Showing posts with label Dot Shots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dot Shots. Show all posts

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.)  


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


Friday, March 13, 2015

~ The Power Of Booze, Magic & Racism

As is probably surmiseable from the title of this blog I am a chunky monkey girl.  A full-fledged, properly fat American.  It's obvious. 

(Halloween ghost of Blind Melon Past, Present & Ridiculous)
I say, 'obvious' because you have eyes and can see.  What advantage is it to me to try to perpetrate a lie about it?   A:  It's not.  That's why I don't.  I'm at peace with bein' a fat girl.  But what if I told you that despite what you are fully capable of seeing that you are wrong in your fat ass appraisal of me, Pop Quiz what would you think?

Maybe a lil':  'I'm not fat.  I know I look fat in that picture, I'm not really.'  Or some:  'Fat?  Nooooo.  ...Tipsy?  Randomly amused by 80's music video's with a stellar eye for detail and almost zero shame?  Yes, yes and yes.  B-b-but fat?  Nope.  Not one bit.'
(BBGNote:  I use fat as a declarative statement and not a pejorative one.)
I suspect most of you would think holy fuck, look at that complete break with reality she's having.  Clearly, what that photo shows is the truth about the matter.  There is no option B over whether that cool ass chick is fat or not.  (Ok.  Sure, there are other options; zaftig, voluptuous, plump, corpulent...)  You and I both know what we see is exactly what it is.  Period.  End of story. 

Unfortunately, this doesn't always translate into other scenarios.  

Fact:  The ability to discern from bullshit (that we tell ourselves, others, or have presented to us) is a craft that requires honing, ya know, as it is an integral part of not being a dumbass, I say one worth investing a few minutes on an obscure blog to sharpen.  And we're off...

By now you've probably seen the SAE version of a video diary of bus ride.  If you haven't, here.  Heavy sigh.  Serenity now.  It is obviously exactly what it appears to be.  There is no option B here either.  It looks racists because it is racists. 

And there is no excuse for that.  But in no way has that kept some pretty audacious assertions from bein' floated out there as excuses for what you've seen.  So far?  Booze and magic, mainly.  (Here is clip containing the actual statements, I'm paraphrasing.)  Both are poor defenses. 

A)  Booze.  Some people are mean ass drunks, some are love-y dove-y, some slutty.  There are Evil Knievel drunks, Alex Trebek/Cliff Clavin/Martha Stewart drunks, Casey Kasem drunks, and Sylvia Plath drunks.  I thought I knew my drunks.  I mean, I've been post-21 for some time now and have witnessed a good amount of in the cups behavior.  Hell, I've been the actual star of a few of those drunks. For legal reasons I can not be more specific.  But apparently now there are Jim Crow drunks.  (Save it, nitpickers of the interwebs.  I know Jim Crow isn't a real name.  Neither is Evil.  Suck it.) 

Why that's a shitastic defense?  Well, we all know booze can combine to concoct any number of drunk-y type behaviors, and we also know that booze has one universal constant and truth;  What ever comes out when it's mixed in?  That's what's in the person, that for whatever motivation is often without the benefit of booze held at some measure at bay.  It's not an aberration of character, it's an illumination of it.  Simply put, booze is truth juice.  So, pointing to something known to be second to sodium pentothal in it's The Truth Will Set You Free-ness as an excuse for why a bunch of racism fell out of your heart and mouth, hey, it's a free country, have the fuck at it, is, um, weird.

