Some days life is two steps forward and twenty steps back. You’d think with all these steps I’d be a skinny-minny, but unfairly the backwards steps don’t seem to count, except toward the grey hairs on my head.
I wanted to write a post of all the things I heart, but then my day became stupid and I lost sight of the good stuff.
This morning I spent a good hour or more sorting through a bin of mail that had piled up and had subsequently been stuffed into a drawer so I could
completely ignore it address it at a later date because I hate the mail. Mostly, anyway. Even the good stuff, except for unexpected checks in the mail, which I DID receive because I opened what looked like a piece of junk as part of my due-diligence to the project today, as I made an agreement with myself to open every single thing and address it so the stack could disappear.
What looked like a piece of junk was actually a teensy little bit of money. From February. I guess it was my Valentine’s Day gift from Discover.
I thought by addressing the myriad of bills and pile of papers I would feel lightened up on the inside.
I’ve been feeling weighted down for months now, Reader. In spirit. Not every day or all the time, but just an underlying hum of heaviness around my spirit, as if Life itself were trying to dim my brilliance, but I can’t have that so I figured maybe just maybe some of it was because I had this container of shit I’ve been ignoring literally since October.
And I was feeling a smidge better as I whittled down that pile. I paid off a bunch of stuff – medical bills and whatnot from my first and second foot injury over the past couple of years. I just figured I would just write some big checks, cry on the inside, and deal with it all once and for all and move forward.
Not an hour after I accomplished that and was feeling a little bit accomplished, I went to empty the dishwasher and discovered the bottom filled with dirty water.
So I bailed it out. And then later K came in and got the filter thing off and it was all gunked up, but not the cause of the sitch. Because I ran a short load and it didn’t drain again.
Now I’m pricing out a new dishwasher, or a fix for this one, which according to my calculations is going to be in the neighborhood of $250 or so, for parts and a HandyDan. And that’s a conservative estimate.
I’ve been selling a bunch of crap recently to pad my bank account and fund my next vacay – including selling a Prada wallet for $300 bucks, and then misc. things like a Tiffany ring, and a pair of sunnies I never wear, and things of that nature. The dishwasher is trying to waylay my plans.
Except. I’ve got an old-fashioned plan, which is washing the dishes in the sink, with my hands. That works, too, ya know, Universe! (except I’m not challenging you, Universe, at all, because I know you have the powers to stick it to me any ol’ time you wish).
This development wouldn’t be quite as annoying, except for the fact that a couple of weeks ago, along with a blanket, I threw my iPhone into the washing machine.
Guess how long it takes for an iPhone that’s been through an entire wash cycle to dry out in a bag of rice and work again?
Never is the answer, Reader. It couldn’t come back from that.
To my utter surprise, service providers don’t offer free or cheap phones with their service plans any longer. I remember the olden days (four or so years ago!) when the phones were practically free if you signed a two year contract. Which I’m going to have the service anyway, I don’t care about signing a contract.
For my next surprise, I discovered a phone is as expensive – if not more so – than my very first used car, and it’s also more expensive than a bottom-end dishwasher. I went three days without a phone while I reconciled that price in my mind.
It’s still not completely reconciled, but I figured a phone is just a thing ya need nowadays, especially since I don’t have a landline. So I bought a new phone this month, and now possibly a new dishwasher because appliances are out to stick it to me. Obviously.
When it rains, it pours. But why can’t it rain money?
**I had originally titled this “I don’t need it to rain men, Annie Lenox. And then I fact-checked myself and per usual with my knowing song artists — completely wrong. Humpf. I thought that was an annie lenox song all this time. Who knew. Not counting everyone else.
This morning I got an email (actually, 1 p.m., but it SHOULD still be morning, loosely, anyway, stupid time change!) that made me lol. I had been lamenting the fact that I never seem to be done cleaning around Chez Bang Bang, and yet it is always in some disheveled state regardless of my efforts.
Looking around me right now, I see at least twenty-five things that need to be cleaned/swept/wiped down/picked up/put away. And I spent a couple hours last night cleaning things!! Maybe I’m just really ineffective at it.
