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The Bang Bang Theories

Onward! Is the Only Direction to Go.

I’m in a whole cycle of wash, rinse, repeat, Reader.  Sort of.

As of yesterday I find myself in need of a Louise to my Thelma.  Because the Card Mines laid off 100+ folks and my number (51*) was up.

*also, my age. Coincidence? Probably.

Luckily, I got an awful awesome severance package. And they wanted me to come back in for two days this week and transition my projects over to the team that would be handling them.

Now, that just isn’t going to happen. Ever.  I know very few things for sure, but that, I know for sure. I may or may not have laughed in their faces when I said, “I am NOT doing that!”

And then I gathered my things, turned in my badge and let the doors open to new adventures.

As I was driving home, pondering the endless Summer of George possibilities that now sprawl before me, the first stop was for a cake. Like marriages, new babies and birthdays, some events just beg to be shepherded in with a cake.

It’s hard to have any feels-sorries when there is a flour and sugary confection headed towards your lips.

 

I’m a little bit worried about my lack of worry, Reader.

Instead of coming home and frantically updating my resume and hitting the job boards, I literally spent two hours looking at all the places I can go.

A solo road trip across the USA. I would love to find a Louise to my Thelma, without the death part at the end, but am prepared to go it alone. I’m even considering buying a tent to – gasp – camp! – during parts of the adventure. Because I need to be frugal, Reader.

My friendie from upstate NY reached out and invited me to visit and float around in her pool. I plan to bother grace her with my loungy ass for a few days.

There’s Chicago next weekend, which I can now leave for any ol’ time of the day.

Then there’s the  Seashell house on Isla Mujeres, where I could probably get a lot of book-writing done, as I would be very inspired. And maybe a little drunk, also known as “releasing my creativity.”

My other friendie, who I visited in San Fran during my last bout of “Funemployment” has moved to Australia, and welcomed me to join for a visit.

My actions clearly tell me that my need to explore the world is more valued than a steady paycheck.* Except I still need to pay bills to keep a roof over my seven three cats heads and kibble in their mouths. Because we won’t all fit in an RV.

*probably will have a different thought in six months time if I’m still not working. Let’s hope for wonderful things to happen so I don’t need to worry later on.

I’m taking today to not do anything at all and then tomorrow, I will begin my Summer of George.

But instead of reading a book from beginning to end, I’m going to write that book from beginning to end!

And finish organizing my house.

And working on the yard.

And selling crap to make a little spending money.

I’ve been here before, Reader.  And it turned out just fine for a while. It’ll turn out fine again, I believe in myself.

I just have to keep my sails adjusted to catch the next breeze.

Farmer Bang Bang

It’s about dern time I set down at the computater and shared something with you, dear and patient Reader.

Yes, we started out with a slight hillbilly twang in that sentence.

It’s been since MAY since we were here together. What. In. The. World.

I was using my free time differently.

I was farming.

And yarding (which I hate, by the way).

And reading, instead of writing.

What have I been reading, you ask?

I just finished Love Warrior by Glennon Doyle, and me likey.

I also read Stories I’d Tell in Bars by Jen Lancaster, and it’s bloggy-type reading and fun. And as an aside, I’m part of her exclusive invitation-only-so-ha-I’m-fancy Facebook book club, and oh, p.s., I get to be even MORE fancy and exclusive and have been invited to have lunch with her and a group of other strangers in Chicago, so I’m super excited to meet new people and drink wine together. I’m sure they will all love me. Because what’s not to love about me, amiright, Reader.*

*rhetorical, because we all know if you’re here it’s because we love each other. 

That’s what I’ve been reading lately.

As I mentioned above, in addition to reading, I’ve also been FARMING.  Yes, I’ve gotten the farm at Chez Bang Bang tilled and planted.

With these two beauties, that blossomed with all the direct hot sunlight that drenches the front of the house in the morning.

Perfect for growing tomatoes.

I was excited when it flowered so early in the season and then my first little gal showed up:

Because I watched a Facebook video about plants who have been verbally bullied vs. one who was lovely caressed with words, I would spend time every morning and evening telling my tomato how proud I was of it, what a little beauty she was growing into, etc…

We had a whole thing going on between us, and as I watched it grow I did get a little concerned about the deer and other wildlife in my yard taking advantage of her.

So I turned my tomato around, facing the house, to keep it out of the sight of any wayward animals who thought they would sneak a snack.

