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The Bang Bang Theories

What’s Doin’

Yooouuuu Guyzzzz!!

I’m practicing writing from my new desk/computer area at my little Minute Florida House.  I finally got around to organizing most of my things, well, 80% of my things, and now I’m trying to use the various locations in my room so it feels like a great big house.

I need a trip to the dollar store next weekend to buy a few baskets to organize the rest of my things. That’s a project for then, not this weekend, because I’m minding my p’s and q’s (pennies and quarters? is that what it really stands for??) until payday. So no unnecessary spending until then. Most things can wait, unless if I were out of toilet paper or coffee – neither of those things can wait. Luckily I’m stocked for a week or so on both, unless some disaster happens on my insides.

My steps have really fallen behind since living here. And being employed where I sit much of my time. I’m talking about the steps that my Apple watch bothers me about, Reader, not like I’ve fallen behind on building a staircase. Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t build a staircase.  I’ve really stopped closing those exercise rings on my watch, which is basically just a really pushy and pricey Fitbit, and I’m not quite sure why I’ve fallen behind, because I got in the pool not once, but TWICE today, Reader, for my HEALTH, and not because I was procrastinating cleaning up my minute house. Yes, it’s my Minute House, as in it takes one minute to walk the whole entire perimeter of it, so don’t pronounce it “my-nute” or then our brains aren’t talking the same way and we should always try to be in sync, Reader, because that’s how energy in the universe works, or maybe I’m thinking of girls and their menstrual cycles, but either way, it’s MIN-ITE house, and shew, that was a long way to go.

The morning views in my Minute House are still spectacular.  I mean, it’s not a beach view, but it’s not a shame on the eyes.

That was when I woke up this morning and peeped outside to see how it was looking. It was looking like I needed to slip on my swimsuit and grab my orange float, which is exactly what happened.

Then I came in and worked on the putting away of my stuff, and cooking not just one, but two damn meals for the upcoming week in that teensy tinesy kitchen.

Friday night’s dinner was a Cowboy Ribeye steak dinner, so I haven’t been exactly inconvenienced in the cooking arena by my smaller surroundings. I’ve made due.

I promise I’ll post pictures of my cutie little minute house next weekend, because I know you’re all clamoring to see where I rest my head at night.  Go with me on this, Reader, make me feel the love down here.

I’ll have more stuff to say, now that I have my computer out of the bag and set up on her desk, and believe me, it’s going to be way way way more boring exciting than posting pictures of what I’ve cooked on my 2-burner stove. Just you wait, Reader.  But remember this:

You Get What You Need

If you’re here with me now, know that we made it into August. With the state of things in the country right now, we shall acknowledge that we are here, and that in itself is an accomplishment.

If you are my friendie on FB, you know that I am insufferably posting photos of me in various stages of relax in my may-as-well-be-private pool. Sorry not sorry, Reader.

I’m working on getting settled in to mah new digs. I’m heading back to Melbourne today to do more packing up of mah stuff and then I’ll be able to really settle and get a true read on if I’m happy or not in Florida. With so much back and forthing, it’s an unknown.

I’ve struggled in the new place with the size of the kitchen. I don’t even have a full-sized sink, just a little wet-bar type sink, and a working counter big enough for a single-server Keurig.

This dumb thing has caused me angst, as I have to be able to cook some meals or I’ll go broke eating out.  So I need to re-adjust my cooking strategy, and figure out what I actually need to do in the kitchen.

I know what I cannot do:

1/ Make a cake

2/ Make Thanksgiving Dinner

3/ Toast stuff in a toaster

4/ Microwave anything

The microwave got moved, and an outlet was supposed to be installed, but that hasn’t happened yet. I can run a power cord, but am trying to avoid junking up my little area with unnecessary stuff.

But instead of focusing on the limiters of my Teensy Kitchen, I’ve decided to focus on what I can do with that space.

1/ Make coffee naked. Because it’s my own place and I can do all of my cooking naked should I choose to do so.

2/ Poor wine into my glass and drink it. Naked.

