Showing posts with label Grief 'N Loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grief 'N Loss. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

~ We Need More Grief Words

The other night I was talking with a friend who is getting ready to lose a parent after a long battle against Alzheimer's.  She's been my friend since we were 6th graders so I desperately wanted to say the right thing.  But if, "you know this is your condolence card, right?" whilst hugging another long time friend at her mother's funeral has taught me anything, it's that doing so (saying the right thing) takes more than my internal desire. 

I scanned my mind for the word appropriate for the conditions. 

...And there was nothing. 

I wanted a word like schadenfreude or han, something that would encompass a concept, a word to convey the feeling of; I'm tremendously saddened and sorry this is getting ready to happen, and yet I'm also grateful.  Grateful that your loved one won't be having this awful reality, and neither will your family, that this has been so hard on for so long.  But less clunky such a phrase seems to be non-existent.  There's no corresponding cliché.  Nothing that expresses the combination of the hashtag-y equivalent of #Sorry #NotSorry sorrow and relief.  

That seems a shame for a feeling fairly often applicable when it comes to death.  We'd all like to (and have our loved ones) peacefully slip away in our (their) sleep, replete with cartoon birdies chirping and fluttering around as we make the transition but more often than not the end rarely wraps itself up in such a Very Special After School Special-y kinda way.  Nope.  Most of us will experience this aforementioned non-existent-word-y feeling.  

Mine came in the middle of the night five years ago.  Before that night I had never wanted anything more than for my Papa, who had recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, to be with me as long as he could.  But then I heard Papa shriek in pain as the hospice nurse attempted a procedure.  I remember sitting at the dining room table as it rang out through the house (a sound I'll apparently never be able to unhear) and immediately changing my want to Papa going right that instant.  As much as I loved and wanted him with me always, I wanted him not to have this as his reality more.  I didn't wish for him to die, but I stopped wishing for him to stay.  My prayers were exclusively for comfort and an easy passing.  I held his hand as he took his last breath.  I was beyond heartbroken.  But I was also relieved. 

Unfortunately, long is the list of diseases and medical conditions that at the end devolve to a tipping point where death (Understatement Alert: as incredibly shitty as it is) is no longer the worst thing to happen.  To say it's a 'blessing' feels wrong (Universal Truth:  nobody thinks never being able to spend time with their loved one is a blessing...) and callous.  But more honest than pretending it's the same kinda (exclusively sad) passing, grief and sadness as losing someone suddenly, at the height of their health and quality of life where there isn't that sense of, again, for a complete lack of a better word, relief.  (I'm not implying one is better/worse than the other, [there is no grief award] only that depending on circumstances at hand there is an amount of suffering that changes the dynamic of the how one views a life ending.  ...See.  Wouldn't it be handy to have a phrase for that?

Grief is a topic that has popped up several times in my circle 'o friends lately.  (Mainly, folks bein' awful at it, if I'm bein' honest.  Not that I'm the Grief Whisper.)  I can't help but think perhaps people would do a lil' better with it if it was discussed a lil' more freely.  ...And perhaps we'd be better at doin' that if we had the actual fuckin' words to describe it.

We Need More Grief Words - Exhibit B: 

Later in the week I was hanging out with a few other friends when my friend (code name) Arrowsmith and I were discussing her late son.  Over an order of remembrance-y shots I asked how old her son would have been?  (Although he left as a toddler he would have been 15 now.)  As we talked about him she off-handedly mentioned how tricky it is now when strangers ask how many kids she has.  (She and her hubby are knee deep in raising two beautiful pre-schoolers [1 girl/1 boy].)   A perfectly normal question people ask other people, but when your answer is a story and not a concise number, and your story is every parent's nightmare scenario, it's a somewhat stressful query.   Not to mention, this is often some random ass stranger you'll never cross paths with again  --of course ya don't wanna lie, but who wants to detail your life story to a stranger?  I'd imagine most parents who have lost a child (of which when I look around at my circle of peeps, there are far too many) have found themselves struggling for the least explain-y explanation possible.  Arrowsmith then, super astutely, went on to say, "when you lose your husband or wife you're a widower/widow, but there isn't a word for when your child dies."  Slightly tipsy.  Mind.  Blown.

As I like to be 'part of the solution' I offer, Kidower.

  • kid·ow·er   /ˈkidō(ə)r/   (noun)  a parent who has lost a child to death

It's telling about our collective relationship with death that we have more words for cell phone picture takin' (selfie, delfie, ussie [yes.  I am embarrassed to know those words exist.] et al) than we have grief phrasing.   We're so uninterested in dealing with death we refuse to create the vernacular for it.  (Stomps stubborn foot)   It's no wonder so many get so mired down in its aftermath.  

Greif is dicey enough to navigate.  (Both on the first-hand-going-through-it and the trying-to-support-someone-going-through-it side.)   The lack of language we have for it doesn't lend itself to making it any easier.  Or saying the right thing.  

"Everybody knows how to talk ya through working a smartphone.  Nobody knows how to discuss death.  Oh.  Ok."


Thursday, February 2, 2012


It was late January 2010 when we found out Papa had cancer.  By the 22nd of March he was gone. 

I learned a lot about death and grief.  I learned a lot about love.  I learned a lot about living. 

Even now I find it difficult to fully comprehend the events surrounding what started for me that January. 

