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.
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