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The Bang Bang Theories

Usually Afraid, Often Naked

A few things have happened here at my Floridian Minute House, Reader.

First, I killed a scorpion in my room a couple of nights ago. Now, I wasn’t even sure it was worthy of a story about it, but then my friend Choo indicated otherwise, and I rethought it.

So let’s go over that sentence again. With a tich more consideration.

I – me, Trixie Bang Bang, she who is afraid of almost every insect that surprises her and most certainly will scream the good scream over something potentially bitey and poisonous

Killed – yes, sorry Pro-Bug-Lifers, and while I have recently attended the Buddha temple here in Florida where all creatures are valued, blah blah, I value stingy bugs that AREN’T captured in my living room – which happens to also be my bedroom – because Trump said something just like that and we all want to model ourselves after him, amiright (of course not), but anyway, yes, KILLED.

So. Much. Thought. was put into the shoe selection that would Do The Deed, Reader. So. Much.

Let’s set the scene a little more vividly, so you can put yourself right here with me and the scorpion.

I came in that evening after being somewhere – maybe my friend Pat’s for dinner – so I got home a little late, around 9-ish.  Already a long day.

I went to the bathroom (12 steps), brushed my teeth, took off my clothes, came through to the kitchen (6 steps) and fed Kitty Purry, and filled up her water dish, and then went to the living room to scoop her box (3 steps), did the scooping, went back to the kitchen to wash my hands (3 steps), came back towards the living room (6 steps) and stopped dead. in. my. tracks.

Wait – what?? – rubs eyes — what IS that in the middle of the floor??  Lint? Cat hair??

No. Nope. No.

You know what it is, Me.

That is not the actual one in my room, but it is its twinsie.

Fling open my door (yes, still naked) and yell/hiss outside “CHRISTIE!!” – because this surely seems like a job for the landlord.

Christie’s not outside.

Decide to throw my little run-around dress on over my head and regroup (12 steps back to the bathroom). Afraid this scorpion will have moved but clothes won the debate because I’ll be braver with clothes on, I think, and if this thing gets away from me, I will DEF be heading outside and no one needs to see all this, Naked and Afraid.  I literally watch that show endlessly, and now I am starring in it myself, because life truly does imitate art and I need to watch shows instead where people find bags of money in the middle of their rooms.

This is where the shoe debate starts happening in my head. I can step on it with my flip-flopped foot, but that seems too risky. What if I miss, I may get thrown off balance, and it could run UP MY LEG instead and there’s just too much of my body in too-close proximity to the scorpion.

Girl needs a HEAVY shoe for this job.

Without a lot of TREADS, a.k.a. escape routes.

I picked up several shoes and debated the weight. One of my heavier sandals had more thread than I was happy about, but I liked the firmness of the footbed – it wouldn’t be floppsy and go all wayward on me.

I needed a back up plan, too.

Luckily, I have recently purchased a $15 Bissell stick vacuum thing-a-mah-jig, and I got it all in position and plugged in for easy suction power once the deed was done.

Then.

I grabbed that shoe and killed that fucker.

Like a boss hero in my own horror story.

Sorry Not Sorry, Dangerous Thing. Don’t come uninvited into my room, is the moral of this story. You can go and live your life however you see fit, stinging shit and pinching things with those claws. But do it in your own space. Not mine.

This is where the shoe sat for a while, calming down after its hard work.

Now, I wish this was where the story ended. With me being proud of outweighing a poor bug by 100 lbs shut it, Reader, and going about my life.

Except.

I still haven’t emptied the tank on that tiny little vacuum. Don’t worry, it’s sealed tight and had he survived, he couldn’t escape the plastic chamber.

I check under my comforter, sheet and between all over even the unused parts of my bed every. single. night.

I squish my pillows before lying my head on them. Check INSIDE all my clothes and shoes. Shake out all my towels. Look in the shower not once, but twice. Keep the toilet lid down.

Basically I’m still afraid.

But I’m getting braver.  At least I think so.

I picked up my notebook at work and a “palmetto bug,” which is a fancy fucking cockroach with a southern drawl, ran out of the pages and I flung my book across the room while letting out a girly shriek like the sophisticated professional that I am.

So there’s that.

Florida is a scary m-effer.  So much so, that I haven’t even mentioned the time I found a WORM the size of a standard U.S. male’s penis in the POOL.  It looked kinda like this, only bigger, and darker brown.