And then one night I came home from work, and bounded* up the step with my encouraging words on my tongue’s tip, and stopped and rubbed my eyes in disbelief.

*bounded may be an overstatement.

My lil tomato?

Gone, girl.

All it’s flowering-friends?

Gone, too.

Apparently my stealthy ways of turning the plant around was no match for the yard snackers.

I may or may not have cried a little.

So now they’ve been moved to the back deck, probably where they should have been placed all along except the sun is an afternoon sun and not quite as good for growth.

But guess what’s worse than afternoon sun for tomato growth?

This:

I may or may not have the scent of green tomato on my breath.

 

She was out rustling around in the yard just this morning, looking up at me, wondering where the hell I put her front-yard buffet.

The moral of the story is that I’m an eternal optimist, Reader, and truly believed the deer and other assorted wildlife would show some grace and an ounce of respect and leave my two-pot farm alone.

I was wrong.

I’ve got two new girls growing on the other plant right now, and So Help Me Garth, if a bird swoops down and pecks my plants to death I’m going to go coastal*.

*yes, coastal. Back in the olden days, of my olden life, when I was a somewhat respectable stepmother-ish to four kids, the oldest boy thought the saying was “going coastal” instead of “postal.” Going coastal is hella lot better, because a) less shooting and bloodiness and b) because we could all use a little more beach.

Up & Adam

Are you there, God? It’s me, Trixie.

*no, I’m not going to talk about getting my period. I have some couth. But mostly I’m not going to talk about that because I’m fifty-one for crissake, and me and my period parted ways several years ago, without so much as a proper goodbye. It was just gone, never to be seen again, and I guess I went through menopause but I never really noticed it, except for the wayward hair that now sprouts from the bridge of my nose and needs to be constantly monitored. It’s like I’m trying to be a unicorn in my next fiddy-years, except with a black hair as my magical horn. Maybe I’ve been plucking out my mystical powers all this time.

Here’s what I want to talk to God about.

God,

1. Why do mornings have to come so quickly and so early?

2. Why did you make sleep so damn delicious only to force me to get yanked out of it by creating a world with harsh morning rules?

3. In a world with harsh morning rules, why couldn’t I have been created as a morning person?

4. My mother was in labor for like forty-million hours, because I refused to come out of her womb until 10:00 a.m.

5. Even then I didn’t want to come out willingly, so the doctor at the time retch up there and grabbed me by my widdle-bitty-baby arm and yanked me out of there.

6. Thanks, doctor, because you jacked up my what-was-a-perfect arm before it even had a chance to be a star pitcher for an all-girls baseball team. Or a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, because with my crooked arm, I could never execute a cartwheel.

7. Plus, you turned me into a lefty, not by nature at all, but by force.

8. There’s been a crook in my arm ever since, if you ever wondered why.

9. Ironically, that doctor’s name was Dr. Best, which is a misnomer.

10. This is not at all why we came here this morning. We came to complain about morning coming so early.

11. I resist getting up early even when I have something fun to look forward to.

12. Even though this is my holiday-day-off, I don’t have something fun to look forward to.

13. I’m up early because my father fell a few weeks ago, is in a rehab facility, but wants to get out and go “check on the house” this morning, despite it being checked on several times per day.

14. Don’t try to rob the house, Bad Guys. There’s nothing you’d want, and p.s., it’s hillbilly alarmed which could mean any number of booby-traps are set.

15. I somehow committed to, “Sure, I’ll be out there at 10:30!” which means I had to set my alarm on my day off, which goes against everything that is holy and sacred in my world.

16. Despite my snoozing the alarm thirty-billion times this morning, I decided I will not forgo my morning cuppa coffee on the deck and write this nonsense that was crafting itself in my hypnagogic state.

17. No, that’s not a typo, look it up and learn something today. I’m like a teacher, giving you a homeschooling lesson right now. We’ll have a graduation ceremony for you once you write me a fifty-trillion-word essay on what an influence I’ve been in your life. Good or bad, your choice. On what sort of influence I’ve been, not on how well you write. I will judge your writing. Even though I mostly don’t follow the rules myself. As your homeschooling teacher, it’s my duty to send you off into the world with something. I’m not sure what exactly, though.

18. It’s early and my brain is still in bed. It took a benadryl last night because allergies.

19. I have to go to the grocery store today because I’m out of coffee creamer. That is the impetus that drives me the grocery store. Actual food? Not as important. Coffee creamer? Emergency conditions.

