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The Bang Bang Theories

A Little More, Please.

You guys, I think I’m finally learning important stuff!

Remember last time we were here, and I was trying to force myself out of a bad mood by “relaxing” a.k.a., sitting down on my deck to create a really hasty painting because damnit, I was going to accomplish something, whether I enjoyed myself or not!?

Well, I certainly wasn’t happy with what I had created and was scrapping that one up for a loss.

But the paints sat on the porch all week.

And sometimes after work I’d go out there and sit and look at my untalented work.

And then I started to think, “Well, hm, what if I just paint white paint over the parts I really hate, and see what happens next.”

So I’d mix some colors, and pick up my brush and start to dap at the canvas.

Slowly I started to not hate my painting. I started to enjoy watching a few touches here or there transform it just a little. Slowly. Slowly. Take your time and enjoy the process.  Little changes began to add up. And I started to relax into the process and have a new appreciation for the outcome.

Is it going to win any awards? No it is not.

I’ve been evolving it.  And just adding some touches here and there, and it takes a super long time for oils to dry (do they ever even dry??) and then maybe tomorrow I’ll try something else.

But the lesson learned is, that now, with a little patience and persistence, I’m starting to like what I’m creating.  And I’m enjoying the experience.

What else I know is this: Someone I know is going to inherit all the arts I create when I die and then think to themselves, “Oh fuck me, this is awful but if I throw it out I’m going to feel like an asshole because my dead aunt/friend/daughter/cousin/sister/lovah painted this with her own two hands and bequeathed it to me and now I have to put this somewhere in my house!”  And then my job here is officially done, because it’s one last HA! I’ve gotten to play on someone because that’s the way death works, or at least the way I’m going to do it. I will make you regret getting named in my will.

I’m also excited for the part of this story, where if you’ve paid any attention whatsoever to Trixie Bang Bang and her penchant for naps, you may have noticed I’ve said that sometimes in the evenings I’d sit on the deck and dap at my painting. Because I’m NOT NAPPING, Reader – I’m dapping!!! A YUUUUGE shift has happened in my bod for the past couple of weeks, and I can attribute it all to starting a 30-day Detox thing-a-mah-jig using Arbonne products as my main supplier for good things in mah bod.

This is in no way a sales pitch. I’m not good with pitching products. You either want stuff or you don’t, and my telling you I like it has little effect. I’m happy keeping all the effects to myself, quite frankly.

Here’s what I do know:

I’m not tired for the next day before I’ve even gone to bed the night before.

I’m not in need of my pre-bedtime nap as soon as I rush home from work.

I’m not exhausted during the day.

I don’t want to crawl under my desk and Costanza at 2 p.m. 

I have – no shit – been getting up BEFORE NOON on the weekends. VOLUNTARILY!! I mean, waaaay before noon!! Some days before 9 a.m. which I had always considered crazy talk.

I mean, comeon’ Reader. I heart sleep like I heart soft kittens and chocolate cake. A lot lot lot of hearts.

And lately, I have felt like my sleep fuel tank has been running plum full’up after a normal night of sleep.

I’m sitting here on Sunday at 5 p.m. and am absolutely flabbergasted at how much day I still have left, and how much I’ve already packed in.

Now, I haven’t gotten all my to-do’s ticked off the list, but guess what?? There’s still time to do them!!

So yeah. Arbonne for the win with this one, and it’s not even a struggle. Now, I do my own version, which is probably why I’ve only lost 4 lbs., but I still like a meal. I mostly stick with their protein shakes during the work day, then have something for dinner. I drink several glasses of their detox tea a day because it’s delish. And I swig down in two gulps some digestive health stuff that smells like cat pee, but is supposed to do me a world of good so I just go with it. Let’s face facts, I’ve swallowed several unpleasant tastes in my lifetime. Ahem. You just don’t get to fiddy without trying stuff, is what I’m saying. Curiosity alone is a motivator to test things out.

The weekend has been filled with beautiful weather, and also a strong scent of the unavoidable changing of the seasons. A leaf blew in and landed next to my masterpiece, reminding me that our days outdoors are limited and to soak them up while we can.

Purry gave me quite a scare this week. It seemed as if her days were limited. She stopped eating, probably lost a whole pound or two and at her teensy size, that is significant.

We waited to take her to the vet, to see if she’d bounce back, and by the time I’d declared it was time to take her in, she started eating and drinking more.

Her little trick worked well for getting her very own strategically placed crystal bowls of water with ice cubes all around her hangouts.

She became whisper-thin in just a few short days, but here she is actually enjoying a nap on the deck while mama paints/writes/creates/frets about life. 

She seems to be out of the woods. Now I just need to get her fattened back up a little.  Purry could have used a few extra protective layer of pounds on her, and now I’m heeding this warning and thinking about a dessert in my future tonight.