But honestly?  Not as weird as the other plot line aka: magic.  As near as I can piece together from comments along the lines of, 'ok, yeah, that's me on the video (being racist) but that's not an accurate representation of me', like if spoken three times into a mirror (Candyman shout out) regardless of the truth that we can see LOOK OVER THERE (misdirection)  Abracadabra!!  (Steve Miller shout out)  *waves wand with a grand flourish* makes it definitely, 100% for sure, unequivocally, absofuckinlootly, not in my character to engage in racists ass behavior.  Because these magic ass words say so.  The actual defense strategy seems to be;  Disregard the fact that you've already seen the truth.   
It puts me in mind of that Groucho quote...
...And guess what?  That's going to pass for perfectly acceptable for some folks.  (But not you, you well honed in bullshit detectin' magnificent bitches!)  I'm confident of that fact because there's a label on my hair dryer advising me not to use it in the shower. (Is there anything else ya need to know about how inept some folks are at understanding how the world works?...) 
Thanks to the people who are the reason a hair dryer has to explicitly say don't use in the shower, to a higher degree than I'm comfortable with, a certain percentage of people will accept the possibility that an option B (aka: the boozy magic loogie theory) alternative is a more reasonable conclusion than the obvious. 
My let's be super clear here point? 
I must admit, I kinda respect the amount of sheer balls it takes to attempt to explain away I would say the undeniable, but these cats) are actually denying it...  The struggle of Tooliteralism is real, yo. racist behavior with an offering of booze and magic.  I mean, that's amazing.   No less amazing than if I really would try to sell ya on the fact that that photo above is just 'big boned'.  ...I don't know if you know this or not, but I was drunk in that picture, which makes a person look fat.  And, also, that photo was taken while I was under a spell, and in a doll house of miniature-ness making me look fat. (POOF!!)  It's just not an accurate depiction of me.  Come the fuck on.  It's not smart on their part.  But then, I suppose smart is never a thing I associate with racists anyway. 
"When people show you who they are, believe them."       - Maya Angelou




Friday, February 8, 2013

~When Is The Proper Time To Show Your Penis? (aka: An Ordinary BBG Night Out)

Time:   19:45 (7:45pm for non-military time understanding visitors)
Place:  BBGWorld HQ
Date:   Tuesday


I answer the home phone (yes, I'm one of the last 4 people in America with an E.T. phone home phone).  The voice on the other end curses me out? greets me in french.  I somewhat expected my friend Somp to be on the other end returning my call from earlier in the evening.  Somp parlez  français.  At the same time I'm answering "bibliothèque" to the query of how I'm doin'.  --Mainly, because bibliothèque (translation: library) is the only word I remember from long afuckin'go high school french class, that I didn't even really excel at even then.  Somewhat, because I'm an ass. 

Simultaneously, my cell started ringing, adding to the, 'whaaaaat is happening?' experience unfolding.  I didn't pick up the cell.  It was an unfamiliar number, which is the A - #1 way to get me to not answer a call.  Plus, I was already speaking with Somp.  Until more words were exchanged and few seconds later I thought, 'This.  Is.  Not.  Somp.'  I learned, after a super classy and amazing that I have any friends at all, "who the hell is this?", that I was in fact talkin' to my pal Ghoulia (other BBGWorld Ghoulia tales).  Who was with another former co-worker, (MOK [MOK's BBGWorld history]) back in the last bastion of metric holdouts 'Mercia for a few days, at one of my all time favorite dive/hole in the wall adult bev-y serving establishments, asking if I'd like to come play.  Random last minute plan?  Sold.  I'm in.

I scurried around to make myself quasi presentable to those who's names aren't Uncle John (-- my d oh double g, who is quite accustomed to seeing me in some pretty sketchy home sanctioned outfits [Uncle John pics/posts]).  And when I say 'presentable', I mean;  Not nakid.  Which as I hate almost all of my cold weather clothes, is in fact, the best I can hope for.  The extent of my gettin' ready hub bub was 3 minute make up, brushing and re-ponytailing my locks and deciding between a hoodie sweatshirt or a fleece-y zip up, as I had already decided that it was a snow boot kinda night.  (Fashion Declaration:  Total legit snow boot wearin'.  It was actively snowing.)  Clearly, I did not give a fuck about lookin' good/decent.

