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The Bang Bang Theories

Caught In a Trap

Hi there, Reader, Hey.  So Trixie BB is on her way to marking off another year of life with her b-day looming quickly, and ya know, it’s not been exactly an EASY year, but it has been sprinkled with a whole buncha wonderful moments and people and learnings along the way.

I’ve been employed, unemployed, and now re-employed.  I never wrote that book while I had four months off, nor did I paint one picture, finish one craft project, or start a work-out routine. I did, however, finally get my house de-catted, which took a whole bunch of Nature’s Miracle and a black light. So I’m counting that as a win, and I didn’t have to kill any of ’em for their bad behavior. Yet. A couple of my little a-holes are still on notice.

I’ve reconnected with friends that I hadn’t seen in YEARS, which has been the most excellent part of this year.  Friends who are in Kentucky, Roatan, Houston, and upstate NY. Friends from high school and work and chance meetings on previous trips, people I haven’t seen in many years whom* I was fortunate to see and reconnect with again.

*look at me being all fancy with using “whom” – which may or may not be used correctly, but I’m going with it, because it’s Fancy Sunday. 

I’ve travelled to new places, including Turks & Caicos, Cuba, Upstate NY, Houston and close-to-home Kentucky.

My heart has the wanderlust, even still.  So many places still to explore, so many things I yearn to see. My well-intentioned tribe of fans have encouraged me to get a travelling job, but I can’t seem to quite be able to figure that out.

I’ve said goodbye to people who were friends, and made brand-spankin’ new ones.

My heart remains open.

It’s been an interesting year to find out who people are, as well as finding out more about myself along the way. What I will tolerate, and what  – and who – I won’t. It creates a churn of changes, and times of incredible sadness, but like all things, the only way to get through it is to keep moving forward. I’m still working on those parts.

It’s been a good enough year, Reader.

I still have a lot of things I want to do.  Things I’m working on. Things that may never get done, but I think about doing nonetheless. Sometimes it’s easy to feel stalled out, and I’ve been beating myself up a little bit about all the things I haven’t accomplished. Sometimes other people do the beating-up for me, too, even when their intentions are good. I know what I haven’t done yet, so no thanks for the reminder.

It’s easy to fall into the negative-self mind trap, and it’s work to dig yourself out. I’m digging right now, Reader.  Because social media makes it easy to compare yourself to others who seem to have it all, and that is a trap.  A super-bad, Indiana-Jones-Falling-Into-a-Pit-of-Snakes trap. It makes me wonder if I’m the one setting the trap for others, because on the social media surface, my life looks like one fun ride after another.  I mean, let’s face facts, I got a sloooow and amazing hug from Olivia the Sloth while on an amazingly beautiful Caribbean island. If that’s not a “look at my super-fun life” trap, I don’t know what is.

Don’t step into that trap.

Reader, it’s just a mostly normal life, by middle-privilege standards. 

It’s ups and downs and dirty floors and too much laundry and unfulfilled promises to myself which play round and round in my mind all damn day.

It’s rotten tomatoes in the veggie bin, and a porch that needs winterized and oh-my-lawd, I’ve accomplished nothing of substance in my life and now I’m too damn old.

It’s all those things, but it’s also bright and shiny in spots, and those are the spots you might see, as those are my favorite spots, so I share them easily because they are the best parts that make me the happiest.

But don’t fall into these traps I may have unintentionally set. 

I’m going to side-step those traps that have been set by others today, and focus on being enough, right for this moment, for right now.  

Because I know that everything can’t be as wonderful as it appears on line, and those traps come with dirty floors, too, and just because I haven’t done it yet doesn’t mean I won’t or can’t. I’ve got to steer clear of the traps that drag me down.

Let’s make it a November to Remember, for all the right reasons, Reader. I’m going to go make today just a little bit better. Starting with mowing the lawn, because when I’m in a trap and feeling as if I’ve accomplished nothing? I’m going to go and accomplish something that gives back an immediate result.

*p.s., leave me a comment with another line from the blog title reference and you’ll win a Major Award, Reader. 

**p.p.s. – that Major Award may or may not be something that I didn’t sell at a flea market yesterday.  I know, I know, now you REALLY want to win! Don’t fret, there’s enough for everyone, Reader. 



The Great Escape

Fun Fact:  Every time I use a public restroom, I do a silent evaluation of it’s design for successful evasion of a Terminator.  

