Monday, October 26, 2009

Or maybe they make dog Ambien?

If you've been a parent for more than 15 minutes, someone has suggested to you that it is possible to sedate your offspring with Benadryl. Going on a long car ride? Benadryl! Cross-continental redeye flight to to see grandma? Benadryl! Mommy wants to watch The Office and drink whiskey make dinner without hearing any whining from your miniature cake-hole interruption? BENADRYL!

Sounds great, but the problem with it is that the entire thing is an evil plot invented and perpetuated by either pharmaceutical companies or communists. Or communist pharmacists. If it works for your kid, hooray for you, but I tried drugging each of my children at different times in their lives, and each time I got exactly the opposite reaction than I was going for. As the other 167 unfortunate passengers of a flight from Denver to Tampa in 1998 can attest, Benadryl in my kids is like methadone. Or crack cocaine. Or acid. I guess I'm not super knowledgeable on the effects of hard drugs, I'm sure I was supposed to study it at some point, but I think I watched Mork and Mindy instead. Anyway, it turns them into whatever drug it is that makes you a wild-eyed, spitting, jumping on your mom's lap, unable to sleep wolverine-monkey.

And, now, because I am nothing if not a bastion of information and this blog is pretty much a public service announcement, (you're welcome) I'm here to inform you that Benadryl in a bulldog has pretty muchly exactly the same effect as it had on my toddlers. It turns him into a drooling bag of crazy.

If you're a fan of bulldogs, and hello? Who ISN'T? You'll know that despite their tough appearances, they are actually delicate little flowers with all types of issues that you wouldn't put up with from any other less-cute animal. Chronic puking immediately after eating comes to mind. As does 40 decibel snoring, incessant shedding, tears that stain your furniture and only being able to give birth by c-section.  Also? Dry skin. Bulldogs have very dry, itchy skin and all kinds of things irritate it, like say, oh...air. And Taylor Swift songs. Or so I tell my children.

Anyway, I'm cruising through life feeding my bulldog extra greasy food and keeping him all humidified when suddenly he's covered, like totally COVERED in hives.  Everywhere, little jellybean sized bumps all over his cuteness. You could tell they itched like hell. He was rolling and crying and scratching and I just wanted to go to bed felt so badly for him. So, after a quick google-search for itchy bulldog cures, deciding against a calamine and baking soda dip, I went for the Benadryl. Without even thinking, without even remembering, without even considering that it wouldn't work. I imagined him taking the magical elixir of yum, slowly laying down, licking his paws for a few minutes and then passing out until morning.

Yeah. Nope. It's currently 3:48 AM, and I'm watching him jump from sofa to coffee table to ottoman to my lap to floor to door to the other sofa to OHMYGAWD this is exactly like the flight to Tampa only there's not a grumpy autoparts sales person sitting next to me.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Flashback Friday wherein you should actually flash back TO Friday and pretend you were reading this post. Because today is Tuesday, dudes.

Due to renewing some old friendships on the ultimate timesuck Facebook, I've been thinking about college lately. It was a time to discover myself - to look introspectively and determine my strong suits, my potential, my skills. To put it simply - it's when I really learned to answer the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Within a few weeks of my freshman year, I knew definitively what I wanted to be.

A frat boy.

Who has a better life than a frat boy? I offer for your consideration: They get to hang out with other dudes. If they want the company of females, they post a flyer and boom - girls are there. But if they want to lock the door and watch sports, it's all good in the name of brotherhood. Speaking of their doors, they're usually attached to a pretty nice piece of architecture. Except for the Pi Kappa Alpha house on Colorado State University's campus (ie: "The White House" because really, it was a shack and all it had going for it was a new coat of paint) MOST fraternity houses are beautiful old homes. Sure, they smell on the inside, but the columns and sweeping porches and grand entrances totally make up for beer-soaked carpets behind those doors. Oh - and beer? There's always beer. I'm a fan of beer. Besides used kegs on those porches, there's often really comfortable furniture. And not patio furniture that just looks comfortable, either. Real, live, inside couches outside on the porch. That's not just a good idea, that's living, my friends.