In the meantime, I’m going to go and get a few more things checked off my to-do list, including a quick whore’s bath for my car. On Friday one of the other tasks I swore I would complete before the sun went down on the weekend would be planting my hydrangea, which looked like it was a lost cause and then it surprised the eff out of me when I noticed fresh greenery sprouting. It’s not done with me yet, Reader, so I need to give it a helping hand. Off to find my shovel.

Sometimes, like a bad painting, a sick cat, or a brown plant – hope springs eternal.

Here’s hoping for a little bit more of that in all our worlds.

Point, Counterpoint.

Me, at work this week: “Shitfuckdamnitall, I have to get this presentation done!! And I’m sooo behind on it!! I just don’t have enough time!!”

Him: “Interesting.  No time, yet you managed to make not one, but two versions of Hurricane Harvey Cat.”

I still think this was time well-spent, regardless of the fact that I have to finish my presentation this weekend.


The Painted Woman

My day today was going downhill fast, Reader. I started the weekend with a lot of optimism, but then sometimes things happen that shoot the wind right outta your sails, and that’s what happened today. You know the kinds of things, those things that have you wondering what the hell does any of it even matter, why is just living such a struggle, blah blah.  I have no business complaining about anything, I’ve got it rather easy, yet that doesn’t stop me from the Woe-is-Me’s. Sometimes they just arrive unannounced and no matter if you tell them to take a hike, they sit down on the couch and settle in for a while.

I hate this kind of unexpected company, except my dirty floors don’t matter to them. But they are exactly what’s preventing me from getting rid of those dirty floors.

It was quickly apparent by mid-day that I wasn’t accomplishing anything productive. While I was in my office feeling overwhelmed by the sheer amount of Things I HAVE To Do, I spied some painting canvas I bought almost a year ago, and decided Fuck it ALL, I’m going to sit on my deck and paint a motherfucking picture.

Now, I am an awfully amazing talented painter – with an emphasis on the awful. I’m also an award winning motherfucking awful artist, as evidenced below:

Most Organic Looking painting award, so suck on that, naysayers. Before you get too judgey, the owl was supposed to look all funky like that according to our instruction sheet which I thought I’d saved to SHOW YOU how close to awesome it really is, but somehow I can’t find that  now. No matters, you can see the awful awesomeness wif your own eyes.

The Bosses of Painting Day killed some of my creativity by making us hold them for photos before I was finished and my paint was still wet. So now I’ve got a nice little drippy owl, which frankly galls the artist in my soul. We only had two hours to paint our masterpieces, it was a sip & paint work team building event, which is frankly how I like all my corporate team building events : drinking and alone with my art. My piece is still missing a lot of details due to the time constraints,  I didn’t have time to flesh in all the details which would have really made this orange-slice eye’d owl a showstopper.

But I worked with the time I had and really enjoyed myself.

So when I finally recognized that today wasn’t going to go to plan with Doing Productive Things, like I said, I decided to unleash my badass artist self.

Tomorrow I will be sad I didn’t focus on the floors instead.

I got all set up on the deck, squirted my paints and tried to loosen up these awful, horrible little paintbrushes that came with the paint kit. and took a damn stab at it.

You guys. I think I’m supposed to enjoy the process more than I did.

I think I like watercolors better than oils. I like to just mash all my colors together. I have zero knowledge of how oils even work, or what I’m actually supposed to do to get them to turn out nicely.

Oils had a lot of waiting time. And then try some new colors. And then my flowers became big circle blobs and my hand got some paint on the bottom of the canvas that i then smeared to look ‘intentional’ and I hated that a lot, and my flower box looks like a giant black blob and well, the end story is, it just made me frustrated and I started intentionally making the flowers look worse so I can justify throwing it right in the outside garbage can and those are some hours I’m not going to get back.

I think oils are supposed to be something you dabble in, and then come back to, and it’s a whole “journey” and I wasn’t in the mood for a trip today, I just wanted to paint like a mad woman and have something to show for it at the end.

This was not the thing I wanted to show for it at the end. And it’s not even at the end, because wow, it’s still in need of a lot of something.

Regrets, yep, I’ve got a few. Spending part of my day painting a piece of crap instead of painting my door frame is one of them.

Relax = Fail.  But I’m still an award-winning artist, mo’fucks.

Same Time This Year.

I have three quick minutes for you right here, right now, Reader. I need to be washing up mah hoohahhh and getting finished packed up, because I’m heading to Graceland in a couple short hours. So really I have zero business sitting here doing this except I have free will, so here I sit.  Right now, I’m really really really glad I recognized my limits last night and knew I could not leave ALL the packing til this morning. It’s 90% done. Just make-up & toiletries, after I shower all this up. I don’t want to risk a stinky hoohahhhhahah for The King. Or stinky armpits.  It would be a disgraceland.