Because don’t we all do that same evaluation, Reader??

I mean, it’s an important thing to consider, and if you think it couldn’t happen, so did Sarah Connor and we both know that she was in grave danger while she was just la-dee-dah-deeing her way though the evening until she realized a TERMINATOR was after her and she tried to hide in an ill-equipped-for-hiding-from-a-Terminator public bathroom.

So I’ve been studying and learning, Reader.

It always pays to be prepared for a Terminator Evasion.

You may be asking what criteria makes for a well-equipped-for-Terminator-evasion bathroom.

Let’s do it by the numbers, Reader, since we’re already in the room for doing a number one and/or a number two.

#1 – A place to HIDE where you can’t be spied from underneath the doorway. 

When I first pushed open the door for this food court restroom in a suburban mall, I was struck by the wide and stable ledge right above the toity, which even my non-limber legs could access. And did I mention it was WIDE? You could easily climb from the toilet onto that ledge and keep yourself hidden from underneath-the-door-looking Terminators.

As an aside, it also had a nice wall treatment that would make any Househunters-Twenty-Year-Old-Newlywed Couple on a billion-dollar budget proud.

The bathroom below also passed muster, despite it’s lack of a built-in shelf.  There was solid wall to partially obscure the back of the toilet, which could keep you well-hidden from Terminator View, if you were pancake thin at least. In fact, this might even be BETTER than a full-size shelf, as perhaps a Terminator Eye can’t see through that super-solid wall, which we hope is crafted from impenetrable*-by-a-terminator-eye steel.

*wow oh wow, Reader, did I have a tough time figuring out how to spell impenetrable – some attempts include imprentatble, inpenatrrable, imprentatable  … I finally had to ask My Mister because I was confusing Google! and as he asked me what I was trying to spell, I had such a difficult time even pronouncing the word I had to provide this definition for him to try to help me:  Him: “what are you trying to spell??” TBB: “you know, that word for when something is so solid, even Superman’s eyes can’t see through it.”

#2/ Solid-closing doors, without any thigh-gap. 

Reader, we’ve all been in those public restrooms that leave a lot of door gap between you and the people at the sink. It’s unsettling, and frankly unnecessary.

These doors were in a MCDONALD’s, and if they can get the doors to snuggly meet the walls, well, surely every other public restroom should be able to do so, too.

Also, nice work on the stripes, McDonalds. You must be spending your evenings and weekends watching a lot of HGTV as well.

#3/ Enough space between stall and ceiling where you can CLIMB over your stall wall and into a neighboring stall, as you elude capture and subsequent death from a Terminator. 

Floor-to-ceiling fancy bathroom stalls are not going to cut it in the event that a damn Terminator is after you to thwart your attempt to make a future baby that can save the future world.

This bathroom was spot-on in it’s design for stall hopping.

First, of course the ledge above the toilet extended the full length of the very spacious stall. That stall was so roomy, in fact, you could have a full-out anxiety attack complete with hyperventilating and the need to pace back and forth for a moment to collect your thoughts as you come to the decision to climb up and over.

The INGENIOUS part of this design?? The package and purse hooks NEAR the ledge, positioned right where you’d need a little foot boost up as you climbed over.

#3/ A second escape route from the bathroom. 

One escape route is never a good idea, Reader, yet almost every public restroom only has one in/out door. I’ve yet to find one with a solid, accessible second egress.

I think those are transom windows at the top??

In reviewing this photo, I believe those are transom windows, but I’m not sure if they were decorative only, or if they could be busted out and you could shimmy through and escape a Terminator. It seems like you wouldn’t win, so let’s talk about the last item needed to escape a Terminator in a public restroom.

#4/ A Distraction.

Maybe your very best weapon to distract a terminator could come from the very reason you went into the public restroom to begin with.

I’m not saying anything, I’m just saying.  Use your resources. Most of us don’t carry a vat of molten led in our purses to stop a Terminator. It’s the closest you can come to having an acid material at your disposal, and maybe – just maybe – it could work for a momentary distraction while you ran outta there and into the arms of Kyle Reese where you proceed to make your future save-the-world baby.

At the very least, using the Distraction that God Gave You could potentially thwart the evil of Michael Myers, because if you’ve seen the latest Halloween Movie, you should be even more aware of your public restroom escape routes, Reader.

