~Half Dude

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

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

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

Let the clarification begin:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being a boy-girl also makes me approach things in a "fix it" mentality.  Something pointed out to me while in Chicago.  We were riding down the street when while stopped at a light a bicyclist riding along the cross street dropped some money out of his jacket pocket.   I picked it up, we turned the corner to catch him and as the driver slowed to pace him, I handed the $20 out the window to him, and told him:

1. "Here.  This fell out of your jacket pocket."  (aka:  This is your problem)
2. "Put it in your jeans pocket so it doesn't fall out again."  (aka:  This is how to fix your problem)

I can remember the people in the car all giggles as they cackled, "you are such a boy!" then telling me that they (the other girls in the car) would have just left it with, 'here's your money back'.  But that I, like a man, had to fix it. 

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

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

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

http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/sex/add_user.shtml

http://www.blogthings.com/whatgenderisyourbrainquiz/

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

Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female

You are both sensitive and savvy

Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed

Logical and detailed, you tend to look at the facts

But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve 

~It's Official: I'm Out There

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Nope.  Not these pinheads.)

(These pinheads.)

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

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

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

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

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

(Fine.  Worse.)

10 Easy Steps To Denying Reality

The knowledge is within me. So I have decided to share my oh so great knowledge with you, my dear readers, and so have contrived a step by step plan to helping one deny reality.


Step1: Picture everyone in their underwear. If this makes you nauseous, picture them as monkeys.


Step2: When in a serious conversation, keep in mind phrases like "That's what he/she said." and "....between the sheets." and laugh out loud when the urge hits.


Step3: Have meaningful conversations with inanimate objects.


Step4: Narrate your every move out loud.


Step5: Do not hold back those natural responses to stressful situations. Go ahead and scream, growl, cry, howl, cluck...


Step6: Make it a game, the I'm Not Touching The Devil game. How to play: Pick something to avoid, such as walls or cracks in the ground, or door handles, etc. Then avoid touching them at all cost and every time its a close call, scream "I'm not touching the devil!"


Step7: Create your own language and try teaching it to friends, family, coworkers, etc., but as if its the only language you speak.


Step8: Dance to the music in your head, and play the music loudly.


Step9: When someone tries to remind you of your responsibilities, "blah" them.


-Aren't you going to be late for work?
-Blah


-Don't forget to pick up the milk on the way home.
-Blah


-You never listen to me anymore.
-Blah


And Finally,


Step10: Remove all of your clothing, wrap toilet paper around your head and run down the street singing The Beach Boys- Barbara Ann.

These 10 easy steps will lead to your being locked up where you will be given the best reality denying drugs available. Enjoy!

A Final Review: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II

This may very well be the last time I would get to write a Harry Potter film review, for the highly successful franchise has cast its last spell and will be closing its curtains forever. There will be no casting choices left to  scrutinize, no deleted scenes to be angry about, no trailers to look forward to and no more movie date release to anticipate with bated breath.

It all ends with this.

And what a magical swan song it was. From the moment the WB logo floated onscreen up to the rolling of the credits, it was a thrilling spectacle ride for readers and non-fans alike. Having worshiped the books from the start, I am the kind of anal retentive movie-goer who frowns upon changed scenes and plot cuts. Fortunately, neither was rampant in this David Yates' masterpiece.

Part 2 of the Deathly Hallows was packed with action, spells and rubble from start 'till finish. One need not know what the bloody hell is happening just as long as one is aware that Harry's the protagonist and the bald guy with the non-existent nose is the evil one and it will still be enjoyable to watch. Even my Muggle  movie companion was mesmerized by the sheer brilliance of almost every scene. It was a breathtaking experience to witness the Wizarding World in shambles. One can really tell that this is the final hurrah and Harry is determined to go with a final bang.


THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS

The film wasted no time in trying to explain the complicated aspects of Wandlore nor Dumbledore's shady past, and for that I am grateful. There is no way you could explain that much information to an illiterate audience who did not even care to crack open a single Harry Potter book. Instead, the screenwriters decided to tone down the plot details and hyped up the chaos and pandemonium, which translated better on the big screen. It was a wise decision indeed.

