How I know when the force is with me

On a good day, everything goes my way. (Hey, that rhymed. Poet and didn't know it.)

If I can wake up in the morning and make it to the bathroom without running into anything...like the wall, or door, or....(like I do most mornings) then its been a good day.

When I don't have to work, its been a good day.

When everyone seems to get me, no mind control necessary, its been a good day.

If I find money stuffed in a pocket or purse that I didn't know I had, its been a good day.

If I don't loose my phone, its been a good day.

If I don't get scratched by one of the cats after they've used me as a launch point, its been a good day.

If I go into a room and actually remember why, its been a good day.

If the voices in my head can actually remember the entire song of Blue Moon, rather than just repeating 2 of the verses over and over and...then its been a good day.

If the voices remain completely silent, not as interesting, but still a good day.

If I get a comment on a post (because I'm a complete harlot when it comes to comments), then its been a good day.

I'm easily pleased.

~GBS

Being an only child, or as I've always liked to position it, the favorite child, I'm maybe a tad more intrigued by siblings than people who actually have brothers and/or sisters.  Maybe that's how long ago I started noticing a trend in brothers, although I'm sure it happens with sisters, for some reason it seems much more pronounced in guys. 

Like I say, it's something I've noticed and paid attention to for years and I finally feel ready to share my theory with 'da World.  Now, you may read this and think me a kook, but really, if this isn't your first time in the BBGW, or if you know my ass, you probably already think I'm a kook, so... whaaaaaaaaat?!?  Yep.  SUCK IT! 

As you may know, I'm prone to thinking I have abilities that, um, a more reality based person might consider infuckingpossible highly improbable.  (Remember when I thought I could make a table?  Or that cubby hole thingy?  Having had zero experience building anything.)  Whereas, I tend to think, 'sure, there's some way to skin that cat...just gotta figure it out'. 

It's funny.  For as regimented, conventional and pragmatic as I can be about some things, I don't, or try not to limit my possibilities about most things.   Other things are a fuckin' free for all in my head.  My mind tends to think I haven't done something, more than that I can't do something.  (And for the record, that fuckin' table is still standing and doing it's table job and that cubby hole was ingenious.)

With that said, I, just like Einstein, Freud and Curie before me, I have a theory.

A theory based on absofuckinglootly zero statistics, medical or biological education or research. 

However, a theory that I strongly assert is dead on accurate based on it's merits. 

I am of the opinion that something happens during a second, or subsequent male child pregnancy.  Some kind of hormonal or wacky cell splittin', gene hinky-ness in utero that causes latter male children to run an increased risk of googiliness.  Specifically, googiliness in the looks department. 

My contention that there is a correlation between subsequent male pregnancies and as I have named it, Googily Brother Syndrome (GBS) is based on my vast medical background specializing in nuthin'.  Yet I am 99.44% sure that the first born boy of any union between the same parents yielding more than one son is more likely than not to have at least one younger brother who is affected with GBS.

Alright.

I know you think I'm talking outta my ass.  While that is always a possibility with me, that doesn't necessarily mean I'm wrong.  Know who people thought talked outta their damn asses?  A man named Albert.  Another man named Sigmund.  And a madame named Marie. 

One persons 'crazy ass' is another persons 'forward thinking' or dare I say, genius!  Before you commit to making a reservation for a rubber room for me, kindly examine the following facts:

(Older and now deceased brother)

(Younger, alive and googilier brother)

It's not even a full on handsome issue, regardless of how attractive you feel Alec is, there's no denying that some of his younger brothers clearly have GBS.

(Eldest Wayans brother, far left, with accompanying and various degrees of GBS siblings.)

Pop Quiz:

Q:  Using the GBS theory which Bee Gee is the oldest brother?

If you guessed the center Bee Gee (aka: Barry. Thank you Google) as the eldest by GBS visual elimination you are correct.

(Older then)

(Younger then)

(Younger and older, nowish)

Presidential GBS

Like I said, it's not even a cute thing.  Both widely considered cute.

But one is googiler (and younger: Owen).