In about pizza time (30 minutes or less) I'd made my way to the rally point to visit my friends, my friends, who'd become the whoo-hoo girls, self admittedly, by the time of my arrival.  There were several strangers at their table, but as Ghoulia and MKO shouted, "BeeeeeBEEEEEGEEEE!!" at the top of their lungs as I came in, they weren't strangers for long when I reached the table and said, "hello strangers.  In what may not come as a surprise, I am BBG, nice to meetcha."  (I find it's best just to let people know what kinda asshole you are right up front, so as not to waste anyones time if that kinda ass is not their kinda person.  It's a public service, really.) 
The new stranger people all seemed very nice.  Except for this cat who I'll call, 'Mike', in large part because his fuckin' name was Mike.  Mike seemed, um, hinky?  Tragic?  Full on alkey?  The survivor of a substantial traumatic brain injury with a low filter as a result?  (Disclaimer:  I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on tv.  Please do not substitute my medical diagnosis and/or judgements for that of your own good fuckin' sense, or the advice of your medical professional.)  I don't know what his deal really was?  But I know that one of the new strangers (and Ghoulia friend), a chick named Cleavage, wasn't havin' any part of it. Several times Cleavage told him, "you are not part of this conversation."  Which to many would signify a super time to do something else.  For instance, any of the other 31,47,898,524,778 things one could be doin' instead of tryin' to hone in on a gaggle o' girls, who other than punching you in the testicles, have exhausted all other means of shoo'ing you the fuck away. 
Nope.  Mike was insistent on being the proverbial 'bad penny', who just keeps poppin' up.
(BBG Story Inside a Story:  Someone was playing the jukebox.  Which after 1-3 beers will prompt a severely ungifted brown girl of size to sporadically break into a misguided, and disappointing for everyone within ear shot, sing-along.  [World:  I am sorry.]  Musical selections had been a perfectly fine. [read:  I like a crazy ass wide range of types of music/artists]  ...Until I heard that fateful and start scanning the room for a sharp object to either plunge into your ears or to slit your wrist inducing musical question, 'Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?' [Eric Clapton] By this juncture we were chatting with another random stranger guy who we'd named Dimples, who had had the colossal misfortune of stumbling upon our table.  I asked Dimples, "know what this song makes me think of?" [who, even though he'd just made our acquaintance, I'm pretty sure already knew the correct answer to that question is:  I couldn't have any fucking idea.]  "...Finding the ass who played this so I can kick him in the balls."   Not 5 minutes later Mike returns for another whirl at How-To-Socialize-With-Others, when out of the blue he asks (if the three of us left at the table) if we liked the song that was playing.  I immediately prepared my rubber hose and turned my light to his eyes asked if he had also played Tears in Heaven?  Surprise, surprise, sur-nofucking-prise, Mike was indeed the person who's balls I wanted to introduce to my big ol' clunky snow boots.  [testicles is becoming a theme with Mike, ain't it?]) 
Whoo-Hoo Girl #1 (Ghoulia), moi, Whoo-Hoo Girl #2 (MKO)
Each time we collectively thought we'd shaken Mike, he returned.  It was the real life equivalent of one of those zombie shootin' games where one head shot won't kill them, you have to repeatedly shot them in the head to put them down once and for good.  ...And none of us had enough ammo.  At some point, Mike was regaling me with a story of a hotel he GM'd on the Cape (Cod) which seemed like decent progress in interpersonal interactions for him, so I engaged, as I too have a background in hotels (and a history with Cod).  My reward for not rochambeau-in' him striving to be a decent human being?  Was being told that his property hosted a swingers club routinely.  ...And the next thing I know a grainy cell phone pic was being presented to my eye orbs showing a photo of, what I'm confident exceeds the manufacturer recommendations for maximum capacity of nakid people in a hot tub stew of swirlin' chlorine and come.  As if that wasn't more than enough Mike-information than I needed for a lifetime, Mike then proceeded to show me a picture of his cock. 
(Special Note To Guys:  I've tried to be sooo helpful to you with the BBG Guide to Gettin' Chicks (officially known as Guy Assistance Program/GAP).  Perhaps it's my fault?  Maybe before now I haven't expressly given you this valuable tidbit, but the appropriate time to show a chick your cock shot, is if/after she asks, 'yoooooou, don't have a deceptively generous angled photograph of your twigs and berries I can see, do you?'.) 
Thankfully, this was the exact moment MOK and new stranger acquaintance, Dimples (Ghoulia had already had the good fuckin' sense to have taken leave of us) returned to the table.  Leaving my only option as a conversation re-starter as, "sooooooooooo.  Mike just showed me an unsolicited picture of his cock."  Know what'll get a whaaaaat the fuck look from your friends?  That as your welcome back to the table.
Interestingly enough, straight up Nelson Muntz 'ha-ha-ing!!' coupled with a few well placed, 'what the fuck dude?'s' and 'I like how from this angle your dick reaches your shoulders', (...the last statement is exactly why MOK and I are friends)  wasn't enough to persuade Mike that it might be time to take your sad, cracked out ass home.  Alas, finally, a friend of his arrived to Calgon take him away. 
What.  A.  Night.  With the exclusion, or possibly due to Mike.  Even now, I'm not entirely sure.  It's exactly why when random adventure comes knockin' at my door, I say, yes.  While an ordinary BBG night out does provide a giggle, it also provides a lesson...  
Today's GAP/Guy Assistance Program Lessons for XX-ers:
-  Do remember;  If the table thinks you're the weird creepy guy, you can't, I repeat, cannot recover from that.  (Even if you and your mom dispute it, validly, or delusionally.)  Ones perception is their reality.  (Even if it's not yours.)  Next time be more mindful of what your behavior would lead others to perceive about you.
Do assess.  From time to time ask yourself;  Am I being a douchebag?
Take a fuckin' hint.  (Even if you don't like the hint being given.)
Refrain from showing unsuspecting skirts a photo of your cock.   
I cannot believe I'm legit having to type that...
It's important to note that digital dick displayin' Mike went home with a carryout 6 pack and some guy who had come to collect him.  Meanwhile, Dimples didn't offer up a full technicolor penis shot, but instead employed a tactic called Operation I'm Probably Not Planning on Tying You Up To A Pipe In The Basement and ended up spending a lil' car warmin' up make out time with a real, live girl and scored some digits.  Only you can decide which guy you'll be.  Choose wisely.
Lastly, I don't want to alarm anyone, but I'm 99.44% sure that Charlie Manson has escaped.  And that I shook his hand that night.  @lil'murderin'
(Good times, Ghoulia & MOK.  Good.  Times.)


