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The Bang Bang Theories

Sump’in’s Cookin’

Because it’s November in the Northeast, it’s doing a whole buncha this outdoors today:

We were even treated to a little bit of snowy slush.

Which is no surprise to any of us, so no complaining allowed.

When I went to take a picture of the deck the kittens ran outside and were very unpleasantly surprised.  DJ slid on the leaves on the deck and then was frightened to walk to come back inside. He’s like his mama like that – we don’t like slipping on surfaces. This is why I outfit my tootsies in Yaktrax throughout the winter. I’m fiddy-one. I can’t risk breaking a hip. And we all know that it takes nothing on a surface to make me fall and scrape my knees and elbows.

So with all that going on outdoors, it puts me in a “make the house a home” cooking mood. My childhood Winter Sundays were filled with the smells of good things cooking on the stove. All. The. Time. Soups and chili and spaghetti and meatloafs and pot roasts.

Today I cooked.  Sausage-stuffed peppers in a homemade sauce. I mean, really homemade. I had some tomatoes that needed used up and so I boiled them, and peeled the skins and made my own sauce.

It seems to have turned out pretty good, although I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with it. Peppers and sausage isn’t exactly My Mister’s thang, yet here I am with a pot of it. I like it, but not a whole giant potful. Some lucky Reader may be getting a Meals on Wheels drop off this week.

My Instant Pot Wife and I also made the best chicken soup I think we’ve ever concocted. It was dinner.

And then I was petering out on the cooking extravaganza but still whipped up some chocolate chip cookie dough because they are most-requested during the holidays so I’m trying to get a head start and freezing them as I go.

Now you know what we had for supper. You can rest easy in that knowledge now.

 

*p.s. – I had started this much earlier in the day and had a plan in my head for something more interesting than what the hell I cooked, but I don’t know what happened to that thought. So then I was going to just delete this whole thing, but then that would be a waste of just my minutes, and now with my leaving this story up, it’s a waste of both of our minutes which feels more like how sharing works. You’re welcome.

Fiddy One.

So like the lucky ones, I had another birthday this past week. Fiddy One. As much as I may write a whole lotta hoopla about my day of birthing, in actuality I low-key it.

I worked.

I had lunch with my friendie.

I got many cards.

And a few cute little gifties, which were totally unexpected, unnecessary, but appreciated. This cute manikin cat to help me draw cats was one of my gifties. Because I commented to My Pencil that if I had an ounce of drawing talent, I would sit around and draw cats all day.

Speaking of my lack of artistic talent, I heard on Howard Stern last week that you can tell the grade a person stopped believing/evolving in their talent because that’s how they still draw/paint/whatever today. I kind of remember the exact time I stopped drawing as a kid. I was young, like six or something like that.  I didn’t know how to draw and make things look ‘good’ so I just sort of stopped and stuck with my rudimentary house with chimney and smoke curl and really bad flower, which I still draw the same way today.

I’ve got the talent of a six year old. My paintings reflect that. Ah well. Like i said in a prior post, some of you unlucky fucks are going to one day inherit those so jokes on you.

But back to celebrating me.  I also received this super cute foxy mug from my co-worker that says, “What the Fox” on the outside, which is maybe a hint for a work-appropriate way of being sweary vs. being actual sweary.

I went for drinks with some other friendies. It did not live up to my expectations because they have these kinda glasses at the bar and I was clear to my waiter I wanted a tiki cup and instead I got the plainest of plain glass, and had to steal My Mister’s umbrella outta his drink to even make my drinkie look slightly fun. 

I don’t think a request of a tiki mug at a tiki bar is that outlandish.  The drinks were strong, not quite as “vacation-ie” as I had hoped. I like my tiki vacation drinks to taste like liquid marijuana.

Maybe I am high maintenance after all. I have a lotta strong feelings about my cocktail, obvi.

My Mister and I tried out a new joint for dinner. It was good. Good enough. They specialized in chicken and whiskey. Our new chicken standard is Gus’s in Memphis, and this was equally good, just good/different.

Type 2 (me) enjoyed an indulgence in many treats. Lemon tart was one of them, and it was really great and I count it as a fruit because lemon.

I granted myself treats allowed on my birthday only.  Except I also had date nut cake, which is a fan favorite, and I enjoyed that on into Saturday as well. 

