tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42871041501483188872023-11-16T06:28:24.717-05:00THE B-BLOGSAn account of the adventures of my very exciting, curious, challenging and extremely lovable FIVE YEAR OLD BOY, Brennan (as told from his perspective). Enjoy!THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-49570746548960501422014-06-17T08:27:00.000-04:002014-06-17T11:40:36.938-04:00BUM, RUMP, BACKSIDE, BOTTOM...IT'S ALL GOODSorry it’s been a while since I last checked in…I’ve been busy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">J<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I turned 5,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">J<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Traveled to the Magical Land of Disney,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">J<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Graduated preschool,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">J<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Became obsessed with my butt,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">J<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Learned to swim the backstroke,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">J<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Played a successful season of T-Ball.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
All this packed into a few short months.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Most of the milestones are self-explanatory, but let me elaborate on my
latest obsession, my bum, my rump, my backside, my bottom…whatever you call it,
it’s all good.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I find it hilarious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything about
it…the noises it makes, the capabilities it has, the reaction it evokes from
merely saying its name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a word, it’s
amazing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I am, however, the only one (in my immediate family at least) that finds it
as functional and funny as I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
was once a source of slight amusement for my sister Riley, is now cause for
cringing and tattling.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Case in point…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
To spice up our nightly routine a bit, I thought I would use my latest obsession
to stir up some funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my most
helpful voice, I sweetly called to Riley that I had finished brushing my teeth
and the bathroom was hers for the using.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Unsuspectingly, she rounded the corner to a sight only the truly disturbed would
appreciate, and my only regret (at this point) was the inability to simultaneously
be an observer and a participant.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Entering the room to the sweet serenade of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>an original song I like to call “Jingle Butt”
(go ahead and sing along as you visualize the scene…it’s sung to the tune of “Jingle
Bells”, yet all of the lyrics are replaced with the word “butt”.)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
There I stood, singing my tune, bobbing up and down to the beat, completely naked,
backside out, half bent over, with her toothbrush perched within the confines
of my cheeks like a flag being raised at dawn.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Between the barely audible cries of horror, she was somehow able to mutter
the words of indictment that immediately brought my parents in on the fun.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I am not sure of the exact amount of time it took them to process the scene,
but after a brief pause for judgment, they quickly removed the bristles from
their hiding place and carried me to my room as I tried to catch my breath from
laughing so hard.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I don’t even remember the scolding I received, as my euphoric mind was still
reeling from the monumental prank I had just pulled off.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Our nightly routine has since been modified, including (but not limited to)
the supervised observation of both putting on my pj’s as well as all bathroom
activities.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
In addition to the new regulations, I also had to purchase a new toothbrush
for my sister with my own hard-earned money.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
One soft grip toothbrush = $3.<br />
<br />
One more reason having a younger brother is the most aggravating, exciting, irreplaceable
experience any child could ask for = Priceless.THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-52456663210387039622014-01-02T22:21:00.002-05:002014-01-02T22:21:59.907-05:00Boys Can't Fly
Some concepts seem…implied…superfluous…logical…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And it’s in that moment that you think it not necessary to clarify concepts,
that I will test the very laws of nature to TRY to prove you wrong.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So to answer the question, “Can boys fly?” would seem…implied…superfluous…logical.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But I’m four, I’m curious, I test limits, I defy the laws of gravity, I AM <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BRENNAN!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Here’s how that plan went down:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Meijer bags looped on arms (to serve as wings)…CHECK.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Climb to highest perch in the house (back of the couch)…CHECK.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Eyeball target (ottoman located approximately 12 feet from couch & just beyond
wood coffee table)…CHECK<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Flap feverishly (to start take-off)…CHECK.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Deep-knee squat (for ample altitude)…CHECK.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
LAUNCH…CHECK!!!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Imagine my surprise, when instead of the graceful touchdown upon the ottoman
that I envisioned, I came crashing down in a blaze of glory face-first onto the
edge of the coffee table.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
No tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No yelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just the pissed-off declaration of “I DIDN’T
MAKE IT!” left my lips.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Newton's law of universal gravitation</span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> states that any two bodies
in the universe attract each other with a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Force" title="Force"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">force</span></a> that is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Directly_proportional" title="Directly proportional"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">directly proportional</span></a> to the product of
their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between
them.</span><o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
For those of you who aren’t a learned scholar like myself, let me sum up Sir
Isaac Newton in my own words…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brennan’s
law of gravity</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> states that when a
body (like a boy) is obsessed with the idea of flying over another body (like a
table) it matters very little what the product of their masses is because the
stubborn four year old boy will 100% of the time try to clear that table via
the airways and the result will 100% of the time be an injury, regardless of
the distance between them.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
And through the swollen lid of my bruised eye, I saw the thought-bubble
floating from my Mother’s face that had only three letters hovering in its space,
“W. T. F.?!?!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But regardless of her bewilderment, my Mom still rushed to my aid, scooped
me up and started the concerned inspection of injuries, softly uttering just
three words…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Boys. Can’t. Fly.<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-81649510262854531542013-11-14T10:27:00.001-05:002013-11-14T10:31:23.397-05:00Capitan IrrationalIt’s a bird!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a plane!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Capitan
Irrational</i>!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that once an expectation of
“responsibility” falls upon an unpredictable wild card like myself, my
mild-mannered alter-ego takes the form of (what my family affectionately refers
to as) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Capitan Irrational</i>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Unlike some inferior and far more unstable Superheros, such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Incredible Hulk</i>, my transition from
Brennan to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Capitan Irrational</i>
typically has no precursor or warning (like turning green and ripping out of my
clothes).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, who doesn’t see that
nut-job teetering on the edge?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t
need to see him crawl in a hole, start to sweat and watch for the eye glow for
us to know he is going to snap.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I on the other hand, transform instantaneously and go from sweet and agreeable
to borderline insane in .4 seconds when the INEXCUSABLE sets me off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such as:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*My mom putting the jelly on top of the peanut butter instead of the bottom
inside my PB&J.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Being forced to ride in the cart instead of wandering Target like a feral
cat while my mom chases me and tries to simultaneously get all of the items on
her shopping list.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Asking for a hotdog cut into strips and not circles, and my mom cuts it
into strips and not circles…she should have known I really wanted circles even
though I asked for strips.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*The wind switching direction.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Getting wet while playing with the hose.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Too much parmesan cheese on my noodles (or too little), there is a perfect