Fighting a Terminator or a Michael Myers is no time to be a lady.

Those are the tips I’ve been cultivating for many years now, Reader.  And you’ve been wondering why I haven’t written the next Great American Novel. My head is plumb full-up with the logistics of escaping from a public restroom in the event a futuristic metal man is after me.

May the odds be ever in your favor should you face a Terminator in a public restroom. You can thank me later.

ps. guys, now you know why girls spend so much time in the restroom. we’re taking pictures to document our escape methods.

pps. yes, i’ve taken pictures of public restrooms, in the name of RESEARCH, Reader, for YOU. Because I’m an EDUCATOR, and not a creepy-public-restroom-photo-taker. I should get awarded a Ph.D for this dissertation and also a Nobel Peace Prize for my dedication to Humanity vs. Terminators.  it’s an unfair world and I do my work without an expectation of kudos, Reader. You’re welcome anyway.


Some days start out like any ol’ ordinary day, with ordinary happenings, and ordinary wash-rinse-repeat occurrences of events.

And then some days turn into days of unexpected, sheer unbridled joy.

When I stopped over in Roaton, Honduras*, little did I know how I was going to make some monkey’s day.

*yes, another mini-retirement trip, go ahead and hate me. I would, too, if it weren’t me having the fun.

When we were waiting to meet up with my friendie who moved to Roatan two years ago, I laid out ten large to get a couple-ah braids on my head because it was hot and my head was getting sweaty and it was only nine in the a.m.  My friendie said the temperature averages 84 degrees every day, but Oh-My-Garth, is that one hella hot 84 degrees down there.  So I got the braids and was a much happier hottie.

And that was before I even knew how much joy those two braids were going to bring.

We stopped at a monkey and sloth* sanctuary on the island, specifically for the opportunity for a sloth hug, and the monkey’s were part of the package.

*a story about slothing my or may not be coming soon. I’m undependable here. 

We had our sloth experience – which was Ah. Mazing. – and I wanted to trade in my monkey experience for an extra slothing, but boy howdy I’m glad I wasn’t able, or these monkeys sure would have missed out on a lot. I would have hated to unknowingly denied some monkey business.

The rule with the monkeys was you just had to go stand in the enclosure and let them come to you. Unlike a sloth, you can’t force their love and hugs.

We were advised before entering the enclosure that they are a buncha little thieving monkeys and we had to get rid of anything removable or in pockets.

Sure enough, as soon as we stepped in the enclosure, one tried to take out a girl’s earrings and the other opened our friend’s pockets and had his little monkey hand extended all the way in there, searching for a treasure.

This face of mine? Pure, unbridled joy.

These ten dollar braids? Were all these little fella’s needed to be happy about their day.

Notice how my head is being KISSED? Because he loved my scalp.

And then he got to some serious work.

He looked me over high and low.

No hair was left unturned…

He was so tired from working so hard, he decided to take a seat…

And that’s how I ended up with a monkey’s b-hole directly on my skin.

I can’t fault him. It apparently is tireless work, looking me over from tip to top.

After a few more comprehensive searches…..

His job was complete, and he decided I should see no evil….

And that’s how I fell in love with a capuchin monkey-stylist-groomer and now want to build a giant enclosure at Chez Bang Bang and pad it with monkeys and sloths that I’ve rescued from their yucky lives looking at Caribbean waters.  Because of course they’d love to live here with me and get all the hugs, all the time.  


**did you really think I’d title this “Monkey Business,” Reader?? Because while I would have enjoyed that, it seemed too predictable so now I’m making you work for it a little instead.

Grizzly Bang Bang

Reader, it only took  me umpteen number of years and that same umpteen number of tries before I finally learned how to make sausage gravy.

I know, you’re jelly of my #LifeGoals right now.  And probably hate me even more for using the term “jelly” just now. What can I say, I’m high on the fatty and starchy goodness of southern cooking.

As the old adage goes, “Don’t judge a gravy by it’s appearance.” It’s much more delicious than it looks.


My mama used to make sausage gravy. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was lumpy. It just seemed so tricky and unpredictable.


I’ve learned the secrets to success, and have repeated these successful results twice in a row now, so it’s all very scientific proven! And also, can a seamstress who’s a wizard with a needle and thread please stop in and let out the waistband of my yoga-that-has-never-actually-done-yoga pants??