3/ Make a mushroom and cheese omelet and make “toast” in a frying pan, which is frankly delicious because it’s just soaked in butter. Naked.

4/ Make a spaghetti dinner, which is what I did on my first night there. Not naked, but I could if I wanted.

Now, I didn’t get all crafty with my Italiano meal-ie-o, and in fact my dinner cost me a whopping $4 because all the ingredients came from the Dollar Tree.

A can of Prego (which is awful, btw), thin spaghetti, a bag of frozen veggies for some added vitamins (which was mostly a bag of frozen pea pods and very little anything else, but luckily I like pea pods), a bag of what I thought would be questionable meatballs, but they were actually quite tasty.

I made that, and then fried toast into garlic bread which was delicious and also probably not healthy.

 

Yes, I know you’re jealous that my whole dinner came from Dollar Tree. If you would have asked me a year ago if that were even a possibility, I would have looked at you with chicken eyes.

Yet here we are.

I had no way of knowing in January what this year held for me. How many of us really do know that, though. Life just changes, it’s a fluid and breathing thing and we have to learn to match our own breaths to the new rhythms or we’ll suffocate.

I’m working on it. Every single day, I work on some aspect of adapting to my changing environment, pushing myself into leaning in to it, to see where it goes vs. resisting and belaboring the hard things.  And there are a lot of hard things.  I miss my People.  My cats. My house. My movie theater. My wing-night-and-drinks with friends. My patterns and habits and creature comforts, literally and figuratively. Watching our “shows” together – My Mister has zoomed through Stranger Things and now I’m left to catch up.  All those things.

But I’m forcing myself to lean in to the changes, Reader. Because eventually this will be my past, and I want to look back on it as the most epic time I moved to Florida, got an apartment two steps from the pool, did a great job at my new job, made new friends, and created a life I didn’t even know was on my horizon.  I insist this is going to be a past I’m proud of as I move into the future.

Traveled In & Out Your Door

Helloooo, Reader!  Myohmy, How I’ve missed you!

I understand it may seem as if I’m effing off down here in Heaven’s Waiting Room. There is my fair share of this:

Because as my new Pool Friend Rita points out, it’s not that we are just floinking around in the water because it’s oh-my-fuck-hot for fun and games, “IT’S FOR OUR HEALTH!!”

We do our exercises in there.  We stretch and pedal and arm twirl and lunge and backwards walk and splay-leg and squat-but-not-too-low-because-water-up-the-nose.

Rita taught me the tricks of using a pool noodle as a water bicycle, and as a support for breast stroking all over the place, and yes I just typed BREAST STROKE so haha tee-hee twelve-year-old-schoolboys.

Give me a moment while I’m done snickering.

Okay. Now back to it.

 

While it may seem as if I’m just frolicking around, my weeks are actually a whole lot more stressful than appearances may lead one miles and miles away to believe.

My week goes something like this:

Sunday night:  Begin fretting about the long-ass drive I have in the morning.  Stay up on my phone long after I’m supposed to be sleeping willing a $10-a-night-on-the-beach near work into existence on Airbnb.

I actually sometimes think I’ll just luck into a place that’s normally $100 because I wish it so hard, and surely don’t they know who I am already for chrissake.  Give it to me cheap, People.

Finally, around 2 a.m., turn off my airbnb app and go to sleep, figuring I’ll figure it out on Monday.

Monday: Pissed I don’t have a bed close to work lined up, what the fuck, Me.

Later Monday: Realize the beach cottages are not going to come down into my budget, because these foolish owners would rather have their places sit empty than have me fart in their bed for $20 a night. Imagine.

Monday Night: Get home from work around 7ish p.m., book a place for Tues-Wed-Thurs-check-out-Friday-and-Go-To-Work.  Now I have to hurriedly*** pack four work-days worth of clothing, girl products and the like, but wait, that’s not all!