I don’t know anymore. It seems as soon as I get one thing handled, one of my
seven three cats or my one lone man undo’s my efforts.
This line from that email is the one that made me lol:
They say man was made out of dust, so I’ve got enough to make one, but hey, One is enough!
I could make a man, too, but like she said, ONE is more than enough when he’s a contributor to the dust and the dirt.
As part of my Saturday Night Funsies last night, I pulled the bed out from the wall – because one of my clowder knocked the remote on the floor with such force the back flew off and the batteries rolled to the darkest reaches of the underneath – and boy howdy, did I ever discover where #1/ All of The Mister’s socks have gone and #2/where my
eighth fourth cat has been living.
If my house has enough dust to create another man, there was certainly enough fur and dust under that bed to create at a minimum one giant Maine Coon cat. And I do clean under there!!
But apparently not towards the top, where my head rests on the pillow, and hey, maybe that’s why I have a smokers cough despite the fact that I’m not a smoker! I have a cat-hair cough. It just keeps getting sexier around here, Reader.
Well, it’s clean now, Reader. And also I’ve tackled one of the other issues that I have in there (no, this is not about my vagina, Reader, eyes up here!) – my stupid headboard has these screws on each side that stick out way past where they should and have actually dug into my drywall. When I first noticed that (several years ago, when the house was new and still nice – we are apparently systematically destroying it without intent to do so), I cried a little at the disfigurement of my new pretty house, but then “fixed” it by knotting a big thick black sock around the screws so there was a cushion to stop it from continued damage.
In case you didn’t know, a big black sock is suitable for various things. Ahem.
I’m a regular Jack Handy Ms. Fixit. Get me a sock, stat!* I think I need – no – DESERVE my own tv show. You know you’d tune in, Reader.
Over time, those genius-fix-it big black socks**** slipped down and created even bigger problems that I just didn’t know how to address. I guess if i had put just a little more thought into I could have concocted a solution, but frankly it’s exhausting thinking of everything and even though there is a Mister in the household, those sorts of things absolutely never-ever-in-the-history-of-ever cross his mind. Now, that’s not “bashing” him (well, I do feel a little judgey, to be honest, but it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, so no spoilers here for him) it’s merely stating some facts. He has never seen a problem in the house and addressed it unprompted. I wish I could borrow his everythings-fine colored glasses and just never see the shit that needs to get done.
But I can’t, and so I do.
Last night I took a stroll through the Walmart to try go figure out a solution. And it was as if the hands of Mike from Holmes on Homes reached down and steered my buggy into the arts & crafts aisle where I spied a perfect solution. Craft foam ball half thing, which quite frankly I’m not even sure what this would be used for in it’s intended purpose.
Yes, this exactly what Mike Holmes would recommend. I’m sure of it. Joann Fabrics needs to reinvent themselves as a crafts and home repair store. Go ahead, Honchos of J-Fabrics, you can have that idea for free. Put chapstick at the register for incremental purchases to fix all squeaky and chapped things.
several one time, when the bedframe was super-squeaky and it needed some lube, I used chapstick.**
**get your mind outta the gutter, Reader. I know what you thought I used.
***also, the chapstick worked, so there ya go. another handy-gal tip from Trixie Bang Bang. You’re welcome.
Now, where this genius solution idea went a little askance was in the over-thinking. Because I didn’t really want a white foam thing sitting there on the black headboard, so I grabbed a can of ninety-six-cent black spray paint, and when I got home I found some cardboard and got to work spraying them on top of the recycle bin. Because that’s how my Saturday nights roll, bitchzees.**
****i don’t really think you’re a bitchzees, Reader, I just got all caught up in myself for a moment. I beg your pardon.
Hey, Fun Fact: Guess what happen to styrofoam balls when you spray paint ’em?
Who guessed melts??
So then I was left in a conundrum, because I wanted to push the bed back into place, but not until I had this sitch fixed once and for all.
