~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...

My Mother's Driving

So this weekend my mother and I were searching through the newspaper for job openings when she went off track and found a job posting for "driver needed". I immediately began shaking my head no as she read off the job.

Me: Absolutely not mother!

Mom: ...500 a week...

Me: I would sue any company that hired YOU as a driver.

Mom: ...must have a valid license, I have that....

Me: No!

Mom: Why not?

Me: Because. I was with you when you ran over the median last week. I was with you when you went the wrong way down a one way. AND, I was with you when you got pulled over for drunk driving.

Mom: I don't even drink.

Me: Exactly my point!



Also, go here and follow, mmkay?

~Traumatic Ta-Doin's: Dusk To Dawn

(Attn:  Guys!!  GAP/Guy Assistance Program has been postponed due to teacher trauma.  We will resume class perhaps tomorrow.)

Last night I was noodling around BBGW HQ and sumthin' catches my eye.  Now the BBGW HQ is generally a fairly dim place (no BBG's a dumbass/dim jokes please!  ...This is traumatic.  You can tell from the title.), I don't like the bright, glaring interrogation lighting so many seem fond of.  Because of my 10 watt preferred existence, I had trouble making out from a distance what the sumthin' no good was that I could see on the ceiling.

As I stood up and walked over to investigate I assumed it was a wayward moth who had illegally gained entry into my home, which dismayed me immensely.  As I flipped on the big ass fluorescent overhead lighting, illuminating the room like the sun itself, I discovered that it was some kinda creepy ass, too many legged and possibly double headed muther fuckin' bug. 

After quickly making mental note that this is one of the worst things about being single, I realized that I really didn't have any options here other than girling up and taking care of the horrible situation.  So there I was, there I was, like a modern day boobed McGuyver trying to come up with a way to take care of that damn bug.  I surveyed the room and the first thing that seemed like it might be helpful was the can of Scotch Guard I had used earlier in the day.  Spritz...crazy ass bug ceiling scurrying...BBG skittering...spritz... crazy ass bug ceiling scurrying...BBG heart racing and further skittering...  That however only resulted in the ceiling being pretty well water and spill proof.

Turns out my multi-legged nemesis would require more effort (and bravery) to defeat, so I moved on to the next item in my impromptu bug killin' arsenal, a hand vac.  I grabbed my little, 'I've got a small mess' vacuum and held it up to the ceiling, thinking I would be able to suck it up and be done with this whole verrrrry scary situation.  Of course, this brought with it, it's own set of BBG fears as I, being familiar with Murphy and his muther fuckin' law could easily envision creepy ass bug scurrying down the vac and touching me.  A fate I didn't know if I could ever recover from.  Ever so carefully vrrrroooooooooom, vrrrrrooooooom...Apparently the sucking power needed to kill a bug was asking too much of my vac.  Dismayed (and shaky from nerves) but not defeated I moved on to the air freshener I saw a few feet away.  Short version:  Creepy ass bugs don't give a shit about fresh cotton air freshener.  Turns out fresh cotton air freshener is like angel dust, or PCP to crazy ass bug.

Now things are seriously bad and I know what I have to do.  Off comes the sandal I'm sportin' and I manage to knock it off of the ceiling, now I am in a fight for my life!!  Now it's on the same footing as me and I know is creating some exoskeleton/Talaban like attack on me....WHAAACK!!  Accompanied by a BBG/6 year old little girl scream.  (I'm not proud, I'm just reportin' the facts.)  I lifted the shoe, which I quite possibly may never wear again, to see the biggest pile of bug guts, goo and legs I've ever seen.

Because I've been so traumatized by the events of the past 90 seconds I find myself unable to attend to body disposal and return the shoe to it's make shift bug headstone spot until I can deal with it and I shakily sit for a well deserved and now much needed smoke.  As I try to clam myself from the ta-doin's I can feel water attempting to spill outta my peepers.  Upon realizing that I am on the verge of tears, I start to giggle at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.  ...Which is the exact moment that my phone rings.  LEM is on the other end and sweetly immediately gets all, "oh, no what's wrong?", as she knows that I'm not some cryin' chick, and I'm sure because the last time she heard me cry was when Papa was sick and dying.  I very quickly assured her that I nothing was wrong as I tried to gather my wits enough to recount what had just unfolded at BBGW HQ.  It was one of the worst experiences I've had in a long while, which I know signifies that I lead a charmed life and shouts:  BBG is a bug whimp!

When the rush of adrenaline subsides and after my LEM chat, I make my way to bed.  Feed Uncle John a baby carrot, a strawberry and several blueberries as a nighttime snack, making my 15 lb schnauzer the best nourished being in the house.  (Unless of course you consider my intake of Dew, Cheez-It's, 3 pieces of bacon, a cookie and a Peppermint Patty as nutritional...)  I am one of those awful sorts who insists on the tv blaring all night.  Honestly, if I wake up through the night to find the tv off, it causes a visceral reaction of immense anger.  I generally fall asleep with the remote in my hand.  I generally wake up with the remote in my hand.  Mainly, because I find that if I wake up to the chip, chip, chip clinking of late night poker I start thinking of ways to strike out.  "Striking out" is of course code for concocting a plan to kill someone. 

This morning I woke up around 06:30 and my uber present remote was no where to be found as I was stuck on CNN (good morning Robin Meade).  I looked everywhere in an attempt to get to my local news station, too stubborn to actually touch the tv and change stations.  Under sheet, moved pillows, searched under both sides of the bed.  It's now closing in on 08:00 and I still have no fuckin' clue where my remote is, or how it made it's get away during the night.  Needless to say, the past 10 hours or so at BBGW HQ have been pretty damn sketchy.  And traumatic. 

I'm hoping today takes a much more upward trajectory.  And that I'm able to locate my remote before I return to bed tonight. 

Trauma be gone damn it!

May you have a bug and trauma free day and may it be filled with easy access to your remote.