It was already drowned.

I debated what to do about that, and then just calmly got out of the pool, went and got my $1 Grabber Tool and was able to grab it up and fling it out of my oasis. 

Except I pinched my grabber tool too hard and cut it in half, and then I had the luxury of disposing of two pieces of hairy leggy worm with guts oozing out, so yeah, life is good in Florida, Ya’ll. Come on down.

*the US standard penis size is not something I determined, Reader, despite my years of extensive and exhausting research in this field of study.  It’s a fact from Google and the Internet is never wrong. 

I’m Just Missing the Uniform

With the amount of guilt I feel all. the. time. Reader, you’d think I was raised as a Catholic.

I wasn’t, but I’ve got the Good Guilt from some influence.

When I’m swimming around in the pool all weekend, I’m feeling guilty for not writing – either a book, a story, a screenplay, an idea down – whatever, I feel guilty about it.

I feel guilty when I’m sitting here writing and letting a perfectly good sunshiny pool go to waste. Despite the fact that I’ve been floating around in it on and off all weekend.

When I get home from work too late, I feel guilty for leaving Purry alone for so long. Except she’s a cat, and is perfectly fine, and oh, p.s., she was alone a lot in Ohio when I was working, too. But I still feel badly because I’m all she has here, and that has obligations attached.

I feel badly if I miss commenting on an event that I see on Facebook. Mostly birthdays, but people who are sick, or obits. I’m never quite sure what to say on FB for an obit. I mean, “sorry” just doesn’t feel strong enough on FB, so then I do the worse thing, which is to say nothing. This is no reflection on YOU, Reader – if you’re a good messenger, keep on it and I’m jealous, I just am sometimes lame about it.

Last night while at the Walmart – which, I have to mention has a STREET named after it in Deland, complete with its very own Wal*Mart street sign! and I cannot even believe I was Responsible and didn’t photograph that while I was driving just to show you! – I decided it was a perfectly good time to resolve some of that “sorry I missed your birthday on Facebook!” guilt and instead I’ve decided to swoop you up in a giant net of confetti and powered sugar and wishes and bought me you a cake!

It’s a cake for US, Reader, but only I get to eat it. Unless you come to Deland right now, then you can share in your celebration.

So yes, I am assuaging my guilt over perhaps having missed the opportunity to tell you Happy B-day on Facebook, Reader, by buying – and eating – a cake.

All because I heart you, Reader. Truly. Don’t let my lack of Facebook sentiments have you thinking otherwise.

I’m thinking of you while I eat it right now.

And it’s the thought that counts.

Shew-ie, I’m feeling lighter because the weight of that guilt is lifting!

One thing I’m coming quick to realize in the FL vs OH scoreboard tally is that while it may not seem excessively warm inside, it takes just a moment for frosting to slide right off a cake.

Everything needs refrigerated.

Happy September Birthdays, and also probably July and August Birthdays, too, and I will probably miss yours in October, so let’s just consider this an all encompassing cake or I will be forced to buy another next month to celebrate you, and while I’m not opposed to that, this cake really wasn’t all that great, but if I’m forced to eat it again, I will. Because I love you that much.

Happy B-Days. Now stop guilting me.

I’m still left with the need to figure out how to express my very sincere condolences over losses on FB. I wonder if there’s a sympathy cake I can eat for that.

In the Bag

Today I ate a bag of farts for lunch.

It was a sad lunch. Some days that happens. I throw whatever I have handy in my lunch bag. Today it happened to be an asian salad kit I had purchased over the weekend, consisting primarily of chopped up cabbage.

The salad must have been fermenting away in its plastic bag.

It wasn’t just my opinion that it was a bag of farts. My sitting-near-me co-workers were a lot less than thrilled by that opened bag of salad. One girl wrapped up the bag quickly and the other girl crinkled her nose and politely said, “That stinks.”

I know you’re wondering what I ate instead.

Because no one would just plow ahead and eat a bag of farts.

You’d be wrong, Reader. My lunch options were limited, so I ate that bag of farts.

I cautioned my co-worker, who shares an office space with me, that she’d better start saying some prayers to whatever jesus she prays to that the old cabbage doesn’t make it’s second appearance anytime soon, because it would be farts squared at that point.

Luckily for her, I’m a lady*.

*not at all. as is evidenced by the number of times this post contains the word farts.

 

It’s Hole-y Sunday

Do you know what is the deepest kinda love, Reader?