There was also a chocolate caking, so basically I think I covered the major birthday flavors except for white cake, but I had decided to move on from my love of white cake and replaced it with the date nut. Because I am constantly evolving, Reader.

A few friendies have suggested that I whopped it up for my birthday like the party animal. If that party consists of sleeping in bed and the animal is my cats, then yes, I am a party animal. Because on Friday after dinner and a drink we had thought of going to the neighborhood bar and instead we went to bed and watched My 600 lb. Life until I fell asleep before 10 p.m.

And then slept in the next morning til 10 a.m., so yep, partying.

In my pajamas.

Saturday night was much of the same. Had a fleeting thought of going to see a country band at my local dive bar, but that didn’t start until the ungodful hour of 9 p.m., and by that time I was back in my pajamas and in bed for the night.

I may or may not have had something to relax me, which also made me hungry and so I was eating cold shrimp & grits leftovers while standing in front of the open refrigerator. And that’s how we celebrate a fiddy-one birthday weekend around Chez Bang Bang.

Cheers, Me, to another year.

 

Pleasant T’s

Today whilst driving around town, I said to My Mister:

“Yesterday I performed a Random Act of Kindness!”

My Mister, without skipping a beat, “I doubt that.”

“How dare you, Sir! I did indeed perform that Oprah-worthy act! And it was on my very own birthday to boot!”

My Mister, “What did you do, donate a $100 towards mosquito netting for small African children again?”**

Trixie Bang Bang:  “Um, NICER. You know that shitty manicure that I got last week, that chipped and peeled completely off and I sent you a picture of the remains of 30 wasted dollars?

MM: “ummmhmmm….”

TBB: “Well, the random act of kindness was, I decided on the drive home last night NOT to stop at the nail place, open the door and throw this shitty polish all over their floor and run out.”

MM, turning to me in disbelief: “I’m pretty sure that’s not how kindness works! You don’t get credit in kindness for NOT going out of your way to be an asshole to someone!”

TBB: “I”m pretty sure you DO get credit for NOT acting like the asshole you want to be!”

MM:  “Nope, no credit for being a normal human.”

TBB: “Let’s agree to disagree.”

**there’s a whole story surrounding my generous contribution to African children’s well-being. Maybe we’ll get to that one day.

***now, Reader. Before you get all up in arms with me about having the desire to be an asshole towards the nail shop, there’s the rest of the story.  I had a manicure/shellac on Saturday. She did a crap-ass job filing, leaving them sharp and pointy on the edges, even after I pointed it out to her and asked her to file them properly. She whispered the file past the tips, having zero impact. She was doing just enough to get by. It started chipping on Sunday. Monday after work I stopped in to show them and the owner was a little confrontational about it. I excused it for a possible culture communication gap, but I was starting to get heated up at him.  Well, short story longer, she redid them, painting over the top of the polish that was on there. I thought this was the wrong method.  I was correct.  By Wednesday, chips. By Thursday, more. By Friday, lifting off.  Ergo, my random act of kindness opportunity. The Universe works in mysterious ways, indeed.

**** p.s. – I have a key chain that says, “throw kindness around like confetti.” And a shirt that says “Be A Nice Human.” Some days the struggle is real, Reader.

What You Wish For

Reader. I really need to set my wishing-bar a little higher. But I have been happily surprised to have had my second birthday wish granted early once again!

I came home from work tonight, breaking my wishy-washy agreement with myself of Gym, and pulled into and parked in my garage! That sentence deserves the !!!! because YES! Now, it’s not DONE, but it’s suitable. It’s not just junked up to the ceiling with things precariously resting on other things.

I do have a box of crap I want to sell or donate sitting in there, maybe I’m suitably inspired to take a photo of it tonight and post it. I had tried to sell the items individually, to no avail. But perhaps a grab-bag of crap might entice someone to make my junk their treasure. Christmas is a-comin’;  I’m sure there is something in there that would make a good secret santa gift. Hm. Maybe i’d better go check it out for my own needs. And that, Reader, is how I end up with a garage full o’ stuff.

That cleaned out garage so inspired me that I’ve already got a load of rugs in the washer, have cleaned up the litter boxes and mopped the floor in there to boot. All before even having a glass of water. Or wine. I think this calls for something more than water. I’m going to cheers to me, Reader. I suggest you find a reason to cheers to you, too. Because it’s Wednesday. And life’s unexpected. So find some reason to cheers to yourself. It’ll make Wednesday just a little less workday.