Alas however, I couldn't figure out how to actually join a fraternity...so I just hung out on the fringes of them, wearing my converse lowtops, cargo shorts and aviator sunglasses, holding a red party cup and trying to blend in. One particular SAE intrigued me. Besides having really great bangs, he owned a Honda Interceptor - one of the best crotch rockets of the 80s. Did he keep it polished and shiny to impress everyone? Nope. It was covered with stickers and decals and a couple of dents in the gas tank. Because that's how he rolled, man. Everyone recognized this guy - most people hated him. I wanted to be him. Or at least get my hands on that bike.

Or one just like it. Only better.  Today, I present you with a delicious retro example of my extreme badassery, and the culmination of my frat boy ambitions.




Behold, a 1992 Little Girl Big Glasses - complete with windblown pageboy permed hair, mock turtleneck sleeveless striped tee, pleated shorts, leather Keds...and my rockin' pink and blue crotch rocket. At the time, I was working my first real job, making tens of dollars a month. I realized that after making the $155 payment on my Toyota Tercel and the $249 rent payment, there was money left over...and since food was optional, I had the perfect amount to finance a 1990 Honda VTR 250, the 'baby' Interceptor. I paid 11% interest on an RV loan to buy it and it was worth EVERY penny. Frat boys had nothin' on me. Except maybe better bangs.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

I am pretty sure Aveda has a crush on me.


A million years ago, before Big Dude and Little Dudes and mortgages and bulldogs, I went to lunch a couple of times with a good-lookin' tall guy from work. Putting aside the facts that he lived with his mother and had a dead-end job (it was just my summer job, it was his fate career) he was a decent fella. He had a sweet car, was very polite, listened to good music, liked beer, smelled good. All positives to a 22-year-old me. Here's what was wrong with him: He gave me stuff all the time.

I know what you're thinking. "AHA! Proof! Women never like the nice guys! They want the bad boy!" Yeah, well, no, that's not it. This guy was the King of Creepy Gifts. For example, we went to lunch, the next day he bought me a hat.

A hat.  Because apparently all the flower stores were closed? Where do you even go to buy a hat? And what makes you think..."That temporary file girl at the office sure is cute. In fact, the only way she'd be cuter is with a black felt fedora! To the mall!"

We went to lunch again. I had boots on my desk.  Because? He wanted me to know that he knew my shoe size. Uh huh.

We went to lunch with a big group of people, he found a way to be smooshed into a back seat with me where he pointed out the church he'd like us to be married in. Yeah. He did.

Eventually, I lost my appetite and stopped going to lunch with him. I received a Victoria's Secret box. To entice me to go to Burger King, I guess?  I returned it, unopened, to his car, all the while holding my keys sticking out of my fist just in case he jumped out from under the car with a gift-wrapped toaster.

Fortunately, the summer ended and I got to move back to school 90 miles away. Unfortunately, he asked someone where I lived and they told him. (Thanks, HR Department!) When I rode up on my bike with a group of friends and saw him sitting on my porch he asked why I wasn't driving, and who were all these people?

I explained loudly that he gave me the creeps and I'd like him to leave and that my car wasn't running just then.

I then double locked my doors, asked him to be gone when I got back and rode off to find my biggest, largest, male-est friends.

When I got back, there was a tear-stained letter and a check for $1800. Because that's all he had, and he wanted me to buy a car with it. (And I'm totally not kidding, he either cried or spit all over it, because it was all warpy and wrinkly like it'd been wet.)

Why now, do I bring up this freak-tale while I live happily with dudes of all sizes, a mortgage and a bulldog? Because I was reminded of this gifty-stalky guy today. Much like innocently going to lunch with a cute guy, I innocently ordered Aveda product online. I got suckered in. It looked good, I like how it smells, I hate the damned mall. I figure, what's a non-committal online order gonna do?

And then Aveda began it's creepy genuflection. I ordered shampoo. Aveda offered a free sample of conditioner. I ordered conditioner, Aveda wanted me to try extra infused deep treatment FREE. I put in the special offer code for free shipping... suddenly there were three other free gifts in my basket.  By the time I was done, I had SEVEN free gifts, and when I checked my email and read the order confirmation, I had two more waiting for me.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the cute little bottles and will more than likely use each and every one of them. But you might wanna try playing hard-to-get once in awhile, Aveda, or you might find yourself crying all alone on the steps of a hastily built condo someday wondering WHY oh WHY I don't love you back.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Friday Flashback - Tandemonium.