20. On that note the morning isn’t getting any longer, and it’s time to get ready.

*is it “up and adam” and we’ve been saying it wrong forever and ever amen, Reader? Because the saying could actually be “up and Adam” as in the first man God created with clay and dinosaur bones, and therefore “Hey, Adam – time to get to it!”  And all this time you thought it was at ’em, which makes less sense than Adam, and now it’s like I’m your Sunday school teacher, too, because until now you didn’t even know man was made with the bones of dinosaurs.

No, I Don’t Want Fries With That.

We’ve made it to Memorial Weekend, our nation’s weekend to commemorate our veterans. With the holiday comes a delicious 3-day weekend for me.

I’ve already squandered Saturday morning of it.

Because I was out until 4 a.m. at the gambling house, making then losing then making then losing a few bucks. Yes, it ended on a, “Well, maybe next time,” note. I’ve been unlucky in gambling for a while now, no big wins in more than a year. I’m mad at the Universe, because it should know by now that I’m a WINNER when it comes to gambling. Except it must have forgotten.

Yesterday I was somewhat easily agitated in the evening. First, this conversation happened at the Burger King drive through:

K: “I’d like a large Diet Pepsi or Coke, whatever you have.”

The Drive Through Speaker: “Will that be all?”

K: “Yes.”

The Drive Through Speaker: “Pull ahead.”

K: “Wait. The screen says large fries. I wanted a diet pepsi.”

TDTS: “A large fry and a diet pepsi?”

K: “No! Just a diet pepsi.”

TDTS: “So fries?”

Me, from the passenger seat of the car: “Jesusfuckingchrist, A DIET PEPSI, HOW FUCKING HARD IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND.”

Yes, I blasphemied all over the parking lot at Burger King.

TDTS: “Okay, got it. Pull ahead.”

Then, K & Trixie looking at each other and said in unison, “You know they’re going to jizz or spit in our diet pepsi now, right?”

Yep. We both knowingly agreed.

T: “Pull out, let’s just leave.”

K: Pulls up anyway and pays $2.58 for a cuppa soda and spit.

*we’d agreed they probably didn’t have the time to jizz in the soda, but they definitely had time to spit or wipe boogers in it.

K: Hands me the drink.

T: “Nope. No thanks. Not even on a Fear-Factor dare.”

K: “But the guy said “sorry about that” – he wouldn’t have apologized if he was going to jizz in it.”

K: Drinks it. Declares it to be spit-free.

T: “But how do you know that for sure?”
K: “It would be …. thicker.”

T: “More …. viscousy??”

K: “Yes, viscousy. It’s not viscous.”

No one wants a viscousy soda pop. No one. Ever.

But I still couldn’t trust it, and therefore it rode around with us all evening until we parked the car in the drive at 4 a.m. and I told K, “Grab the jizzy soda and dump it out.”

*yes, I know we’ve already established there was no time for jizz in the soda. Let’s just agree that “jizzy” is the term that covers any viscousy liquids that could be concealed in our food.

So after my no-gain from yelling at the drive through speaker, I told myself I need to chill the fuck out a little and that came in handy much later that evening when I was behind a group of really-really-oldies doing their entire week’s worth of banking at the cashier’s window at the casino.

I had to simmer myself down, and then as I was in the process of de-working myself up, I noticed the man oldie had on a Navy Veteran hat and then said, “Thank you for your service!” instead of “Hurry the. fuck. up.” Except I didn’t really say either of those things out loud (he was too far away to hear me), but I said them in my head, so I’m counting it as a good deed because it DID make me change my attitude.  Well played, Memorial Weekend.

 

Just a Little Perspective

I’m going to cheat here a little bit, and give you a little something worth thinking about, from another writer’s perspective.

It’s eye-opening and not exactly funny, but may inspire you to do more of what matters to you.  It’s making me want more oceans, tacos and friend-dates.

On the other hand, it’s also providing me with a “how many more cat-pees will I have to clean up in my lifetime” perspective.  I’m still not sure if that number is good or bad.

I know, I know. You came here for nonsense and not thinking stuff. We’ll get back to that in a bit. I know you’re super-curious to learn about my life as a farmer, which I’m preparing to tell you all about.