***as an asside, how the hell do you spell hurry-id-ly?? wait, i just looked it up.. is it pronounced HURRY-ID-LEE?? Well, who knew. I thought it was HURR-ED-LY. Hm. The things we learn when blogging.  I really should get my honorary teaching degree because I just taught you this, Reader, so you’re welcome and I’ll take an apple on my desk in the morning.***

I also have to gather up FOOD for the week. Because I’ve shopped for the household down here, and have purchased $300** groceries and I’m not leaving it all behind so I have to pack up and then sherpa groceries into my workplace so I have lunches and then something to cobble together for dinner while I’m Willie Nelson****

**I wish that were an exaggeration, but it is not

****come on, work with me, Reader. I’m Willie Nelson because……..come’on, you’ve got it….I’m ON THE ROAD AGAIN.

Luckily, I was fortunate to get a free collapsable little red wagon and it has been handy in hauling my crap in and out of this house and then into whatever flop house I’m frequenting that week.

In some good news, I’ve gotten to sleep around A LOT of this Upper East Coast of Florida in the past couple of months, so feather in my cap, and that sounds a lot more dirty than what’s actually happening, which is mostly my eating crackers and drinking wine alone in some foreign room in someone else’s bed, which also sounds a lot more exotically exciting that what’s actually going on. Because I’m literally eating crackers and drinking wine alone most nights during the week.

But then last week, my circumstances changed. I woke up from a hot-as-fuck sleep at 2 a.m. and got fucking serious about manifesting my living arrangements.

1/ Must have a/c that I control

2/ Must have a pool

3/ Must have a small kitchen with a burner and not just a microwave

4/ Must have a private entrance

5/ Must have a good bed

6/ Must love cats

7/ Must have laundry facility

8/ Must not cost one dime more than $CheapOhDollars all-in, including wifi and cable.

REE. DER.

I wrote it down.

On my 1.5 hour drive into work.I thought about it and said it out loud and believed in my whole heart it existed, and I just needed to find it.

And I willed it into my world.

On Tuesday night, that was delivered into my lap.

I checked in to my Airbnb that night – which was a private entrance, ten steps from the pool:

And it has a kitchenette.

And the outside has a bar area with swings and a grill and tables and amenities…

…and the room is nice and the bed is comfy and no one committed a Forensic Files type crime against me in the middle of the night.

And the owner asked if I’d like to live here once I explained my plight of weekly bed-hopping and she said my $CheapOhNumber out loud as her fee, and oh she offered me her washer and dryer included, and she said, “Sure, bring your cat,” and now Kitty Purry doesn’t even know it, but she’s moving to Florida in a month and won’t she be excited!!

She probably won’t be excited.

Until she gets here and sleeps in her mama’s loving arms once again.

While I’ve shown the pictures above of where I stayed, that won’t actually be my room. She wants me to have the NICER room, with more “beachy” colors and updates, so I’ll be one room over, and yay oh yay oh yay me!

I still may be eating crackers and drinking wine in bed alone for dinner most nights. But Evening Girl is already making a lot of plans for Morning Girl’s ass to get up early and do her leg squats and pool sprints before she even gets to work. Because 10 steps and a heated pool, and if I fail me on this, I will never forgive myself.

So while we may have not had as much together time as I would have liked, Reader, please hold tight. It’s going to get better. For me, oh so much easier. I willed this into my existence. Now I’ve gotta go, I’ve got a million dollar payday I’m hard at work thinking about next.

Hm. Maybe I should have started with that wish.

And I just realized that I was giving you my weekly blow-by-blow but only made it until Tuesday, but who cares, just know that come Friday, I’ve been hauling stuff out of wherever I was staying, dragging whatever was perishable into work, hauling it back into the house in Melbourne at 8 p.m. at night, just to start it all over again on Sunday. It’s been .. well. Let’s just say I’ve deserved those few hours in the pool as my consolation prize for my disheveled life. Now take back all the mean things you were thinking about me.

 

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She Paints Her Nails Instead of Writing. But dang, her nails look nice.

Oh My Word, Reader! And good day to you! This whole Trixie Moves to The Sunshine State thing has taken a toll on my story telling, because even RIGHT THIS MINUTE I’m thinking how I should be in my swimsuit lounging around in the pool instead of sitting on the porch with my fingers buried in ‘lectronics.