I can remember my massive inconsolable emotional freak out I had after I heard the news.  I desperately wanted to jump in the car and go to Nana & Papa's house, immediately, but I couldn't stop my constant tears.  I ended up holing up for a few days until I could muster the fortitude to make that hour drive to see them without being a complete basket case, 'cause you know who doesn't need a basket case?  The actual person who's been told their time is limited and the one who has loved them for 62 years, that's who.

I had the luxury of spending most of those next few weeks with my Papa and family as we navigated the unfamiliar and painful journey.  Watching someone you love leaving you is awful.  There aren't words to adequately convey how terrible, sad and heart wrenching it is.  The only thing I can imagine that is worse, is not having the chance to walk those final steps of life with your loved one.  

The process of dying-- other than in the, we're all in the process of dying once we're born sense, is an overwhelming experience to be witness to.  Overwhelming emotionally.  To a lesser and more manageable degree overwhelming physically.  The stamina required being on high alert 24/7 for days, weeks, months is simply exhausting.  Emotionally, it's more than exhausting and all encompassing.  It's nothing one can prepare for.  You can try to prepare, but in reality, you just aren't.

I thought after some time to absorb everything the process of dying and loss it brings into your life, I'd have some helpful revelation or advise I could share.  As it turns out, almost two years later, I don't.  Gone is gone.  And gone sucks.  Period. 

As I can tell, the only thing I've learned that makes a loss easier, and the only real tip about grief I have to offer is to do the right thing.  Be.  Say.  Do.  Even when it's hard.  It means you'll have no regrets.  Technically, I can't say doing right will actually make things easier, but I can't imagine what having to manage grief and a bunch of "should've's" would be like.  My advise is it (should've's) is to be avoided at all costs.

Grief is super tricky.  Granted, everyone experiences it differently and there is no right way to deal with it.  But, in my opinion there is a universal truth of how to best manage it.

Eventually, if you allow it to be so, grief, while always around becomes less acute.  Accepting that is one of the greatest (<-- which is sayin' sumthin' as Nana & Papa have actually put a big bow on a 4 wheeled/4 door'd Christmas present) and last gifts Papa gave me.   

I've mentioned the "luxury" of having time together before he passed.  ...An odd way to frame the worst portion of my life thus far, I know.  When exactly did you think I was not an odd girl?  But during a conversation Papa talked with me about the daughter he and Nana lost when she was a teen, and how after she died he felt like he'd just die.  That it was just too much.  But that at some point he considered what she would want for him and that she would want him to live a happy life.  Papa told me once he accepted what he knew was true- that she wouldn't want her death to define and rule his life he was able to begin to actually live his life again with more happiness and less grief.  Papa told me that's exactly what he wanted me to do;  To be sad for a while, but to remember that he wouldn't want me sad forever.

I think I've done what he wanted me to do. 

Which isn't to say every day is just automatically roses and unicorns.  Even now almost two years, my mind and body still conspire to remind me how traumatic this time of the year once was.  For me that apparently means not being able to go to sleep at a decent hour coupled with rising too damn early.  A bit of BBG PTSD from trying to walk an unfamiliar road of having to say good bye, watching changes happen that you don't want to see and being powerless about the entirety of the situation at hand.

Unfortunately, recently I have had to draw on my experiences to help (?) several friends who have (or are in the process of losing) lost loved ones of late.  I used to think I was empathetic when people lost someone close to them, but now since I've walked the road, I feel even more compassion for friends when they are going through such times.  Experiencing the journey is different than knowing about the journey.  Experiencing it is like gaining entry into some club you never wanted to be in, never wanted to understand and never wanted to have to learn the rules about, but here you are.

"Grief is the price we pay for love."     
                                                        ~Queen Elizabeth II

When I reflect back on a lifetime of gifts, joys and love I was given by my Papa it seems like a small, albeit painful, price to pay.  A debt I'm both saddened by, yet happy to carry.

But knowing that alone, doesn't make it easy.  It takes work.

Grief is easy to get mired down in, to be consumed by.  

If you're in the club, at a certain point you have to ask yourself if you are honoring your loved one by living the life they would want you to live?  Or if you are honoring them with your misery?  If the answer is the second, consider how much of an honor it is to be doing the exact opposite of what they would want for you?

As for me?  I'm listening to my Papa.

(And keeping a good thought for the other members of the club.)


Tuesday, December 20, 2011

~Bah Humbug?

Yowza.  A full week since the last post.  I don't even know the last time that happened.  I seem to be having a difficult time gettin' into the yuletide spirit.  Which in turn made it hard to sit down to type some interesting entertaining thing worth reading.  Finally, I opted for the truth.  I'm settling in to what is.  And that is, is that I may be bah humbug?  No specific reason.  There's no extra, out of the ordinary drama trauma going on. 

I just find myself feeling rather blah.  (I guess that makes me blah humbug?)  Fortunately, and I guess serving as proof that misery really does loves company, I happen to have several friends who are for various reasons having the same Fa-la-la-la-la La-la-la-blah season. 

Last year was my first Papa-less Christmas, so it was sad.  The thought of how the previous Christmas my family had been complete and now was missing one of it's best parts weighed heavily on me.  It was the first sad Christmas I'd ever had.  ...And I've spent Christmas in the hospital.