See...you're getting so good you don't even need me to point out the GBS sibling anymore.

Technically, I don't know which of these cats is older...but I have a pretty good guess.

(Paul and twin Vin Deisel)

I'd encourage you to think about brothers you know in your personal life, I guarantee there's a googily one.  Feel free to report in with your findings.

Now that I've released my GBS theory for the greater good of the world, perhaps some egghead will look into this and validate it with something more than antidotal proof.  I will be very excited when I am presented with some sort of discovery Pulitzer!!  Until then, my advise is that if you have one cute boy child, it may be time to reassess your desire for further procreation.  It is, as you see a total crap shoot, with sometimes very googily results.  You have been warned.  Fornicate at your own risk.

~Turn, Turn, Turn, Turn

Finally! 

Tha season, has turn, turn, turned. 

Since the beginning of '11 here in Buckeyeland we have had snow and cold, which at a certain point turned into daily rain and chilly temps.  After three months of rainy days and Mondays, just this past week it took the turn for straight up summer.  No gradual spring time warming up.  No bullshit nice day here, bad day there-ness.  Nope.  I'm talkin', Thursday: 61 with 23 1/2 hours of rain...Friday:  92 with high humidity, an air quality alert and one of those high sun index rating dealys.   (I'm not complaining.  Alright, it sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm not.  I'm not complaining about the weather at least.)

With the sky and soil finally dry I got about the bidness of planning one of my least favorite days of the year.  Planting day. 

Ugh.  I find gardening torturous.  I hate the dirt involved.  Since I have to live with these plants all summer, I find myself spending too much brain power trying to decide which plants I'm still going to like looking at every day for the next 3-4 months.  (I don't know what I'm gonna want for dinner tonight, how can I know that plant is still going to make me happy in 90 days?)  They can't require any effort on my part to live, other than water.  No deadheading 'round here, unless I'm jammin' to Uncle John's Band or Sugar Magnolia.  I feel I have my hands full trying to keep Uncle John and me alive, so I can only devote so much effort to keeping some plants alive.

In addition to those self imposed and ridiculous botany rules, because I am a poor matcher, I am only able to select flowers in the colors chosen on any given year.  Last year was white, lavender/blue/purples.  (See!  I even need plant life to be Granimal-ized.)  This year it has been decreed that white and pink are the colors of choice.   Unfortunately, picking flowers by color vs. by sun needed and other plant-y details, which I don't have a firm grasp on, tends to yield sketchy results. 

I hate the pressure of trying to select the right plants, in the right amounts.  I hate going to the nursery.  I hate the feeling of dirt under my nails.  I hate having to wear my hot (and slightly fabulous) gardening gloves.  I hate having to clean all of the remnants of plant life used last year from each pot.  By the end of the season I'm o-v-e-r plants and anything to do with them.  (Seems like every year by August, I have managed to utter the phrase, "die fuckers, die" at them when daily waterings have become too the fuck much.  ..."They" say you should talk to your plants...)  I've spent a 1/4 of the year trying to keep them alive.  I'm done.  While I know the obvious solution is to clean the fuckin' pots out in the fall, but then I'd have 2 days involving gardening that I loathe.  ...And how's that better?

Before/After:

(The mulch men come next week.)

I even stained the hot tub and steps to match the deck.

Sweaty, hot, dirty and kinda cranky.  But done!!  Not another planting day for another 10 months or so.   To wit I say: Amen.

A Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Review): Based on a True Story of Everyone

High School. Sort of.

Dark skinned, with glasses and braces = the complete cliche package of an ugly girl falls in love with unbelievably handsome and charming upperclassman. Of course he has to be perfect in every way possible, all sensitive and artistic (but athletic and hot at the same time) while she is the clumsy nerd in the shadows.

The movie opens up with Nam's quirky group of friends and a teacher who is too straightforward for her own good. A few juvenile scenes of picking out crushes, passing notes during class and stolen glimpses and suddenly, the story becomes all too familiar.