Why am I worried about my armpits, you ask? Oh, why thank you for inquiring, Reader! I’m worried because I’m back on that dern antibiotic  – again – for a recurring motherfucking infection in mah tootsie.

I can. not. seem. to. get. this. to. go. bye. bye.

It’s presenting a challenge, shall we say.

My last doctor appoint brought up the topic of possible surgery to see what the what is going on down there, putting me under so he can dig in deep.

I was thrilled at that last appointment, as you can imagine. Let’s pretend they were tears of joy oozing out of my ducts.

My doctor kept trying the old diversion tactic once again.  It wasn’t working.

So the long and short of it is, I have to go get packed. Let’s do a quickie recappie summary of what we’ve learned:

  • I’m back on a strong antibiotic.
  • This is the same antibiotic that made my armpits shoooo-weeee last time.
  • I’m thrilled about it.
  • I’m going to eat BBQ this weekend.
  • And listen to jazzy music on Beale Street.
  • I get to probably have surgery when I get back.
  • There won’t be as much fine drinking as I had anticipated this weekend.
  • My work portion of the trip – which was my whole entire reason for going in early (sssshhhh, don’t tell Elvis, I don’t want to hurty his feelings) – has been cancelled because I cannot participate in extreme walking which is what this work trip entailed.
  • Despite this little set-back, I’m still going to Graceland.
  • I will squander precious time to blab out words to you, Reader. Despite a firm time I have to actually be out of the house. You’re welcome.
  • I also might get to wear another wound vac!! More good news, Reader!! I loved that thing attached to my foot!!
  • It’s been almost a year exactly since I had the spider bitey footsy problemo. Seems to be my theme.
  • Things could always be worse. Little problems, Me. Little problems.

Hope your weekend is filled with weensy-teensy mild interruptions and we all blow right by the big problems, Reader. Especially my Irma Pathway friends. Stay dry. Stay safe.  We can weather our storms together.



Signs for the Times

As much as I am afraid of nature, it’s a bit of a contradiction that I  bought a house with a backyard that contains a whole lotta wildish nature.

Not wildish by Alaskan or African or other crazy parts of wildass animals, insects and things to be afraid of, but wildish by city slicker standards.

I mean, there are BUGS that can bite you really hard. And sneaky snakes that could be right under the next footfall. And some coyote, and a blind raccoon named Taco that the neighbors care for, who wanders the ‘hood at his leisure, and skunks and moles and groundhogs and oh, yes, a beaver who used to live here until a really hard storm washed away his dam and now I haven’t seen our old grey-snoot feller in quite some time. Damn.

I miss our beaver. Because I like nature, just usually from the vantage point of the deck.

So it came as a complete surprise to both myself and My Mister when last Sunday, after a day of mostly bed and sadness, I popped up and said, “Let’s go walk around the ravine!”

My Mister didn’t move because he was fairly certain those words would just hang in the air and disappear and we’d go right back to watching more telly and probably order a pizza.  That was his hope, I’m sure.

But nope, not this time – I was meaning it.

I like to journey into my backyard once a year – ya know, get my money’s worth – and last Sunday seemed to be the day for it. The weather has been really Fall around these parts, far sooner than I’m happy about. I love autumn, and if cold winter weather only lasted a month, I’d like that, too. But it’s a long season of it and frankly I can’t afford to put on another winter layer of chub so I need more Fall, which makes me frisky like my friend’s doggie who wants to go for lots of walks now that there’s a bit more nip to the air. I don’t want lots of walks, but my yearly jaunt to the ravine seemed like a good idea then, and maybe one more time, too. Just when you think you know me, you don’t. I’m an unpredictable wildflower, Reader.

It’s not exactly a dangerous hike to my ravine as there is a stair set.

Now it can be a bit treacherous as the top step is missing a board and needs fixed up, and quite frankly I’d like a rope rail or something that fits naturally while helping old Trixie Bang Bang keep from tumbling down and cracking her skull at the base of rocks. So far she’s been lucky and steady and it hasn’t come to that.

So far.

I did, however, buy a $12 hiking stick from myself at my old job, and it has a light on it and navigation. Because I may need all those bells and whistles for my yearly fifteen minute walk in the ravine.

I do have aspirations to hike, Reader. I’ve been daydreaming of hiking to Havasupai Falls, to the point it’s a bucket list aspiration. But it’s TEN MILES in and TEN MILES out. Reader.

Reader, Reader, Reader.

My 24-year old hair stylist just went and texted me a few details. She’s 24. She CRIED during the hike. Many times. She said it was the hardest thing she’s ever done. She’s 24 and bendy and has good knees!  But I’m still not deterred.

Is this where Trixie Bang Bang has taken a breach from reality, where I think that maybe just maybe if I park far enough from the shopping mall entrance I can condition myself to the point I can hike to and from these falls?? Sure, there may be some tears, but in the end they will be washed away as I stand underneath these waterfalls.