(- Stolen from my Mom's archives -)

But last year even though there was an inherent, sad undercurrent, I had a sparkily new love and thought I was possibly on the brink of setting off on the 'forever' part of my life.   (Refer to 3 Things Last Friday Brought Me [click here] in your BBGW hymnal for how that worked out, or here's the short version; It didn't.)  So this year, while I'm more settled, I suppose really, more accustomed, to the fact that Papa is gone.  This year I feel the contrast of a, being alone (uncoupled up) Christmas vs. a heeeeerrrre's your new happy life Christmas of last year.  

And while I was never really good at math, I do know that 2 somewhat shitty Christmas' in a row = Blah Humbug.

I'm not alllllll gloom and doom.  It's not like I'm planning a Very Brady Suicidal Christmas or anything.  But it is probably a little telling that this is my favorite YouTube of the season:

As Nana advises, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything, which explains my radio blog silence for the past several days.  I don't wanna be the Debbie Downer who's bummin' folks out.  T'is not how I like to roll.  I've been trying, by doing nothing, mind you to shake my blah humbugness.  However, as Somp says, "you can't help what you feel."  But I think to some degree you can help how you mange how and what you feel, so I therefore I have vowed that I will not actually kick Santa in the balls.  And am actively trying to focus in on the good stuff of the season. 

For instance, yesterday I was happily stunned when I received an email from someone I haven't seen since, oh, 19fucking82.  Being a serial random emailer myself, it was the highlight of my day to be on the receiving end.

I'm looking forward to having Nana over.  I'm looking forward to Nana's  I-can't-even-describe -how-good-it-is chocolate pie.  And of course, to spending low key family time with Mom and her main man dude (who I MUST find a code name for!).  And to getting to see some friends who will be around over the next several days.

To put my early Christmas present of mild malaise into perspective, I just had to talk AnonD off the ledge, who after calling someone a "dumb little cunt", whilst threatening to "kick her little cunt ass", (from 4 states away) before finishing her off with a, "what a dirty nasty butt", for good measure.  Now the two salient details you should know of this story are:  1) The 'someone' she refers to totally deserves such ire.  B)  I don't know that I've heard AnonD use the word cunt more than twice in 20 years.  Let alone 3 times in a sentence.  As we wrapped up our conversation she finished with a, "Uggggghhhh.  Christmas.   I can't wait for it to be fucking over."  Ahhhh, that's the Christmas spirit.  Makes it seem like I'm lil' more mid line on the Ebeneezer Scrooge scale, right?

Perhaps today is the day I succumb and put some Christmas decorations up.  I mean, it seems like 12/20 is shit or get off the pot time for stockings and wreaths, ya know?  Decisions, decisions...

Lastly, (<-- which I like to throw in as an homage to a friend), an ode to Hanukkah which begins tonight:

To my Maccabees~
Enjoy pleeeeease,
Your festive 8 nights of light.
Get your dreidel spinnin' right.
Here's to tasty latkas to bite,
and Hanerot Halalu's to recite.
May your Hanukkah be filled
with love and good cheer.
And from this day forward
may you never know a tear.
So mazel tov, my peeps
as you light the menorah, get funky fresh
go wild and break out a hora!

Haaaaappy Hanukkah!!


Monday, August 8, 2011

~Nana Likes & Disssssslikes - TV

Every day I call my Nana.  E-V-E-R-Y day.  Do you know who I talk to every day?  By choice?  Nodamnbody.  (Am I anti-social?)  But each day since Papa has been gone I ring-a-ding-ding Nana up.  My lie pretense is that the hometown newspaper TV listings are award worthy for their incredible lack of substantive TV information. 

For example, it doesn't tell you any info about TV ta-doin's before 8pm.  As if no one in the whole town, in the entire history of hometown man has ever queried, 'hummmm, wonder what's on the telly' at 7pm?  Additionally, it only gives titles, no descriptions.  I know, I know, it's the damn newspaper not TV Guide, but still, I'm sure you can agree that it's not super duper helpful to an 81 year old, who because she knows what's on CNN/MSNBC, etc., will just stay there her whole TV watchin' time?

The real deal reason I call Nana is to check in with her?  (...On her?) 

Has Nana fallen and can't get up?  Is Nana having a sad day, that after 62 years of marriage and now you're completely alone in a house just happen?  Does mental acuity seem to be as crisp and clear as it has been the past 81 years?  At 5'2" are there any needs that a tall and strong BBG could take care of in an hour when I could get there, if I had to?  Is Nana in good health and feelin' fine?  As the only grandchild, I feel it's my responsibility.  And of course, most days it's my pleasure.   

Each day I Google to find what options are on.  I give her my recommendations, channels and times.  A movie occupies a good chunk of time, and when you've been couped up in the house since you returned from your 9am exercise class (Nana, not me or the blog would be Medium Brown Girl, duh...) that's a good way to pass the time.  I alert her to when her favorite shows (Midsommers Murder, Doc Martin, American Pickers and Lark Rise) are on.  And help her avoid shows she doesn't care for, such as The Vicar of Dibley, which sounds innocuous enough, right?  Vicar = religiously.  How bad could that be?  Well, Nana reports that she's never watching it again as "they've made her downright sluuuuuutish."  People, lemme tell you a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' you haven't vomited a bit in your mouth lived until you've heard your grandmother say "sluuuuuutish".  So obviously, I make my suggestions very carefully and after much consideration.