Except I’m still only on Cuppa Coffee #2, so while I get myself fueled up, we might as well have a chat.

So we both know by now that during this Life Adventure Chapter, I’ve been very much the vagabond, laying my head on my different beds.

It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, Reader.

***** Many hours later *****

I can’t seem to get my groove back here. It’s now 11:37 PM AT NIGHT and I was tired four hours ago and why am I not sleeping?? Because I wanted to have one post this weekend because I like to write, but apparently not as much as I like to pool, because that’s what I did for two hours this afternoon, and lemme jusssay, it was glorious and I heart Florida even though there is much about it that I do not understand. Like how the pool isn’t full of people swimming around on each and every glorious day.

In some news, Reader, I ***fingers crossed and sphincter tight for the wishing*** MAY have a close-to-work living solution on the near horizon and it’s not in a camper where my future death will be perpetrated, which is a plus in my books.  Maybe not in your books, but mine for sure. I’m not ready to be murdered yet. I still have too much to do here. Grace and Frankie isn’t going to watch itself and I will frankly be p-o’d if I die before I’m all caught up on that show. It’s making me realize there’s still time for me to be awesome, maybe.

That is all. Because I didn’t give you the time and attention you deserved this afternoon, you’re getting a buncha nothing and still not the answers to why I have two skinned elbows and am missing two that I know of pair of pants. There’s a mystery and/or a sordid tale here, Reader, and that is your cliffhanger.

You’re welcome.

 

 

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Fingered

So. Much. Has happened, Reader, and I’ve had plans to tell you stories about it all because of course it’s fun to bring you along on my Misfit Life with me, but somewhere along the lines here I’ve dropped off the Interwebs, mostly because have I mentioned I’m living like a gypsy lately and/or driving a lot lot lot of my day? and then Trixie Bang Bang Stories just never get told.  I’m not sure I’m ever going to get to them, either.

Shewee, that was a long opener to tell you nothing.

So I’ve been living in Florida for pert near a month now, a little longer actually because it’s been another week of work since I’ve gone back home over the 4th of July.

Time. Flies. By.  I have worked 5 weeks already, and wow, I cannot even believe it.

I really like my job. It has had it’s hiccups, mostly tech-related and then the difficulty of not knowing what you don’t know, so I don’t know. Everything takes longer when you don’t know.

I’ve been looking at rentals on and off. The cute enough stuff costs more than my Ohio Mortgage.

What I want is this:

What I can afford is this:

Which frankly just looks like some place where I’m going to be on this episode of Forensic Files:  “Girl* Checks out Camper, Never Seen Again, Until Years Later a Break in the Case Fingers** Her Killer.”

*in my Missing Persons episode, I would like to be referred to as a Girl, please – very youthful and vibrant while we’re making things up here –  and not an elderly lady who should have known better than to 1/ think she could live in a beatdown camper and actually get a restful night of sleep on that mattress, the fluids left behind only the good lawd knows, and 2/ ….well, I don’t know what number 2 is, other than it might actually have left stains on that bed at some point.

**because someone found pieces of my fingers somewhere, like in the pooping container in this camper.

What the fuck is up with that bathroom? i’ve been in tiny bathrooms, I’ve cruise-shipped enough to know the poopers can be close to the sinks, but comeon. That “vanity” is where I’m going to be getting ready in the morning? Nope.

So I still haven’t figured it out, but I’m trying to Badass what I want into existence: The nice clean place, furnished, near the water, for $700/all-in per month. Work with me, Reader, and send those vibes out to the Universe on my behalf. Oh, p.s., must love cats. The rental people, not you to send the good juju for me. Except it’s preferred if you also love cats, too, because they are soft.

I started this two hours ago, and am bound and determined to have something posted to force myself into Stella, Get Your Groove Back, and now with the Florida Sweat running down my back I believe I am going to throw on my suit and throw myself into the pyoool.