amount, you know.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Being denied a piece of candy in the checkout lane.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Only finding 13 instead of the 14 torn-up pieces of paper I stashed under
my pillow.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Some unsuspecting soul looking at me the wrong way, or God-forbid, smiling
at me when I am not in the mood for anything friendly.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*My sister trying to hug me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*The dog biting at me after I try to bite her.<br />
<br />
See…INEXCUSABLE!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It wouldn’t be worth the headache to transform over just trivial or
unimportant issues, it really takes a massive injustice to bring out <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Capitan Irrational</i>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Granted, my passion bubbles very near the surface, but I will let you in on
a little secret…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I. Am. Tired!!!!<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<br />
Really, it is that simple.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
What man doesn’t need just a few ZZZ’s midday to kick back in his lazy boy
and recharge his machismo?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The problem… I am four years old & can’t communicate “I am tired” using those
three simple words.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Instead, I rely on the indestructible <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Capitan
Irrational</i> to do my “talking”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So when you see my Superhero appear, or God-Forbid if you are the culprit
who commits one of the inexcusable acts that cause him to appear, just keep walking…and
try not to judge.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After all, doesn’t everyone have a little <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Capitan Irrational</i> in them?<o:p></o:p>THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-30778070136770993142013-11-05T20:31:00.002-05:002013-11-05T20:31:46.028-05:00Don't Touch That Beaver!During my four short years on this planet thus far, I have learned many
important life lessons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately,
the propensity for any and all of these things to change at the blink of any
eye is about the only guarantee.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Like birth order…just when you think you have your rolls established and
stereo-types fulfilled, BAM!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your
parents pull a sneak attack out of the woodwork.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I thought my standing as “third-born-baby-of-the-family” was locked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially when the topic of adding to the
family brings about shrieks of laughter from not just one, but both of my
parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To quote my Mother, “Unless there’s
some divine plan for Jesus to have a sibling, we are done having kids.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Rock-solid status, right?!?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
To that I say, NO SIR!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Did you know there is something worse than bringing a newborn baby
home?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something cuter?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something softer & snugglier?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something for people to drop what they are
doing and talk to a complete stranger just because this THING is with
them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worse yet, something that
threatens to take one ounce of the attention away from THE BABY OF THE
FAMILY?!?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
That’s right, we got a dog.<br />
<br />
Not just
a dog…a six-and-a-half week old puppy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And from the response this thing has received, apparently it’s a pretty
cute one.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
This attention sucker has taken over our home, our lives, and last but not
least, my standing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She has her own stupid basket of toys shaped like stupid fake animals, a
stupid pink crate, two stupid bowls with pictures of stupid bones on the side,
and a stupid flowery leash.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I think I hate the stupid toy shaped like a stupid road-killed beaver the
most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The constant reminders about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the dogs</i> beaver are nauseating.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Don’t touch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the dogs</i> beaver.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The dog</i> loves to run in circles
with her beaver in her mouth.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Leave <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the dog</i> alone when she is
playing with her beaver.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Look at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the dog</i> wrestle with her
beaver.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The dog</i> sure loves her beaver.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Go find <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the dog’s</i> beaver.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Don’t take <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the dog’s</i> beaver from
her.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The dog’s</i> name is Kali, and apparently
she loves her beaver.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I hate that stupid beaver.<br />
<br />
For Kali’s three month vet visit, she only wanted to sit by me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hid under my legs when the doctor tried
to stick her with yet another round of shots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why she would think I would save her from the torture I wished I could
execute myself is beyond me, but for the sake of looking sweet, I appeased her feeble
request.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She must have wanted something
to nuzzle since we left her beaver at home.<br />
<br />
It’s my job to play with Kali every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We go for walks, play fetch, and wrestle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get to feed her, let her outside when she
has to go to the bathroom, and help with her bath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to sneak her treats during dinner and
let her lick the leftovers off my chin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t even mind if she sometimes wants me to play fetch with her
beaver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
At five months old, Kali has decided to lay claim on the one safe haven I
had left…my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She joins my Dad and I
every night for my bedtime story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
lays right next to me, curls to conform to my body’s shape and listens to “<u>Go
Dog, Go!</u>” right along with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
nuzzles her head in the crook of my neck and we eventually synchronize our breaths
as we calm for the night.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My dog loves sleeping with me and I guess I love it too…even if she insists
on bringing that beaver with her.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
When I come home my dog greets me with more sloppy wet kisses than I can
stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hide under my bed, play chase
and taunt my mom with the number of laps we can run around her.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I am teaching her not to bite me by biting her right back, and how to pee in
the bushes by enthusiastically demonstrating with my accuracy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p> </o:p>I now have a best friend for life and love my dog more than almost all the
candy in the world. Almost.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And even if that beaver is part of the package, then so be it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess it’s not so bad…it looks like it has
been chewed up, spit out, and beaten by 10,000 bikers…but it’s hers and
anything she loves I love, too.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I just have one question…why didn’t my parents get me a dog sooner?!?THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-54640726257858973792013-09-26T10:50:00.001-04:002013-09-26T10:50:55.723-04:00Remember When...
“Remember when I was 35…I go skiing with my best friend Uncle Jake and Uncle
Buddha and we drink beer.”<br />
<br />
“Remember when I was a Smurf…I drink the soap and burp up bubbles.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I was 3…I break my leg, and rock on the rocking chair all
day, and chip off the paint.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I was a Pappy…I take lots of pills every day.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I fly in a rocket…I make the moon really small.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I was a Mom…I like to take baths with wine and books.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I swim with sharks…I find teeth everywhere.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I eat a worm…I give it to my babies.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I was a Grandpa…I drive my tractor everywhere and I let me
drive.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I go to the lake…I jump in the waves.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Remember when I be a dog…I eat with no hands and pee outside.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
My Mom likes to remember when I was 3…and my imagination consisted of
experiential knowledge of actual events, recall of stories that others have
shared, scenes from movies, or outright fabrications.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She should really write this stuff down…someday it will be priceless!THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-48728475231663026382013-09-17T13:17:00.000-04:002013-09-17T13:17:20.876-04:00Future Hall Of FamerOne of my favorite questions to ask (virtually anyone and everyone I
encounter) is, “How old I have to be to__________ (insert
job/scenario/milestone)?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
For example, while waiting for our dinner at the counter that overlooks the
kitchen in our favorite pizza joint, I politely asked the gentleman flipping