Well, down here in FL, I have LEARNED, Baby.

I’ve also learned that it is very difficult to be focused on accomplishing things – like writing little nonsense stories for you here, Reader, when confronted with the tough decision to laptop or pool.

Yes, I just verbed those two nouns.

This morning I was all set up with the intent to CREATE, per my cuppa coffee, and then I started to bead up with a little sweat on my brow and then made the decision to abandon laptop in favor of pool.

I came back to it just now, for you, Darlings, and so that’s where we stand right now. However, I’m beginning to bead again, and it’s sunny and not a single solitary sole is in there, because Dreams do come true and I have always wished for a giant pool all to myself that requires no maintenance or expense from me and poof, there it is.

I took this photo one second ago, just to prove my point that I’m not a slacker of writing by choice – it’s just that pool and the sun leaves me very little choice but to float around in it.

Anyway, I started to tell you how I’ve discovered what the deepest kind of love is, Reader, so let’s get back to that so we can get on with our pool day.

If you’re somewhere where it’s Good Garth, SNOWING already, I would hate me, too.  If it’s any consolation, the water is nippy and I experience a brief chill when I first get in there.  So it’s not all sunshine and daydreams. But it is a lot of that.

About a month ago, I came home from working and my landlord Christie greeted me in the driveway.

“Hey, what’s your last name??”

Um, Bang Bang?

“I have a package for you! It came addressed to a Ms. Bang Bang, and without a first name I figured it was yours, but wasn’t sure since you’re living here but who cares about last names anyway.”

I live here in her house and I STILL don’t know her last name. I guess it’s a need to know basis, and I don’t need to know.

I took my Mystery Package into my Minute House and excitedly opened it up. And questioned myself, have I been drinking so much wine at night I’m not remembering midnight ordering of stuff?

Luckily, that wasn’t the case.

Instead I opened up a package and thought I’d gotten a sweet surprise from Grace and Frankie, 

If you haven’t binged on Grace and Frankie (Netflix), you probably should put that on your Winter Agenda.

While my package looked sort of similar to Vybrant, and it DID have something to do with keeping my p-hole happy, it wasn’t as first suspected.

My very thoughtful and concerned friendie The Hoff sent me my very first weapon!

No one has ever shown that much concern for the for the safety of my p-hole, my b-hole and my c-hole (cake-hole) from unwelcome intruders!

No one is sticking anything anywhere without an invitation, Reader!  Because I will shock the shit out of your own b-hole.

Let me just go on the Trixie Bang Bang record as stating that showing concern for the safety for all of my holes is LOVE.

I’m also going to go on the record and state that this post started two hours ago, but then I got sidetracked by that sunshiny pool again, and took another dip. With a Honey Jack & Coke Zero, because I guess living in Florida is like being on vacation every weekend. At least with this resort I’m calling home.

Now, lest you think the only b-hole that is being worried about down here in Florida is mine, let me assure you it is not. It’s not all fun and games, is what I’m saying.

My Girl Purry has maybe a backed up b-hole right now. I’ve been monitoring her poops closely and a lot more food is going in than what is coming out.

And she’s meowing that mournful heart-tugging and also scary sounding meow of a cat with a pain.

I’m trying some prairie medicine* first, before I up and race her to a $300 vet bill. Yesterday I started her on a little Miralax mixed in with her food, in the hopes that it softens up whatever is clogged.

*where we try some homestead fixin’ instead of mortgage-payment vet bills

There was about a 2-inch poop in the box yesterday evening, so the pipes are working. Just maybe not as easily as we’d both like.

I don’t want my Girl to have a backed exhaust.

I want her to be enjoying her stay as Sophia to my Blanche while we’re living in Florida.

I’m not really even sure that I’m Blanche. I haven’t taken on many – or any – lovahs. So maybe I’m more Dorothy at this point, just sarcastic and a little bitter.

So the point of this story, Reader, is that nothing shows love quite like the love of when you’re worried about the safety and efficiency of someone’s exit ramp.

I’m fixated on what’s coming out of Purry’s. The Hoff is ensuring nothing is going into mine that isn’t invited. Which, by the way, is nothing, Reader, in case you were wondering. Nothing is invited up into my b-hole. At this point. I don’t want to slam the door on possibilities, but as of right now, you will get tazed.

I’ve got my purple weapon and I’m not afraid to use it.