In the meantime, make it count.

xoxo,

 

 

 

The Tail End

 

 

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One-Sided Relationship.

You guys, I’ve experienced PrematureDeckElation*. Some of you may suffer from this too, which is sad for all parties involved. Except one person is usually a lot more sad.

*say that three times fast. it’ll bring out the 12-year-old-schoolboy in you.

First, in my haste to hasten summer, I blew the deck too soon.  I know, right?  I didn’t know there was a “too soon to blow it,” but I’ve since been corrected.

The flowers from the pretty pretty trees on my street are all. over. the entire world. 

But mostly on my deck.

Yellow pollen all over the furniture. And up my snorkeltube. That’s a nose for those of you who didn’t grow up with a coolio daddio who called noses snorkeltubes.

Also, I’ve taken for granted that the rains we’ve had was going to do it’s job of watering my plants.

It did not, and today, when I stepped out onto my 54-degree morning deck – bundled up in a robe and slippers because it’s only mid-May, why would I expect it to be warm?? – I discovered one of my pretties is …. a little worse for the wear, in just a week. 

Can this plant be saved, Reader??

I don’t know. I’m no green thumb. Obviously.

Every summer I’m annoyed by the amount of attention plants require. They are just so. damn. needy. At the first sign of my saying, ‘eh, fuck it, they’ll be fine with the rain,” they teach me a little lesson. They’re really rather bossy, Reader.

This little beauty is trying to help me out, though. She’s still standing pretty.

And my herbs are still looking good. Just that little planter on the side says nope.

So now I’ve got to go give my deck another blow job. And make it a point to keep all my plants at optimum moistness.

It’s a lot of work being in a relationship with my deck, Reader. Don’t get the impression all this comes easy.

 

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Just a Little Sunday Morning Coming Down

Well, my bigga plans for cinco de drinko fell apart last night, Reader. I wasn’t feeling a hundred percent, not well enough for mucho drinkies, and so I skipped out. There’s always next year, if i make it to another one. Hope along with me, Reader, because I still have a big to-go list filled with fun destinations.

Yesterday I did manage to put some effort into summering up the deck, and it’s looking s-h-a-r-p.

I scored the deal of the season on a new bright and stripey rug that makes me happy to see it, $40 and it is big and nice and cat-approved.

Nosey spent a good ten minutes pinning down his brother and giving him a thorough cat bath. 

 

In fact, it’s such a good deal, I’m going to head back to the store tomorrow and hope they still have some and buy a back-up rug to store, just in case buying a mostly-cream outdoor rug that will see a lot of rain and cats starts to look the worse for wear by July.

My Artist* advised me to buy the navy blue diamond pattern, except it didn’t make me as happy and also when do I ever take good advice? Rarely is the answer, Reader. I’ve been told I’m impulsive, against better judgements, and there could be some troof to that.

*Yes, I have a personal Artist friendie, so there, and also I highly recommend having one in your back or front pocket (whichever part of your pants makes you happiest, Reader – I’m not here to judge), because Artists? They know things. And can do things. He’s the very reason my porch is so damn cute now. He saw the vision I verbalized and found the perfect corner posts and figured out the perfect steel poles we needed and color-matched it all together and strung lights and now my deck is my happy place in the house during nice weather.  And he’s never even come over and enjoyed the fruits of his labors, which is sad, and he’s been extended an open invitation, but he’s a do-er and not a sitter-on-the-decker. Maybe this post will convince him to come and sit with me.

I managed to round up some coconut planter things (last year I was too late to the game and they were sold out everywhere in the shape I needed), so I threw together some herbs and just looking at it makes me happy.

I planted mint, basil and cilantro.  Three favorites for pesto, mint tea, and salsa.

The deck is looking night-time pretty, and is begging for friendies to come fill up the seats.

Soon, Reader. There’s a tentative party planned in June. Tentative, as in “only in my head so far.”

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What’s Going On

Hola, Reader-itos!  That’s my nod to Cinco de Mayo for this beautiful Saturday morning. I may or may not* be doing more nodding to the occasion later today, with tacos in my mouf and a cinco-de-margarito-drinko in my hand.

*I’m acting coy, as if there is the possibility I will be making other choices, but we both know the writing is on the taco-and-margarita wall for this evening.

So for today’s bloggie, I need to make it a quickie, and we both know that sometimes a quickie does the trick just fine. For imparting all my words to you, Reader. That’s exactly what I meant, because I’m a lady. Emphasis on the “lay.”* Ahem.