First of all, the criteria for choosing is quite strict.  No violence.  And nuthin' sexual.  I fuckin' made that mistake just once.  Hearing a lil' voice from the phone say, "I had to turn that off, I watched until X, then they started getting all sexxxxxxxxxxuuuuuuual."  My ears!  MY EARS!!  Nuthin' that makes black people look like buffoons, while I've never seen it, ol' Nana ain't gonna like Barber Shop.  Actually, Nana goes in for no buffoonery, but is particularly irritated by buffoonery of color. 

Evidently, I'm doin' a pretty good job, as I now report in with Nana options and Miss Martha options.  Miss Martha, being Nana's 93 year old friend who-- in what I can only imagine is a true, actual game of 'telephone', jingles Miss Martha to tell her what to watch.  (P.S. Miss Martha is pissy that I call her Miss Martha.  I'm sorry old lady, at 93 even though I am a grown ass woman, you deserve the respect of "Miss".  I was raised to respect your elders and that's about as fuckin' elder as it gets.  Suck it Miss Martha!)

If this sounds like I'm complainin', I assure you I'm not.  I know there will be a day when I won't be able to make such calls.  I cherish them now and I'll cherish them when some loooooooong ass time from now, Nana has gone to rejoin Papa. 

Nana Worthy:
The Princess Diaries (all of 'em)
Sister Act (all of 'em)
Man on Fire (but only after she turned it off the first time and I convinced her to try it again = too violent.  After she successfully screened it in it's entirety, she told me if I got 'napped she'd send Denzel after me.)
Iron Man
Last Holiday
Sweet Home Alabama
The Pacifier (<--Yep, Nana likes a Vin Diesel movie.)
The Soloist
Taken  (Really, Nana?!?)
Any Sandra Bullock movie
Bone Collector
Monster In Law
Because I Said So

Ray  (= Telling me about the small amount she watched the night before:  "...then he started doing that marijuana and drugs.  Why do people ruin their lives with druuuuuugs?  I don't want to watch that."  Miss Martha, however did like it, although for some unknown reason suspects Ray Charles blindness was due to his brothers tragedy.)
Legally Blond (= buffoonery)
No OJ Simpson movies (= OJ is a killer.  Nana thinks the Rock looks like apparently Nana says, suck it Dwayne Johnson.)
The Kingdom (she said she "kinda liked it" and liked "that scrappy girl from West Virginia [Jennifer Garner]", but I think mostly she was swayed because I'd mentioned that it's one of my faves.)
No mob movies (= "I'm not watching any movie glorifying thuuuuuugggs and criminals")

Dear Cable Network Makers,
I don't wanna tell you what to do, you're in charge of you and all, but you should seriously consider starting a Nana channel.  Non controversial, non sexxxxxual, non violent movies running 24 hours a day.  FYI Nana's wake up at all hours during the night in need of sumthin' other than depressing, breaking, troubling world news on CNN to turn to. Perhaps, NNC?  (Nana Network Channel)  I'll look for my 10% finders/massively successful new idea fee in the mail.


Monday, March 21, 2011

~Farewell Firsts

I'm on the cusp of my final Papa first.  I've made it through the first Father's Day, my birthday, his birthday, the holidays and the new year.

Tomorrow marks the first year without him.

Yes, as if last weeks drama trauma wasn't enough, I've had this looming over my head simultaneously.

I thought by now I'd have some feeling of, hummm...clarity, maybe?  Peace?  A sense of ease?  I don't even know, really.  About my loss.  But you know what I don't have?  Any of that.  Gone is gone.  And it sucks.  Period.

The firsts were bad, because they were the first time I was experiencing those events in the new-ness of them being without Papa.  But now, now it's bad/hard because in addition to this last, and seemingly enormous first,  I'm so remembering what these last days were like last year.

I wish I somehow felt in a position to have some wise words. or profound thoughts about it all.  And maybe that's what I thought I'd be feeling?  Maybe next year I will.  (Although nobody should hold their breath on that.)

Today all I seem to be able to think about is how hard things were, and what I was doing on the 21st/22nd of March.  How I'd heard Papa holler in pain and just prayed for him to go, and not only go, but go right now.   When all of my prayers up until that point had been to keep him as long as we could and to keep him comfortable.  I switched on a dime that night.  I can still hear that scream.  I fear I always will.

I'll spare you everything else I learned about death these days and nights last year.  But it's left an indelible mark.  A bruise I hoped would fade a bit as time passed.

I don't know if things get easier, or better from here on out, or if this is the new status quo.  But at least going forward everything won't be a brand new, first.  I'll have some sort of point of reference, some level of expectation.  So, I guess there's that. 

For a girl who really doesn't like emotions and feelings and junk, I've been having a lot of 'em recently.  Too many.  I don't wanna be the BBG who wishes away time, but I need to get past these days/weeks.  I'm not sleeping well, which I'm sure does not help steady my roller coaster of emotions lately. 

Nana says, we need to think about and celebrate Papa's birthday, because that's the day that brought him to us, not the day he was taken from us.  I know she's right.  She usually is.  And I'm trying my best...


Monday, December 27, 2010

~Christmas Past & Present


I took another peek at my Christmas list. As I looked over it, I thought, man, you know I was a fuckin' handful as a kid. God bless my family. Clearly, they are saints. I mean, this is what I'm like now. As a grownup. Imagine what a Lil' Brown Girl musta been like back in the day?!?