As an addition to that purchase, The Hoffy also sent me a keychain whistleblower loud-ass alarm. So far I’ve managed to scare the pee out of myself when I’ve accidentally pressed it while juggling a lot of packages getting in and out of my car.

I’ve also scared the wild turkeys that roam the property here.

So mission accomplished.

And please send up a prayer to St. Francis, the patron saint of animals, that Purry’s b-hole does it job, and soon.  I’ve been chanting my prayers this morning while I’ve floated around in the pool: “Dear St. Francis. Please make Kitty Purry poop a lot and with ease. But hopefully not diarrhea on my white comforter. Amen.”

I’ve also been massaging her tummy, just to help get things moving down there for her. Because I love her and want her to poop.

She’s on the 3-day Prairie Medicine plan. If there’s no bigger poops in the box by Tuesday, she’s going to have a little treat at the vet, which I’ve already scouted out down here, and she’ll be getting something up her pipe that she won’t be happy about.

Right Turn

Today was not my favorite Monday. Now, I know good and well, Reader, Monday makes no promises.  Except I had that whole brand new vitamin routine to test out, and maybe I put too much burden on its shoulders.

I expected too much, perhaps, from a lone Centrum Women.

I actually debated if I was a Centrum Silver candidate, and had them in my hand, but just couldn’t make that commitment yet. I think I’ve got at least fifteen more years before I’m a Centrum Silver.  Sshh, Reader. That’s the story ‘m telling myself.

This morning I got off on a late foot.  I overslept after a night of fitful sleep.  Why is it that I can’t be as tired at 11 p.m. as I am at 6 a.m.? I get the best sleep from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m.

Tonight I’m hoping for a better go at it under the covers.

I remember when that phrase had a whooole different meaning. Ahem.

The workday itself was meh, nothing big, just meh, which is frankly a win in a whole lot of books for a Monday at work.  I have a lot to get done this week.

After work, since the day wasn’t setting my soul on fire, I took a right instead of a left and headed towards the beach.

I decided to make Florida work in my favor. Again.

It often delivers without my even asking.

I have witnessed some of the most beautiful sunsets driving home from work. So so pretty. Pinks blending into oranges and then into reds. All the puffy clouds.

The reach of the palm trees.

That right turn led me here.

The sea was angry today, my friends. Crashing and aggressive. I sat and watched it for a while and inhaled deeply and exhaled what was stressing me until the salt air soothed my restless soul tonight.

And then I headed to Canal Street and had an appetizer and a $5 margarita and talked to a nice woman who sat down next to me.

She and her husband lived in Florida for 18 years, with a home right on the beach. They sold it and moved to Georgia to be near their oldest daughter. But then Georgia just got too damn cold for her, so two years ago they moved back.

Lived a block away from where we were having dinner. Asked why I lived so far from the beach.

Money, honey.

When they moved from their beach house, they got a cool million for it.  When they moved back two years ago, they couldn’t have afforded their old house. It’s now valued at three million.

And that’s why I live 30 miles from the beach.

Today found a little bit of it’s soul for me.  Some crashing waves. Some friendly words. A nice drive  again watching another beautiful sunset close out the day. And my small girl waiting for me when I got home. 

Let’s do it again tomorrow, Reader. Only I’m going to work harder for less meh during the day.

How We Do It

I worked really hard on my Vitamin D today, Reader.

It was hard work, because we had intermittent rain showers and I had to plan my pool time carefully and effectively to strategically maximize the sun.

All my corporate experience really came into good use today.

I have also been hyper-focused on HYDRATION, Reader, because it’s important to get your insides as wet as your outsides. I think that’s how the saying goes. If that’s not a saying maybe I need to embroider it on a pillow so it feels like an official statement.

So I worked on wetting my insides and outsides today.

A co-worker gave me a tip about drinking coconut water for a good dose  of potassium and really good interior wetting, so I’ve been adding that to my mouth plan and yes, I have an official Mouth Plan, everyone does, Reader it’s absolutely not something I just made up. Other sections of my Mouth Plan today included finding a cake and shoving a slice in there, so I went out and hunted one from the Publix and just enjoyed a little Red Velvet.

Last Monday I had made a proclamation to go sugar-free for 30 days, but then on Friday I thought that’s silly, what if I die on day 25 and completely have missed opportunities for cake based on some rule I imposed on myself, so I had a little Klondike bar yesterday and a slice of cake moments ago because otherwise death might win and no one wants that.