And as our heroic Trio found themselves back in Hogwarts, the plot and my heart took flight. This was it. This was the moment we've all been waiting for. The Great Battle. The ultimate war between the power of love and love of power. And I think every reader could attest that there was distinct feeling of thrill, exhilaration and awe upon watching the scene unfold right before our very eyes.

As with the book, the moment Professor McGonagall animated the once lifeless suits of armors and exclaimed, "Hogwarts is threatened! Man the boundaries. Protect us!"  and the remaining faculty started to take matters in their own hands and use their highly developed skills in magic, chills ran down my spine. 

There is something astounding about finally seeing rather than just imagining. The impressive protective sphere, the spells, the fire, the rubble, the smoke and the thundering music set the perfect atmosphere for the raging battle that has yet to come. I could not have asked for a better set design. This was the battle of all battles, the final duel between good and evil, and it sure felt like it.

The scenes were reasonably paced, with the hunt of Ravenclaw's lost diadem, the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement, the duels and the overall pandemonium inside the once peaceful halls of Hogwarts. It all blended together in this wonderful adrenaline-induced cacophony that could make Lord of the Rings proud.

THE PRINCE'S TALE

A review of Deathly Hallows Part II would not be complete without the mention of the unbelievably accurate portrayal of Alan Rickman to the endlessly complex and brilliant character that is Severus Snape. I will admit, the chapter entitled "The Prince's Tale" of the 7th book is my most read chapter in the entire series. I prefer my characters complicated, dark and with a secret that could shatter thousands of hearts, and that is exactly what JK Rowling did with our once hated Potions Master. 

Before the release of Deathly Hallows the novel, I remember all the talks behind the power of Harry's green eyes, because in countless of interviews, our queen creator has mentioned that it will play a big role in the final book. Nobody could understand it and probably very few speculations got it right. The shock that it was not some supernatural power never before witnessed by the Wizarding world but just, yet again, the uncontainable force of love, blew me away. And reduced me to a blubbering goopy mess the moment Harry stepped out of the Pensieve.

It is for this reason that I fell in love with this character who was often described as greasy and bat-like. Because it shows that everybody hurts, yet everybody loves. And no matter how despicable a certain person looks from the outside, if you just care to look a bit further, there would be always something there that could surprise you.

Okay, then. Now back to the movie.

THE FLAW IN THE PLAN

I think the only criticism I could give is that the closing battle at Hogwarts (the one which transpired after Harry came back to life) was underwhelming at best. Where were the centaurs, who upon seeing Harry's lifeless body decided to take a stand and fight against Voldemort? Where were the House Elves who have valiantly left the kitchens to stab Death Eaters in the ankles with paring knives? Where were the ordinary village people of Hogsmeade who overcame their fear of the Dark Lord, left their barrels of butterbear and came to fight alongside the wounded students of Hogwarts?

I know no single feature film could meet the millions of wild imaginations, all of which have created their own version of the epic final battle in their heads, but I just feel like these details shouldn't have been left out. It was the turning point in the book, showing how united the Wizarding World was in defeating a powerful tyrant. I regret to say that it was the only part of the film that felt sloppy and hastily made. 

However, I do understand why the producers felt there has to be an intense one-on-one battle slash chase scene between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort, with both running around the castle physically trying to destroy each other ala Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader's final Lightsaber match. It's a cinematic staple, a sort of movie template every great archenemies are expected to have.

However, in this case, I can't help but feel how out of character those scenes were. First of all, never could I remember imagining Voldemort run, much less chase Harry around Hogwarts. A little longer and I would have expected both to be pulling each other's hair, if Voldemort had hair.

But still, epicness prevailed. The ultimate end of Voldemort was much more silent than I anticipated, with just the wands doing all the talking, but the concluding image of the once feared sorcerer slowly dissolving to ashes was a satisfying image. 

NINETEEN YEARS LATER

And it all came to a full circle.

Platform 9 3/4: In the middle of the busy bustling train station filled with families and cages of various kinds of pets, we see them.


Ginny sporting Mom Hair, Harry looking basically the same, some random kids who are supposed to be James and Lily (both of whom nobody really cares about) and then there he was... Albus Severus Justin Potter Bieber.