Fancy

Reader, I’m falling behind on prattling off about the nonsense of my life to you! I know, I know, your days just aren’t complete without my telling you the exciting goings on around Chez Bang Bang.

~hang on while I go refill my water glass. I just scarfed down tacos from The Bell for a very late and unsatisfactory dinner and have a hard shell stuck in my esophagus and also I need to hydrate, because I went to the GYM again, mo’fo’s, so BAM! and yes, I think the gym gets me all cocky and talking smack and callin’ my beloved Reader a mo’fo – blame the wild endorphins, Reader. And the doritos los taco.~

Okay, I’m back, whistle is wet and we’re here to tell stories. Or a story. Don’t get your expectations up, this isn’t going to be good, it’s only going to be a two minute distraction. I promise you nothing more than that, Reader.

So what’s up with me and all the gyming? And have I really been going?? Well, good question, Reader, good question.  See, how I make this feel like we’re participating in a conversation? You’re welcome.  As we discussed, I started making those dern Agreements with myself and sticking to my own word so as not to disappoint me. It’s been a rather useful tool for getting some stuff done. Not exciting and thrilling stuff, but I have reduced some cluttery spots and also have been keeping up a somewhat steady 3 or 4 times/week at the gym.  Small steps at a time, which I’m proud to announce I’m taking on my own two feet that have zero open wounds on them at the time of this writing!

I know, I know – I’m still a youngster to be dealing with this sort of nonsense. Yet here I am.

At my doctors appointment last week I accidentally blurted out, “I LOVE YOU!!” as I was leaving, and then I said something like along the lines of, ‘You know, for taking care of me,” but at today’s visit he was noticeably more friendly and showed me a picture of him when he was 17 from his iPhone – not naked, or of himself masturbating, which I’m learning is a thing you dirty guys like to do, yet no one has ever done that in front of me, and I feel a little jilted and also grateful – but anyway my dr and I chatted about what he did over the weekend, and plans for the holiday and he was cracking jokes and smiles, which is out of the ordinary.  He’s always caring, don’t get me wrong – which is frankly why I love him, he’s just so tender and knows how to care for broken things – but rarely is he this chatty. When I asked if I was all healed up, he looked up at me and held his fingers to his lips and said, “shush….we don’t want to scare it.”

This is meandering all over the place, but the point of that story is, as of right now – healed. Three rounds of cipro. I have been extra diligent about taking double does of probiotics, and let me tell you that involved a bit of orchestration. I had to take the probiotics at least an hour after the antibiotic, and while I had some food in my stomach to make sure some of probiotics had something to attach to and travel into my guts where it belongs, and anyway, short story longer, I was always looking at the clock to take a dose of some damn thing. And also having really great poops from all those probiotics. Just so you know. And now you can’t unknow. But the point of that sentence is, if you’re having trouble pooping, you should really try Arbonne Digestion Plus and you will be very happy with your poops.

We all want happy poops.

As for my big birthday wishes, I aimed for the stars and requested a healed foot – and a cleaned garage – for my two big birthday wishes. I already have happy poops, or I would have asked for that, too. I know, Reader. I know. Me and my princessy wishes. I’m high maintenance with my pie-in-the-sky dreamin’. I’m just like the Kardashians.

So yeah. The birthday is at the end of this week. I’ve so far made our really well on lunch treats and good company and even a little giftie which was totally unnecessary but appreciated. And now one of my big wishes has been delivered. I’m not going to hold my breath on the garage sitch. But maybe just maybe if I make an agreement with myself, I can make that wish come true, too.

 

Matters of the Heart

I have a Tan Line, Reader.  Proof of such is below.

I don’t really get “tanned” – I’m the frecklie-face with red-headed undertones beneath my naturally ~ ahem ~ blond hair.

I spent time in the sun on vacation sans sunblock, which can be a risky decision for me, and I know all about sunscreen and skin cancer and the hazards of Mother Nature, but I also know that some sun is good for you and metabolizes your Vitamin D and it raises the serotonin levels which is probably why I’m just so fucking happy sitting in the sun on a big ship in middle of the ocean with treats and drinks and people addressing my every whim.

Hm, maybe that also has something to do with my happiness sitting out there.