I grabbed a kitchen knife. And began melted foam ball surgery. I cut away at it until I had a good-enough area to work with, took it into the bedroom and to my shocked disbelief, it sort of worked perfectly, so BAM! Trixie Bang Bang, Ms. Fix-it is now added to my credentials.
It stayed right in place and there was enough foam left to absorb the sticky-outty screws, which also served to keep the foam in place.
And that’s how you do a Saturday night like a Boss, Reader. Bitchezz get shit done.
****twelve-year-old me is enjoying typing big black sock repeatedly. you know you’re enjoying it, too, Reader.
******in the event it crossed your mind that “surely that Trixie is an exaggerator story-teller” I offer you proof of the big black sock*******pile that I unearthed from under my bed, complete with hairs and dirt attached. I’ve put them all on top of the washer, that is the last I shall handle this mess. Unless they are still there when I go to do laundry, then they will be whisked right into the garbage. Bitchzees only have so much good-will towards man.
*******still fun typing “big black sock.”
I’ve never been the type who was ever able to climb a tree. Or build a treehouse, for that matter, which I guess goes right along with never being able to climb a tree. I mean, if I can’t get up into the tree, how the hell could I haul up stuff to build a treehouse. I couldn’t, Reader, that’s how, and also why I never had a treehouse.
I heard a country song on the radio tonight that talks about sending kids outside to climb trees, and do old-fashioned wholesomey stuff with getting dirt on their hands, and the key message is getting back to simpler times and believing most people are good. And that got me thinking about the fact that I never could climb a tree. And also questioning, “Are most people good?”
There is a big ol’ overgrown apple tree in the backyard of the house where I grew up in the country. My dad still lives there, and the tree just keeps getting bigger and bushier and more overgrown because that’s what happens when ya get older. You just let nature run things and hope for the best.*
Back when I lived there, the apples would get pecked by birds and such before we were ever able to make use of them and eventually they would rot and fall off and attract both bees in the summer and deer in the fall
You couldn’t run barefoot in the yard in the late summer and fall because stepping on an apple held many penalties, from the least innocuous of feeling a hot rotten apple squish up between your toes, to the perilous unleashing of bees in a swarm that would be burrowed inside, getting drunk on the delicious sugary feast.
As a kid** I had really bad vision and glasses were required for me to see five feet in front of me. Sometimes, being a country kid, I’d just run outdoors real quick to do a little something, like maybe run to the garden to grab a tomato from the vine to make my favorite summertime breakfast of toast and butter with fresh sliced tomatoes and a sprinkle of salt. I would eat so many tomatoes during the summer that i’d get sores in my mouth from the acid, and so my mama would be sure to plant enough yellow tomatoes so I could switch off because they are gentler and less acidic.
Quite frankly, remembering that reckless behavior of just charging through the lawn without shoes or glasses on just made my chest tighten up. I would not even CONSIDER walking barefoot down my city-living driveway to get the mail nowadays, and yet there I was, all willy-nilly gadabouting through a country yard without a sole between myself and scary things.
But anyway, that’s what I did, and I lived so here we are – all my reckless behavior back then had no ill effects, other than one time when I was on my way to the tomato patch – without my glasses on – and stopped just short of jumping on a stick in the yard, and then the stick moved and it was a giant gardner snake, and for-the-holy-love-of-cake, that scared me straight into wearing shoes and also my glasses when I went outside after that.
I guess that song just got me to thinking about the actual degree of difficulty involved to climb a tree, and just because I never mastered tree-climbing skills, is it really something simple to do? Do kids even climb trees nowadays? I never see a kid climbing a tree where I live. The neighbor has a tire swing hanging from a tree, but nobody is ever swinging from it when I drive past.
Instead of just singing along, I’m questioning the validity of the entire song. I don’t know if it’s as simple as just getting out there and climbing some trees. And I’m not sure most people are good. I think some people are good. I’m not willing to buy-in to most. I’m not sure I’m even considered “good.” I think I’m at best good enough. We all have had a little dirt on our hands.
What do you think, Reader – are most people good?
I don’t know.