Welcome to the first ever edition of LGBG's Friday Flashback! (applause) Which means two things. One...I stole the idea from my long-lost twin in Iowa that I've never met: Tracey, and two...I finally opened the scanner that I've owned for 10 months and have been using as a footrest under my desk.


Today's vintage circa 1967 Instamatic print features my daddy, an infant Little Girl Pre Glasses, (me) and the most bitchin' 1966 Rollfast Tandem bike EVER.


A few things to note:
• I can really rock a bonnet, no?
• Check out my dad's awesome Elvis hair and tortoise shell shades.
• And, see that basket? They used to put us kids in there. And ride around. Which was totally cool. Later, when my younger sister was born, she'd be up there in a baby seat, my parents would be on the bike seats, my older sister sat on the luggage rack, and I was somewhere... anyway, the whole fam damily could fit on this bike. It was like an eco-friendly open-air SUV before its time. Also it had a headlight. For night trips.

I have recently become obsessed with getting myself an exact replica of this bike. We live in a very bike-y neighborhood, all kinds of great places to go like taverns, parks, bars, taverns - all within biking distance on pretty tree-lined streets. And, didja know? The person on the back only has to pretend to pedal, so basically I could just ride around relaxing with a cool beverage and possibly even a book while Big Dude pedals me around and works out his thigh muscles. (Which are really fine the way the are but he seems to enjoy working out, so who am I to deny him?) A win-win, really.

So...I'm searching for a black and white 1966 Rollfast Tandem Bicycle which means, of course, they're rare. Apparently, they made a gazillion red ones, but not too many black ones.  I've found them on craigslist in other states, but no one will ship me a $200, 200 pound bike.

I also found this ridiculously cool painting of one.


Sweet, huh? The artist's name is Taliah Lempert and she paints all kinds of bikes...you can see them here. I emailed her while ago and asked her to buy her Rollfast and she said, "NOPE, it's too awesome!" Or something to that effect. So I just ordered a print of her painting instead which will no doubt be completely fantastic. But I still want the damned bike.

If any of you out there in webosphere have a dusty black Rollfast tandem bike in your garage/barn/grandma's basement/neighbor's toolshed, let me know...in the meantime, I'm trying to fit a 135 pound twelve year old on the handlebars of my mountain bike and it's just embarrassing.

UPDATE! I just got an email from Taliah (The bike artist. Try to keep up.) and she's going to paint a whole new version of the Rollfast Tandem in acrylics on paper, kind of like this painting and I'm so excited I could dance like Snoopy because honestly I was totally going to have to redecorate most of my house (or move to a loft) to match that red background. If you know someone who appreciates the bike form as art, please go to her website and get them some nifty notecards or a shirt or something. She's totally cool.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Many Open Letters Inspired by a Not-So-Quick Jaunt To the Giant 12-year-old's School.

#1: Dear friendly construction folks who bring their own flashy "move over two lanes" lights and park their earth-moving equipment across two lanes of traffic on a busy city thoroughfare at 7:30 AM with no advance warning,  Have you heard of Mike Mulligan? He parked his shit INSIDE the construction site, not across from a middle school on a busy city thoroughfare. Sure, he ended up having to leave it there after the building was done, but it turned out fine because as I recall, they gave him a rocking chair, a pipe and plenty of pie. Why did he get pie? Because he didn't piss off everyone parking his damned steam shovel in their way. Do you like pie? Sure, we all do. Here's some advice - WAIT UNTIL AFTER THE BELL RINGS AT THE MIDDLE SCHOOL AND YOU WON'T HAVE NEARLY AS MANY MOMMIES FLIPPING YOU OFF, THEY MIGHT GIVE YOU PIE INSTEAD. Also, it'd be great if you actually involved the city, they might lend you some detour signs or something or advise you to park on, I dunno, the fricking side street?