the dough, “How old I have to be to work at JT’s?”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His reply, “17”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Or, while watching the friendly warehouse employee at Home Depot (as he
tested the payload of the hi-lo he was maneuvering), “How old I have to be to
drive one of those?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His (somewhat
snarky) reply, “18!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s state law!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I store all of this important information deep in the bowels of my brain for
recall at a later date.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Such was the case after my 4<sup>th</sup> birthday…I recalled a conversation
that occurred while watching the only program on my parent’s television from
March until October…Tigers Baseball.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I dug deep into the Memory Palace and pulled out a little tidbit of
information regarding the age requirements for playing T-Ball…BAM!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was 4!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So for the next month straight, I asked my Mom when was opening day for the
YMCA?!?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The day finally came!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad as
coach…check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleats on…check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blue bat…check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lefty mitt…check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White t-shirt with red sleeves…check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What more could I need to start my career as
a future hall of famer?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, the day didn’t go as smoothly as I (or anyone trying to
tame this wild fire) expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
not included on my all-important checklist was some working knowledge of
baseball basics…that would have been helpful.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My dad and the three other well-intentioned souls spent 70 minutes
essentially herding 12 cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hitting
drills, fielding drills and calisthenics looked nothing like Miguel Cabrera
stepping up to the plate to go for another triple-crown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I took it upon myself to try and reenact
my favorite Tiger’s legendary presence.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
With lawn chairs full of spectators (including my nanny and pappy), I
stepped up to the tee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still
undetermined if I hit left or right, I squared up, swung back, and let that
ball fly all of 10 feet right to the pitcher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And just as I practiced at home, I held onto the bat and ran after the
ball in hopes of fielding my hit ball and starting the process all over again.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Little did I know, there are TWO teams and it is not my job to field my own
hit.<br />
Like I said…important information
that would have been nice to know BEFORE my at-bat.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It took some convincing, but I eventually ran to first base (and by
convincing, I mean the desperate first base coach lured me there with the
promise I could punch him in the gut when I arrived).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My first great offensive display continued with a leisurely walk to second
base (once the batter behind me arrived on the base I was occupying).<br />
On to third (with my batting helmet covering
my eyes because I had turned it backwards).<br />
Then home, but not before I swung by the on-deck circle to take the bat
from my teammate who was patiently waiting his turn to bat (although his
patience ran out right about the same time I swiped the bat, and he ran after
me yelling, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!?”)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And with that my batting and on-base percentage was 100%!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a bad start to what I think will be a
lifelong career of being a pain in the ass…I mean playing baseball!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
See you at the All-Star game, Miggy!<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-13669099826966495772013-04-18T15:25:00.001-04:002013-04-18T15:25:20.239-04:00Sweet Revenge
For those of you unfamiliar with my nemesis, you should review the B-Blog
titled “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">AKA: Basketball</i>”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
If you haven’t read it (or don’t remember the details) in the interest of
time, here’s a quick recap:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
During a brief encounter on the basketball court with a giant dill-hole of a
man, I narrowly avoided a concussion, I called him a “Fat Ball”, he insulted my
mom, and he was (in general) just an ass.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
That about sums it up.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Today I was able to enjoy dolling out a little of the sweet elixir I like to
call <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">revenge</i>.<br />
<br />
While enjoying a little free-time in the gym childcare, I positioned myself behind
the mesh gym divider that separates the “kids zone” from the “basketball zone”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And there he was, awkwardly trying to walk and bounce a basketball at the
same time, but thinking he was full of athletic swag, Mr. Fat Balls himself.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I don’t think he saw me (at first).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I saw him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I immediately
remembered that stupid ego-maniac’s arrogant grin.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I started off subtle, as not to draw attention to myself, with just a laugh
here and there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not like an
innocent-kid laugh, more like a “HA-HAH, HA, HA-HAH” (to the cadence of, “NA-NAH,
NA, NA-NAH”).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Then I ramped it up with general insults like, “You missed!” and “No points
for you!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
When the dim-wit was finally able to put together the jumbo-size-puzzle-piece
hints that I was directing my criticisms towards him, he started to really put
on a show.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Sweet merciful crap, was it hilarious to watch his anger grow as his
athletic ability shrank.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
He couldn’t make a shot to save his life, and I was the first to point out
his shortcomings.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
No longer attempting to hide myself or my insults, I brought out the big
guns.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I was pointing, laughing, and encouraging other children to taunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started chanting “YOU MISSED, YOU MISSED,
YOU MISSED!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and a few of the other lemming-children
joined in.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After gaining the attention of a few giggling basketball
players, his delicate male ego could withstand no more, and he called upon the
childcare workers to remove me from the gym.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
In a climactic ending as I was escorted back to the confines of the enclosed
playroom, I yelled “YOU NO GOOD AT BASKETBALL!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>YOU MEAN!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After taking some time to reflect on my actions and decide if I was too hard
on the chap, I am reminded of one simple fact…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am three and that douchebag is a grown ass crybaby excuse of a man.</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Brennan 1, Fat-Ball 0.<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-11676504135463717772013-04-10T23:24:00.000-04:002013-04-10T23:24:13.225-04:00Music ClassSometimes the stars align and I am able to take advantage of a fleeting
opportunity to turn up the funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such
was the case today during the weekly music class I attend.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
During the action-song, “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” I decided the
sequence of movements where I point to my head, my shoulders, my knees and my
toes needed a little tweaking.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
That straight line from the top of my body to the ground stretches through
far more interesting body parts than my shoulders and my knees.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Sing along with me…<o:p></o:p><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Head, Boobies, Penis, Toes. Penis,
Toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Head, Boobies, Penis, Toes. Penis,
Toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eyes and Ears and Mouth and
Nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Head, Boobies, Penis, Toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Penis, Toes.”<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
Feel free to use this valuable teaching tool in your next talk to your kids
about The Birds & The Bees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your
Welcome.<o:p></o:p>THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-53735064117809917402013-03-19T10:05:00.000-04:002013-05-14T22:31:04.503-04:00The PlanIt has taken my Mom a while to admit the truth – she isn’t perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those of us who know her, that revelation
is as about as surprising as the sun coming up in the morning.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So after much struggle and agony, my Mother is finally able to admit it… I
have been put on a discipline plan at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But as an even more devastating admission…she isn’t perfect.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“The Plan” goes a little something like this:<o:p></o:p><br />
Each section of my day is divided into categories (ie: arrival, recess,
circle time, snack time, etc.)<o:p></o:p><br />
If I am able to control the many urges I have to hit, spit, kick or yell profanities
at others, I am rewarded with one happy-face sticker for each successful
category.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversely, if I am not able