Sometimes the best I can do is to hope to walk with clarity in vision and avoid the swarm of the bee-filled apples.
*that is not a covert reference to the state of my vagina. It’s kept in very nice shape. Sort of.
**I say “kid” like I was a precocious eight year old, but I was a teen – probably a fifteen teen. At my age now, I consider that a kid.
***Until I was in my twenties, I was blind-as-a-bat-needing-glasses, but laser eye surgery provided me with the kind of eyes that can spot a snake in the grass without additional aid. If only other snakes-in-the-grass were that easy to spot.
****Now I’ve led you to believe that I’ve been wronged somehow, with my throwing shade by asking if people are good, or are they sneaky-snakes, and that’s not accurate. Nothing happened. Nothing happened recently. It’s just an overall observation about people that have passed through my life, and some of them aren’t really as good they’d like ya to believe. Probably the same could be said about me.
****I’m blaming the rum.
*****And the cats. Because they peed on the bed – AGAIN – Last night and today – so basically we change our sheets and entire bedding more often than Heloise would ever suggest to a normal person – and while that load of laundry is in the dryer, I decided to make a little drinkie-poo to take the edge off and NOT kill a cat or two, and then I sat down to write, and all this came out.
*******I take it back, I think I AM good, in fact I may be GREAT, because not one of my
seven three cats have been strangled this week. Or thrown outdoors to go live in a tree somewhere.
********Maybe when I sing that song I’m actually thinking “kittens” instead of “people” during the line “and i believe most
kittens people are good” and since I live with so many a-hole kittens I’m now questioning everything, including my ability to climb trees.
********I still blame the rum.
It’s been a while (well, I think it has been a while, but frankly my memory isn’t what it used to be, so maybe it’s not that long ago after all, but I’m not going to go and check around, so just go with “it’s been a while”) since we talked about Things That Have Been In My Mouth.
I know! You’ve been wondering! Well, I’m here to tell you about something that has been newly introduced and has delighted my tongue.
If you follow along here much at all, you may (or may not, I’m not here to judge your memory, Reader) recall that I have had a passionate love affair with flavored coffee creamers for all my years, and have talked about my favorites here and here and Almond Joy Coffee Creamer even has a spot under my “A Few of My Favorite Things” sidebar which you should really go read right now, Reader, and get to learn more of my “likes” so you could maybe surprise me with things to show how much you love me. Someone did that for me once, and it was nice, as a matter of fact. If it wasn’t you, Reader, you need to step it up. Ahem. BRING ME AN OCEAN BREEZE RIGHT NOW!
After sitting here and reviewing all the times I’ve talked about coffee creamer, I’ve come to the conclusion that I may have an unhealthy obsession with it. I mean, comeon. Several blog posts about coffee creamer?? Is this really what we’re here for? Well, apparently it is, and so let’s chat.
I have worked really hard over the past several months to disrupt my love affair with sugared creamers because I don’t need the extra sugars (thanks, Type 2), and had gotten quite enamored with plain old Hood Coffee Creamer which let the actual coffee bean flavor sing on it’s own. I was getting to the point where I wasn’t even tempted by the flavored stuff and could march right past it with an air of superiority that I was able to resist the siren’s call of that sugary temptress.
Then last weekend while at The Walmarts while on my way to the half & half, I spied a new coffee creamer in the dairy case, and it ended up in my cart as if it had wings of it’s own. It just fluttered down from the shelf and right into my buggy.
It’s TAHITIAN vanilla, Reader. Not just any old ‘bean’ vanilla. And I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti, so if a cuppa coffee in the morning can transport me there, I say I should go.
This creamer? Is a thick and creamy creamer.*
It doesn’t pour into your cup, it sort of tumbles down from the spout in a slow rolling somersault, before sticking the landing with a ten out of ten performance.
And the taste? Sweet – but not too sweet – while adding a nice touch of vanilla, and making your coffee density somehow thicker. But a good thicker, like you want to enjoy rolling it around on your tongue for a bit and enjoying the velvety smoothness before swallowing.**
It turned my very nice coffee from this:
And who doesn’t want a fireworks party in their mouth first thing in the morning? No one, that’s who, Reader.