Friday, December 30, 2011

~Fuck You, 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(We can make soy based mock connective tissue,
but still no wayback machine?!?)

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

~Got my heart brrrrrrrrroken.

~Got my revenge and made a new friend.

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

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

~The BBGWorld hit 10,000 visitors.

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

(Health nuts should probably use vitamin gummies.)

~My first gray eyebrow hair. 

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

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

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

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

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

~Uncle John tried to kill me.

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

~michigan won.

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

~I learned of the magical existence of natatoriums.

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

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

(Why would a person do this?)

~Ponytail'd men, for the 3rd year in a row continued to cross my path:
    (Engaging in some St. Pat's ponytail pullin')

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

~Gone too soon...

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

Heavy D. 

...Now what will we do?  RIP Heavy D.

Smokin' Joe Frazier. 

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

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

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

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

So good bye year.  

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

Dear 2011,
I'm out.

Haaaaaappy New Year!!


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.


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?!?) 


Monday, June 27, 2011

~Reunion-ing v2.5

I feel my reunion officially began Friday night with the drunken dial of a classmate I've know since the 4th grade, checkin' to see where I was, as she felt I should have been at the hometown drinking establishment where she and a few other classmates found themselves randomly congregating.  It warmed my heart to get a little outta the blue 'your being thought of' sign.  (Isn't that so corny?  Alas, 'da World ain't a corny free zone ya'll, so suck it.) 

It got me thinkin' about the fun I knew I was in for the following night. 

I know there are lots of people who feel very much like, 'I didn't like those people then, I'm not goin' to see them now', or I don't even know?  Maybe they feel like a reunion is another chance to be judged or sumthin'? 