If you, too, have struggled with the unknown secrets of the universe of gravy-making, it’s all revealed right here.  No go on. Get your stretchy pants on and have a hearty breakfast. All the cool kids are doing it. Like a buncha wild bears, bulking up for a long, cold winter.


Slow on the Take

Apparently I can’t take a hint, or even an overt.

A STACK* of Danger/Recall reminders has been consistently mailed to Chez Bang Bang for my oldish-but-goodish car, and I never seemed to get around to fixing the situation.

*this is just the latest round that had piled up, believe you me, they have been consistent and frequent, unlike my trips to the gym, stop judging me, Reader! 

A couple of days ago I realized:

1/ it was a foolish to be warned much like Will Robinson and not heed said warnings

2/  i have pee-lenty of time to get this sitch addressed

3/ for Garth’s sake, just take care of it already, Me!

So the car has been scheduled for her recall repair.  Because you only have to tell me dozens and dozens of times for me to get the message.


Two Bits.

Me, muttering to myself yesterday morning while getting dressed: “Well, I’ve failed.”

My Mister: “Failed at what??”

Trixie Bang Bang: “Leggings.”

This was the Me in my mind, when I purchased said leggings:

It was far far far from Reality Me.

Reality Me had a sagging crotch and accentuated lumps, particularly around the knee area, and then I was mad because remember how I’ve been making the squat challenge my bitch?? Didn’t that sort of effort* earn the right to wear Fall Leggings??

*well, “effort” may or may not be continuous, but it happens occasionally, Reader, and gol’dern it, occasional squats should count for something. Otherwise it’s just rude, quite frankly.

They’re going to start hanging Not Wanted posters of me at TJ Maxx, for all the returning that’s been happening lately. 

Yes, the effort that was spent taking that picture far far far exceeds the payoff. But where do I have to go today, Reader? Other than to TJ Maxx, to return a pair of maybe-would-fit-a-cat leggings.

Yesterday at TJ Maxx I returned an Epilady contraption. I purchased it in an effort to get super-smooth in all my areas because – I know this is going to come as a surprise – I’m leaving on a jet plane soonish, and areas will be exposed to sunlight and those areas should be smooth. So when I saw the $8 Epilady that promised to “remove hairs at the root!,” Well, I put that right into my buggy because doesn’t that sound like a fun night at home!?! Just ripping out my hairs AT THE ROOT!  Good and fun times, come over Reader, for parlor games.

I tried it on a variety* of areas, Reader, and it did nothing.


I did inform the cashier it had been tested and deemed a hunka junk, and hopefully she heeded that warning of “it’s been tested” to throw it in the trash herself and then give herself a Silkwood Shower on her hands.

I noticed her scrutinizing it for hairs. She wouldn’t find any, because it didn’t work.  Nothing on my body was ripped out at the roots, unfortunately.

In Other News of Things I Didn’t Buy But Wondered About, they had this on the rack at the Maxx:


I looked it over intently for a while because – maybe, possibly,  because I’m now a lady* of a certain age** – I couldn’t fathom a scenario when I would need an emergency shave without water, sink or shower available.

*as always, “lady” is used in the loosest sense of the word. me being the same “lady” who returned a hair-ripper outter that was tested on my Bourdain areas (parts unknown). 

**not in my twenties, when I may or may not have used the “unshaven legs” theory for deterring myself from unscheduled sexing around town, but then maybe I wanted to change my mind after several hours at the bar and a little flirting and then I would do it anyway, except now with super-prickly legs. like we all did, Reader, so shush your superiority act. 

Except maybe on Survivor? Or Naked and Afraid? But if you only get one important item to bring, would this be my choice over, say, a lighter??

l don’t know, Reader.

Should I have bought those shave-anywhere-razors? Let’s chat about the possible scenarios where these would be handy. Your turn, as I’m already out of ideas other than roughing-it reality t.v. shows.


Planting The Seeds

Ya’ll, I decided it was only fair* to post actual pictures of the actual haul from my actual farm.

*fair to whom, no one exactly knows, since no one was questioning fairness

I started the arduous task of de-decking yesterday afternoon, as we had a bright and sunshine-y day here at Chez Bang Bang.

