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The Bang Bang Theories

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.

 

One Direction

Hi Reader, Happy Weekend. Unless you’re reading this on not a weekend, then Happy That Day.

I haven’t been here much, because I’ve been trying to expand my creativity by painting awful pictures. Because I’m a badass, and refuse to  not paint just because I’m not a good painter. But that leaves me having to make a Sophie’s Choice, of painting, reading, writing or doing shit I should be doing, like laundry, cleaning, bill paying, etc. So not really like a Sophie’s Choice at all, more like a Trixie’s Choices, which are plenty, not life or death, and usually chosen not wisely at all.

I keep working on my dern sea scape, but the youtube I’m watching goes really fast, faster than I paint, and then I’m rewatching parts, and using too much paint and I don’t know how the tutorial teacher keeps such a small amount of paint on her palette thing.  She makes a little go a looong way, which is the opposite of what I do. Maybe I’ll get to the point of adding in some waves and blurring up my beach line later today or tomorrow.

Maybe.

In other news, Fall is looking pretty at Chez Bang Bang.

Speaking of Fall, Thursday at work I did exactly that.  My shoe seems to be acting like an asshole, and wasn’t “lifting” with my foot. I can wear about three pair of shoes only, my pickings are slim because i’m still healing that gol’dern-mother’fuckin’ blister spot and can’t wear anything that will put pressure against it so I’m wearing slide-on shoes. Well that damn shoe slid underneath my foot and tripped me right on up.

Luckily it was late on the way out of the building and there wasn’t an entire audience to witness my tumble. Three girls came running up and then shared their own stories of falling, which somehow was supposed to help me. Basically I just wanted to get in my car and cry and look at my boo-boo, which consisted of a big lump on my knee and a bloody elbow.

So basically, I’m now the person who takes a wicked spill. I am one birthday away from needing a Life Alert.

And oh, yeah, I chipped my tooth on something a week or so ago, and am now up to $3k in dental expense repair work, which luckily will be done right before I head out for vacation next week. Stay away, Burglers, because of course I have a cat sitter here ALL THE TIME, so don’t try to steal my stuff. Unless you’d like to take one of the peeing cats, then have at it.

Speaking of a peeing cat, we changed the sheets the other night because I wanted a nice clean wrinkle-free sleeping experience, and Kitty Purry came right over to my side of the freshly made bed and peed on it.  Because apparently that’s where that goes. So we did a full strip down once again, including comforter, and changed the bed within a matter of two minutes.

Yes, Kitty Purry still gets to live here. No, we didn’t kill her.  I mean, what are we supposed to do, actually. Everyone has an opinion that they’d kick her outside, etc. but I don’t think killing a cat is the answer. Apparently her needs were not being met in some fashion. I really wish she’d learn to leave a little note somewhere, though, instead of her peeing on the bed calling card. On MY side of the bed – let me clarify that point. She only ever pees on me directly, or on my side of the bed. I’m the lucky one.

So that is about it.

I fell.

The cat peed on the bed.

I’m an awful painter.

And some other things happened, too, but we’re not going to get into all that here. Let’s just say it was a week of turbulence but we are going to move forward, hopefully not falling too hard along the way, and trying to badass the hell out of life, because really that IS the only choice.

Keep moving.

Get up when you fall.

Cry a little bit.

But keep moving forward.

Brown-Chicken-Brown-Cow

Happy Saturday, Reader – it’s almost Cocktober, which is why the girls and I celebrated with a few dancing tushes last night. Yes, yes, save your words if you’re all offended. I’m not here to please you. We’ve already established that. If I were, you’d get way more content and of much better quality.

Instead you get things like ‘Cocktober” which will now be stuck in your mind for the next 31 days.

You’re welcome.

I’m not above ogling, and in fact I rather enjoy it, and also I feel like it’s part of my humanitarian relief efforts, because these guys need jobs, too, and they are providing something towards relieving humans.
I’m pretty sure that’s how charity works.

We had VIP tix, because that’s how The Hoff rolls when she does something. Which is reason #32 why we get along so well. She’s part of my Golden Girls Squad, which is a group of us who figure we’ll for sure outlive the guys and will need to rely on each other in a nice “flat house” with no stairs, and help each other out to the lanai.

The Hoff somehow got it in her head that she was NOT going to be Dorothy, but she’ so absolutely Dorothy with her no-nonsense sarcasm, so I’m not sure who else she thinks she is, and frankly I’d be happy to be the Dorothy except I’m also the more slutty one out of the troupe so I’m obviously Blanche. We told her she can be Sophia then, because she’s a little cantankerous at times. So those are your picks, Hoff. Don’t hate the player, hate the Which Golden Girl Are You game.