#2: Dear River Rock Mica Green Toyota Prius Driver with Namaste Bumper Sticker, Your karma will NOT be improved by letting one mile of traffic merge in front of you. Those people are bad people. They are people that saw the "get the hell over two lanes" flashy lights and DID. NOT. GET. OVER. Instead, they zoomed ahead. They let you wait in line forever (and me, two cars behind you) and then they drove 52 miles per hour, slammed their brakes on at the last possible moment, smiled devilishly at you and you let them in. Their flippant little wave filled you with a feeling second only to freeing Tibet, but they started out three miles behind us, and now they're three miles ahead of us, and here we sit. YOU, Prius lady, have helped contribute to EVIL in this world, and for that, karma will NOT smile at you with an extra pinch of organic cinnamon in your sumatra blend soy latte. Oh no, you're looking at a split seam in your yoga pants at the very least, and very possibly a huge tax increase on xeriscaping and loose leaf tea. Not to mention what karma is going to think of you denying a child his education by promoting evil. I worry about you.

#3: Dear Cool Dudes in an Orange Geo with a huge Vans Decal, Hey, thanks for giving me a "teachable moment" this morning. There I was sitting in traffic, thinking that the boy and I would have nothing meaningful to talk about when you provided me the perfect opportunity for a Just Say No session.
The boy: Hey Mom, that's kinda gross, those guys in the Geo are sharing a cigarette.
Me: Hmm. Why they certainly are, son. Swine flu aside, pretty grody. OH, it seems to be a hand-rolled version. 
The boy: Wait. Is that pot?
Me: (rolling down window and taking a sniff of the chilly early morning autmn air) Well, yes, son. I believe it is a marijuana cigarette. Yes, indeedy.
The boy: Soooo, they're doing drugs, in their car, at 7:30 in the morning?
Me: Uh, huh.
The boy: 'Spose that's why they're 30 and still have a crappy car with a skateboard sticker on it?
Me: You're gonna be just fine, boy.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Ohemgee. I'm kind of a big deal on the Internet.

If you're like me, you probably forgot that I have a blog. This blog right here, in fact. You're likely blocking it from your memory because you cannot stand to read that story about how my dog died ONE MORE TIME. I know I can't. However, what you probably do NOT know is that while poor little LGBG has been lifeless (get it, lifeless? Because the dog DIED, right?) I have been flitting all about the worldwide web, spreading my own special brand of joy. JOY, people. Friggin look happy already!

First of all, I was the proud winner of some super sweet business cards on Catootes.  Of course, I have not designed them yet, but when I do, they will be SUPER SWEET. And, I shall pass them about whenever someone says "What's your blog? Why is it called that? Wha?"

Nextly, I was a little preoccupied with launching a little 112-page website for work. Not really a great excuse, but not really a bad one either, because holy crap - 112 pages. With 40 gazillion pictures. And a bunch of forms, and at least 19 people telling me immediate edits to make. If you see a typo on it, keep it to yourself, pretty please. When you're drinking later this evening, feel free to peruse it in all its loveliness and then send a comment form telling how fricking beautiful it is and how the marketing director must be A GENIUS. But, dudes, use your own words or something. Just make them be sort of synonymous with genius. K, thanks.

And lastly - and this is the part where my amazing level of fame-itude comes into play...I was the featured topic on a website about  FABULOUS THINGS.  Yeah, you heard me, every boy who ever broke up with me. I am fabulous. People who KNOW fab, they know me. And they think I'm fab. Also, I totally have shiny hair, as this post attests. I'm really going out on a limb sharing this link, since I like to just be the little cartoony avatar person over in the corner, and the HowFab post actually features real live unedited photos of moi, but I like living on the edge. Also, since Kara of HowFab lives in San Francisco, is hip and has unlimited fashionability, if she wants to steal photos off my Facebook page and put them on her website, who am I to keep her unique brand of Internet Gold to myself? Also, please go buy cards from her and she will send you a very nice moustache for FREE that you will find very handy in many situations.  Like, for example, your wedding photos.

That would be Ms. Fab herself, at her wedding, with her Fab British husband. Because all the very hip people marry foreigners. But not foreigners that speak a different language, because that'd be a pain in the ass.

I promise I will still write you little stories even though I'm totally famous with business cards now. Really I will, because deep down, I love you little people. You made me the Internet sensation I am today.

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