All those enchantment-believing, book-reading and daydreaming moments could might as well be anybody else's story and it was that gravitation to something so recognizable to all, I think, that made this movie so popular and endearing to people who have a heart and once used it for something no matter how one-sided and futile the experience was.

But of course the lead character must shed off her veil of ugliness and become this pretty swan in a matter of a few months. Any story set on screen could definitely not end with the Prince Charming falling in love with the still visually despicable commoner! The transformation was so dramatic I had to Google if two different actresses played her part. 

I found it bothersome how society (apparently even in Thailand) entails that for a character to be noticed and loved, she has to be physically beautiful. Yes it's nice that after a lot of name-callings and schoolyard torture, the caterpillar that we have grown accustomed to has wreathed out of her cocoon and transformed into a beautiful butterfly. But still, wouldn't it be more interesting, and inspiring even, if the Prince Charming and the ordinary girl had their happily ever after without some cliche make-over / metamorphosis in the middle to make everything easier on the eyes?

For me, it was a rocky road from the moment Nam became painfully beautiful. She suddenly lost her adorable awkward charm and it was not as interesting seeing her being fawned upon by random schoolmates. Fortunately, the story picked up near the ending with humiliating confessions, predictable heartbreak and some flipping through a black book.

Overall, it is a must-see for everyone who have gone through high school and/or puberty. I guaranty you will relieve those tiled school halls with such clarity it's disconcerting. The trailer got it right when it said that it is based on a true story of everyone. And I find myself agreeing with that claim. At least for the first 30 minutes. ;)

Orchestr-o-meter: A

My friend Samson brought me a gift last week.  A pose-able man.  And even though he wasn't THAT kind of pose-able man, I've still found him to be quite entertaining.

I call this the "Run Bitch, Run" pose...

~Honoring Our War Dead 24 Hour Period

Before you have some beer, some BBQ, some good times with friends and family on this beautiful bonus day, please take a moment to remember; 

Some gave all.

Safe and Happy Memorial Day kiddies.

~Book Club: I Laughed, I Almost Cried, I Almost Died

I can't believe I'm typing these words... 

I attended book club.   I guess I should say,  I finally attended the book club MGB invited me to months ago.  At first I delayed checking it out because it didn't seem like a BBG kinda thing... 

A)  I don't like to read. (I can.  I don't like to.) 

II)  The concept of sitting around with a buncha girls is generally, kinda not my thing either. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those girls who doesn't like other girls.  Honestly, I like the company of guys.  I'm a guys girl.  Mostly because a dude is never gonna make me have a conversation about Project Housewives Dancing Idol Bridezilla Survivor Model or whatthefuckever the latest show all the girls are a buzz about that I already hate just from the commercial, or why I think her boyfriend/husband said X, or try to impress upon me the merits of the latest diet, or hair dye, or any of the other 26,000 things chicks gab about that I want no fuckin' part of. 

With that said, I like girls fine.  And it's important to note that generally I am nice to all girls.  How nice?  I've had random stranger girls actually tell me they like me because I'm not one of those 'girl hater girls'.  Schweet.  I'm not a complete bitch. 

It takes a certain kind of girl to make me actively want to hang.  And the book club girls?  Well, those are my kinda girls.  So while I was still suspect of the literary aspect, I was totally down with the hangin' out with cool ass people part and last week that night happened.  The group was comprised of several girls who I've known for years from way back in my radio daze.  Girls who know me well enough to have been savvy enough to have sold the concept to me with phrases like, "you don't even have to read the book."   I, in turn, sold AnonD, who also joined in for the festivities. 

The git togetha was held at (code name) Marietta's delightful homestead.  Where I immediately made her very nice and accommodating hubby, well, my weather bitch.  "I need you to be in charge of monitoring the weather.  If it looks like we're gonna die, I'm going to need a heads up so I can go home put my car in the garage and get in the hole (aka: the basement)", was my less than Emily Post endorsed version of, 'hello, thanks for having me in your home.'   Not only was he johnny on the spot with those duties, I'm also considering code naming him Grillmaster K for his contribution to our yummy din-din. 