* know, I know – that’s a lot of times the word “creamer” has been used, and it’s getting a little bit jizzy sounding.
**and now you can’t get the image of jizzy coffee creamer rolling around in your mouth out of your head. i’m sorry. or you’re welcome.
***i don’t know why i’m not tapped to write advertising for these people. it’s insulting, quite frankly, because i’m a natural at talking this stuff up. at the very least I should get a free bottle of delicious jizzy tahitian creamer. or at a bare minimum, a fiddy-cent coupon.
So I’ve been doing a little something extra around the bedroom lately, Reader. Not really in the bedroom, but they say you have to hook your audience with the first line or two, so I figured we’d start with a sentence alluding to sexual things happening around here, and by the time you’ve gotten this far you are sticking around just to see what the hell I’m talking about this time.
will be won’t be disappointed.
So there’s this crazy-helpful – see, crazy-helpful with a dash makes it a complimentary adjective vs. a condemnation – woman who thinks you need to set your house into zones to keep it clean. She’s known as the Flylady, which is not intuitive to remember at all, because I picture a dirty house with a bunch of flies, so maybe it actually is a really great moniker for her because in all the clutter in my brain I was able to remember her and look her back up to link you to her.
Well, based on some of the
pressure helpful advice I read on her website, I incorporated two pieces of her tips into my own chaotic life. First, I added her 5-minute bathroom wipe down on a daily basis. Usually twice a day, because frankly I’m a Messy Marvin in there, and splash water and spill makeup and then there’s the hairsprays and the lotions and other magic potions – well, it takes no time at all for it to become a place that the Flylady would find very disappointing had she ever decided to come hang out in my bathroom.
So I’ve been wiping it all down, and cleaning the mirror. And guess what, Reader?
It’s REALLY fucking helpful, that’s what.
I know! Not the outcome you had hoped for! You had hoped I would report that it’s a giant waste of time and the Flylady could shove her judge-y tips right up her twat, but nope. Her tips are pretty damn solid.
I don’t cringe when I walk into my bathroom! I don’t have a giant bathroom cleaning job saved up for the weekend, which, let’s be honest here, was rarely getting accomplished on a timely basis.
Now, I still have to periodically give the shower a thorough scrubbing, as much as I wish it would just get cleaned from being NEAR the other clean parts, but so far that hasn’t happened.
If you happened over, and people were occupying the other three bathrooms in the house at the same time and you needed to poop, you could walk right into my en suite (see what I did there, Reader?? I got all fancy-sounding like I’m on House Hunters! I blame it on the high I’m on from cleaning fumes) and take that poop without shame. Well, I wouldn’t feel the shame if you had to poop in my en suite. You might, but really you shouldn’t unless you plugged it up and it overflowed. Then, maybe a little shame should be felt. But I don’t have any shame, and it’s all thanks to the Flylady and a few microfiber towels I keep at the ready.
The other zone that I’ve accepted that needs to be cleaned on a daily basis is the cat litter box room. My three *ahem* cats are filthy, and my trying to even skip one little day creates a bigger mess, and turns a ten minute job into a really yucky job. So this year I just decided, “Fuck it, I guess this is my other zone,” and I scoop and sweep and mop on a daily basis, usually right when I get home to get it out of the way or before bed, because nothing is quite as relaxing as cleaning up cat pee and poop and then jumping into bed for a relaxing night of zzzz’s.
Now you’ve had just one more glimpse into my Glamour Life. And also, now you know why I drink.
*now, it has dawned on me that some of you would never even consider NOT cleaning your bathroom/floors/what-the-fuck-evers on a daily basis. It’s just what you do. So pin a rose on your nose, Show-off.
**my mother was a daily floor-mopper, bathroom cleaner, duster, and general tidy house-keeper. But she also didn’t work til six at night!