Oh, Beautiful Nature, why do you have to come with such a difficult journey??

While there is a fairly good chance this will remain an unfulfilled bucket list aspiration, at least I keep it on the list. I maintain my hope, Reader, is what I’m saying.

Which is quite possibly exactly what I got from my unexpected and unplanned walk in the ravine last weekend. I needed a reminder to maintain hope.

Everywhere I turned I saw signs. Some from nature, some manmade, but kind of exactly what my heart needed last weekend and now.

The ravine runs really high with water throughout the year. It can wash away big trees.  There’s a lot of turnover – nothing stays forever down there. It’s constantly changing and moving on down stream.

This rock was sitting there by the water, saying to me, “Come on over, take a look.”  So I marched over in my flip flops rugged hiking boots to get a closer look.

I’m not a church-going type. Don’t mistake that for non-believer. I believe in a higher power. I don’t believe in a Jesus-on-the-cross-prayer-will-heal-everything religious point of view. I have learned that prayer cannot heal. We have prayed hard as a large community and it does not heal. However, it may bring comfort. I pray for comfort and peace within our souls. For myself. My family. My friends.

The beauty of signs is that we can interpret them however we choose. Whatever brings us what we need.

I still have a wrapped-up-but-still-open foot wound, so I was careful not to just plod across the water n my flip flops hiking boots. We found a little rock bridge and crossed over to the other side.

The cats were beyond excited to follow us on our adventure.

All of us except for Nosey Dots crossed over and took a little stroll downstream. He was not feeling curious enough to risk getting splashed.

This was waiting for us on the other side.

I put in my official twenty or so minutes in the backyard, but since we weren’t interested in going around the bend we rounded up all the kittehs and told them it was time to head back.

A bit of nature does the soul happy, and I was feeling a bit more bouncy on my way back towards the other side.

The other side of the ravine was cheering me on.


Now, My Mister didn’t see a rock smiling at me when I pointed it out to him, but comeon. It’s RIGHT THERE. Smiling at me! I think an open heart can see extraordinary in the ordinary. Or it’s the copious amounts of wine.  Whatever, stop judging me, Reader. I see a smiling rock and a cross rock and a heart in paint, which was not tough to imagine.

However. This heart was letting me know it wasn’t all by happenstance.

Nature was cheering me on during some weak times, making it possible for me to cheer for others who need a rally.

It’s been some sad times and also some happy times, and river of tears and some big belly-laughing moments and hugging your friends and holding your family and saying I love you more often. Which is really just life.

I should listen to Gussy a little more often and enjoy the treasures of the ravine. He thinks this is the ultimate playground, right there in his own back yard.


p.s. – this is once again a post that started a week ago, and I just can’t seem to finish them up lately. Sometimes when they start I have a whole story laid out in my head and then it comes with a flat ending when I pick it back up again.What da ya want for nothing? … a rrrrrrrrubber biscuit?

Fancy Feets

While we’re on the subject of Trixie Bang Bang’s Stinky Body Parts, I figured it best to stay on topic with what my body is doing lately.

Because I might as well completely gross you out, or my job is only half done, and no one likes a quitter unless you’re a smoker, and then I truly appreciate quitters. Unless you’re smoking a little Mary Jane, and then I know you’re doing it for your health because that’s the only way it’s legal.  And we all are striving towards better health. So toke up, is what I’m saying. Legally, of course. I’m not here to encourage debauchery. At least not in writing. In an open-to-the-world format. Ahem.

~puts ciggy down, sips coffee~

So if you’ve been here before, you know that I’ll try just about anything that promises better health/dewrinkled skin/weight loss/fuller eyelashes/beautiful tans/shiny hair etc, and I’m even less discriminatory if that item comes with an under-ten-dollars price tag, and even less less discriminatory if it happens to be on a shelf at TJ Maxx.

Somehow those items just pop right into my shopping cart and I can’t rationalize a good enough reason to take ’em back out because usually they are less then the cost of a McDonald’s Awful Meal, so I say in my head, “eh, what the hell, let’s give it a whirl” which is exactly how detoxifying maxi pads for my feet ended up in my bedroom this weekend.

They promise to enhance my metabolism, improve circulation, energize me, bring optimal balance and pain relief, all naturally. For $5.99. That is a whole lotta promise for under six bucks.

To reiterate, it would be stupidly foolish to pass this up, amiright, Reader? Yes, I am.

I did hesitate with this purchase for a moment, because I am not quite sure that putting something on my feet – which still has an infected blister hole – is where I want to draw more toxins to, but then I said in my brain, “well, just put ’em on one foot, removing half the toxins is better than none of the toxins and then I get twice as many pads that way, too, so win-win.” And in my cart they went, along with a new mop which broke on my first use so it’s going back to TJ Maxx because it was $20. I will spend twice as much money on items from TJ Maxx that promise me clean and shiny floors. It’s another of my financial weakness indulgences.