to squelch these compulsions, I do not receive a sticker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pretty basic.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“The Plan” is appropriately labeled, “I Had A Great Day”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
If I do, “have a great day”, and have obtained all eight happy-face stickers
for the day, I am immediately rewarded with an activity that makes all the hard
work worth it – swimming at Goldfish Swim School.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After receiving the report from my teacher at “pick-up time”, we head
directly to my happy place where I eagerly and enthusiastically share the good
news of my great day and brag about how awesome I am.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Since being placed on said plan, we have gone to Goldfish every Tuesday and
counting.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Before offering up any congratulations, there is one Tuesday I should
address…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Given my track record, it should not come as a surprise that I briefly fell
off the wagon of good behavior and did not receive all 8 stickers one grim day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much to my surprise, we still went to
Goldfish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We parked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And that’s when it happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
woman, the one I call Mom, she did the unthinkable.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As usual, after showing off my report, I explained that there were 7 instead
of 8 stickers due to a brief lapse in judgment when I used my schoolbag as a
demolition ball and knocked a classmate halfway into next week.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And in a most abrupt fashion, I was scooped up, reminded of the missing
sticker and escorted to the front door.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
WHAT!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>THE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>HELL!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She did it; she actually followed through on her threat to NOT take me
swimming if I didn’t follow through on my end of the bargain!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Well, well, well…taking advantage of a teachable moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well played, Mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well played.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Because it worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I said, we
have gone to Goldfish every Tuesday since.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
For those of us who already know our Moms aren’t perfect, we are usually also
enlightened enough to know that beneath the thickest of skulls and the roughest
of exteriors, lies the most sensitive of hearts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while my Mom is not perfect, she no
longer lets my behavior determine her self-esteem or cares if someone sees the
imperfect mom that lies beneath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
regardless of the incredibly terrible choices I sometimes make, my imperfect
Mom will just keep grasping those brief moments in time when she whispers to my
heart and I actually learn something.<br />
<br />
At least that's "The Plan".THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-976097506270650002013-03-17T21:05:00.001-04:002013-03-17T21:05:37.359-04:00WANTED: Aspiring Showgirls!Given the current fiscal state of our country, I feel it is my civic duty to
help stimulate the economy by offering some job opportunities to anyone
interested in supplementing their income with a little part-time work.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Well, not just anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My target
audience really is the ladies (preferably those that I find particularly
attractive).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what prospective
employer doesn’t discriminate based on looks?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I have created a plan that is a “win-win” for all parties involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And thus far, I have offered this job
opportunity to exactly three people of the female persuasion.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The position is still vacant.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Here’s my pitch (verbatim):<o:p></o:p><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Want to come to a show…In my bedroom…You
wear a bathing suit…Or a costume…You wear my key necklace…Sometimes I squirt
you with water…Sometimes not…I play my guitar…Or drums…You dance…I give you
quarters.”</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The ladies get the quarters and I get a show. Like I said, “win-win”!<br />
<br />
To date, the only feedback I have received is, “I only work for paper
money.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Done.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I promptly went home, cut up an ass-load of paper, and will have it at the
ready for the next time I see my #1 contender.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So in the spirit of capitalism, I urge you all to be as proactive as I, and
offer unique employment opportunities for someone to get ahead in this unstable
economic climate.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Onward and upward fellow Americans!<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-27173947580188325492013-02-19T21:40:00.000-05:002013-02-19T21:40:11.478-05:00Guessing Games
“Guess what I have under the covers?” was how I greeted my Mom when she came
into my room to tuck me in tonight.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
With an inquisitive look, she obliged my request for one last game of the
day.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After a few obvious guesses from my clueless Mother (such as “blanket”, “stuffed
animal”, and “match box car”) I decided to give her some helpful hints.<br />
It really was painful to see her embarrass herself
with such terrible conjectures.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
See if you can get it…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s long.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s not short.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It grows.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It goes in your mouth.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s not a whistle.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s hard.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s not teeth.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
Clearly I had given enough obvious hints.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My Mom just laughed hysterically when I said, “It's a Carrot!”<br />
<br />
I consider myself a well-rounded boy with a broad sense of humor.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But carrots?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s funny about
carrots?<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-26194710857416990222013-02-08T17:12:00.000-05:002013-03-17T21:29:52.138-04:00Because I Am A BoyI am not a girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Though, when I say, “I am not a girl” I of course do not mean in the literal
sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean in no way shape, form or semblance,
am I at all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like</i> a girl.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Imagine their surprise, when every simple daily event or memorable milestone
crossed with my two older sisters was done so with ease, then I came along and
turned my parent’s sense of normalcy upside down.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
They are the same parents, with the same DNA, the same parenting style, and
the same discipline tactics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there
is one major difference…I am not a girl.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Physical appearances aside, let’s compare and contrast:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conferences<o:p></o:p></i><br />
My sisters get all positive, glowing remarks and their teachers wish “everyone
in the class was as sweet as them”.<o:p></o:p><br />
Conversely, I have recently been put on a “discipline plan” to ensure I use “appropriate
words” and not “my body” when communicating with classmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My teachers refer to me as “spirited, energetic,
and creative” (code for “can’t sit still and mischievous”). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no doubt that the thought of a “class-full
of Brennan’s” is amongst their greatest fears.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Meals<o:p></o:p></i><br />
The girls typically eat with utensils while seated and most of their food
ends up in their mouth.<o:p></o:p><br />
I choose to make meal time more of an event for everyone involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most nights, I think my Dad would rather <u>do
the taxes while running a triathlon in the snow with no television to watch the
Tigers play game 7 of the World Series</u> than endure the struggle involved
with feeding me a meal.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Humor<o:p></o:p></i><br />
My sisters think “knock-knock” jokes are pretty funny.<o:p></o:p><br />
I, on the other hand, have what some would call more boorish of a sense of
humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such as:<o:p></o:p><br />
Showing off my junk and/or rear end,<o:p></o:p><br />
Sitting on someone’s head with the hopes of catching them with their mouth
open when I fart,<o:p></o:p><br />
Swiping credit cards through someone’s exposed upper ass crack,<o:p></o:p><br />
Spanking unsuspecting males in their delicate manhood,<o:p></o:p><br />
Wile E Coyote Super Genius getting blown-up,<o:p></o:p><br />
Burping the Alphabet,<o:p></o:p><br />
Irrelevantly yelling “Penis” (with no regard for context or appropriateness),<o:p></o:p><br />
Changing the words of innocent preschool songs to involve the gratuitous use
of toilet humor,<o:p></o:p><br />
…NOW THAT’S FUNNY STUFF!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
I eat bugars, miss when I pee, color on walls, jump on my bed, take apart
toys, climb on everything, think I can fly, hide in the shower section of Home
Depot, use controversial (somewhat offensive) language, question and challenge
authority, push buttons (both literally and figuratively), kick when I’m angry,
yell when I’m happy, rollerblade in the house, play in the mud, knock over Lego
buildings, ride my bike down hills, take things that aren’t mine and throw them