I'm sure my family thanks you for the feeling of pity you must now be experiencing.

One of my favorite memories is being a wee lass (4ish) and being taken by Nana & Papa to the local mall for my yearly commune with the jolly fat one. I had my audience with Santa. And then Santa said hello to my Papa. By name! Nana likes to say that my "eyes got as big as saucers" and that I just knew I was gettin' my requested stuff. Papa had an in with Santa.

How awesome to be a kid knowin' that Santa and Papa are friends? The first Christmas without him, I was extra comforted to have such a wealth of memories, a life time of them, but what I wouldn't give to have had one more. I know. Greedy. But you can't help what you feel, only what your reactions are.

My reaction to my feelings this Christmas were all over the fuckin' board, but included; a slightly OCDish cleaning spree. In a grand display of controlling what you can, since ya can't control what ya can't. ...My first Papa-less Christmas, but I can get this floor so clean you can lick it type stuff.

I nearly broke a few laws to make sure I got the Godkids cards in the mail so they had them by Christmas, but forgot to call my Dad on Christmas day. Really, brain? Reeeeeally?!?

I found myself melancholy Christmas morning, resulting in my complete and utter inability to, and I think this is the technical term, get my ass in gear. I'd been up since 05:30 with no valid excuse for pokin' around all morning, yet I couldn't seem to mosey over to Mom's until sometime after noon. Fighting a feeling of, 'let's just get this behind us', which isn't exactly the Currier & Ives-esque vibe we, to a greater or lesser degree crave at the holidays.

There was also a little, 'what's this gonna be like'? At the prospect of doing sumthin' different and new for me, which was leaving my family to do something with someone else's family. I've always found myself with guys who's families celebrated on Eve, rather than Christmas. Or guys who's families lived elsewhere, or the afterlife. But this year involved Double D and me spending time with his kids. It wasn't like I wasn't looking forward to it, it was just having no reference point for it. I wasn't in any panic or anything, just a feeling of, 'well, this is gonna be new', ya know?

We had a good time. I must admit the diversion of a getaway from my reality of this Christmas was very nice. And I had fun hanging with Double D's kids. No matter how long moms and dads have been apart, it's never easy for kids to see them with other people. Period. To their credit, they are nothing other than polite, kind and respectful to me, so in addition to liking them, it's easy and a delight to be with them. Seeing Double D so happy to be spending time with all three of them together warmed my heart.

Christmas night Double D took us all out for their tradition of a Chinese dinner. Also a first for me. I ate my weight in shrimp and crab legs. We wrapped up the night trying to best one another in PacMan. Yes, PacMan. That's how I roll. (Wonk-wonk)

We had my family Christmas dinner on Sunday with Mom, her guy and Nana. A stupendous combination of football and good food. Mom & Dad being officers, Mom turning into a R.N., and my time working at a hotel a million years ago, means we're pretty accustomed to not necessarily having the holiday on the holiday, so it worked for us.

It wasn't a bad holiday. No one shanked anyone else. But I'm glad it's over. I feel like, I know there are good holidays left in my life, but I feel like this is the first year I've had holidays tempered by sadness, and that's never been my reality before. I know that while next year may not be "easier" at least it won't be new and fresh. I'll have some experience with things not being the same as they have been in the past. Knowing your best Christmases are behind you is a bit of a bitter pill.

So Christmas 2010. There it is.

(Papa and his BBG, 2009)


Tuesday, November 30, 2010

~The Long And Ramble-y Road

Alright... Only if you really have nuthin' better to do should you start this post. Listen, when even the sharer of the story is tryin' to save you from some oddly appropriate craptastic tale, and the made up word, "ramble-y" is used as a hint in the title, you know you're in for some serious time wasting reading.

You've been warned.

If you're still here, you only have yourself to blame.

Here we go:

Thanksgiving was not as easy or fun as every other Thanksgiving I've had in my life. All these firsts without Papa. Whew. They ain't easy, kids. I know, I'm not the only one in the world to experience such things. But this is pretty much my first experience with such things, so it's all a learning experience to me.

So, here we are doin' Thanksgiving. I pick Mom and her guy up and set off over the river and through the woods to Nana's house. Alright. There was no river or woods involved, just I-70.

Double D was unable to join in due to having to work. Boo. Duty calls and all. Coming from a family of police and police to R.N, and having worked jobs myself where ya worked holidays, it isn't my first day at the somebody not being there rodeo. But still, boo. I don't like when we're apart at all (I know, sappy.), let alone on a holiday, but what can be done, ya know?

After we arrive at Nana's but before dinner, sumthin' was required from the store. Off my Mom's guy and I go. I pull into a parking spot and glance around, as I do, because as you may have already heard, I'm the noticer!! Anyhoo, this trait serves me well because I spy John Legend.

Yup. My crazy assed and adored hometown chocked full o' some of the wackiest cast of characters and situations you have ever seen is also the ol' stompin' grounds of the multi Grammy winning artist.

Now, and this is where you realize, if in fact you haven't sooner, that I am woefully unhip and tragically L7. And really, what says more dazzling square than actually using the term L...7?

My 81 year old Nana is the person who hip'd me to his existence.

Shouldn't by all that is holy, I be the one who is first in on the cool new artist types happening around me? Nope. Apparently not.