So after an emotionally draining Saturday I was putting myself to bed and saw my recent magic foot pad purchase sitting there on the nightstand and figured I have a lot of toxins that must be floating around, if my recent stinky armpits are any indication, and should try them out.

The package disclaimer indicates that the should ideally be used when you can afford a good eight hours of sleep, and I scoffed at that child’s play recommendation because comeon. I can get eight hours of sleep with my eyes closed. Literally.

In fact, when I woke up for good this morning – not the 9 a.m. waking where I just got up to pee – I pondered the time out loud and asked My Mister with a trace of disgust at the slothy-ness of our lives if we’d once again slept til noon.

Nope, we did not, is the answer.  It was twenty to one. In the afternoon. Well played, Clock. Well played.

Now, before you come over and check me for bedsores, I was up on and off throughout yesterday’s evening, putting aways some laundry, kissing kittens, watching Guy Fiery eat a bunch of deliciously described foods that made me hungry and all we had was Arbonne shake powder, which is actually quite delicious and I made myself a shake and drank it with glee, and anyway I was only resting, from the time I put on my jammies and tucked into bed around 7 p.m. until about 1 a.m., not actually sleeping.

I started my job of actual sleeping around one-ish, which puts my sleeping hours at only eleven hours and forty minutes. Stop judging me, Reader! I have toxins in my body! And I’ve had a lot of emotions this weekend and needed to sleep it off, much like drunk Otis in the Andy Griffin show, who would just lock himself up to get a good nights worth when he’d had a snoot full.

But back to the business at hand, which was deciding to rid myself of toxins while I slept, which is also my favorite way to self-care, and can they please invent exercise that happens while I’m fast asleep, thanks in advance, Inventors.

With a lot of skepticism, I opened the pads and applied the first one to my left foot, which is also the “good” foot and not home to the fucking infected blister situation. After taking another hard read at the ingredients – mostly of which included different kinds of vinegars and rose hips, I decided to apply to the bottoms of both feet because now I didn’t want to jip the foot that really has toxins out of this magic toxic removing pad, and this is what it looked like once applied.

I mean, it’s not like vinegar solutions can mash bad things up into my skin, can it? I’m actually asking, that’s not rhetorical, I really don’t know and hadn’t considered that until just this second, and I sure hope that’s not the case. Vinegar is practically a magic elixer – it can lower blood pressure & diabetes, clean your windows to a sparkling shine, rid your coffee pot of scales and also your washing machine tub.  Surely putting a vinegar soaked pad on my foot can’t do any harm, right? Can it push bad stuff up into my foot as well as pulling stuff out of my feet?? How does this even work, really?? Is it a two-way street?? It seems a little crazy, as things don’t normally ooze outta the bottoms of my feet, except for stinkiness, so maybe toxins can actually drain out from there. I don’t know or pretend to know, Reader, is what I’m saying, all I know is I tried it.

When I woke up this afternoon at the crack of dawn this morning and pulled off my maxi-pads I sort of screamed a little in disgusted shock when the first one came off.

They looked like this, plus there was a sticky residue left behind on the bottoms of my feet and all I can say is just wow.

I went into the bathroom to scrub ’em up, and took a look in the mirror and I swear-to-fuck I noticed my under eye area was less puffy than it’s been in a very long while, and also my fingers did not feel swollen.

My feet have had a little bit of tingling sensation all day long, but a good tingle, like they DO feel rejuvenated, and not even achy in the arthritis areas, and is it all in my head?? Or is it actually in my feet???

I decided to reward the day by not wearing any undergarments, and just letting all my body parts have a free-wheeling good time. I don’t know what that decision actually has to do with magic feet maxi-pads, but I just felt a little bouncier today and decided to roll with it.

I even told My Mister later this evening to take a look at my face, my lips were forming a smile all on their own, without my even trying to think about being happy, and then I took a photo to capture it because it was a SMILE FORMING ALL ON IT’S OWN today, and let me tell you, it has NOT been my most favorite weekend of all time at all, so this is a BIG DEAL.

And yes I know you may not notice my depuffy eyes, but believe you me, with all the crying that’s happened around here lately, this is looking good and do not even try to steal my joy, I will not allow that one bit.

So the final verdict on the foot pads is, I want to open one up and just leave it on the nightstand and see if it turns the same yuckky color as the one that’s attached to my body tonight, but on the other hand I don’t want to waste it if it’s really doing something and it could be detoxin-ing me instead of sitting on the nightstand and getting stuck on Kitty Purry when she inevitably walks across it on the way to her nightstand water dish. It’s a Sophie’s Choice. To pad both feet or run the test. Only time will tell which road I take at bedtime.

Have you ever tried a toxin-pulling maxi-pad for your feet, Reader? Is it all in my head, or is there actually something to this and it’s a six dollar miracle?? Chime in. I may need to buy stock in this product. And then stick a couple under my arm pits just for good measure.