when someone gets close to catching me, sit in laundry baskets naked while I
read books, and eat my weight in food at every meal.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I am also the best thing that ever happened to my parents.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Not because I make their lives easier (God knows that couldn’t be further
from the truth).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But because I am my Dad’s wrestling buddy, his legacy, his namesake, and his
life-long best friend.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Because I wake my Mom up with a hug that almost chokes her, make her laugh
so hard she pees her pants, melt her heart with my smile, and reminded her everyday
what it was like to fall in love for the first time.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Because I bring a kind of excitement, entertainment, and enjoyment to our
family that only I could. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Because I am a boy.THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-78735463378117829752013-01-03T15:25:00.000-05:002013-01-03T15:25:39.357-05:00Operation: Cougar Town
Given the fact that in less than two years I will be a student of Thornapple
Elementary, I have whole-heartedly committed to a plan that will set me up for
nothing short of running the joint by the time I reach my destination.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The long term goal…upon my arrival (and the inevitable trips to the office
for potential disciplinary action) I will be in such good graces with the
powers-that-be, that there’s not much I won’t be permitted to get away with.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The short term goal…start the schmoozing of the most important person in the
building.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
No, not the principal.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Not even the teachers. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Of course, it is that lovely lady that sits behind the front desk, with the smile
that welcomes you into the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
far as I’m concerned, she’s the head honcho, the big kahuna, the master and
commander.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she is the mark for a
little plan I like to refer to as, “Operation, Cougar Town”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Get in good with Mrs. T, and you’ve written your own ticket for an
elementary school experience of smooth sailing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After only four months of turning on the charm, I have accomplished the following
feats:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Acquired my own display wall for the art I create just for her.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*When I walk in the door, it’s a good bet that her mood and her day have
significantly improved.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Finally, it’s only a matter of time until the photo she snapped of the two
of us finds a place of prominence in a frame on her desk.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div style="tab-stops: 188.25pt;">
Did I mention she asked me on a date?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
That’s right, my cougar and I attended the High School Christmas concert
where her sons preformed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Already
bringing me to meet the family…my standing is officially golden.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I even brought along a stuffed dog that resembles her actual dog to show
just how much I care about what she tells me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(All of you eye-rollers should give it a try, it worked like a charm!)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
One of the other nostalgic parents was reminiscing about when their “now-senior-in-high-school-babies”
was three, and even engaged in small talk with me about the name of my stuffed
pup.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I, of course, do not have a name for every animal in the army of stuffed things
I own, so off the cuff I called it “Kaylee”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Trying to continue our in-depth conversation, he then asked if I had a real
dog at home.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Without a wrinkle of a smile or an ounce of hesitation, I effortlessly
replied,<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a big dog at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His name is Shitter.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And with that, our conversation was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was more interested in
drinking in the enormity of the performance hall and dreaming of the day when I
would be center stage entertaining crowds of people than continuing our
conversation.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
When the air finally began to refill the lungs of the innocent bystanders, my
Mother’s only reply was, “We don’t even own a dog.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I try to keep most things I say more high-brow, but you have to step in the
trenches every now and then to reach the masses.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The most satisfying part of dropping the “shit-bomb”…when I swing by to
visit my special lady, she greets me with an even bigger smile and a slight
giggle.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Oh, I know what the ladies like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take
notes boys!<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-10424282735065902742012-12-04T16:03:00.000-05:002012-12-04T16:03:46.806-05:00Officer PoopyThere are days I am thankful for all of the distinguishing traits and unique
qualities passed on to me by my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there are other days when they should take a few pointers from the
master manipulator…ME.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The “puppy dog” eyes, the innocent smile, the irrefutable logic…that’s right
in my wheel house!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Additionally, this is an area my Mother is severely lacking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s more of the “blabber, blabber, blabber,
nonsense, pleading, blabber” kind of gal.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But when you get clocked going 87 mph in a 70 mph zone, you really should know
your strengths (and your weaknesses) and just turn the situation over to a pro and
watch the magic happen. Of course, my Mother did not, and tried to take matters into her own inept
plea bargaining hands.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I let her carry on for just long enough until I determined an intervention
was necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conveniently, I was
seated directly behind my Mother in the driver seat, and could roll down my
window to address the friendly Ingham County Officer personally.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I figured there was no need for introductions, so I cut to the chase…<br />
“Why my Mom yell when she see you? Why
you talk to my Mommy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why you not in you
car?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What you doing?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Officer: “I am explaining to your Mommy the dangers of going too fast,
especially with children in the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
very bad.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Me: “My Mommy not bad.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Officer: “Your Mommy was going too fast, but I am just talking to her about
it.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Me: “You shirt is brown like poopy.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Officer: “What?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Me: “I NO LIKE YOU!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>YOU POOPY!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Unnecessary interjection from my Mother…”Ha? You have kids?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Officer: “No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be right back.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Upon his return, my window had been forcibly rolled-up, my Mother was the
recipient of one speeding ticket as well as a lecture on teaching her children
to respect authority.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Of course, that same lecture was handed down to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, my strategic seating arrangement
prevented her from reaching me, so I was only subjected to her “blabber,
blabber, blabber, nonsense, pleading, blabber.”<br />
<br />
And as I’ve mentioned, the effectiveness of that speech is less than
successful.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I did, however, learn a very important lesson that day:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Insulting an officer of the law is not
the route you want to take when trying to finagle your way out of a ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversely, if your goal is to throw out gratuitous
insults and potty talk to watch <u>someone else</u> try to finagle out of a
ticket because you know there are no real consequences that can be imparted on
you just for being hilarious…then carry on soldier.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-16557801822307991052012-10-24T17:01:00.001-04:002012-10-24T17:01:25.651-04:00$700 Candy Machine
It has been well documented and established that I enjoy the process of
finding and then filling “house holes”, “car holes”, most any opening that
resembles a “hole” with random objects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The reasons for stuffing treasures into the unknown are endless…almost
as endless as the number of new holes I find on a daily basis.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So when I came upon a new and exciting pipe-like hole that sticks out the
side of my new house and sits at approximately my shoulder height, I was more
than willing to conjure up a reason to fill it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Only limited by my imagination, I decided this would be the depository for “money”
(aka: small rocks) and the hose spicket conveniently located next to said pipe,
would be the output of “candy” (aka: water).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The more money, the more candy, and repeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed hours of wet fun depositing my coins
and being rewarded with soggy clothes.<br />