"They" exist and if that's what ya feel that's totally valid and shit-- to each their own...but I do not get it.  At all. 

Of course any time you're not sitting in a room alone somebody's judging you.  I know who I fuckin' am so what do I care about what someone else thinks?  A:  I do not.  (Ok, obviously, I care what people think about me, frankly it's one of the main reasons I haven't shanked anyone yet.  Er, I just mean, I guess I don't care what anyone thinks about my four wheels that get me to and fro, nor what anyone thinks about my thighs, or how many to the left of the decimal point my savings reaches.  That I couldn't give a shit about.  ...Heeeeeeere's BBG:  Like it, love it, hate it, ignore it-- those are the options, your pick and I'm pretty cool with whatever ya choose, ya know?)

Digress much? 

Anyhoo, if you are staying away from your reunion rethink it.  I can almost promise that unless you actually attended school with this chick:

Your classmates really want to see you and that you'll have a great time seeing them.  I'm not sayin' you'll leave and want to institute an every 5 day contact schedule or anything, but I can say you'll have a good enough time that you'll wanna see them again in 5 years. 

Per Nike:  Just Do It.

(Per BBG:  Just Fuckin' Do It!!)

Here are some of the things that may happen if'n you do:

~You may find a new/old friend.  I've had this friend request for fuckin'ever but I could not place that face and the name was hazily sketchy to me too.  (In fairness, in my minds eye he's still 11, so this grown up FB pic meant nuthin'.)  Some of you may know my litmus test for Facebook friending is:  1) Friend people who are actual, real, honest to God friends.  B) Friend people you like and who you have or would share a beer with.  Nobody else gets in.  Therefore, this cat didn't make the cut.  While reunioning I introduce myself to some guy with fanfuckingtastic pants, who was there with a classmate, he tells me his name is Xxxx XxXxxxxxx (code name: Burberry) and it is this same FB request person I've ignored for the past year and a half.  Turns out he, along with his twin brother and I went to Our Lady of Bad Catholic Kids together!  Plus, we were having a PBR so friend request accepted.  Welcome Burberry!

~You may find yourself making the boy (codename: Fuck Truck, which FYI and I don't know why I feel the need to make this full disclosure I have no direct knowledge of.  He drove this cool ass rockin' mystery van back in the day.  It was just always referred to as the fuck truck.) you asked to Sadie Hawkins, who rejected you and broke your lil' teenage BBG heart ( much as your 15 year old heart can be broken...) cry.  Ok, technically I didn't make any water pop outta his peepers, but apparently I gave him such a hard time that later he felt compelled to make things right when he grabbed me and pulled me in for a 25+ years later smoooooooove 80's couples dance.  Yeah, baby, ya know the one.  Arms around his shoulders/arms around her waist combined with the slow circular shuffle. I laughed so hard.  And then spent some introspective time considering what the unyielding need and internal delight of making others feel uncomfortable says about me.  Conclusion:  Ima ass. In further make right-yness, Fuck Truck bought me a beer, so I guess now we're even.  (Note to Fuck Truck:  I do still have a story about a broken towel rack.  That ought to rate a hug and beer at the next reunion, right?)

~You may do the splits.

~You may feel some new boobs.  ...I thought to myself, 'I didn't remember (codename:  9-to-5) being so chesty'.  That lil' gem of internal dialogue was followed with, 'well, it's not like I spend a lot of time checkin' out other girls racks, I've got my own' and quickly continued on with my general tomfoolery and shenanigans.  Later someone unsolicited mentioned they were new.  Due to my chronic assyness and acute lack of appropriateness, my response to that news was, "I taught her how to use a tampon.  I'm gonna touch those tits."  Needless to say and embarrassing to admit poor 9-to-5 (who for obvious reasons will now be referred to as Dolly) found herself allowing a BBG to get to second base during a subsequent conversation.   Dolly asked how they were?  Honestly, I don't know.  I don't have a lot of experience with boobs, other than deez boobs.  (somewhere in mid-America a big brown girl cups her ta-tas and giggles by the glow of her computer)

~You may find that your classmates bring some fun ass spouses to the mix.  Several made me think, 'if I lived here I'd totally be friends with him/her too'.  Which is really nice to be able to say about strangers.