That’s how we fight death over here in Florida, Reader. We eat the cake.

You know what else is super fun about Florida? Well, since you asked, I’ll tell you.

All the street names.

They are just fun and make me happy.

I can drive down Avocado Road, to Pineapple Way, to Palm Leaf Drive.  I work on Hibiscus, which is a section of streets in Edgewater that are named in alphabetical order so there’s Hibiscus and Indigo Palm and Juniper and Kumquat and Lime Tree and Mango…well, you get the idea.

So basically you could give directions to take a left at Mango and head to Pineapple and then merge onto Avocado and there you are.

Of course I don’t live on a fun street name like that, but I do have a fun address. 1000 is my mailing address, which is interesting because back in Cle my mailing address is 6000. So something about the triple zeros pulls me to ’em.  Maybe that’s only interesting to me, but you know the rule, Reader: if it’s in my head, it belongs in yours, too.

You’re welcome for all the things I don’t actually tell you.

It’s time for bed, or else I’d tell you more, but let’s close out on the day and get a good night’s rest so we can GET IT tomorrow.  I bought some new vitamins and I am excited to try one out tomorrow morning. I want to see how much pep they put in my step.  My couzin swears by it, and I always take advice unless it involves something I don’t want to do.

Also, it’s a clear sign you’re not 25 anymore when you’re excited for morning to try out a new vitamin. Oh, the things we look forward to, Reader.  Hope you have some bright spots this week!

 

Reminder to Self. And I May Be A Little Tipsy. Probably. Most Likely.

Okay, I’m going to set the table for us here, right now, before we even get started.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I didn’t even WANT to drink this entire bottle of wine tonight*, but here we are, the last remains in that fingerfucked glass.

*of course I did.

I was compelled to drink that entire bottle because my refrigerator is too small to fit an opened bottle upright on any of the shelves, so I would have had to leave it out on the counter,  and we both know a nice chardonnay should be chilled for freshness** so since I didn’t have a suitable “save it for another night” method, I just drank it. Or am in the process.

**I’m not sure if that’s a rule or not, but it sounds reasonable so I’m sticking to it.

My super personal too-personal-to-post-to-here-sorry-Reader-but-you’ll-have-to-PAY-for-those-thoughts-one-day journal (also noted in the photo) details all the Worries I’ve had recently, with the most recent worries centering around Which Cat I Hostage-Situation To Florida With Me.

It has pages of worries.

I kept trying to assuage those worries by reminding myself of All The Reasons we shouldn’t worry, but the reasons not to worry did no good.

At the end of the trip, I decided to bring Kitty Purry to Florida with me instead of DJ. I had kept vacillating between the two. I love them both, but DJ charms me more*** and he loves me and I love him and it was just a tough call. I love Purry, too, but she also loves Kenny, and hates change. But ultimately I choose her because while she’s sixteen and old and doesn’t like change, she HATES cats and I figured she could use the vacation.

***stop judging me for having a favorite, Reader!  We are a NO JUDGE zone! That starts with DON”T JUDGE ME!

Anyway. She was The Chosen One.   And the morning we were packing up to go, I put her in the airline carrier and off we went at 5:30 a.m. in the godawful-early hours of the morning to the airport.

A minute way from the house I questioned My Mister, “Why do I smell pee?? MY GOD, I forgot to put a pee-pad in the carrier in case she has an accident while we’re travelling!’

I can’t remember a fucking thing at 5:30 in the morning, Reader. It is not my optimized time. Just so you know, in case you’re ever quizzed about me on Jeopardy.

My Mister assured me there was no smell of pee, I was over-reacting.

He’s worse with mornings than I am, just so you know, in case that’s ever a question on Jeopardy.

We arrived at the airport and I moved the carrier to get out of the car and discovered my lap was completely wet.

Remember where I said a few sentences ago that I’m not good at 5:30 a.m.? It crossed my mind that I peed my own pants and just didn’t know it.

Once I came to my senses, I realized that I had ONCE AGAIN**** been peed on by Kitty Purry.

****This is at least the FOURTH time, I’ve lost count. And yet still she lives because I heart her and obviously I need to do a better job of meeting her needs.

Luckily I had a suitcase full of clothes with me.

I presto-change-o’d into a non-peed-on pair of jeans in the minivan. Luckily I had a spacious vehicle to change clothes in while curbside at the airport. Lucky, lucky Me, Reader. All the lucks were happening.