*the emphasis is mostly on the “lay” if we’re referring to my reclined position while I’m snoozing away in bed. I’m sure that’s exactly what you were thinking, amiright, Reader?

Anyway, back to the point, or else this will NOT be the promised quickie.

1. Firstly, I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath to know how my floor-orgy turned out. I’m super-happy to report that the hand job with lots of alcohol in a giant bucket did the trick!  I have a squeaky-clean and sanitized floor and it has held up all. week. long. In addition to cleaning up the mess that I made with my borax-and-vinegar-and-baking-soda-and-murphy’s-oil-soap concoction,  I’ve finally gotten rid of the all the lingering spots that seemed to reappear shortly after washing.

2. The bad news is, I am now compelled to follow through with the entire rest of the floors, and I’m not sure my old-ass-broken-down-knees-of-a-ninety-year-old are up to that task. Imma gonna try, though. At some point. Not necessarily this weekend. I need to work up to it in my mind.

3. P.S., the tea-bagging trick seemed to work, too! I only tried it on a few planks of the floor to test it out before went full-tea-bagging on the entire thing, but I also think that might be in my future. Aren’t you jealous you’re not me, Reader?? Because of all the fun I have planned? It’s fun. Fun fun fun.

4. In other news, we finally got all caught up on the tales of the Walking Dead.  We’ve been three episodes behind, and no one cares that I’ve watched t.v., but I did need to get my words out. It could end right there for me. It was a good ending, it had an ending that was acceptable, and I’m ready to move on from it. I may consider that the ending regardless if they create more episodes. So there, Writers and Producers.

5. Other media that has captured my attention lately has been making good on reading more books this year.  One of the first that I read this year was The Paris Wife, and then I got a little obsessed with Hemmingway, his wives and their lives and THEN last night I got the chance to meet the author and get a copy of her new book, and also touch and hug her and let’s just say I get super-excitable when I meet people I admire so much and my mouth runs away from me and I can’t stop gushing and I want to put her in my pocket and take her home with me and sit around drinking wine and eating cakes with her.  

6. She wasn’t up for the plan of coming home with me and eating cakes, but she did pose pretty for a picture and remembered how to spell my name when I bought another book of hers and got back in line to get the second one signed. So basically she’s probably planning on cyberstalking ME now, remembering how to spell my name so she can look me up. Except she doesn’t need to look very far to find me, because I already friend requested her months ago on Facebook and she accepted my proposal so basically we’re married.

7. It was hot in the library and my hair is super-frizzy and big.

8. I got to enjoy the evening with my cousin, who kept me in check from committing any crimes and being on a stalker list, and also it makes me happy to just be in her company for several hours at a time. She has good energy, and an even better laugh. She’s a tonic to my soul.

9. Speaking of tonic, I recently had a gin martini with ELDERFLOWER liquor thrown into the mix, and I think I’ve found my summer patio drink. It was a bouquet of deliciousness bursting in my mouth. Try one. Better yet, come over and join me on the deck and try one. As the saying goes, drinking loves company.

10. I bought a new outdoor rug for the patio yesterday, so I’m going to finish up getting that deck ready for said drinking and company.  I started cleaning up all the furniture a couple weekends ago, but then it got cold again and rained and rained and rained.  Today is the day to finish it all up.

And that, Reader, is ten things to tell you this morning. What’s new with you? Tell me something new to try (drink, book, tv show, hair-de-frizzer). And clear your calendar for a drinkie invite. No sense letting a perfectly cute patio go to waste. Also, @PaulaMcClain, you’re invited anytime. We can talk about how we’re both wide-reaching authors with a large readership.  We’re practically twinsies.  You’re just a tich taller.

All That’s Missing is the Brown-Chicken-Brown-Cow

Last night left my phone in my purse (instead of placing it my nightstand) and lemmee tell you, it was …. freeing? …. to not be on my phone checking dumbness at 2 a.m. (when I went to bed, because I’m a par-tay-er, Reader!). But the VERY BEST PART of not having my phone on my nightstand was Sunday morning, when I wasn’t rolling over and checking the time, and thinking to myself, “I should really be getting up, my day is being squandered!”

I wasn’t thinking any of that, because I had no idea what time it actually was, and so I’d assume it was still very early in the morning and I’d roll over and go back to sleep. Like it was my job.