Then there was Ron with his beer belly, Hermione who also looked quite the same and Draco Malfoy who just looked... weird.

The next generation of talented mischief managing wizards were on their way to Hogwarts. And we were left with the image of our beloved trio, Harry, Ron and Hermione looking wistfully on.

As a fan, I expected a lot and quite honestly, those expectations were mostly met. The film is a perfect mix of action, suspense, horror, comedy and a little bit of romance. It has a heart as big as Harry's, wit as sharp as Hermione's and loyalty to the novel that could make Ron proud. 


Thank you for giving the end of my childhood justice.


Orchestr-o-meter: Thousand points to David Yates & Co. !

~Social Media Shenanigans

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

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

Sold.

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

(Not this headlight.)

(This dorky and super useful headlight.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Rug post fire-y embers and being extinguished

by beer.  "Technically" I am now a fireman.)

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

(E attending to the carnage of fire.)

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

• Ruckus:  Check.


• Near death experience: Check.


• Keeping the fire department at bay:  Wicked awesome chhhhheck.


• Rockin' it like I'm 22:  Check  (Making my status update today;  My body clock is off by 20 years. Does anyone know how to reset this thing?)


• Oh, and food porn:  Check.

(Nuts for nuts, impressive, no?)

- - - - -  # # #  - - - - -

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

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

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

Because Teenagers in the Philippines Do Not Get Pregnant

Teenagers are just children with breasts and raging hormones. They know nothing of the complicated truths of the world and should be shielded from inconvenient facts that could tarnish their perfect views of our flawless universe.

They cannot choose for themselves for they do not have their own innate principles so responsible adults should be tasked to make the hard decisions for them. Because of their innocence, their eyes should be forever blindfolded and ears plugged from the sinful coil of earthly desires. Sex is bad, sex is immoral, sex should not be spoken in the sacred confines of an academic institution, nor publicly, nor anywhere else for that matter unless it is a speech about abstinence or the Virgin Mary.

Talking about sex with adolescents will lead to an increase in promiscuity because teenagers are a special kind of human specie who are more inclined to do something when presented with the dire effects of such actions such as illnesses and pregnancy. Talking about ovulation and fertilization will wake up the thundering libido in each and every one of them, resulting to more premarital sex, more unplanned births and more abortions, because minors do not have any conscience.

Lastly, as mentioned before, no one should take away these children's innocence, because the media and the internet is doing such a great job at that. There are no pornographic materials in the internet, no false information on websites, no sexually charged advertisements on billboards and on television shows. This is a great nation we live in where sexual intimacy is only present in the confines of a church-wed bedroom between a man and a woman who have been blessed by a God-fearing, non-SUV loving, non-homophobic, sexually abstaining Man of God.

NO to SEX EDUCATION!

---

ANG MGA DALAGITA SA SAPANG KAWAYAN
iWitness Special Coverage - GMA 7

~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?!?) 

~I NEVER Do This...But

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

~Regrets? I've Had A Few

Ok, I don't have many.   Which I guess at this stage of my life is a pretty fortunate thing to be able to say.  As life has presented opportunities, I've tried my best, whenever possible and/or when I've  wanted to, to say yes, please.

Play pool with Tears for Fears? Yes, please.

(I refused to call them by their names.  Strangely, they were very amenable to answering to Monkey Boy and Andrew Ridgeley.)

Drive a paddle wheel dinner cruise boat down the Ohio river?  Yes, please.  

(Turns out it's not as hard as one might think to talk a Capt'n

into breaking numerous maritime laws and letting you operate a boat.)

Sport a Super Bowl ring?  Yes, please.  

(Subsequently threatening the member of the Steel Curtain to steal his ring, with the taunt that if I wanted that ring it was mine, "'cause even a fat girl could out run those knees".  --Seriously.  It's a wonder I have any friends or that people speak to me at all...)

 

Build a table because I thought I could?  Yes, please. 

(Look how impressed Uncle John is...)

Appropriate a paddy wagon?  Yes, please.