So as I say out loud to Mom's guy (who I MUST create a fake name for...), "there's John Legend", as hometown, guy done well puts his grocery cart into the roundup corral. Mom's guy looks over to see him and I say, "...And Nana doesn't like ya!" Not loud enough that Mr. Legend, ney, Stevens heard me. It's not like his head swiveled around and looked my way or anything. But still, it was unnecessary. And maybe a tad Chuck Woolery (aka: mean spirited, wrong, quasi appalling).

(P.S. or, I guess really, M.O.S/middle of script, but that's not really a thing...

Nana doesn't like John Legend. She's told me this on many of occasions in the past. And as recent as a few weeks ago she saw him on sumthin' on TV and tuned in just to see if she'd given him a fair shake or not, and to see if maybe she did like him. Nana's assessment? "I watched 20 minutes or so, and all I learned after what that I still don't like him and that those 20 minutes are now gone and wasted.")

And here's how karma turned right around and immediately kicked me in the ass., for my "And Nana doesn't like you" comment.

My most wonderful umbrella which looks, er, looked like a big ass, bright pink Gerber daisy and made me oh-so happy on a rainy day was all whopper jawed as I opened it.


I really enjoyed that umbrella. Mom got it for me, I remember just where we were that day.

So my mean spirited-ness was rewarded with me losing an item I liked. Perfect. Fuckin' perfect.

Flash forward to later that evening once I'd arrived home. Double D was not quite home yet and I took Uncle John out for his walk to doodle. So there I am, yet again, standing in the rain. Only this time I'm trying to not step on worms in my flip floppy feet (thank you warm Thanksgiving!), while balancing a doodle bag, a smokey treat and my other umbrella, a golf umbrella. Oh, in the dark. So of course I'm wearin' my headlamp (it's dark here by 5ish). Yeah, I'm lookin' like a wackadoo who a random passerby, or noisy neighbor would look at and think, 'well, she shouldn't be in carge of keeping that cute little dog alive!, look.

At some point I give my umbrella a spin and I'm nearly blinded by the two arm that are no longer attached to the umbrella, floating and flinging perilously close to my eye orbs.

So now I started Thanksgiving day with two umbrellas and by 6pm I've go zero fully functional umbrellas. Fanfuckingtastic.

Thanks John Legend and karma.

The next morning I get an early AM call, which is NEVER good. No one ever calls at an ungodly early hour to pass along good news, ya know? It was D calling to let me know that my favorite of she and her hubby's chocolate labs, Gus was going to have to be put to sleep that morning. Apparently she'd uncharacteristically woken up at the ass crack of dawn to find him disoriented and no longer just in an old dog age state that made it apparent that the sad time had come.


Words fail me. It's just another sad thing that's happened this year. There's been a disproportionate of sad things happening both in my life and the lives of some of the people in the world I care most for. And I do not like it.

RIP Gus.

(Gustov ~ October 21, 1997 - November 26, 2010)

Thank you Thanksgiving for being over. Maybe next year we'll have a better go 'round. to run an errand.

Yes. In the rain.

No. I don't have a new umbrella yet.

Again, thanks John Legend and karma.

Thanks a lot.


Thursday, September 16, 2010

~Yep. That's About Right: The Birthday Edition

So, as you know my birthday and St. Pat's are my favorite holidays of the year. Not even in that order. I enjoy St. Patrick's Day more than my very own special holiday day.

I'm glad they're polar opposite, as it gives me plenty o' time to recuperate from each celebration. Yep. ...It's like this and like that y'all... (I don't know why, but that's turned into my new mind singing of, "bom-bom-bom you XYZ muther fucka". I can not, seemingly, get that song outta my mind and it 'plays' every time how sumthin' is, or "it's like this and like that" crosses my mind.)

So imagine my overwhelming joy (dripping in sarcasm) to find myself on my special day:

1) With a cold. (Thanks Double D!)
2) Waking up to the first rainy, gloomy ass day in weeks 'round these parts. (Spectacular)
3) Having my first ever Papa-less birthday.
4) Starting my period. (Really, Mother Nature? Reallllllly?!?)
5) Having to stand in line at the DMV to get my new tags. (Grrrrrreat) Yes, I know, 30 days ago I coulda mailed the registration in. ...But you know what I wasn't fuckin' thinkin' about 30 days ago?!?

I'm (believe it or not) tryin' to suck it up and wear my big girl panties. Which, I guess, thanks to the period, big girl panties will be in order. Ugh. (Sorry men. Menstruation chat over. But let's face it, if'n you got your period on your most holy of holy days, let's say Super Bowl Sunday, you'd be a lil' bitter too...) Should ya have to feel like ya have ta suck it up for your birthday, or should ya just be havin' a blast? Ugh.

Happy Fuckin' Birthday to me.

(My birthday tiara that I don each year)

It's been a hard year and I just wanted to have an epic birthday. Too much to expect?

Clearly, yes.