But when I think back to All the Worries I had, and what actually has become our reality – a little pee, but mostly good travel – I realize how SMART those quote-creators are, that we don’t need to have so much worry.

Because while she spent the first few days hiding in a duffel bag deep in my lone closet, she’s also going to be okay.

She’s looking around.

I had the door opened tonight while I was cooking to keep our little place aired-out, and I turned around and she was gone. Outside in the courtyard exploring on her own, without me.

Prior to today, she wouldn’t even stick a toe out of the doorway without Mama by her side.

She’s adjusting and getting more comfortable and she’s beginning to realize the threats in her mind aren’t founded in reality.

She’s relaxing a little.

Mama’s relaxing a little.

I like having her little body at home when I get in from work. I like having to tend to her. Scoop her litter. Feed her treats. Sweep up. Freshen her water. I needed something to have responsibility towards more than just myself.

It’s good for me.

It’s good for her.

We’re going to be okay.

And all those worries?

Are all just things I worried about three worries ago.

So keep perspective.  Worry about the things you know, and not the things you think.

There’s often a solution. Like changing your pee-pants in the car, grabbing your cat and getting on that plane.*****

*****I know that’s not a Universal Specific, Reader. But bear with me, it’s All The Wine. I had to wrap this up.

Life Hack

Reader, what I’m about to disclose is going to have you EATEN UP with jealousy over another glimpse into my magical, adventurous life.

I’d apologize, but I won’t, because some things need to be told.

So here goes:

I spent a morning this week cleaning my shower with a dryer sheet.

Naked.

I threw the naked part in to make the detail a little more salacious, but really I was naked because it’s just easier to clean a shower naked. Do you know my very first job was as a “housekeeper” at Holiday Inn? Well, it was.

I didn’t clean those rooms or showers naked, in case you were wondering.

But here and now? I clean my shower naked, and then just finish up with a shower. I’m efficient that way. That should probably not go on my resume.

Anyway.

I’ve been “home” in Ohio for just over a week now.  I had an extended stay due to the threat of Dorian.

Outside of a few giant little life problems to contend with, it has been deliciously nice.  Cold, but nice.

Yes, my Florida Blood has already started to thin, I guess, because I find the weather to be a tich on the cold side.

I’ve done a lot of cat cuddling. 

 

Friend visiting and patio-sitting.

Late-night bar-snacking and big-drink drinking.

I have missed all those things, and also the people who I’ve had the good fortune to enjoy the week with. It’s difficult, because while I’m here as a visitor, my car is in Florida so I rely on the good grace of my people to pick me up and haul me around – and Uber. TGFU.

I have tried to squeeze in All The Things in 8 days, and clean my shower with a dryer sheet, because #CleanHouseGoals.

Today is my last day to and I need to get to squeezing MORE out of it.

I have my carpet to clean.

A new litter box arrangement I’ve given some thought to.

Packing up. I have more things I need to take to FL with me. Including Kitty Purry.

It’s been an angsty decision, which one of my seven three cats to bring down with me.

I’d love to have DJ with me – this belly every night? Yes, please.

However. I don’t think he would be as happy down there with much more limited running-around space.

He’s like the Dixie Chicks, he needs wide open spaces, room to make his big mistakes. Or at least poop in the grass.

So after careful thought, Kitty Purry is moving to Florida and starting her role as Sophia from the Golden Girls – she’s small and grouchy, so naturally.

She likes small spaces. Hates other cats. Loves mama. She will miss Kenny, but she’ll be the one who adjusts the easiest.

She and I will be just fine for a while.

What I  know for sure is that where ever we end up and for however long, we will make the most of it, despite the hard parts.

It’s hard leaving, and not knowing when I’ll be back. Maybe Christmastime? It’s hard having a foot in two states. It’s hard having people and family and problems and good times, and leaving it all behind me to let it sort itself out.

Sometimes you have to push though it and grow through the chaos.

So I’m still working on that. And in the meantime, I’m cleaning the hell out of my house. It was really fine, but I just have a different method than Kenny and while I’m here, I TCB the hell out of things.

If nothing else, I will leave a clean path behind me to make way for clear paths in front of me.

 

stressin’ and obsessin’

Reader, it’s been Monday all damn day so far.