If it sounded kooky, interesting, fun and this side of legal and moral, I've probably said yes, please. (Alright, technically making a Police Officers paddy wagon your new joyride could be construed as being on the other side of legal...but damn was it fun.)

I guess, I've always figured if I'm gonna have regrets, they should probably be over things I've actually done, not things I wanted to do and passed up, ya know?

"...Now that was a bad idea" seems much more palatable to me than, "I wish I woulda..."

But even with that ethos, I've amassed a couple doozies of regrets that haunt me to this fuckin' day.

One is not cutting my godkid, Mini Me's cord.  There I was standing by the bedside having helped watched the new life who carries my middle name come outta LB2'd's vagina come into the world when the opportunity was offered to me.  In the spirit of trying to do right and be a good person, I insisted that her dad cut it, as he had the first born, godkid J. It turned out to be one of my biggest mistakes. Honestly, when else am I going to have the chance to cut a fucking cord?!?  I'm pretty sure some HIPPA law prohibits people from walking into random delivery rooms wielding scissors.  I assume.  However, if you find yourself watching One Born Every Minute (some cable show about babies being born filmed at a local hospital) and you see a BBG lurking in the background with a pair of large ass ceremonial ribbon cutting scissors, I think you'll know it's me.

In the moment, it just seemed like an honor a dad should get to say he did for the rest of his life. ...But I felt that way before they divorced and he contracted a case of terminal asshole-yness.   (A terrible affliction, with no known cure other than murder, although it can sometimes be managed with a brick to the head.)  Stupid me thinking the honor should go to someone who would always be in her life.  Turns out ol' Aunt BBG is the one who's still in the kids lives.  STUPID. STUPID.  STUPID. 

Now I wish I had a wayback machine so I could go back and snatch those scissors right outta the doctors hand kick DI in the balls and cut that cord my own damn self.    

The other biggie is when I took a flight crew to the airport, back in the day when a hungover flight crew could give a Big Brown Girl the entry code to the tarmac so she could drive them to their jet. I suspect post 9/11, Big Brown Girls can't just drive around on the tarmac of a major metropolitan airport without causing some massive shutdown and being hauled in by Homeland Security. The flight crew was kind enough to invite a lil' Big Brown Girl up to see the gaudy awesomely tricked out MGM Grand jet up close and personal. While they were showing me the cockpit and the gold plated this n' fine corinthian leather that, they asked if I'd like to hang out to meet their passengers.

Tres nice out of them. I mean we're talkin' about some probably overly chatty and smartassy stranger girl they'd known for 20 minutes, who hopped in the hotel van and took 'em because there were no available bellman/real drivers at the time. But nooooooooooooooo. I felt like I shouldn't abuse my field trip from my real job at the hotel where I was working at the time. That I again, should be a good person, I thought I should head back....  Fuckin' sense of responsibility and work ethic!!!  Damn parents and their good parenting.  So I left. Missing my chance to meet Jerry, Phil and the rest of The Dead boys.

Yep.

Private jet.

No outsider people.

A nice gold plated spread of crudette and brie. And The Grateful Dead.

Jerry died about a year later. I've kicked myself for not sticking around ever since.

...So, yeah, Frank. I know what ya mean.

~Ugh. I Can't Believe This Day Has Come...

For those of you unfamiliar with my stance on firemen and the fire service, I will direct you to a lil' posting called Fuckin' Firemen (which is the long version = find under label: Po-Po Love or July '10 archive.  I'll be riiiiight here when you come back...).  However, I'm bettin' if you'll do a wee bit of reading between the lines you'll probably be able to guess my feelings by the title itself = short version.

For those of you already in the know, or intellectually gifted, nay, superior enough to already be of the right same mindset, you know that sharing what I am about to announce is, as V.P. Joe Biden would say, a big fucking deal; 

I, BBG, being of sound mind and body,

do hereby declare that I will resist my natural urge to stick my tongue out or say snarky things about firemen (fire service) for the period of one excruciating full week.

(I will then immediately resume regular BBG SOP.)

No.  I have not recently experienced a significant head trauma. 