***my mother also used the saying “Well, pin a rose on your nose” all the time, and I think it’s time to bring it back.
****if you don’t know what the saying means, go look it up while I’m pinning a rose on my own nose for knowing something you don’t.
I just cannot even believe we’re here already, on Sunday night, Reader. And what have we accomplished, I ask you. I mean, nicely and without any sort of condemnation in my tone, because just because I haven’t accomplished much doesn’t mean you haven’t, amiright.
So I’m not here to judge you
very much because that’s not what we do – we do the opposite here, complete trust falls – in our minds, anyway. We can’t actually do trust falls with each other unless you come over, which of course you’re more than welcomed to, unless – as we’ve established numerous times here – unless you’re a bad guy. Then, stay away.
My Mister and I went to a very late lunchio today, and it was the surprise fun time of my weekend. I don’t normally mention other people’s business, except this business became my business, when a stranger-man came up to me in the restaurant and in an excited voice asked if he was in the presence of the Great-And-Famous-Amongst-Dozens-Trixie-Bang-Bang, and so I had my first sighting as the local celebrity that I am. I signed his chest in red lipstick as his souvenir. Except that part didn’t really happen, because it was a set-up by his girliefriendie, who is also my friendie, and I appreciated her effort at this little interlude because it made me lol, and then we schooched over and ordered drinks and proceeded to tell the Untold Stories of Trixie Bang Bang, which may or may not have included embarrassing stories of bodily functions, with the sort of sharing that is usually reserved for more-than-the-first-time-meetings and accompanied by many many more drinks. But it was as if we had done mental trust falls with each other and so the stories, much to their
dismay delight, flowed like the wine that was spilled across the table. Not by me, Reader. Not this time, anyway.
I do want to say we also had some other fun times this weekend, but this was the surprise fun time. The other times were planned fun times.
It’s because of those fun times that my floors didn’t get scrubbed this weekend, not even lightly vacuumed. I may go and do that before the night is over so I don’t feel like a totally non-accomplished home owner. Sometimes I don’t think I deserve to even own a house, because ya know what, Reader – it’s hard to carve out the time to do the should-do’s and also the wanna-do’s.
This afternoon I had a call with another one of my friendies and we chatted about creative things and it was really inspiring and then I created a whole entire new business and ordered business cards for it, and also started to re-design a few of my things and yet I still feel as if I didn’t do enough.
I think I’m an overachiever if i can’t take “Create a Whole New Business” as enough of an accomplishment for one day. A procrastinating overachiever, which is really something special, frankly, and takes a lot of extra skill.
But there’s always just too many things on the to-do list.
Bills. Cleaning. Organizing. Putting away. Picking up. Water plants. Cleaning up after cats. t’s tough to make the time for the fun creative things. Which is why I decided to sit down and write some sort of a story here for you, Reader, despite it not being super exciting stuff, but more “eh, this is life” stuff. Because sometimes the ‘eh, this is life stuff’ is all that you get in the day, and sometimes that is good enough.
UPDATE:: OMG, Reader. I’m going to be insufferable right now. I have POWERED THROUGH a buncha house cleaning. It is lookin’ shiny like a new penny around here at the moment! Vacuum, dusting, mopping, scrubbing – window cleaning in the bedroom. BAM! And I’m not even drunk!! Double-BAM! I have a smidgen of dusting left to do in the bedroom, then fresh sheets and it is time to hunker down for the night. I just thought I’d take a moment to
gloat share with you, Reader.
I have very ambitious Life Goals at times, Reader. I realize you may find that hard to believe, considering my propensity for excessive naps with cats, yet I do think a lot about trying new, adventurous things.
Two weeks ago, I sent MM this video, and asked him, “Hey, they are holding classes for this just down the street from our house. It’s as if the Universe is begging me to try it. What do you think my chances are of being able to do this?”
I need an outsiders opinion, because in my mind’s eye, I’m capable of doing a lot of stuff like this:
So it’s not that I seek out a dream-dasher, but rather that I NEED someone to help me define the real me and not the fantasy me. Otherwise I could break a hip. A hip-hop-hip-hip-hippity-hop. I could break all those things if I’m not playing with a realistic deck of cards.