Livin’ La Vida Loca

You guys, it’s Friday night and I’m sitting home thinking about all the Things I Need To Do tonight instead of getting up off mah ass and doing those things.

I don’t wanna do Things. I wanna sit here and type nonsense and tell you about my day and find the funny (or try to) and wonder why the hell my neck hurts on the left side for the past week or so, and also wonder out loud to you just why exactly my armpits have been on the BO-ie side this week.

Yeah, you read that correctly. My armpits have been shoo-wheee this week and I’ve had to shower both in the morning and before bed because who wants to lie around in their own smelly armpits? Well if you do, go right ahead, very little no judging from this girl.

Let’s get one thing straight whilst we’re talking about the stench I’ve worked up in my armpits: It’s not from doing anything hard-labor-like, unless by “hard labor” we mean hard sleeping. Because in addition to my stinky armie pitties, I’ve been tared. That’s being so tired you can’t even say both syllables, you’re just tared. To the point of twelve hours of sleep feels like the right amount and anything less is just a nap.

My Mister speculated that perhaps my armpits stink because as of Monday I was put on a new super-duper doozy antibiotic for my motherfucking foot thing that won’t heal up because it apparently has some other infection now and I’m sick of pussyfooting around it by calling it gentle words, and it’s officially a motherfucking foot thing. Enough already. Heal.  Heel. except it’s not on my heel, that would be too appropriate, but I’ve said it anyway so there.

His theory is that these super duper antibiotics are so strong they are pushing everything out of my body, including the stink from my armpits. Is that how antibiotics even work?? Can they push stink out??

I had no better explanation than that, so I said, “Sure, that might be it.”

This week I’ve mostly been coming home and putting on my jammies and then I’ll watch some tv in the living room so I don’t feel like a complete lazyass, but then move to the bedroom around 9 where I get to some serious resting.

That’s about how this evening has gone down so far.

I did get up because Food was needed, and so we ordered pizza because that is the perfect Friday-Night-I’m-Too-Tared-But-Hafta-Clean-Because-Company-Tomorrow-And-Also-My-Motherfucking-Foot-Hurts-Tonight-AND-I-Have-A-Little-Armpit-B.O.-AGAIN meal (Hey Pizza Hut, don’t try to steal this as your new slogan) and I strolled out of the bedroom in my leopard robe because you’d never know it’s August, there’s such a chill on the night air. I needed to robe up.

My Mister saw me lumbering sauntering down the hall in this and asked who invited Hugh Hefner for dinner.

My smelly armpits invited him, that’s who. 

So now you have yet another glimpse into the magic that goes on around here at Chez Bang Bang. It’s as if Taylor Swift and I are leading the exact same life.

Good Lawd, Reader – TWO SECONDS AGO Kitty Purry came and curled up against the crook of my arm like a furry dolly baby kitty, but then proceeded to almost throw up on me, but moved over in the nick of time to some mail that was on the table, which is also a medical bill I need to pay and should I now send in the check with the puked on statement?? I think yes.  Because we keep it real around here. And just like T-Swift, I’ll be all “Look What You Made Me Do” as our newest release.  On the paperwork.

Because that’s where that goes. Apparently.


Something or Nothing

The Dog Days of Summer are upon us, Reader, and are in fact winding down faster than I would like. Eleven days left and we’re on to September already, which is Fall, and then the season of Oh My God, Why Don’t I Move to Florida.

But before all that, we’re still holding on tightly to the days that we have, and not looking forward, nor backward. Just now.  Focus on Now.

Well, I guess I lied because this post is about looking back a little bit.  This past week – as my FB friendies know – we had one of our most precious visits from my family in Delaware, who brought me the sweetest baby to visit.

Our babe is now 1.5 years old, and he is the friendliest, smiliest baby we could have ever hoped to have in our family.

But he is also exhausting. Oh. My. Word. Reader. He plum tuckers this old auntie out.

One beautiful summer evening, we took BabyBinnie* to his very first amusement park, for kiddies. With a little guidance from his Grampa HandyDan, he was shown how to hang on tight and enjoy the ride.

A little bit of a life lesson in there for all of us.

In addition to tuckering his ol’ auntie out, the baby also tuckered the cats out. All that constant high-alert status, and the running away from baby grabs.  They went into Hard Sleep Mode after we were a baby-free zone.

***Okay, in total disclosure, this post was started over the weekend, and it’s not funny or even a good pulled together bit about some nonsense in my world, although it has cute enough pictures. I had hoped to do a little rewriting of this to make it a story worthy of your two minutes.  I didn’t.  It’s not. But it’s too late now because you’re already at the end. Sometimes I just don’t have enough energy to muster to push my own wagon.***

*BabyBinnie is his baby nickname, I can’t not talk babytalk to him and about him because he’s a baby.  The cutest baby in the whole entire universe. Ever. In the history of ever. Because I said so and now it’s here in writing.