It is in appreciation for (code name) Fireman* disposing of the bug carcass, and apparently cleaning my shoe resulting from the other days very unfortunate events (Traumatic Ta-Doin's: Dusk Till Dawn/July '11).   ...And now you know exactly how freaked the fuck out and disturbed I really was by the creepy ass bug incident of '11.

(Other than the rare button down or polo,

this is the 1st time I have ever seen Fireman

not sporting a fire logo shirt of one sort or the other. 

In 7 years.  1st.  Time.  Ever.)

Also in appreciation for doing the right thing and highlighting his Semper Fi-ness, rather than his other poor career choices.  Oh.  This is gonna be harder than I anticipated...

* I know this is the least creative code name ever.  My apologies. 

~Why, Trend? Why?!? (GAP/Guy Assistance Program)

In a continued effort to help online guys everywhere, we're revisiting the Claymore laden land of profile photos.  Of all of the, um, "interesting" photos we've seen there seems to be a few very popular and very bad trends we recommend you avoid.  ...In fact, as if your life depended on it, because your dating life actually does.  That is, if you are looking to appeal to chicks...

Bad Pic Trends to Avoid:

The Look At My Nipples

Thank you Somp for coining the phrase, "I dig guys in shirts"!! 

The I Have No Friends

Guys, it's not the hardest thing in the world, it's not like asking for directions for fucks sake.  It's asking a someone (friend, family, stranger on the street) to take a quick snappy for you.  Clllllllick!  Done.  The cell phone/mirror thing is played out, does not yield your most favorable or flattering best foot picture forward, and is fixed with 7 words; "Will you take a picture for me?" 

 

The Drive 'N Click

Yeah, you gotta car.  Got it.  ...Maybe it's because we're girls, and are generally only soooo interested in cars, but we just don't understand the obsession with in vehicle pics.  While not the largest of photo offenses, it's not something that's gonna make us take any sort of special note of you either.  

The Nobody'll Recognize This Is Me With Shades Pic

Dear Guys,

Sunglasses are not, I repeat, n-o-t a disguise.  If we know you, we'd be able to recognize you regardless of your shades.  Fail.  Choosing to wear sunglasses does keep us from seeing your peepers, which as it's frowned upon to walk around with your junk out, eyes are one of only a scant few other physical parts we have any interest in at all.  Sunglasses on your only, or every pic is the equivalent of a boy burka.  You're hiding something that is more than likely gonna be a huge asset for you, dumbass.

Love,

BBG, on behalf of girls everywhere.  Literally.

The Well, My Hands Are Clean (we hope!), Might As Well Take A Picture Photos

Seriously guys?? ... You're out? ...Throwin' back a few, maybe eatin' a couple of wings, you break the seal and then BAM!!  "I gotta get a picture in this public restroom"????... 

Congrats!  You've made 'what the fuck' seems woefully inadequate.

The Burt Reynolds

Fact:  The Burt Reynolds ONLY works if you ARE Burt Reynolds.  And if it's 1977.

Make sure you've got it:

• If you are not in/near a body of water or involved in some other sanctioned 'I'm not wearin' a shirt activity' Don't go topless.  (Remember:  Girls dig guys in shirts.)
• Do resist the urge to use a picture from a mother fuckin' public restroom.  The dearth of icky vibes, connotations and sense memories that seeing that bathroom brings to us, trust me-- it's not the mindset you want us in as we glean our first impressions of you.
• Do leave the Burt Reynoldsing to Burt Reynolds.  And possibly Ryan Reynolds.  All other men just say no!!
• My prom date kept his glasses on in practically every picture taken.  Know what almost every girl who's ever seen my prom pic has said?  And I fuckin' quote, who's that douchebag? unquote.  We don't hate the sunglasses, but we do generally love a guys eyes.  Do play to your strengths and show us those baby blues.
• Cell phone/mirror pics.  Enough already.  Every third guy it seems is that guy.  Don't you want us to see you literally and figuratively as someone different from all of the other guys with a camera phone out there?  Don't be cookie cutter.  Do have a real snap taken and show us some of your personality.
• Do feel free to skip the driving shot, a safety belt and steering wheel doesn't turn us on, like apparently you guys think it will.  It's probably not very safe anyway.

Until next time class...