I'm not entirely bitter, I know I'm fortunate to have more people than I should love me, and call me a friend. And. That. Is. Awesome. A blessing, in fact. And one I count, everyday. And that I'm generally healthy. I mean, more or less. I'm probably not gonna drop over and die today or anything. But as accident prone as I am, we all know it could be any day that the sun comes up that you'll get a call that I've perished in some freaky fashion. (Fatal inability to Q-Tip and brush my teeth at the same time?-- a la Sesame Street rub your belly/pat your head, or some equally as crazy ass way to go.) Plus, I'm having a really good romantic gig going on. The people I love and care about, family and friends, are in large part good in the 'hood. So I know in the grand scheme of things, I have nuthin' to really complain about. I have a better life than I have a right to. I know it, and I'm grateful.

...But come the fuck on birthday!!!

UPDATE: 17:00...There are tornado sirens going off. Double D and I were outside having a smokey treat after he arrived home and ta-da tornado sirens! I looked at him and said, "happy birthday, we're gonna die". Local news has been more than an hour full time coverage of the storm a creepin' in.



Saturday, June 5, 2010

~Woulda Been

Today would have been Nana & Papa's 63 Anniversary.

Yesterday we picked out Papa's stone.

It's raining cats and dogs.

The weather is the perfect reflection of my mood.


Friday, March 26, 2010

~Godspeed Papa.

My best buddy and the greatest man I've ever met left me Monday. Of course, best buddy and greatest man are catch alls.

Papa was my teacher, confidant, cheerleader, maker of boo boos right, fixer of anything, maker of that which couldn't be fixed or purchased, my sneaking turkey and stuffing pal at Thanksgiving-- under the guise of "quality control", my protector, one of my role models of how to lead a life, and 1/3 of the entirety of the world who loves me always, no matter what.

When I was little I lived one house away from Nana & Papa. I had a room there so I could just as easily be at their house as my own at any given minute. Just before I was a teenager we moved, and within a year Nana & Papa had moved into the same neighborhood and I'd ride my bike the few suburban blocks to my room at that house. Even once they moved to the one story house and I was completely grown, well chronologically at least, and still to this day I have a key to the house to come and go as I please.

I know a lot of kids, and grown ups who are fortunate enough to still have grandparents, who have much less interaction with them, if at all, really. But that was not my experience. For which I am eternally grateful. I'm glad I never out grew spending time with my grandparents and that I was never too old to hold my Papa's hand.

I had the honor of holding his hand as he left. It was the hardest and best thing I've ever done in my life.

I'll miss him with every beat of my heart until my final breath.


Wednesday, March 17, 2010

~Happy St. Patrick's Day

Safe, happy and booze filled to you.

God laughed at my plan to celebrate. I'm back home as Papa's health is deteriorating. I'm not sure if when I return I'll be a girl with two grandparents or one. Scary and sad times.


Saturday, March 13, 2010

~Where I Come From

(I am now resisting the urge to break into one of my Allen Jackson faves. ...And if you don't know what the hell I'm talkin' 'bout Willis, it's a country song. Yes, fair reader, BigBrownGirl is a country fan. Deal wit it.)

I'm spending a good amount of time in my hometown at my Nana & Papa's lately. I don't want you to think I'm knockin' or somehow slighting where I come from. Oh contrare mon frare, I love where I come from. It's someplace special, both in my estimation and Newsweek's. I loved growing up there. It's chocked full of interesting history and people. It's big enough that everyone in town doesn't know your all of your fuckin' bidness. But small enough that if you met a stranger who also hails from there that you wouldn't have to name too many people before you knew someone in common.

Of course, it's not all picket fences, rainbows and unicorns. Some of the weirdest ass shit I've ever heard of has taken place in my hometown. Maybe I'll share a few of those weird ass tales on another day.


I'm at the breakfast table with Nana & Papa. We're all reading a piece of the newspaper. Yes. Grandparents still receive the real paper. I'm not even really paying attention to the paper. Then all of the sudden a lil' something catches my eye. A local resident has apparently been touched by Roma Downey and Pearl Bailey, or God, and was bestowed one holy Christian chip.

After receiving the chip of Turin tuber, the resident-- (and this is where the salient details get sketchy...mainly because I didn't actually read the article, due to my immediate astonishment at the, what I found odd irony [Ruling Allanis Morisette?] of how the result played sorry in advance.)-- EBay'd?...Somehow sold for a profit of $63.00. The resident decided to donate his $63.00 to whatthefuckever. At first glance, noble.

Until you start to wonder how much a big ass check must cost? Now, I'm not in the big ass check biz, but I'm just guessing those cost more than a couple George Washingtons. I'm betting they cost more than several Andrew Jacksons. It seems so odd that to give away $63, you'd spend more than that to have a big ass check created. Evidently, where I come from, this line of thinking is not even a consideration.

...Welcome home BigBrownGirl. Welcome home...


Wednesday, March 3, 2010

~And Now You Know Why I've Been Putting This Off

I know on paper, er, typed on this screen, I guess is more accurate, I have eluded to drama trauma and to-doins going on in my life right now. And obviously, I've been avoiding spilling the beans here. Maybe because I secretly use this blog, in addition to cyber story time with my friends and anonymous readers who have lived their lives in such a fashion that this passes for entertainment, (My sympathies. Enjoy.) as my memory breadcrumbs.

I feel like I have a terrible memory. I'll retain the most bizarre and random facts-- things I never intended to recall at all. (Trivial Pursuit? Oh, you want to be on my team.) And other things with exacting detail (I was wearing xyz...and we also did abc that day...or know the exact thing we were discussing when this was taken, blah, blah, blah).