Since there’s stirrings of a rumor of frost I determined it was now or never to pluck my k-kup sized tomatoes from their stalks and pitched all of the plants from the porch into the ravine, hoping some deer enjoy the tomato stalks, or maybe, just maybe they will re-root themselves into the ground on the hillside and take hold and multiply and I’ll have natural born tomatoes next year with zero effort on my part.

Because in my mind I’d like to believe that’s how gardening works.

Back in my olden days, when I was Mrs., I was told a tale by that Bad Mr that while he was growing up wild asparagus grew alongside the road and the family would just stop and pick it whenever they had a hankering. Just right there, on the roadside, cropping up.

That was the story I was thinking about when the tomato plants were wung into the ravine. Next year we will have creekside tomatoes just springing up from Mother Earth, there for the picking, with no deer or anything else coming along to eat them before I get to them. I imagine an entire hillside of free-range tomatoes growing.

Come live with me in my fantasy world, Reader. It’s fun here. Except we have a little insomnia, which is why we’re up at this ungodly hour. Which for most of you is just the normal hour of being up, you with your showoffy jobs and whatnot, but lawdy does it feel young in the day to me.

Farmer Bang Bang: The Finale

Remember that time back in the beginning of summer – which seems so so so so long ago already – when I embarked on the tilling of the soils and the farming of the land?  Except maybe instead of tilling and hoeing, I was just throwing potting soil into a planter and stuffing in a couple of tomato plants, but we don’t need to get caught up in those minor details, amiright, Reader? Right.

My farm was thriving when I had it in the front of the house. The deer were greatly enjoying the buffet I had planted for them. So I had to move my farm to my back deck, where there was still sunshine and it was easily watered, but the deer were thwarted from consuming my hard work.

But my farm refused to thrive. The plants looked stringy, and they would flower, but then the flowers would just wither up and not become a tomato. It was making me mad at my farm.

Then I had kump’ney in July, and my kump’ney recommended some fertilizer and some stakes to tie ’em up.  I thought fertilizer was hokum, and not really good for much, so I hadn’t bothered.

But I heeded her advice and I spent additional dollars on my farm, and then the rains came in and they started to flourish!

The fertilizer was working!

They were big and bushy and green and there were tiny tomatoes and I could almost taste them on my sammiches and fried up green in my skillet.


They stalled out at about the size of a golf ball.

The summer moved on. My golf ball tomatoes just …. stayed.  Then some of them began to rot from the bottom.

I’d twist the pots to catch the sun differently, water water water. Still golf balls.

The September came. And I still had enjoyed only one golf-ball sized tomato from my farm.

I persisted. And they started getting larger. And the hint of yellow color began seeping under their skin.

I was going to finally reap what I’d sown, Reader, and lawdy, was I ready for those homegrown ripe tomatoes! Lightly salted sliced ripe tomatoes on buttered toast is one of my all-time favorite breakfast/lunch treats during the summer months, and I was ready for it.

My Harvest was finally ready and it was time to gather!


DJ was supervising the bounty.  And also probably sniffing to see if they were strawberries, which are his favorite thing ever to roll around in. 

He sniffed the harvest and walked on by, disappointed.

So now you’re thinking, “My, oh, my, that Trixie sure does know how to grow a potted farm!” And you’re looking at my bowl of goodness with envy.

The rest of the story may or may not be true.

Perhaps Trixie never actually harvested more than the one golf-ball sized tomato from her farm.

Perhaps Trixie had to buy a package of tomatoes from Costco if she wanted to enjoy toast and tomatoes.

Perhaps the softball sized tomatoes are still just in the planted pots thinking about maybe turning a warmer shade of green before the first frost settles in and she hasn’t enjoyed any of the fruits of her labors, unless those labors were shopping and opening the plastic on the giant container of tomatoes she purchased for $6.

Perhaps, as her summer kump’ney recently suggested, “Maybe you should just pick them while they’re green and put them in a paper bag and they’ll ripen eventually,” Trixie might try this.

And lastly, perhaps next summer Trixie will once again spend $20.94 and yield one golf-ball sized tomato because while she is many adjectives, she is not a quitter. Even when Costco rubs her nose right in it.



As Real As It May Seem

Last night I protected my friendie’s vagina from a very aggressive poltergeist.

You are probably now thinking just how boring your own Saturday night is by comparison.

Before you come down too hard on yourself for failing on the weekend, know that all that poltergeist-ing and vagina protecting was really just in a very vivid dream, which also makes me think I’d better lay off the two-beers + Benedryl at night.