I mean, no jokies, my NECK has been stiff on the left side, complete with an ouchy pain every time I move, for several weeks now, most probably from SLEEPING. On my hundred dollar pillow, on my super-comfy king-sized bed with nice sheets and soft blankets. Because that can be so dangerously painful and tricky to get it right, so it’s really no surprise my neck is stiff and ouchy.
Two seconds after I’d sent that video, my phone rang.
MM: “No. Nope. No way.”
TBB: “Well, did you watch the video?? Aren’t you being a little hasty??”
MM: “Did you happen to notice every girl in that video is under the age of 30?? Not one 50-something in that video at. all.”
TBB: “Hm, I hadn’t noticed that at all. A little rude on their part, don’t-cha-think? Do you think that means something??”
MM: “Do you remember that time, several years ago, when you dragged me out in a snowstorm because you had to have the mini trampoline, it was going to revolutionize your workout?”
*let’s be clear, by “revolutionizing” my workout we mean, “maybe working out a little bit on occasion.”
TBB: “Yeah, but….I mean, that was dangerous!”
MM: “You took two hops, almost fell into the television, and had me move it to the basement, where it’s sat untouched for going on three years now.”
TBB: “I guess you’re right, I was a little precarious on that. So what I’m hearing is, I need to try that again, and once I master that, then I should explore the jumping boots.”
MM: “Nope, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying just move on from the whole idea of the jumping boots. You’re good at tv. Do more of that. Or maybe an occasional walk if you must.”
So for the past week I’ve been getting up a little earlier in the morning and making my way to the basement in my bra & undies, and I hang on my inversion table for a spell, to put a little space between my vertebrae and kick out this hip pain I have and also possibly gain the two inches the doctors office seems to think I’ve lost and then I step right up onto the mini trampoline and get some jumps in to start the day. I have worked up to three whole minutes, complete with continuous jumping jacks which lemme tell you, feels like a heart attack is just around the corner.
MM was correct on one point. I am not ready for jumping boots. Yet, Reader.
Yesterday, while driving around I casually mentioned to MM, “I made it the whole week with some jumps on the trampoline, I’m going to be ready for the kangaroo boots by spring.”
MM, with a heavy sigh, “So you’ve still got your sights set on those jumping boots….”
Because he knows what you don’t know, Reader.
He’s going to be the someone who has to pick up the pieces if I ever do try the jumping boots. And those pieces will most likely be in the form of some sort of broken bones.
Don’t confuse being negative with being realistic, Reader. Sometimes someone else needs to point out your limits for you. For two years in a row I’ve had some sort of foot issue that has required surgery and doctors appointments and surprised comments from said doctors about the amount of arthritis and lack of cushion in my joints, which is exactly the reason that jumping boots are the perfect workout for me. Full circle.
If I’ve learned nothing else from watching the Olympics this week, it’s something about the word “can’t.”
Reader, remember how back around Thanksgiving, we were treated to a turkey who was trying to bust into Chez Bang Bang, but he chose the wrong casa to bust into because our shed has no weapons or tools, but instead just spiders and old broken DJ equipment so jokes on you, Bad Guy?
This year was his year of reckoning, and there have been a couple of court dates, which we have not attended, because we knew nothing was actually going to happen because all he really did was open an unlocked shed and dumped a box of shit we don’t need anyway on the ground. I mean, I’m all for capital PUNISHMENT (see what I did there, Reader?? It’s a clever pun, that’s what that is right there, thanks lotsa sleep & strong coffee) except mostly his punishment should involve coming over and mowing my grass in the spring, if you’re asking me.
And to my surprise, they actually ARE asking me, because I was sent a victim impact statement to fill out which will be read to him on Valentine’s Day, how romantic!, during his probation hearing.
Call me a softie, but I’m kinda thinking three court dates is punishment enough for spilling out a box of junk in my yard. Although he did make me really jumpy for several weeks after, including even last night when I heard some noises I couldn’t blame on cats, but decided to calm the fuck down, Me, and just chalked it up to House Noises because it is cold and icy out in my backyard and NO ONE is there, so go back to watching the Olympics, which is what I did and guess what, I didn’t wake up murdered this morning so it must have been nothing after all.