As if by magic, snackies show up in my room. 

So lotsa reasons to be happy out there.

But then all too soon it’s back to reality, and the only thing I have to remind me is a little bit of a tan and some future garage sale items, as My Mister calls my vacation purchases. I normally try really hard to keep my vacation purchases on the low end, because there is literally NOTHING I need from any of the places we visit, and also when I’m home I’m constantly thinking about working on the Magic of Tidying Up my life, which is anti-cluttering.  Notice I said “constantly thinking about” vs. actually doing. I’m low on the doing, but high on the thinking. In a lot of areas of my life, Reader, not just this one, in case you were wondering.

Anyway, I did make a few small purchases to also remind me of Places I’ve Gone long after my light tan line fades. This little handcrafted leather purse was among one of my purchases.

Now, I don’t need another purse – its one thing I have plenty of – yet the man walked by me on the beach in Costa Maya and I started looking at them and after he spent about 30 minutes and showed  me 50 purses that he was wearing like a pack-mule, MM informed me, “Pick one that you want, you WILL be buying one after making the poor guy go through all this.”

Yeah he really did earn that $30 or whatever it cost, plus it is truly hand-made pretty cute to boot. Time will tell if I ever actually get any use out of it, but hey – I left a few bucks on a rather poor island so I consider shopping there as part of my philanthropic work.

Since I’m a do-goody-gooder, I also left a few bucks behind with the silversmiths. 

There’s a long long long – way too long to be worth the payoff to you, Reader – story behind this ring. The cliffsnotes version is, two years ago when Joanne and I were on this very island, I walked by one of the jewelry shitshops and a ring with this green opal turned my head right around and it was coming home with me.

Except. One look led to another, and then another, and then the next thing you know, Joanne and I had a whole buncha jewelry we were ready to check out and then their stupid Costa-Mayan credit card machine didn’t work. So the guy herded us down to one of his other shops to see if the machine would work there.

It didn’t.

At this point, Joanne and I are getting a little concerned because we needed to get back on the ship. He kept assuring us we had plenty of time, and after several more long-minuted attempts to get our bling rung up, the final failed attempt happened and we had to leave, with the man following us back to the cruise ship – or at least attempting to – because we had cash in the room.

Except we didn’t have any time. Zero. To the point that the cruise ship had a golf cart waiting for us at the end of the pier and whisked our asses onto the ship, and then the captain made an announcement that they could finally get ready to sail because Joanne and Trixie – yes, he called us out over the loudspeaker BY NAME – were finally back on the ship. Without jewelry, so talk about a whole lotta wasted efforts.

And then after that, the captain called us out over the loud speaker at ever stop, reminding, “Joanne & Trixie, all aboard time is 4:30!”   Even better was when we were invited to a meet & greet with the captain & crew and I opted to nap so Joanne went alone and the captain was sure happy to meet her in person. He actually did have a good sense of humor about it all, actually. Luckily for us.

Over the next two years, I’d look at all of our travel stops for something similar, and could never find it. Seemed to be something specific to that area. So I was more than excited when this past cruise stopped right back at the scene of the incident and I was a woman with a mission.

I knew right where to go.

And there they were, several trays of styles with the green opal I had my heart set on. I wanted that rustic silver setting, nothing fancy, more casual.

Once I found it of course I wasn’t leaving Costa Maya without it.  The good news was, the ring was twenty bucks cheaper than what I was quoted two years earlier. It wasn’t exactly the same style, but the essence was the same. I got such a good deal I also picked up a silver bracelet and a pretty chain, and a $10 pair of silver earrings just because I wanted to offer more with my philanthropy.

I’m a giver. And a bad story ender, because it’s the end – or the beginning, I’m not really sure how it work – of Daylight Savings, and it’s 8:00 p.m. and I’m exhausted because it’s pitch dark outside and I want to jump into my pajamas and into bed. Which is what is happening in the next ten minutes or less, and means I have no brain thoughts to put into a happy ending for you.

Stop back. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

*this may be chock-full of typos, and I’m too bushed to care to read through it. Make it make sense in your own mind, Reader. You can do that much for me. It’s Birthday Month, in case you hadn’t heard the news.  I’m an old lady. I get to excuse a lot of my bad behavior away from here on out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who’s That Girl

A funny thing happened on the way to the gym tonight.