 

 

Some Like It Hot

It’s beginning to sound like all I do is whine and complain about my sorry sorry lot in life, having to live in Florida, in a big house that I’m not paying for, and wah wah poor me.

It’s not all wah wah. Some. But not all.

Today I decided to harness the magic of Sunday and made my own happiness.

I took myself to the picture show down at the old CinemaWorld, which let me just say in more wah wah news, it’s not nearly as nice as my theater back home. However! I got a ticket and a popcorn and plopped myself down in a nice enough seat and watched the new release Yesterday, which made me tear up out of the sheer joy of that movie.

On the way home I sleuthed around this development until I located the damn pool.  I’ve been here since the 8th and enough is enough, find the damn pool already, Me. So I did, and it looked the the perfect place to park my ass for a few hours.

I drove home to throw my suit on and hop to, except I was tired, and I’m rightfully so blaming the heat, so instead I took a short forty winks.

Speaking of this heat, some nutball was out RUNNING in this heat at 1 o’clock in the heat of the god-forsaken day,

I mean, it was NINETY EIGHT DEGREES with oppressive humidity!!

It was so absurd I took a PHOTO while DRIVING sssshhhh don’t tell Johnny Law or my mom (ps she’s dead and isn’t there to listen, you tattle tale), it was just that absurd. And it was a somewhat safe maneuver – my photo, not nutzo’s running – because there was no traffic and it was one hot second only.

I feel the need to clarify; it is a very unusual circumstance for me to take a photo while driving. So don’t leave me any admonishing comments. Save it for my really bad behavior.

Anyway, where was I?

The day. Something something, happiness. I don’t know. I’ve lost my train of thought and all my wah wah brain can think of is I need to get to sleep, work is coming in short course.

Let me leave you with this. It was okay today. I saw a movie. I ate some really good cantaloupe. We made ribeyes for dinner which was the deal of the year at $13 for 2,  and we had fresh corn on the cob so hahah Ohio, who isn’t even knee-high yet. I did some other stuff, and nature was involved, but who cares.

Wait, I guess I care a little bit. Enough to raise the question, what kinda tree is this? Is it a fruit? Is it a tropical pine cone?? What?

Should I put it in my mouth is the question, Reader. And don’t say yes just because you want to poison me. That’s not very friendly or nice. And I will check it out for myself. Probably. Some days maybe death by kumquat would be okay. But not usually. Because there might be a movie, a meal and a little pool time right around the bend.

Eye On The Prize

I don’t know at all actually am almost certain that a Florida Bug bit me below my eye and somehow injected me with a sacfull of Baby Bugs right in the corner of my eyeball, where they are at this very moment incubating and will erupt and – in this order – 1/ blind me and 2/ it won’t matter if I’m blind because if that does actually happen I will be d.e.a.d from a heart attack directly after the babies start spilling from my face.

Current state of my peeper is that it is itchy and red and when I took a photo of it to see it up close for myself and to show you, Reader, because it’s time for some full frontal between us, well, let’s just say it’s the only illogical logical explanation.

A picture is worth 300 words, so see for yourself:

I have been EATEN. UP. with bug bites this past week or so.  In between all the very showoffy freckles on my face, I’ve got lumps that either need to be seen by Dr. Pimple Popper MD or I have been bitten by some assholie Florida-type no-see-ums-sandflee-mosquito-maybe-part-gecko-because-they-are-everywhere-and-have-probably-mated-with-a-biter type bugs.

Also, those lumpy lumps are all over my arms and legs, too, and a lot on my feet and ankles and what the fuck, Reader.  No one told me Florida was so bitey. Not one warning of this, Reader, and for that, I blame you, because one of you must have known.

 

Take The Cake

Reader, I hear you: Enough with the ocean pix, Bang Bang.  We all know what the ocean looks like by now.  

Except Shut It, Reader, because sometimes this is all I have right now.  A reminder of the Pretty Things I get to see if I’m not too lazy too busy to go get beachy.