I got to see their little (and super cute) one playing in her "ring of fire" (aka: her baby gated circle area).  It made me want my own ring of fire.  And then I remembered I was a grown up and I had one, it's called here.  Instead of being gated, I have walls.  (That and realizing I could go to sleep/get up any damn time I chose, have cookies any time of day and can also have booze and drive--not in that order, or together, of course, I stopped being jealous of a 20 month old.)

(BBG and Marietta and Grillmaster K's wee one and tot I intend on stealing, Harper)

In addition to experiencing my first book club, I also officially tried the phenomena known as Skinny margarita.  It wasn't bad.  Although, once I understood what it was, not just that Bethany girls brand but that it is essentially diet booze, I may have been a bit mentally tainted.  Swayed if you will.  Diet/light/made "healthier" any and everything, in my mind equates pretty much to bad.  (Plus, usually, diet/light/made "healthier" stuff makes me wonder what chemical hocus pocus had to be worked in order for whatever was taken out to ostensibly not be missed.  And when can more chemicals ever be good for ya?  This will come as no surprise but the BBG is a full fat, full sugar kinda girl.)

In addition to Marietta and AnonD, the club that night consisted of MGB, her pal (and new person to me, code name: The Lunch Lady) and (code name) Steven Tyler Kissed Her Ass.  (Any guesses how I have bestowed upon her that code name?)

While book club ran from six until after 11pm, the book discussion portion of the evening consisted of approximately 180 seconds.  The remainder of the time was devoted to catching up, story telling and massive amounts of laughter.  There were some worldclass funny stories going around. 

I really had a grand time.  It's easy to say that I laughed more in those several hours than I have it seems in months, which was awesome.  (No, wait.  Fuckin' awesome!)  One of the best things about my friends is their ability to be such good mixers.  I can drop almost any one of my friends with any other friend(s) and pretty much know that they'll like one another.  It's such a luxury.  I absofuckinlootly love it.  Never having to wonder if somebody's gonna say sumthin' stoopid, or if somebody's going to feel awkward or out of place.  Nope.  They'll be making plans to hang out without me in 15 minutes. 

Of course fun and frivolity didn't keep near death experiences at bay.  Why would I be able to enjoy a near death experience free evening?  A storm moved in while we were book clubing, which necessitated a move from the patio to the garage, to accommodate the smokers (aka: everyone but 2).  It worked out well, that is, until the storm brought us the present of lightning to the party.  I became too afraid to stay seated in my metal-y folding chair.  (...I could already see the 10,000 Ways To Die actor portrayal retelling of lightning flying into the garage and gazillion ass jolt welding me to the chair.  #768 Fllllllaaaasshhhchance...)  I was mocked for my dedication to safety preparedness and stayin' alive instincts as I paced the floor.  But I knew as I stood there, safely out of my electric chair metal canvas covered lighting rod that when I was the one on the news recounting how I lived unscathed through the lightning bitch slap by Mother Nature, I'd have the last laugh.  (That's right.  I'm livin' for spite!)

Being a such a storm chicken and having survived the open garage door/lightning experience, I was starting to feel like I had already dodged death that evening and things should be pretty smooth and clear for the rest of the night.  

Wrong.

Just as I was coming down from my adrenaline (and too close lightning strike) fueled flight or fight frenzy and had reclaimed my place in the seating circle, something caught my eye. 

It was a free range Mickey scurrying across the floor, unfuckingcomfortably close to my flip flopped foot.  For the second time that night I found myself squealing in complete and utter fear for my life.  Even though I was assured that he was more afraid of me than I was of him, I was entirely sure he was plotting a way to skitter over to me and touch me with his bubonic plague carrying tail or something.  

So, if you're keeping track that's BBG 0 - Mother Nature 2.

On the other hand, three sixty five x 67 years, carry the 2, well, I never was very good at math so let's just say it = I'm still alive so maybe I'm beating Mother Nature?  I donno.

I do know that I'm probably hittin' book club again.  I could always use more good times hangin' with good peeps in my life.  Who knows?  Maybe I'll even read sumthin'?  (But please don't hold your breath)