<o:p><img _yuid="yui_3_1_1_3_135111237489783" alt="" bmi_alt="" bmi_oldalt="20121024_165158.jpg" bmi_title="20121024_165158.jpg ... Shift+R improves the quality of this image. CTRL+F5 reloads the whole page." bmi_touched="1" src="http://thumbp16-ne1.thumb.mail.yahoo.com/tn?sid=2596211763&mid=ANvFimIAAWpEUIhVswkdFgmm%2BZ4&midoffset=2_0_0_1_108102&partid=2&f=1843&fid=Inbox" title="20121024_165158.jpg ... Shift+R improves the quality of this image. CTRL+F5 reloads the whole page." /></o:p><br />
<br />
It wasn’t until last week, when the weather decided to turn cold, and my warm-blooded
Mom needed a little furnace action to warm the house, that my “candy machine”
was discovered.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After several attempts to fix the furnace himself, my Dad finally swallowed
his pride, opened his wallet and called the friendly heating and cooling
professionals.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It took approximately 20 minutes of disassembly for him to produce a handful
of rocks (aka: money) to my Dad, and ask, “Do you know what this is?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Forgetting that complete smartasses have assimilated themselves into
everyday society, my Dad replied, “A handful of rocks?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Heating and cooling specialist's response, “Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s 700 bucks.” [Insert halfwit smile
proudly gloating at his cleverness]<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Needless to say, my candy business came to a screeching halt at the discovery
that the hole was actually the furnace output and the deposited rocks had fried the
conductor board.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Who knew?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I have a feeling that when I go to cash in on my college fund it may not be
as plentiful as my sisters due to all of the repairs.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Oh well…on to the next hole.<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-73145439258346790132012-10-03T17:21:00.000-04:002012-10-03T20:41:48.134-04:00Holy-Moly Guacamole!It’s not often I give props to my Mommy for letting <em>me be me</em>, so today I
would like to repent for all of the shenanigans she is subject to on a regular
basis and give a huge shout of thanks for supporting my creativity today.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As many of you know, I am the youngest of three children, with two older
sisters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am also the product of a
habitually-overcommitting-stay-at-home-mom who spends most of her time with
other moms of the like.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
That being said, I am in touch with my feminine, nurturing side.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So with half a doll shoved underneath my shirt, the other half dangling out,
and my head held high because I love all the attention, I trotted my confident
behind into Costco pretending “I have a baby in my tummy”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Ask any expectant mother, and they will tell you that when the baby decides “it’s
time”, there’s not much you can do other than let nature take over.<o:p></o:p><br />
A slightly lesser known fact, is when a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pretend</i>
baby decides “it’s time”, nature AND drama take over, and there’s no telling
what will happen.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So while at the first free sample station, things got really interesting
when my baby decided “it was time”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I took one bite of a nuclear-hot rice, bean and cheese burrito, layed down
in the extra-long cart seat and yelled, “HOLY-MOLY GUACAMOLE!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The poor Costco sample-giver thought I had caught on fire and rushed over to
make sure I was ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My questioning Mom,
on the other hand, was slightly more discerning in her empathy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After some louder-than-necessary yells, I proudly announced “MY BABY DECIDED
TO BE BORN!” and pulled the floppy figure from under my shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly swaddled her in the pink gingham
blanket I brought and gently kissed her plastic cheek as any adoring new mother
would.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My Mom just smiled.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But after ignoring “the looks” we got while walking into the store, dismissing
the disapproving “greater” who criticized “a boy having a doll”, it was the overzealous
religious extremist that brought out the “Mama Bear” alter-ego that lies deep
within my protective Mother’s brain.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She actually allowed that long-skirted, crazy-eyed, finger-pointer with four
kids in tow to get in a few words about being “tolerant to Satan’s gay
teachings” until she did something I don’t think anyone saw coming.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She actually hugged that crazy bitch.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
With a big smile on her face, she hugged her and said, “I’m sorry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sorry you are so ignorant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have a blessed day.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As we walked away, the already sour-faced woman’s look went from anger to
complete confusion.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She was almost as confused as me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
just sat there in silence holding my baby while my Mom just smiled at me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I don’t know much about being a Mommy, but now that I have a baby of my own,
I think I might let her be anything she wants...and just smile.<o:p></o:p>THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-51996636161059295362012-09-27T14:58:00.000-04:002012-09-27T14:58:11.261-04:00What You Want Me To Call Them?Today I had the utter displeasure of accompanying my mother on her annual
pilgrimage to replenish her tired brazier collection.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I’m not sure who enjoys this excursion less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her, for the river of denial she swims trying to shop in the “cute”
section.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or me, for being strapped into
a stroller-cart, taking endless trips in and out of the dressing room and
through the tight weave of undergarments.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Although, after today’s attempts to make this experience a smidge more
palatable for me, I believe my Mother’s distain increased exponentially.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prologue</i>:<o:p></o:p><br />
For anyone who has EVER:<o:p></o:p><br />
*Been around me for more than 5 minutes,<o:p></o:p><br />
*Read The B-Blogs on a regular basis,<o:p></o:p><br />
*Worn a tight or low-cut shirt in my presence,<o:p></o:p><br />
*Sat at eye-height while I’ve possessed a camera,<o:p></o:p><br />
or finally,<o:p></o:p><br />
*Simply someone who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has</i> boobs.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
You may know that I am slightly fascinated with them.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
Simply said, I love them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love
everything about them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love looking at
them, I love poking them, I love talking about them, I love pointing them out
and remarking on their obviousness.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back to my story</i>…<o:p></o:p><br />
At first glance, this satiny department is very misleading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are hundreds of hanging forms that only
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">look</i> like a woman’s best feature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I learned, they aren’t actually filled
with anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that didn’t stop me
from fondling each and every one of them, deflating the molded cups with one
swift poke and yelling “BOOBIES!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in a repetitive
and dramatic crescendo-type fashion.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As in: “Boobies, BOobies, BOObies, BOOBies, BOOBIes, BOOBIEs, BOOBIES, BOOOBBBIIIEEESSS!!!!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Now I will let you do the math as to how long this went on.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mortified Mommy + One Loud, Perverted-Mouthed
Boy Screaming “BOOBIES” Non-Stop + 5 Bras + Check Out Time = Number Of Minutes
We Were In The Store.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
And let me thank the “very helpful” (as my Mommy called them…but not in a “very
helpful” sort of way) ladies who belly-laughed at my chants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without you, I may have ceased the madness
sooner, but you seemed to be enjoying it so very much.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So next time you are out shopping and wander past this fun department, I
hope you will think of me and all the joy I bring to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almost</i> everyone.<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-18504311686066303472012-09-26T17:03:00.000-04:002012-09-26T17:03:06.197-04:00Washing Windows
Step-by-step account of actual days events (and a little insight into how my
brain works)…<o:p></o:p><br />
Find spray bottle.<o:p></o:p><br />
Find squeegee.<o:p></o:p><br />
Go outside.<o:p></o:p><br />
Spray door wall windows with spray bottle.<o:p></o:p><br />
Squeegee windows.<o:p></o:p><br />
Run out of water.<o:p></o:p><br />
Contemplate options.<o:p></o:p><br />
Decide faucet is too far.<o:p></o:p><br />
Remember I have the ability to make my own spray bottle.<o:p></o:p><br />
Pull down my pants.<o:p></o:p><br />
Pee on the windows.<o:p></o:p><br />
Squeegee pee off windows.<o:p></o:p><br />
Go inside.<o:p></o:p><br />
Proudly tell my Mom, “I wash you windows!”<o:p></o:p><br />
My Mom smiles, because she is more than surprised at the beauty of the
streak-free clean a little urine can provide.<o:p></o:p><br />
Your Welcome.<o:p></o:p><br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-86889649379556537792012-09-26T08:58:00.001-04:002012-09-26T08:58:46.742-04:00The First Day...Of The Rest Of My Life
Embarking of this adventure called school has long been an anticipated dream
of mine.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The build-up to this particular day has been nothing short of monumental;