Things were touch and go last week.  I haven’t been writing much just because I haven’t really had as much opportunity as one might imagine. This gypsy lifestyle keeps me on the go, packing and unpacking and finding out exactly what I need to get by with, which in all honestly has become much much less.

It’s a lot of minimal makeup, hair pulled up because did I mention it’s hot?, a few outfits I keep recycling, and the loss of who gives any fucks about my fat arms, I’m wearing sleeveless shirts because did I mention it’s hot.

And oh, p.s., my freckles have said HELLO, Florida Trixie, we plan on sticking around very prominently on your face and arms and any other areas you plan on exposing to the sun. Which brings me to this week’s living arrangements, in which I’ve had many many parts exposed to the great outdoors, because there’s an outdoor shower and I’ve probably offended all sorts of neighbors but stop looking then.

I’m petsitting for a co-worker this week. Yes, I can’t believe she trusts me either after knowing me a week, but it’s working out nicely. She lives in New Smyrna and it’s 10 minutes to work, and I can come home and cook dinner, pack stuff for lunch, make a cocktail or three, get out of the shower and walk naked to the room to get dressed if I wish.

Last week I gave the Airbnb a good college try, and while it was fine, Reader, just fine, I had a Monday Night Breakdown where I mostly cried all night until I took myself out for a $19.95 lobster dinner and two mugs of beer.  It’s just awkward. It’s weird to go into someone else’s house and walk in the living room and they’re eating their dinner in front of the telly, and I just try to act small and go to the bedroom. It’s been difficult living very small, without my things, without my people or my cats, and being happy about it. Plus learning a new job on top of all that, which is stressful under the best of circumstances. So yeah, I had a Crying Night last week.  I was ready to pack it up and come home just because.

But then things got better, as they are wont to do if you just wait it out. I mean, they don’t always get better just by waiting it out, but I had to at least muster through it and pretend I’m a big brave girl.

The problem with the Airbnb is that it’s just a room, no private entrance, with a shelf in the fridge (and a private bath, because that’s non-negotiable) – and well, basically I need some sort of my own space or it’s not going to work. I’m fiddy two. While I’m all for that college trying, I’m well beyond the college kid age and am not into roommating with strangers. Let’s face facts, I – at times – barely tolerated living with My Mister and I could do whatever the hell I wanted in that scenario.

I want to control the air conditioning temperature. I want the slice of cake in the fridge to be MINE, and not some other guy’s cake. I want to shower and then walk naked into my room to get dressed. Those things, and other things. I just want to scratch and fart and whatever in my own space. Staying at my dads lets me do All The Things, except control the a/c, but mostly it’s okay.

Anyway, I’ve gotten totally off track here, and now I don’t know where I was going with this other than I’m right now eating my own slice of cake that I bought for my own self and I’m sitting on the couch watching what I want to watch on t.v., and writing some nonsense, and the air is down to seventy-damn-four (at home it would be 72), so little victories. It almost feels like normal except I’m eaten up with giant bug bites all over my body and I don’t have my kittehs, who I’ve been told are behaving very poorly at home and I’m looking forward to getting back next week and kissing their whiskers off.

I don’t know. I was supposed to write something not this, but this is what came out. Other things have happened and I promise to share the good spots and not just whining complaining spots. Pinky swearsies. If you’re in Cle over the 4th, let’s see each other. I will maybe bake you a cake, just because I can.

 

 

Ducky Lucky

Reeeeder!! I miss this fella:

I’m pretending I’m on a long vacation without the luxury hotel amenities, overpriced drinks and frigid a/c temps that I’m partial to and my sweaty neck* misses.

*yes, neck, my neck is more sweaty than any of my other parts. it’s great and super sexy if you’re into really damp necks. which i’m not, so i’m not turning myself on at all.

It’s a hard sell to myself, particularly* when my ass is going numb during my 3-hour roundtrip commute.

*i always every single time can’t spell the word “particularly” without looking it up, and in fact I’m so wrong about it that spellcheck can’t even give me a recommendation. it’s ducking** frustrating.