Not So Silent T

Summertime is still hanging on by the skin of it’s teeth, Reader – and I’m hanging on to it just as tight. For a number of very important reasons, I am willing the days to pass slowly.  The boys are also hanging on tightly to beautiful summer evenings.

Speaking of “important” – you’re about to learn one more of Trixie Bang Bang’s Pet Peeves.

Has anyone else noticed the trend of the younger generation in pronouncing the word “important” as “impor’ent” – are they teaching the Silent T in school nowadays, Reader? I mean, I guess if we can have silent other letters, why not the T, but it seems rude to the T, and does this mean my name is now “Rixie Bang Bang”?? I guess the T is no more impor’ent then the K in as in words such as knee, etc., but yet I still give the Silent T a thumbs down. Or is that a Humbs down? Do you see how not pronouncing the T in the word important is just confusing the system, Reader? If you are guilty of this practice, stop it right now before there is even more chaos in the world.  We already have Rump in office. Don’t make life even more difficult. Enunciate. Do it for us old, crotchety folks.

Since we’re on the topic of letters, let’s have a candid chat about this cute guy, see below.

That was him being cute and stretchy and relaxed in bed Friday morning when I should have been heading to the Card Mines, yet I found this impor’ent enough to pause and take a cute photo because comeon. Look at that paw.

You know what part of him wasn’t so cute?

Him, the other night when I noticed his walking on the counter and backing up and peeing right on a brand new bag of peaches I had brought in from the grocery store.

Yes he was lightly tapped on the ass and called bad kitty spanked and gruffly yelled at. Did it do any good, though? Of course not, Reader. Of course not. He thought he was just doing his job, putting the “pee” in peaches.

You may find it surprising that it was even questioned if we ate them anyway. While we may have reached some lows around Chez Bang Bang at times, we haven’t limboed so low that we’re eating cat pee food. Yet, Reader. Yet. I don’t want to appear that I have special powers to predict the future.

In other news from Chez Bang Bang, if you’re wondering about my dern tootsie, I still have a wound that is taking it’s sweet time in healing. I’m still under my foot doctors care, and am cleaning and dressing it daily, and hoping it will just finally knock it off and get back to it’s original bad state instead of extra bad.

So there’s the foot update.

In even more other news, tonight is Clean the Filthy House night, because my invite fingers got away from me and I’m having a hamburger extravaganza tomorrow afternoon. I love having company. I hate cleaning like a banshee. I think I’m alone in having to clean so hard, and I just frankly cannot understand why. When I do wonder, the finger often points in the direction of my seven three cats.

It felt really weird to type “seven” and not “eight.”  We miss Girlie and just picked up her ashes a few nights ago.

My friend just “inherited” three cats this weekend. Her friendie died and there was no place for her kitty cats to go, except the shelter and my friendie said no to that. She isn’t looking to go to a permanent status of crazy cat lady in the blink of an eye, so Reader, if you or if you know anyone with a kind heart who would help take in a middle-aged cat, it would count as your good deed for the next several years, and we would even gift you with your very own Have a Good Enough Day(TM) coffee mug.  You read that right, Reader. You could have a lap warmer and a coffee holder all for FREE. Contact me to find out how simple this little transfer can be!! 

Alrightie, I have a filthy house clamoring for my attention. I would love to neglect it, but a small toddler is the star of my company tomorrow and I can’t have him eating furballs off the floor. His mama would probably frown on that.

Do me one favor, Reader – wish for molasses-slow days with me. And take in a kitty cat. That’s not too much to ask among friends, now is it.

Miss Labeled.

Did you know I have Fibromyalgia, Reader? Well, I didn’t know I had it, either, until I went to the hospital in October for the mean and rude spider bite on my tootsie. Even then, I didn’t know I had fibromyalgia. It wasn’t until about a month after I’d been home and I was sorting through all my paperwork and saw the words “fibromyalgia” on my paperwork as a diagnosis.

<——- p.s. – this is my view right now and it makes me oh, so so so happy to enjoy my porch. This is the most I’ve enjoyed my porch since I moved here. I did not think I would enjoy having an umbrella on my table, as I thought I liked the sun, but hey guess what? That sun would get really effing hot and I couldn’t enjoy my deck for very long. Now? Me love it long time.

But back to my ailments. You didn’t come here to hear about happiness and pretty porches did you, Reader? Well, you probably did, but you’re getting more of complainy-pants me.

I read through the symptoms of fibromyalgia and quite frankly had always thought that was just a made-up condition for people who liked to bitch & complain, not exercise or clean, and sleep a lot, which I guess is the very definition of me, so yep, fibromyalgia.  Apparently there’s a MEDICAL REASON for my lack of motivation, concentration, stiff-leggedness, incessant napping, and anxious feelings when I look around the house and see all the things I haven’t cleaned. Now don’t you feel rude judging me, Reader? Well, you should. I have a condition with “algia” in the name. It’s very important.