~You may learn that several of your classmates hold positions of importance in city government, education and other fields, which will make you think there is sumthin' seriously wrong with the world that lets someone who you've seen beer bong be in charge of anything.

~You may have self discovery.  You may find out that you're a hugger.  I always say I'm not a hugger.  Apparently this makes my pants on fire.  I hugged everybody.  Literally.  Wait.  I shook one hand.  All others were hugged whether they liked it or not.  Serious biz, how wrong must that one hand shaker rub me?  I also was reminded of how much of a flitter I am.  I took my seat for dinner.  Every moment before and after involved me flittin' here and flittin' there.  I really enjoy a big buncha friends.  Too often I'm in smaller groups of friends thus ruling out flitting opportunities.

~You may notice that when you look around the room you see grown ass men standing with their arms draped around another talking and doubling over in laughter, how comfortable it is to be with people you have history with.  Even if it's been forever since you last saw them.  Observing how much has changed, and how out of touch we've all become (hectic lives, geographical distances, that we are old enough that FB wasn't around so you just lost contact with people, etc.) that the bond is still there, really caught me off guard for a moment and touched my heart.  Don't get me wrong, the girls were havin' a grand time too, but ya kinda expect girls to be a tad more demonstrative in their affections with one another.  Even now thinking of seeing the guys like that kinda makes my eyes well up.  Fuck off people.  Fuck off.

~You may be magically surprised by how real everyone is.

~You may make a drunken dial.  Perhaps to Joshua Tree.  Once I said "nice to meet you" to the wife of a classmate she told me that we'd met before, that she had gone to our HS (a couple of years behind us) at which point I asked her last name back in the day.  That's when shock and awe and drunkin' dialin' ensued.  When I met one of my besties, Somp a million years ago at my first radio job, she told me one of her friends from little girlhood had moved to my hometown and attended the same HS.  I recognized her name but couldn't put a face together.  Until Saturday it had always been a smallworldness between us, Somp and me.  I was sooooo pleased to add the final component to it when I officially met her childhood friend, EK.  Even though Somp was camping at Joshua Tree where I suspected cell reception was limited I felt EK and I had to give it a whril.  I knew hearing our voices together would be a surprising delight for Somp who as she later told me, knew EK married a guy from our hometown, but didn't know that he also had attended our HS/my class.  Small ass world! 

~You may have to compose an email containing the line, "you should know that you are incredibly lucky I didn't slip you the tongue when you asked me to smooch you. ;-p" 

~You may learn about people passing.  I was saddened to hear of the deaths of 4 of our classmates.  I had known about a couple but had not heard about the others.  Gone too soon. 

~You may find that you are standing between parents of toddlers and grandparents who years ago walked in the same graduation procession, which I think is a spectacularly wacky combo.  It just underscored how different our lives have become, yet how much we enjoyed one another as we chatted, reminisced and giggled our way through the evening sans awkwardness.

~You may find yourself singing karaoke badly.  In strict adherence to my main rule of karaoke (do it outta town).  I tortured my classmates twice.  Once on my own, once as part of a duet for the Clint Black and Wynonna classic, 'Bad Goodbye'.    

(Irish For Life, 2011)
~You may have sooooo many good n' funny stories that you have to limit yourself in your blog.  Seriously limit yourself.

~You may find yourself saying, "I've had a grrrrreat time" and "I'll see you in 5 years!!"  I did.

Special thanks to all of those who pitched in to organize and put together our reunion, and to those who traveled so far to go home to grab a beer with some folks they hung with a quarter of a century ago. 

A big ass I missed you to all who didn't attend. 

Lastly, a shout out to my folks who on cops/nurse salaries sacrificed to send me to a place where I met such good kids.

P.S. Thanks to those of you who mentioned that you keep up with 'da World.  It came as a complete surprise to me.  A surprise of the most delightful sort.

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