**lol, iPhone, I just made fun of you!

Speaking of ducking, these gals*** live here on the pond at The Mansh**** and I’ve been obsessed with Blanche***** and Dorothy and making them love me.

***they may or may not be gals. i’m not here to question how they identify.  but in my mind, they’re gals for all the live long days because they have cute little waddles.

****I’ve just decided right now to name where I’m staying “the mansh” because it’s a mini-mansion so why not. it needed a name or how else will you know what the where I’m speaking about in these stories. right at this moment I’m at the mansh. tomorrow i’ll be somewhere else. we’ll get to that.

*****yes, i’ve named the duck ducks blanche and dorothy because i’m nothing if not predictable original. except in my mind every single time i call them maude and dorothy which would have actually been less predictable (please get that Reader and don’t make me disappointed), but i feel it’s too late to change their names because i don’t want to give them an identity crisis. naming ducks is hard.

Okay.

You all want to know – I’m sure you do – because my life is utterly  your horrible warning of how not to do things fascinating – how’s it going on the big mo-ve.

Well. Our Facebook relationship status would read “It’s Complicated.”

The first week is under my belt and it has been tiring. Really, bush.ed.tired.

I get up early (shut up if you get up earlier just for fun, Showoffy McShowoffPants) at the crack of 5:45-6 AM IN THE MORNING BEFORE THE SUN IS EVEN ALL THE WAY AWAKE.  But I don’t get to capitalize on all that early because I drive so damn far that I don’t get to work until 8:30.

Even that isn’t so bad. I have my radio with Howard who was so ducking funny last week I cried laughing, and have been bugging my cousin on long-winded morning calls. So that’s good.

The situation becomes a problem when I work late, which happened a couple days this past week because boy-howdy do we have a lot to do, and fast, with getting new products to new markets. It’s FUN. I love it. I hate working until 7 and then not getting home until 8:30ish, and then sticking food in my face, taking a shower and going to bed.

Speaking of bed, I need to be sleeping so ten minutes ago, Reader, but because I heart you, here we are.

I’ve spent a lot of cold, hard** cashola in gasoline.

So this week I have an Airbnb lined up for Monday and Tuesday nights, five minutes from my DoGooder Business, and we are going to see how that works out.  I’ve proposed to the couple who own the home that maybe I could stay there Mon-Thurs, checking out Friday morning on my way into work, and paying them directly for the steady occupancy. We are going to test each other out for the next two days. I am concerned that I maybe they are creepy and I should give them notice that I’m fat, not pregnant, so don’t try to cut a baby out of me, House Hosts, all you’ll get is a bunch of 52 year old insides that probably won’t even go for much on the black market, so save yourselves the trouble of cleaning your bathroom and trying to get rid of all that forensic evidence and let me just keep my insides intact and sleep in your guest room as planned. That scenario, or that they are going to try to tie me up and use me as a sex slave and believe me, they’ll be disappointed in that decision, too. My better years are behind me, is all I’m saying. Back in those better years when I was more bendy and nimble and could do Positions and stuff. This girl? Mostly complains and gets leg cramps.

That’s what’s doing here, Reader. I survived the relo, the first week of work, getting situated in a new room, figuring out my space and how to make it work, figuring out how to make this drive work, figuring out duck names and contemplating the possibility of sneaking them in my room at night and making them letting them enjoy cuddling me, and trying not to miss kissing DJ and Kitty Purry. Oh, and did I mention there’s been enough sunshine to be happy about it? And palm trees. It’s hard to be sad when there’s palm trees in view. Someone said that on my FB page, and she is obvi a wise old sage because truth.

Let’s go get the week, Reader. I have 5.5 hours until I have to be up. Damn, that went fast.

 

p.s.

You guys.

I’m tired.

I know, I know. I’ve had months of plenty of rest.

But that reserve uses up quickly.

I’m here. I’m just not here here for you right now.

I just wanted to check in on you.  And let you know I’m okay.  I’m already tired of my looooong drive. But it was just Day 2. I’ll find a solution. That’s what I do: Figure it out.

It’s time for bed.

p.s. I miss you.

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