I sat and cracked open my super classy and patriotic PBR tallboy (thanks store for only having tallboys) I took note of the chiminea across the table from me on the deck.  It seemed to be licking flames outta places I thought it shouldn't.  In fairness, any flame larger than that generated by a BIC lighter is more fire than I'm comfortable with*.  So uncomfortable that it made me say a little internal prayer.  ...Hello God, it's me BBG, pleeeease, for the love of you do not make me have to call the fire department up in here.  (Clearly, on some level I think God is a fan of Judy Blume and the DMX joint, Up In Here.) 

(Due to poor photo timing some flames have been recreated.)

For the next several hours I enjoyed my visit, the environment and the conversation, which ranged from politics to abortion to religion among other more banal and random kooky topics.  It was quite nice to have rational discussions about topics that can be lighting rods.  Refreshing is an understatement.  And no, not all at the table held the same beliefs as each other necessarily, but without the 'I'm takin' my ball and goin' home' bullshit that too damn many of our elected officials are operating under, it was riveting and stimulating.   A kind reminder that not everyone is an asshole.

Beannie reminded me why it's good to have friends with good memories.  She regaled me with stories such as the time I got a concussion  (note to self:  Make up a better story than the fact that you got it getting in a mini van.),  I believe she called it, Beannie and Mom's Excellent ER Adventure.  Our Vegas trip and apparently a bridal shower I helped make happen. 

(Beannie's babies, well, of the 4 leg variety.)

As the night continued, I watched as E poked at the fire (while I thought to myself, ...'man, guys really like fire.  But as long as they're not wetting their bed and harming small animals, I guess that's ok...)  And then BOOM!!  In slow motion I watched a mini meteor explosion happen sending flaming balls and embers straight the hell outta the chiminea and directly onto Beannie's new rug. 

(Rug post fire-y embers and being extinguished
by beer.  "Technically" I am now a fireman.)

This was the moment I thought we were gonna have to dial 911 to invite the people who I've been trying to avoid be nice to over.  Which momentarily angered me.  Due to our collective cat like reactions we were able to eventually talk ourselves into sacrificing our beer douse it before the entire deck became fully engaged.  Thusly, much to my relief, successfully keeping the local fire station from crashing our shindig.  (Dodged that bullet, only 24 more hours:  I think I can!!)

(E attending to the carnage of fire.)

Eventually, it was 4am, so since I didn't have kids who would be up in 2 hours, I decided it was time to return to BBG HQ. 

  • Ruckus:  Check.
  • Near death experience: Check.
  • Keeping the fire department at bay:  Wicked awesome chhhhheck.
  • Rockin' it like I'm 22:  Check  (Making my status update today;  My body clock is off by 20 years. Does anyone know how to reset this thing?)
  • Oh, and food porn:  Check.

(Nuts for nuts, impressive, no?)

- - - - -  # # #  - - - - -

*Full Disclosure:  (aka: I'm sorry Mom, but obviously I learned a valuable life long lesson, so all in all, as nuthin' really unfortunate actually transpired, if you frame it right, the following is a good thing.  It's made me the safety cautious and still alive girl I am.)

I was home from school, ostensibly not feeling well enough to go to school.  Age?  Under middle school, so what?  Maybe eight or 10ish.  I recall being in the tv room, watchin' who knows what?  Captain Kangaroo?  Wearin' one of Mom's full length, light blue, short sleeved nightgown.  ...Um, uber 70's fantastic 101% polyester nightgown.  If I had to make a guess, pretending to be a princess, or model.  So I'm not exactly sure how fire came into the mix as there's not much call for a torch when you're walkin' the catwalk, or decreeing shit on commoners, but for some inexplicable pre-pubescent reason I was striking box matches (just to watch 'em burn?)

Of course, in the blink of an eye a wee mini fireball fell into the lap of Mom's BBG worn nighty, rapidly melting and morphing into a super hole-y problem for a girl "too ill to go to school".  I was in a state of shock and awe.  Honestly, I don't even remember what my kid solution to the problem was.  Disposed of the evidence with Jimmy Hoffa like efficiency?  I donno.  But I do know that I never played with fire again and that to this day, I'm on high alert for anything/situation that could cause a fire.   


Friday, July 15, 2011

~It's Indian Style. Period.