On the other hand, I frequently, learn information almost as if it's by surprise. Recently-ish, one of my besties told me about something nice I once did for her and how meaningful it was to her. While I was glad I'd done something that made a bad time in her life a tad brighter even for a nanosecond. It didn't even seem familiar as she discussed it. Only once she mentioned that it had included gum was I sure she was even talking about something really from me. But gum? Who else deals with others distress with an offer of gum? Mostly, because other people have better coping skills, while I have...gum. Once that popped outta her mouth I could no longer question the veracity of her memory.

At the time I remember thinking, well, it's probably nicer that the person it was meant to be impactful to, it was. I mean, that's the true spirit of doing something for someone. No expectation of any thing. It's not done for recognition, or even the expectation of gratitude. Let alone that that it might still be on the mind of the recipient 15 years later. Ya know?

And the more I thought about that conversation, the more I thought it would be nice in the morning when you're brushing your teeth or putting on mascara to be able to answer that image that gawks back at you in precision miming, pointing at you asking, 'how are you living?', with, I'm this girl. I thought having a round up of things I could refer to would be useful in that manner. Thus part of the impetus of the online version of my BigBrownGirlWorld.

So in some regards this taupe/brownish spot on the web is as much for you and our catch up time as it is my lil' cyber memory bank. I had anticipated filling the pages with scads of cracked out and wackadoo things I encounter once my peepers pop open each day. Fun, good time memories.

Sadly, this future memory and presently reality, is neither fun, nor good times.

And apparently my simply not writing it down/then it's not real plan is not as successful as I had hoped. So here it is. It seems that the world has conspired to use this moment in time to test my sanity, my ability to persevere, my ability to not do murder and my physical capabilities of length of time I can live on Defcon 4.

Sorry. It's now taken me a few kleenex and 2 days to force my fingers to touch the following keys. My Papa is dying. Cancer. He's 86 and until the past year or so when he had a triple bypass and subsequent pace maker, from which he bounced back from like nobody's business, he has had the good fortune of both good physical health and a sharp mind.

This devastating news has only been in play for the past month.

I know, every day of my life I've known, how blessed I've been to at this age still have grandparents. It's something I've never taken for granted.

I know that Papa will be leaving as he wishes, at home and kept comfortable. I am thankful that he won't be suffering for an extended period of time.

I know that 86 is a good long life by anyone's standards.

I know that the whole process of living is, really more accurately, a process of dying. We ripen until we die.

I know that my Papa knows just how much I love him, what an outstanding Papa I think he's been, the things I've learned from him, what an impact he's made in my life and how I will miss him with each beat of my heart for the rest of my days. Which is more than everyone who losses someone can say. And I do appreciate having the opportunity to speak and hear such words.

Knowing all of that, I'd like to think I was doing better with all of this. Unfortunately, I'm just not.

I'm on constant red alert. It's like living at Defcon 4, 24/7. Every time the phone rings I'm stricken with complete panic. My go bag is packed and at the door. Each day hair and make up are accomplished using the hair/shower bag and make up bag where all of my daily stuff is living. I'm actually living out of luggage. It's like living at a hotel that turns out to really be your place. Other than getting out of the shower, I'm never more than 5-10 minutes away from being ready to walk out the door, if need be. Sleep. Not so much. Which probably isn't helping with my dealing with all of this in the first place. It's a weird combination of being hyper alert and numbingly fatigued, in both my mind and body. If that makes any sense?

Mostly I'm just consumed with how am I going to manage to say goodbye. I mean, I know people lose people they love every day, but how am I going to do it? I have just a few people who love me unconditionally, always, and with their entire heart and one is about to be gone. It's overwhelming to me.

And as if that's not more than enough to fill my fake and unsteady plate, the guy (aka: "Walter Payton") I broke up with :30 seconds ago (not literally), has just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and has been given 3-5 years to live. And "wants me to be his wife, but doesn't want to die on me".

And, plus, I am trying my hardest to make extra efforts to be a "good person" for Lent. Listen. If your phone rings and I mention any combination of the following words: or to that effect, kindly put your shoes on, grab your keys and ask where and what time.

I clearly realize booze is not the answer to any of the current issues going on in my life. But seriously now. I think by anyones criteria, I am totally in the running for 'Ms. She Deserves A Good Boozy Drunk'. I'm trying to hold off until St. Patrick's Day, assuming Papa is still doing ok. I feel like at least that day, a tipsy BigBrownGirl can be a little less conspicuous (and pitiful) using alcohol for all the wrong, although deserved reasons.

Now before you start Googling the contact info for A&E's Intervention (or the "I Team" for those of you who remember that), it should be noted that it has taken more than 30 days to invoke the gulp, gulp, glub, glub method of coping. I'm pretty sure that alone disqualifies me. If at any point I start singing Walking on Sunshine, I will be sure to alert you.

Lastly, to those of you who have been keeping a good thought-- Thank You. I don't know if they're making all that's going on any easier, (absolutely nothing seems easy these days-- I found myself momentarily irked by the effort involved in using a Q-Tip the other day) but I am certain those thoughts and prayers are keeping things from being harder than they are. And for that I am grateful.

Hopefully, (I am in no position to tempt fate right now, am I? Now cross your fingers and knock wood. Hopefully.) less gloom and doom next time. I could seriously use a bit of fun and good times right about now and hope to report such details soon.


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.


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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