I am considering filling out this statement, because I’d really like to tell this kid (he’s in his early twenties) a thing or two, you know, like when I yelled at him as he was being cuffed and hauled away, ‘YOU’RE A BAD PERSON!”
I had considered writing on my impact statement, “Just don’t be a dick again.” But since it’s going to be read to him on Valentine’s Day, I think it would be fitting to write him something a little more poetic.
Roses are Red
Attempted Robbery is Not Cool
Life Has Many Good Options
So Don’t Choose the Ones Where You’re a Dick
I think it has a certain panache.
*of COURSE I’m not actually going to write that. At least probably not.
**If you don’t understand the title of this, you missed out on some memorable 70’s teevee.
Just when I thought I was going along quite strongly in the New Year with being a better connector, Friday thwapped me on the snoot and told me, “Nope.”
I had lunch plans with My Artist. And I knew his birthday was coming up, and since I FAILED last year to put it on my calendar, I asked him at lunch, “So what day is your birfday, I know it’s this month.”
“Today,” he shared so politely – and somewhat smugly – with me.
Let me assure you, Reader, it’s on my calendar now.
I think this example just points to another way in which I’m much more of a giver than most other people. I POLITELY and CONSISTENTLY announce my birthday month at the KICKOFF of the month. No one has to ask, and risk missing showering me with messages and cards and cakes. I do it for YOU, Reader, because as I’ve said before and will say many times again and again, I’m a GIVER and NOT a knowledge hoarder!
Keeping your birthday a non-announced event basically ensures your losing out on a caking opportunity, which is really the saddest loss of all (except for actual real losses, but let’s just talk about missed opportunities for your mouth).
So now it’s back to the drawing board with trying to stay on top of February Events.
Today is my youngest nephews 24th birthday, and I have been pleasantly shocked that he has invited me to dinner. Yes, dinner that I’m going to pay for, but it’s actually very gracious of him to spend his weekend birthday night with me and I ENJOY treating people to acknowledge their special life events. It makes me happy, and it’s also one of the things I keep telling the Universe lately: “I have enough money to do all the treating and gifting I desire,” and then I keep myself open to receiving said funds to do so. The Universe is falling a little short on it’s part of the bargain, but I’m not going to live with Scared Money any longer.
Oh, what is scared money, you ask? Well, let me tell you a little story. I mean, that’s why we’re here, amiright?
My friendie from way back in the olden days, let’s call her Becky (because that is her name), and I used to be big ol’ Bingo Players. We were the twenty-year-olds at the Bingo Parlor, and man-o’-fuck was it F.U.N. Friday night at Bingo or a Bar? Bingo, yes and thank you! We sometimes took my mom, too, and made it a full-on girls night out, because that’s how bitchez in their twenties roll. At least the super cool ones.
Anyway, Becky would buy instant pull-tab tickets like a mad-woman, and I would follow suit as I could, and then once when I was a little hesitant with my finances, Becky grabbed my arm, looked me straight in the eye and informed me with the seriousness as if she were revealing the seven secrets of the universe, “You can’t play with scared money. Scared money never wins.”
Scared money never wins.
And also, My Artist revealed to me some big effing news I missed in December, which is that UFOs have been acknowledged by the Pentagon, and why in the hell isn’t THIS in the news as much as which porn star Trump slept with I’ll never know, but it points to the fact that life is just one giant game filled with man-made rules and currencies and treat it as such and it’ll be a lot more fun, until the Aliens invade. Then? Anything goes. So in the meantime, stop playing with scared money. Feel free to replace the word “money” with whatever it is that is holding you back.
Stop playing with fears of what other people think. Stop playing with the fear of success. You get the picture.
Scared money never wins, Reader.
Oh, and PS, she DID win, an inexplicable number of times. And yes, I also won big money enough times to be happy about it.