I got very short sleep last night. For a girl* who mostly has an upbeat attitude and an unclenched jaw, I still have a lot of stuff on my mind, and it tends to run away with itself as I’m trying to settle in for sleep.

*girl, yes girl, not middle-aged woman. because it’s my story and i’m holding on as long as i want.

Recently I read a thing that I wrote down because it was prophetic, and it said something like, “What were your worries three worries ago?”

I think I read this from Liz Gilbert (eat-pray-love), and I’ve actually gone and tried to recall my worries from three worries ago, and some came right to mind, but others were tough to drum up. So I’m trying to just Calm Down, as T-Swizzle sings, and remind myself that these worries will all be past worries at some point and probably won’t even amount to much of anything.

I’m mostly worried about going home this weekend, and then making the decision to bring one of mon petite chats down to Florida and letting him – or her – settle in here with me.

I worry about who to bring. Probably DJ, but I miss Purry, too, and also Toby (but he is NOT a good candidate for change); the others wouldn’t be good with change either, especially in a small temporary house, so it’s really just one of those two.

I worry that once I bring him, he’s going to feel confined in this space vs. the house.

I worry that I’ll let him out on the patio with me and #1/ the owner won’t like it and tell me non, and then he’ll never be allowed out with me and he will be sad.

I don’t want him to be sad.

I just will be happy when these worries are my worries three worries ago.

Since I had such fraught-filled sleep last night, I’m hitting the hay.  And hoping that getting these darn fears out of my head and down on the computer will keep them from keeping me awake tonight.

It’s hard sometimes to be a girl who moves to Florida all by herself, Reader. But she’s learning and trying to flow with the go.

And oh, PS, in other news, I’ve been listening obsessively to T-Swifts new album and I’m in Lover with it, so there. Because I’m a young girl.  Ahem.

We Only Need One Boss

Hi From the Sunshine State, Reader!  I have So. Many. Things. To tell you! And yet here I am, instead of writing I choose to Pool this morning, and yes, it’s a verb because I pooled the hell out of the better part of the high afternoon and it was delicious.

I’m getting ready to head to Melbourne to visit my dad’s lady, and I’m going to be late at this point, but hey, guess what, life will keep moving along.

I’m learning how to finally relax a little in life.

Kenny pointed out, “You hardly even yell at me anymore on the phone.”

My jaw is less tense, I wasn’t even aware how clenched it was as a natural state of being, until now when I notice it feeling clentched up. Before it was just always all clutched up on itself, I didn’t know there was another way for it to be.

Well, there is. It’s being relaxed most of the time.

I’m stretching and doing my own version of yoga for the stiff and un-agile, sometimes in the pool, sometimes in my Minute House, but always some form of it every single day.  I’m trying to find a benchmark to see if I’m getting more bendy, but so far it feels all the same, maybe – but maybe it’s better. It’s not worse, so I’ll take that for a win.

In my head this week I’ve heard The Hoff’s words, “be as good to your insides as you are to your outsides,” so I’ve been drinking my green smoothies and now my poops are actually greenish from all the greens I’m ingesting, you’re welcome for that, and also I’m sorry, but hey, blame The Hoff.  She instructs, I listen.  And then I tell.  It’s a vicious cycle of what’s in my brain and now is in yours.

Did you know I live in the country, Reader? I didn’t even know there was the “country” in Florida, I thought it was all oceans and beaches and lake and alligators, but nope. There’s the country and I’m in it.

It’s so country, I left for work one day this week and there was a pack of turkeys strutting down the driveway.

Apparently there was a BEAR in our backyard, too, and there is a pack of baby coyotes that I hear practice howling as dusk falls on the evening.  And believe me when I say they are not in the comfortable distance, they are c-l-o-s-e.

Which leads right into my next story, but I don’t have time to tell it right now as I need to get on the road, so now you have a cliff hanger, but I promise it will be told tomorrow, pinkie swearsies, so come back, I also pinkie swearsies no more info about my poops. That promise is just for tomorrow, not for good, because if something super-interesting starts to happen down there, I know ima gonna wanna tell you about it.  Because we’re thisclose at least in my mind, and that’s what we share with each other. Except you’re falling down on your end of the stick, so feel free to leave a sharing comment if you’d like.  But no pressure, because you do you, Reader.

I’m not the boss of you.

That does lead me to think of something my dad’s lady told me once and that is, “The only thing that’s the boss of me is my ass. I do whatever it tells me to do, and when it tells me.”

So there.

 

 

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