However.  I do want the credit for protecting my friendie’s virtue EVEN IN MY SLEEP, because I’m that good of a friend.

I was NOT going to let some poltergeist cast a spell on her, rendering her in a sleeping-beauty kinda sleep and THEN try to see what she has going on under her wears. I grabbed up a wedding dress hoop/slip thing and shimmied her into it because obviously that is the ONLY way to protect a girls virtue from a phantom.  

The poltergeist sat there very dejected at his defeat.

I woke up feeling very noble and virtuous and also like the best friend ever because I took on a poltergeist and won. Because I care about the unsullying of vaginas. Unless you want your vagina sullied. We’re a no-judgement zone, remember, Reader.

Let’s just say that yes, this is a real and active friendie I have. It may have been YOU, Reader. You’re very lucky to have me, in case I haven’t told you that recently.

No one cares more about keeping your vagina safe from a poltergeist like I do. You’re welcome.

domo arigato look what i-bota

Good Morning, Reader! Or Good Some Other Time, if you’re not up and at ’em like ol’ Trixie Bang Bang seems to be lately, at the crack-of-oh-my-Garth-it’s-early!

For some reason I’ve been an Early Riser, which I know, I know, goes totally against who I am as a human being. But yet here I sit.

I’ve already Accomplished Things Today, and am highly considering throwing on my pants and going to the gym by 9 a.m. I think this is exactly like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and I’ve been snatched by something not me.

I’ve been running back and forth to my office and have even decided that today is the day to put everything in it’s place up there.  No more messing around.


You know what else isn’t messing around, Reader?

Wine. That’s what.

I drink …. ahem … on occasion. I mean not really as much as I may get credit for, actually. I’m not a huge drinker, especially at home, save for the few rumsy’s and cokesy’s that help me power through cleaning or inspire* my creativity.

*inspire is open to interpretation

But then I was at Target, which was a surprise in itself – wait, that’s wrong as I’m tying it! I was at WALMART, which is more like it because I’m unemployed! – sheesh, Me, that was only a few days ago and I had it that confused for even a second?? I’m starting to get a little worried that I’m losing brain cells at an alarming rate due to thinking inertia.

Anyhow, I hee-hawed around the wine department, thinking I’d like a little sumpin’ in the fridgie, and spotted the Bota Box of wine, which is equivalent to FOUR bottles of wine, by the way, in case you’re counting, Reader.

While I was in the haw part of the heeing and hawing, a very confused-looking guy said, “You seem to know a little about wine, can you tell me which ones have the screw top? We don’t have a corkscrew.”

Long story longer, I couldn’t really tell which had a screw top, but I think Barefoot brand does, but then it looked like everything else all foiled up so I couldn’t say with certainty. Here’s the longer part of the story: His girlfriend had sent him for a bottle of Reisling, and he wanted a giant bottle to “get her drunk, hee hee haw haw hee hee” – he literally said, “I want to get her drunk” and then laughed like he was joking but we both know, Reader, it was not a joke. But hey, I’m not here to judge motives? I was there to help him find the right wine to get the job done.

Since he knew nothing about wine, I told him if she wanted Reisling because of the sweetness, not all Reisling’s are created equally and that sweetness can’t be guaranteed. He ended up calling her and we Facetimed together, because why now, we’re in the middle of the wine aisle at Walnuts, so we became friends.

I could hear a couple of kids screeching around in the background.

We decided the safest bet for her was a moscato, since it’s guaranteed sweet, and the guy was super happy as it was a giant bottle under $12 and I stuck a corkscrew in his hand as an aside, and told him to be a Boyscout from now on and always be prepared.

And that’s how I managed to keep a four-bottles-worth of wine box in my own cart, because I was worn out from choosing her wine instead. This shouldn’t pose a problem, except see how it sits right next to my water container? And when I’d normally reach in to get some water, now I have super-easy options, and one even has a little pour spout so I don’t even have to lug anything OUT of the fridge?

Guess which option I’ve been choosing more often, Reader?

You’ll never guess.

If you guessed the wine option, you would be correct, Reader. If you did guess correctly, leave me a comment with your address and you’ll get a surprise prize in the mail. Because remember how I mentioned I’m going to clean out my office? That shitz gotta go somewhere.

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