I actually went to the fucking gym.

Surprised myself even.  It’s the damn Agreements I’ve been making with myself. I agreed last night that I would stop in at Planet Fitness after work and do something, and then even though my body was crying out for pajamas and the telly, my mind said, “You made an agreement, a-hole, stop trying to wriggle out of your own damn decision,” and then I yelled at myself for calling me an a-hole because frankly that’s uncalled for.

In the end, the mind won out over the wants of the body, and then of course once I got there things in the body felt better, too, as I in my mind know they will.

I did some stuff. I rode the bike. I did some machines. I stretched around. Then I flounced out and headed for home at 7:15, which is one of the downfalls of stopping after work, now it’s quarter til nine at night and dinner is still cooking.

I’m making chicken soup because while I was on vacation, Winter arrived back home and now it’s damn cold and oh, guess what, I didn’t wear a jacket to work because much like my daddy’s irrational rationale who wouldn’t turn the heat on until November, I won’t put on a jacket until then. It’s a stubborn rule that makes zero sense, and lemme tell you, I was c-o-l-d on the way into & outta work, and then colder still after hitting the air with a little gym sweat on my skin.

When I’m sick next week, don’t blame the cruise, I washy-washy’ed my hands pee-lenty. It’s the Rule of the Coat that will do me in.

In other news, the cats have been rather misbehaved lately. We won’t go into all the details of their bad behaviors, because why, let’s just say that so far I’m counting it as an actual BLESSING that Kitty Purry hasn’t peed ON ME at night. Yet. I have kept her mashed down and nestled in my arms throughout the night to deter the thought that could flit across her cat-pee-brain.  But the bad behavior news is, if she WERE to pee on me, it wouldn’t be their collective worst behavior.

They are lucky, so so lucky they get to live here and I’m weak in the face of their cute faces.

Speaking of cute faces, there’s DJ putting the “sound” in sound asleep as he’s lying atop the soundbar, smack dab in front of the tv, but with an 80″ tv, it’s not much of an inconvenience. Except why here, DJ? Why not, he says, and then flips me the finger if he had fingers that is, in my imaginary conversation with him.

On that note, it’s dinner time, almost.  I’m going to think about which agreements I want to craft with myself for tomorrow because I have to put a lot of thought into them; apparently, I take me seriously at times.

From the Waist Up

What a difference a day makes, huh, Reader.  Rhetorical, hence the not-a-question.

One minute I’m looking at this view from my very schmancy-fancy suite.

The next thing ya know I’m staring at wet leaves and a sad dinner.

In case you haven’t heard my insufferable boasting via Facebook pictures, I floated around the Caribbean in a very schmancy room with a separate bedroom, walk-in closet, double sinks, and a bathtub I could swim a lap in. 

The balcony was so large, in a wrappy-aroundie kinda way, that I counted it as a workout walking from one end to the other.

At night:

There were TWO sets of sliding doors – one set from the bedroom, one set from the living room.

Of course, I count just about any type of movement as a workout. Because every step counts, Reader. My Fitbit that I don’t wear ever says so.

The balcony – I keep wanting to write “MY balcony” but it’s not mine at all, and in fact has someone else’s fancy ass sitting on it as of yesterday – had sides with different views it was so wrappy-aroundie big.

One side offered a table, two seats, a viewfinder thingy that I was too short to properly see out of and for the first two days I thought it was broken because all I could see was darkness. Then it was pointed out to me that I was looking up into the sky and not at a particular thing.

Back when I was officially 5’3, I could have probably seen just fine out of it. But the doctor’s office now insists I’m 5’1, which is re-fucking-diculous, because you’re going to tell me that I’ve shrunk 2″ at the age of 50?? If I live to 80 I’ll be 3’5, basing that on the fact that the shrinking must happen at an accelerated rate with age because I was ALWAYS 5’3 until recently.

I was so put-off by the 5’1 diagnosis that I insisted on a re-heighting, making them measure me three times.  I’m STILL not convinced, because they write the number down and then go consult with some conversion chart and then pronounce me 5’1.

Now, I don’t have a problem with 5’1. I have a problem with shrinking 2″.  I guess I could settle this debate at home by marking my wall and measuring myself, however that seems like a bit more work than I’m interested in investing, except maybe now that I’ve typed it out loud I may get that done today after all. I’m all about making agreements with myself since I delved into reading my latest be-a-better-me book The Well Life while I was sitting on another section of my the, sheesh, Reader I know it’s not MINE, stop yelling at me! balcony.