While having lunch with (code name) Jorge Estrada the other day, I learned something new.  Generally, I love learning something new, but learning this pissed me off.

Jorge Estrada, a former co-worker and his lovely wife, (code name) Lupe have three very cute wee one's, including the most recent addition to their 2 girls, a brand new boy about a month ago.  Between the horse riding and dance lessons and neighborhood kids Jorge has his finger on the pulse of the under 7 set.  As we ate our sandwiches, caught up and stiffled our laughter over this really weirdly built guy searching for a table (I still don't know how those wickedly disproportionate spindly legs held him upright), I don't even remember what the topic of conversation was, but I heard the most delightful sounding, unfamiliar string of words pop outta his mouth. 

(Jorge Estrada, BBG, Lupe Estrada - Summer '10)

Now a lot of people would take this as an opportunity to knowingly nod affirmatively, or give a "uh-hun" (aka:  "Yes, I know"), grunt.  I see it all the time.  Quite frequently those folks also tend to have really shitty poker faces, making it uber easy to read that they really are clueless.  I always think if they took the opportunity to find out what X is instead of pretending to know what X is so they look smart, they'd actually be smart.  ...But what am I in charge of?  Barely me and this 15 lb dog, ya know?... 

So as soon as the phrase "criss cross applesauce" hit the atmosphere I was immediately intrigued, and interrupted to inquire what the fuck criss cross applesauce means? 

Turns out we've become sooooo PC that kids today are being taught to sit criss cross applesauce style instead of the ol' school, "Indian style".

Now being sometimes a reasonable adult, I can understand why people would take offense to the Sarasota Scaplers football team.  (a completely BBG made up entity)  But sitting Indian style?!?  Come the fuck on.  Of all of the wonderful things Native American culture has shared with the masses, I say comfortable chair free seating is one of the greatest.  A contribution to be proud of, in my opinion. I can't even fathom how something negative or offensive could be extrapolated from the innocuous sitting Indian style.

A lot of the Indian stuff of the past has gone the way of the dodo bird in the interest of PCness.  Some for good reason, I suppose.  Although, I was never one to think that a college team called the "Braves" was intended to be some sort of slight or slur.  On the contrary, to me it seemed to be a title of honor and pride.  But again, the communal "they" haven't (as of yet, but I am waiting by my phone) asked me to be in charge of everything. Fine.  Anything.  (tear, sniffle, tear) 

But this criss cross applesauce, while fun to say is complete crap.  No matter what kids are sayin' or what Google says, it's INDIAN STYLE damn it. 

Always was, always will be. 

I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm going to go have a comfortable sit and yesssss this girl of partial Native American lineage will be doing it Indian style, proudly.  (Now, what's Blackfoot for SUCK IT?!?) 


Wednesday, July 13, 2011

~I NEVER Do This...But

I never, ever, EVER follow the directions when someone posts a Facebook status update that contains words like "copy and paste to have a unicorn delivered to each under educated child in the world " and "post for just one hour and so we can finally eradicate flying monkeys and hang nails" or "97% of people want this horrible killing thing or that debilitating disease to flourish, show your friends how much more righteous you are than them". 

I'm just not that girl.  If you've spent more than 3 minutes in 'da World, you've  probably already concluded that I'm not exactly the type who really just looooooves to be told what to do.   

I honestly do not think that people who do these posts are doing anything other than letting their peeps know which causes are important to them and last time I checked, this was America, baby.  A little spot on the map where people are free to post anydamnthing they want to on their status update.  So rock post on people!

Like I said, it's just not me.  I do what I wanna do not what letters on my computer screen tell me to do, nor what some Stephen Hawking voiced GPS tells me to do.  But that's a subject for another day.

...But when I saw this on a college mate's status, well, it's making me reassess my position:

"I loved you the minute I heard you were coming. I loved you the minute you were born. Then I saw your face and fell in love some more. You were only a minute old, but I knew I would die for you and to this day I still would. When you choose to have a child you make a conscious decision to allow your heart to walk around outside of your body. Put this on your status if you have children you love more than life."

Status update, you had me at "I loved you the minute I heard you were coming!!" 

In fact, I still don't know what disease you're trying to cure. 

(Haaaaappy Birthday to one of my favorite people, Biggies Smalls.  No.  Not that Biggie Smalls.)


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.


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.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...