after all, I am “the Baby”.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
More importantly, it marks my break from the eagle-eye of my Mother…or so I
thought.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Just when I think I’m being afforded a little freedom, it’s really just a changing
of the guard.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I was warmly (yet deceivingly) greeted by THREE older versions of my
mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right; not one, not two, but
three women whos only job is to monitor my every move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their sweet smiles only hide their CIA-operative-spy-like
observation skills.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">THAT’S</i> SCHOOL?!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And that’s when I decided…you want something to watch…I’ll give you
something to watch.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So I started by offering all of the teachers as well as my unsuspecting new
classmates the booger that sat upon the tip of my index finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those that fell prey to acting squeamish,
I feigned wiping it on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even
chased a few of the overly-dramatic, threatening to tattoo them with my germy
pointer.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
On to the playground…I asked the teacher to help me zip my sweatshirt, and
while she was crouched in front of me, face-to-face, I asked if I could see her
boobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much to my surprise, she denied
my request.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Next, Circle Time…I love that they know all of the same songs as me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at least some version of my playlist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when we sang the “ABC’s” I was more than
eager to share how it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should</i> be sung
(with an emphasis on the “P” followed by a rant of “pee-pee, poo-poo” shouts.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And my favorite, Snack Time…In the time it too my teacher to turn around to get the pitcher of water, I
was able to summit our snack table and proclaim, “HEY EVERYBODY, WATCH THIS!…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But before I could finish the show, I was
quickly scooped up and placed back in the miniature version of a chair.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I am really going to have to step up the executions of my plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No worries, I have all year...<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-50753459901821669102012-09-04T13:40:00.000-04:002012-09-05T09:59:29.813-04:00Good IdeasIn my world, one good idea usually leads to another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On average, the results are either fun or
hilarious (and usually just plain worth it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then there are those rare occasions when all three merge, in combination
with a near heart attack for my Mom, and I call it a successful day.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
First Good Idea…Help my Mom pack the car for our road trip (quite helpful,
if you ask me).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Which led to Good Idea #2…Put the keys in the ignition to open all of the
windows.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Naturally leading to Idea #3…Since the windows are open, I exit the car via
the windows and climb onto the roof by way of the roof racks and some fancy
footwork.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Awesome Idea #4…While atop the car, the discovery of what I could see from
that height led to one of my best ideas EVER.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
(Now understand that my Mother was at a distinct disadvantage when she
finally came upon the following scene, as she was not privy to Ideas 1-4 beforehand.)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Look closely…I am intentionally lying down and shadowed because I am about 75% sure this may be frowned upon.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyfyc_vhXLEutzrMlKgFUaiIA9bHaGGzQpvpKk5X72thDMjGghCEWvo8lek8ZOphHtSMSO5z_O_AppVLlpOTyYUOQ80FY9UTtfnna8zyysvDhwNywJLGOz656Gfb70SNuEDOhtbRAGoER/s1600/good+ideas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyfyc_vhXLEutzrMlKgFUaiIA9bHaGGzQpvpKk5X72thDMjGghCEWvo8lek8ZOphHtSMSO5z_O_AppVLlpOTyYUOQ80FY9UTtfnna8zyysvDhwNywJLGOz656Gfb70SNuEDOhtbRAGoER/s1600/good+ideas.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
INCREDIBLY FANTASTIC IDEA #5...Use the top of the Suburban as a platform to climb upon the top of the opened garage door (and simultaneously discover new ways to give my Mother unnecessary heart palpitations).</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
How long did it take you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took my
Mom approximately 9 minutes (that’s like 47 hours in Mom-Time).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I heard the ever-familiar gasp of “HOLY HELL!” when she finally caught a
glimpse of me lying as still as a stick-bug hiding from predators, just trying
to blend with my surroundings.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After quickly snapping a photo (which she thought I didn’t see her doing) to
prove to my Dad just what happens during her “easy-stay-at-home-Mom-day”, she
gently coaxed me down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was glad to reenact
each move I used to make my ascent, and give a play-by-play description of the process
during the reverse descent.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Not-So-Awesome-Result…I may as well be on house arrest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That woman has resorted to not letting me out
of her sight, not even for a second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
must now accompany her as she tries to complete her daily household tasks,
while she showers, while she makes dinner, and even when she uses the
toilet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about punishment!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She may take away my freedom, but she can never take away my imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And where there’s a will…there’s a way!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stay tuned.<o:p></o:p>THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-16357068747186635982012-08-17T23:26:00.001-04:002012-08-17T23:26:22.183-04:00Team USA!
<br />
After 17 days of non-stop Olympics coverage in our home, I have come to
learn some very important information. For Example:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*If your country has less than 4 people marching in the opening ceremony,
you are probably tied with Tajikistan for 83<sup>rd</sup> place with one bronze
medal.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*The athletes from the USA have a lot of wonderful things to say…about themselves.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Usain Bolt is my new hero because he can pull off the “Hulk Hogan dip-lean-&-point”
like no other.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*A lot of girls look like boys.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And finally,<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
*Although China took a not-so-close second to USA in the medal count, they
win the prize for having a country name that rhymes with one of my most favorite
words in the world!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Think…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Keep Thinking…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Do you have it yet?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Follow me here…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Having been subjected to countless hours of Olympic viewing, I have come to understand
two very important pieces of information: 1) Not everyone in the world looks
like me, and 2) I can recognize someone that comes from a country that received
almost as much TV coverage as Team USA.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So today at Meijer, when I saw a woman that was clearly one of the 1.3
Billion born in China, I had this to say to her:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“IT’S NOT CHINA, IT’S VAGINA! ”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Having said this numerous times during the games, it should not have come as
such a surprise to my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it
was.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lucky for her, the woman (whose first language was clearly not English) looked
more confused than angry and just smiled at me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I, of course, smiled back…the biggest shit-eating grin I have ever smiled in
my life.<br />
<o:p>
</o:p><br />
I think someday I will be an ambassador for this great country of mine.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-17653438462714279562012-08-16T09:11:00.000-04:002012-08-16T09:11:56.595-04:00Bungee Innovations
<br />
I’m curious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m inventive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m mischievous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite an extraordinary combination, I know.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
This trifecta of useful traits came in very handy when I discovered the surprising
elasticity of bungee cords and their many uses.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Use #1: A fantastic leash when the mood strikes me to pretend to be
“Barron”, my alter-canine-ego.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Use #2: A makeshift lock when I loop it around both the doorknob on my door
to the doorknob on my sister’s door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
further the bungee stretches, the harder it is for them to open their makeshift
prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watching one of them try to
escape while the other pries open the door is like watching someone try to
clear the gauntlet…unsuccessfully…every time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just roll on the floor watching & laughing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Use #3: Excellent connection between my sister’s bike, the wagon, the sled
& my big wheel (in that order).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
one downfall…when the first object stops, the bungees recoil but do not aid in
the stopping process, thereby creating quite a pile-up.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Use #4: De-pantser.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am smaller than