I sat out there and got some sun and read all about making agreements with myself, and forgiving myself as well as other a-holes who have traipsed in and out of my life, and maybe some of it is sinking in because man alive did I get a lot of my “agreements” accomplished in the first night since I’ve been home. Agreements are different from goals, because you tell yourself why you’ll be happier with accomplishing whatever it is, instead of just checking something off a list. For me, it seems to be a bit more motivating.

Except I’m still having a struggle with Being a Nice Human.  I literally have a shirt that says BE A NICE HUMAN as a reminder to myself and others. 

It’s not as easy as the big block letters would lead you to believe. Just this morning I told someone to Fuck Off via the interwebs.  Because they were being an a-hole towards me, and the next thing you know I’m typing fuck you and MYOB.

Serenity Now. 

So basically I’m an ongoing work in progress and a contradiction.

But back to this mack daddy balcony.  There was a little quiet nook on one side that overlooked the water.

The other side wrapped to the interior / back of the ship, where we could enjoy the theater shows at night whilst in my pajamas….

….or watch people rock climb from the comfort of my pajamas while shoving small caramel cheesecakes in my cakehole. 

The take-away is, I like to sit around in my pajamas. A lot. Probably because they are the only thing that’s comfy after all the small cakes. And the not-so-small cakes:

Yes, that actually was the dessert plank at our dinner table one night.

Yes, I tried all of them.  Because see photo above.

This was my THE balcony at night, by the way.

One day I walked out on the balcony to hang up my bathing suit so it could dry off, and I traipsed out in only my pajama top, sans bottoms.

This conversation resulted:

Him: “you know, people can SEE you out there!”

Me: “yeah, but I’m only naked from the pussy down.”

So basically pussy-down naked is invisible.

In case you didn’t know.

And now you know. You’re welcome.

Still.

I sometimes need to stop the cacophony of thoughts that swirl ’round in my head and just be still for a moment and remind myself to look around without thinking a million things that have nothing to do with what’s right in front of me.

When I practice this, I can feel a noticeable shift in where I am. It’s fleeting, however, and I can’t make it last for more than a moment or two. Thoughts just want to wander on to the next thing, despite the really great thing right in front of you.

This is my view right now.   It’s one of my very favorite things, to look out onto beautiful ocean waters.  Last night I stood on our balcony for a moment and tried to breathe in the night a little, reminding myself that I am lucky.

Lucky to be here. On this ship. In this room. Surrounded by water – big water.  Yet room service is a click away.  With people I love and care about.

While I’ve been gone doing this, my family back home was saying goodbye to Our Girl HB, who died last week at the age of 24 from a chronic horrible-awful-we-hate-it-so-hard illness. I didn’t spend a lot of time in HB’s life – life got in the way. But this girl. Man, she was something special. She radiated brightness from within, and you wanted to know her and claim her as yours. I don’t say much about other people’s business on here, as that’s their stories to tell so we won’t get into a lot of detail, Reader. But my part of the story is, we lost a shiny star from our family this past week. It’s made my family that I love so much, and myself, sad and cry-ie.  I’ve felt badly that my trip collided with the celebration of her life, but I’m trying to stand still in my brain and really be grateful.

For what we had.

For what I have.

For in this moment is everything.

 

Fetish

It was clean-out-the-fridge day recently.  I don’t mean the weekly toss & wipe, I mean the kinda cleaning when you take everything off the shelves and scrub ’em down and find three tupperware containers of bacon grease and taco sauces stuck to the glass and your obsessions you didn’t even know you had come to light.

Like this.

Apparently I have a “thing” for lotsa lotsa jellies.

There are thirteen or so in that photo, including a teensy tin of blackberry jam from Cracker Barrel, but that is one jelly that is far too yummy to toss in the trash when you’re lucky enough to get an extra.

I have orange marmalade from Harvey’s in Florida that is at least 2 years old. Unopened. And I don’t even like marmalade.  And apple, and blueberry and moscato flavored and peach and red raspberry and low sugar and extra sugar and apple butter which isn’t even really jelly at all but poses as such.

Come over. We can jam together.

 

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