So anyway, as a result of my fibromyalgia, I take a daily dose of Cymbalta, because in addition to keeping me less wack-a-doo, it is supposed to repath my nerves to my brain and make everything feel less ouchy. That’s the definition I got from the doctor, in exactly those words.

Now, the reason I’m boring entertaining you with my medical history here is because it’s germane to the rest of the story, as our friend Paul Harvey would say.

I’ve got another Thing, Reader. I guess at 50, shit just pops up outta seemingly nowhere. And now that I’m Officially Diabetic, it seems everything is a Thing, which frankly makes me extra-sweary and cry-ie and causes even more fibromyalgia anxiety and tension headaches and did I mention tears, lotsa lotsa tears?

I bought cute new summer footwear. Well, “cute” according to what’s also comfortable on my dern feet, which is very limiting. And I wore them the first time a couple of weeks ago and they seemed to be not quite as comfy as I had hoped, so I gave them a time out and then tried them again. And that was a bad decision, because by the time I got home from work on Wednesday eve,  I had barely enough time to kick them off and change into really comfy kicks before we headed to the movies to see Atomic Blonde, which was kick. ass.  And made me want to strut around in high heels and dye my naturally-blond hair even more blond and punch people in the throat.  Go see it, is what I’m saying.

By Thursday, a day spent in those uncomfy shoes had created a concerning area on my spider-bitey foot, which is also my same foot with 18-year-old-me car accident trauma, so what I’m saying is, there’s a host of probs down there and I’m hyper sensitive to it.

By noon on Thursday it was throbbing, not to mention hurty to walky so I went to the ladies room to give it a proper examination.

That was where I almost lost my shit, Reader. Good thing I was in the ladies room. Ba-dum-dah.

I got on the horn and called my spider-bitey foot doctor surgeon and begged him to fit me in that very day, as the next available time was next week as he was going out of town. He’s the nicest doctor a girl could ever have touching her foot, but how dare he vacation when I may need him at any given moment.

He fit me in immediately when they heard my distress, and I skidded outta work in a hurry.

I was in tears by the time I got there. I just knew it was going to be something dire, because of my history of everything always being a Thing.

Long story longer, Reader, yes, it was a Thing, possibly made worse more quickly by my newly diagnosed diabetic condition, which just having to say that made me cry harder because I don’t want to be That Person With All The Things Wrong and it was an ulcerated thing, which even sounds ugly and he numbed it and poked it and cleaned it and wanted to take x-rays but hey guess what, I’m uninsured until Tuesday and I’m operating on out-of-pocket-which-are-really-shallow-pockets-at-the-moment so I asked how important to the situation where they – are they a “need to have” or a “nice to have.”

He agreed they could wait until next week, I don’t know if he agreed because he just didn’t want me to cry harder or because it can really wait, but we’re waiting. And this is the Universe’s way of fucking with me since I posted about judging Go Fund Me’s, and now I need my own but instead I just have a Go Fuck Me, in the form of a big charge on a credit card once again, the good old-fashioned American Way.

In the meantime, I’m back to doing wound care, which I’m getting rather good at, and also luckily I still have my $300 salve from the spider bite era, which I very carefully preserved in the proper temperate conditions and even more importantly was able to easily locate. And I’m on a three-x-day antibiotic.

Which is why this whole rambling ride even started.

Since Thursday I’ve been an anxiety-laden mess. Crying to the point of headache, fearing there is something even worse going on down there and because I denied the x-ray it’s all going to lead to amputations because that’s not a far-off reach at all, it’s the perfectly logical next step. I wish I were making this up, but it’s been that dramatic. Hey, who wants to be my roomy?? I’m a real treat to live with!

And then yesterday I went to take my 3x daily dose of of antibiotic and my 1x dose of Cymbalta and I noticed the striking similarity between the two:

Which caused me to pause just a moment and tap my nose and utter a long, drawn-out, “hmmmm.” Is it possible that my Chicken Little The Sky Is Falling demeanor could have in fact been because I was taking 3x the Cymbalta and 1x the antibiotic?

I did a quick pill count and perhaps I’ve mistaken it a time or two – perhaps. I blame the fibromyalgia for my brain fog.  I mean, it does seem that if you have a condition that causes brain fog, they should make the pills for it REALLY stand out and not look like anything else, amiright, Reader? I mean, what about a triangle shape and a bright lime color? They’re now just fucking with us.

My footsy seems to be less radiating red today. I feel less like killing myself today (I wish that were an exaggeration, but unfortunately, it’s too close to the truth to be happy about it). I think things seem to be balancing out. At least for the moment.

I’ll take it by the moment.  And carefully read my labels.

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