most (approximately ass-height to most adults).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This handicap comes in handy when I want to hook a bungee to the belt
loop of anyone taller than me & then sit down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they realize what is happening, they
instinctively turn around, thereby aiding in the process of bringing their
pants to their knees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fantastically
hilarious…for me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Use #5: Opener…of everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simply
by hooking one end to my shirt, the other to anything needing to be opened and
then backing up, I just let physics take over.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
What could possibly go wrong with this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Let me tell you…some things are not secured or attached to a fixed
object as well as others.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
For example…dresser drawers: attached, cabinet doors: attached, fence gates:
attached, faucets: attached, oven doors: attached, dishwasher drawers: NOT
ATTACHED!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
In a painful discovery, I found out that bungees DO have a maximum tension
& something has to give.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this
case, the very tiny plastic clips holding the very heavy sliding drawer full of
glasses and bowls were no match for my bungee power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The surprise outcome (at least to me), the
entire drawer broke free from the dishwasher and came soaring toward me in a
rocket-propelled instant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The retracting
the bungee, again, did not aid in stopping the inertia of the drawer.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
This isn’t the first time my Mom has spent the day shining a flashlight into
my eyes to examine my pupils (and I’m sure it won’t be the last).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what “checking for dilation”
means, but if she’s trying to look into the depths of my brain to somehow
explain my actions…keep looking baby!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
will take something stronger than a flashlight to find that source.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy2nDM0O22lDmRWDpvsobtwHYPuxs6DdKrsoFh-E2o_DPB-FQh09wFaKPMNyaoL1tNi8dB1p-FzTjOh1OX7a07MaI7e_KxntbDmOqq4DFfNofTUNx4MOW8iCxHkO6HDJsvUp4CTILhY4WZ/s1600/IMG_20120721_104753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy2nDM0O22lDmRWDpvsobtwHYPuxs6DdKrsoFh-E2o_DPB-FQh09wFaKPMNyaoL1tNi8dB1p-FzTjOh1OX7a07MaI7e_KxntbDmOqq4DFfNofTUNx4MOW8iCxHkO6HDJsvUp4CTILhY4WZ/s320/IMG_20120721_104753.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-4856908728527053592012-08-09T12:10:00.000-04:002012-08-09T12:10:08.505-04:00#2 Katie, #2 Katie! Where for art thou, #2 Katie?!?My favorite thing about family reunions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The possibility of a non-relative showing up so I can work my magic.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Such was the case at the annual Brown Family Party that took place on July 4<sup>th</sup>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
There aren’t too many of these kinsfolk that I see on a regular basis, so I
took it upon myself to acquaint myself with each and every one of them via my
standard introduction, “Hi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I Brennan,
Who You?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Then, like the clouds parting to reveal a double rainbow, I saw HER.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Pulling out all the stops I approached her, smiled, and smacked her leg with
the swim-noodle I had positioned between my legs.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Not understanding how I charm the ladies, my Mother said, “Brennan!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nice boys don’t hit girls with their
noodles.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a smirk, I let that one
go because sometimes the countless number of counters that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i> be said just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shouldn’t</i>
be said.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After establishing that my new obsession’s name was Katie, I quickly dubbed
her #2 Katie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not because she held
anything less than #1 in my smitten heart, but because my aunt is also named
Katie, and I grant seniority when and where it is due.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And just as a pesky mosquito is nauseatingly attracted to a luminous figure
amidst the darkness, I felt the uncontrollable magnetism that redheaded goddess
had on me…and it was on.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
For the next three days she was my one and only focus.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
If she wasn’t in my presence, I was asking where she was…constantly.<o:p></o:p><br />
If she was in my presence, I was all over her…relentlessly.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I didn’t let a little hurdle like my inability to swim hamper my willingness
to attempt to paddle through the waves on Lake Huron to get to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor did I let the minor setback of height
inhibit my attempts to get as close as possible to the mirrored glasses that
adorn her face.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I pulled out all the stops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again
bringing in the swim-noodle as a prop, I pranced around in front of her on that
bendable piece of foam swinging the “tail in the front” it had formed, determined
to turn her attention away from that boy who brought her to town.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Technically, I think he is my “first-cousin-once-removed”, but regardless of
our familial relations, I will take that boy down to get to the prize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bring on your brothers, both of them if you
need, I have a little something called chutzpa to back me up.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Look it up & be prepared.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As for my beloved, #2 Katie…until we meet again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And by then I will be a full year older,
wiser & that much more aggressive.<o:p></o:p><br />THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-38208815085900304052012-08-02T10:24:00.001-04:002012-08-02T10:24:18.812-04:00Area-O-FunSome things are just made for each other, like peanut butter & jelly,
mashed potatoes & gravy, Ike & Tina.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And some things are not, like anything that is spring-loaded & my penis!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It has long been my M.O. to clamp, stick or generally attach things to my
junk on an inquiring basis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It really
comes down to curiosity and my ever-burning desire to figure out the many
different functions of my boy-parts (not to mention, anything that involves me
taking my pants off is an added bonus).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
While primping herself for the day, my Mother called me into her bathroom
only to find that I had removed my freedom-inhibiting pants, gently secured
some plastic pliers to the soft squishy section below my penis, and was
swinging it to and fro like a giant clock pendulum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a gentle unhinging, she removed them and
went back to her business.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As I watched her remove the giant clip securing that mop of burnt blonde
hair atop her head, I thought, “I wonder what else that would clamp to?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first thought…MY PENIS, OF COURSE!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Seeing as I was already pants-free, it took me no time at all to grab the
toothy clip, squeeze it open and position it over my entire <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">area-o-fun</i>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
BIG MISTAKE!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
With a howl and a hunch, I scrambled to remove my delicate manhood from the
jaws of spring-loaded hell.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It was in that moment I was reminded that not everything should take an
exploratory trip down penis lane.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And according to my Mom, that includes spring-loaded hair clips, markers,
anything attached to the other end of bungee cords, sandwiches, and all girls
associated with GoDaddy.com (4 out of 5 I actually have experience with, the 5<sup>th</sup>
may need further research once I figure out what that means).<o:p></o:p><br />THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287104150148318887.post-62593506632359694442012-08-01T08:06:00.000-04:002012-08-01T08:06:38.234-04:00Things That Make You Go, "HMMM"First, I should clarify that I often confuse the meanings of “where”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As in, I may say “home” when I mean “office”,
or I may say “garage” when I mean “basement”, or even “up” when I mean
“down”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Details I have yet to bother
learning.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So when my Dad started in on his usual inquiry as to our day, I had more
details than necessary to share (90% of which were dead-on accurate).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They went a little something like this…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad</i>: “So what did you do today?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Me</i>: “We go Dr. Brian’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mommy put me in playroom with toys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Brian tell Mommy lay down on special
table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mommy say ‘UGHHH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>HMMM!’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then Mommy feel better.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad</i>: “?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mom</i>: “Dr. Brian is my
Chiropractor!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
You can call him whatever you want, as long as he keeps taking away that
crabby crazy person we have grown too accustomed to when she is in pain, I will
call him a champ in my book.<o:p></o:p><br />THE B-BLOGShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02106831005021755554noreply@blogger.com0