Purry joined me at my job today.  She worked side-by-side with me all night and into the morning. Because she’s dedicated, Reader. And a hard worker. She will be getting an exceeds expectations in her job review this year, with an added bonus of Pounce treats.

When we finally decided we’d filled up our sleep-tanks, I just knew it must be the heat of the afternoon. I felt refreshed and bouncy when I sprang* outta bed. And imagine my delight when I found it out was only 10:30 in the morning, Reader! It was still MORNING!!

*let’s face facts, my “sprang-ing” at any time is a very loosely interpreted word.

My Sunday Funday is shaking out to be a day of Things to Do, instead of “and on the seventh day we rested all day and not just the morning part.”  I would say it’s all my own fault, except a lot of the blame must be shared by Product Makers and the Internet, for providing misleading information, also known in today’s day and age as Fake News. Because I’ve been long convinced that Murphy’s Oil Soap is the shitttzz to use on hardwood, including hardwood floors.

But guess what I’ve recently learned, Reader? Anything with the word “Soap” in it is AWFUL for use on hardwood floors.

Guess what else I’ve learned, Reader? Even worse for hardwood floors are products that are made and say “Hardwood Floor Cleaner” on them!

This one? Awful awful awful reviews on hardwood floor cleaning websites. 

Have I used this before?

Of course. This, and just about every other hardwood floor cleaning product out there.  This, per an independent review site:

Orange Glo restores the shine of polyurethaned floors, but only temporarily. In fact, wood floors look fabulous immediately when you use Orange Glo. Orange Glo leaves a grimy build-up or residue on hardwood floors. This filmy residue will appear in dull streaks that are very tricky to remove. The sticky residue can often be so thick that you literally have to scrape it off! 

My floors are constantly grabbing every piece of dirt and scuff, and look dirty and dull all the time, which I usually blame on my seven three cats and one messy mister.

It all came to a head last weekend, when I had the misguided brilliant idea to use a little borax, vinegar, baking soda and a squirt of Dawn dishwashing liquid to really get my floors deep-cleaned.

Because I had read that recipe online for cleaning my patio furniture, and then I got really invested in reading about the many uses of good, ol’ fashioned Borax, and it all just culminated into one awful, sticky, dirt-and-foot-print attracting MESS, all over my bedroom floor.

Now, this is where Trixie’s Laziness really pays off. Because Trixie only did one area of the floors with this concoction, and not the entire house.

I excitedly waited to see how amazing and shiny and clean my floors would be upon drying.

And boy, howdy, was I in for an amazing surprise.

Every. Single. Toe imprint. Swipe of the mop. Run of the dishrag. Dirt. Dust. Cat hair. Was laid across my floors for my enjoyment.

So I was re-mopping my floors at around 11 p.m., because while I may look like a slobby housekeeper, dirt like that causes me great unrest and it was easier for me to remop and get a restful night’s sleep than tossing and turning thinking about those floors.

I filled a hot steaming bucket with water and a splash of Murphy’s Oil Soap.

Upon drying, no difference, except maybe a tich worse.

For the next two days My Mister gave it a hand-job with just a wet cloth and some hard scrubbing.

It was marginally  improved.

I filled another bucket of hot water and clear vinegar to just cut right through the crap.

Again, only a slight improvement, and you could just feel the grit when you touched the floor.

So that brought me to Friday morning, when I decided I’d try pure old rubbing alcohol on a cloth in a small section near the edge and see what happens.

This was the first solution that left me with a slick-as-a-whistle feeling floor once again. Except I only had a teensy bit of rubbing alcohol left, so the project has been saved up for today.

Now there’s a buncha alcohol and a hand job in my very near future, Reader. Because I know how to enjoy my weekends, amiright?!

If this doesn’t work, I’m going to tea-bag the floors next, per this little nugget I read on the Internet today:

You can also use boiling water and two teabags to clean hardwood floors. The tannic acid in tea creates a beautiful shine. Let two teabags steep in the boiling water for a few minutes. Pour the tea into a bucket. Take a soft cloth and wring it out in the tea. The cloth merely needs to be damp, not soaked. This will enable the floor to dry quickly. Wash the floor and be ready to be amazed by the sheen.

Come over, grab a rag and join me on all fours. We’ll turn this day into a floor orgy in the bedroom. We can film it and make it our own version of a dirty movie, one that Heloise would approve.

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