Speaking of the players, this one happened to be Blanche’s Pick.

Going to a Chippendale’s show made me realize a few things last night.

1/ My best sex years are probably behind me. I know, I know. That’s not how Blanche would think! But let’s face facts. I USED to be able to be flipped over and turned around and pulled up and pushed down and all that fun stuff. Now? My knees just aren’t going to participate in all those shenanigans. They’re just not. It’s a whole lot more like, “don’t try anything fancy, just get the job done” around here. I KNOW, now you can’t unknow that, but it’s TRUE and I’ll all about speaking the truth(ish)!!

2/ No matter how cute and thrust-y they were, I seriously had this thought while looking at them: My brain: “They must spend an awful lot of hours in the gym to look like that. You know they’re not doing a fucking thing to help out around the house.”

3/ And the other thought in my brain said this: “As cute as he is, and as flippy and twirly and pumpy as he looks, I’m sure at some point he’d end up disappointing me.”

Now, Reader. That is a rather sad commentary on my view on guys. Apparently, I invented, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Now, I know you’re probably all wondering (not one of you is actually wondering this, I’m sure, but you’re going to know my answer anyway), if they did the trick of getting me all worked up and then a whole bunch of this happened later that night:

I’m sure a member of the household would like to say it did. But when it was suggested, Grouchy Old Lady Blanche said, “Let me just live with my fantasy for one night. I can’t risk being disappointed.”

And instead My Mister got me a glass of Alka Seltzer because my Peach Bellini’s gave me indigestion, and he was too full from the all-you-can-eat clambake we had after the show anyway and we are saving my disappointment enjoyment for another evening.

And now you know just another glimmer of the magic that happens if you get to live with me, Reader. Who’s sorry now. Besides My Mister.

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Formal Wear

You guys, my littlest wandering kitten has been missing for 5 days now.  I hadn’t mentioned it because my thoughts are if I don’t type it out loud, it’s not really happening.  Because that’s how the energy of the Universe works.

I’ve been practicing “visioning” wherein I close my eyes and focus really super duper hard on “seeing” him standing on the front stoop waiting to be let inside.

We’ve driven to the streets behind the ravine, calling “kitty kitty” and hoping to avoid seeing tufted mashed black fur on the road.

I know he should be a dedicated “indoor only” cat. I’ve always ever only had indoor-only cats. But his heart wants what his heart wants, and it involves chasing and running and being nosy outdoors.

It’s a risk agreement we’ve entered into, and just keep hoping for the best.

Two nights ago I even insisted My Mister take the little garden St. Francis statue and sit him up straight against a tree while I said some sort of  novena – is a novena even the right right religious word? – well, regardless if it is or isn’t, I was novena-ing to the high heavens and willing Gussy to come back home where he belongs.

Finally, last night I made the decision to turn the front porch light off. Yes, until all the kids are back inside, I leave the front porch light on as their lighthouse beacon. I know it only comforts me, but since I pay the electric bill I don’t have to ask for permission to indulge myself.

I clicked off the light, heavily signed and declared I think this time is it, he’s not coming home.

And then sometime in the middle of the night I got up out of bed and went and turned the light back on. Because mama’s boy isn’t home, and dammit the light is staying on.

This morning, there was no miracle return of my prodigal son.  See, I know religious things, Reader – don’t think I’m an outright heathen! I know returning son stories and have a St. Francis statue (right next to my Buddah, we’re all-inclusive around here – well, maybe not all, but we’re a lot of inclusive around here) and I’m saying novenas.

You’d think with all that going on, our boy would surely show up.

Well, you’d be RIGHT, Reader!! My Mister was chatting up the neighbors tonight and mentioned to the group that we’re still looking for Gussy.

The newest neighbor in the hood blanched when he mentioned we haven’t seen him since last Thursday. He stuttered, “Uh..wha??”

Long story longer, apparently he thought the feral cat who hangs out sometimes suddenly became nice and catch-able and he hauled him to the APL and turned him in.

MM high-tailed it to the APL and then called me. He just wasn’t 100% sure “Tuxedo” was our little black cat. I told him to let me Facetime the cat, I’d be able tell from a few of his distinctions, including a tuft of hair missing between his shoulder blades from his flea application (check!), how the hair is a slightly different color down by his tail (check!!), and then I told him to let me see his pants, because I’m quite familiar with his sparse-haired tummy (check!!!).

Much like an online dating profile, his photos and his write up doesn’t quite showcase his cuteness.  Luckily for us.

He started purring LOUDLY when Kenny picked him up, and his disposition is a bit on the fed-up side, which is good and probably kept him from getting re-homed.

The neighbor at least kindly pre-paid for an adoption fee for him when he dropped him off, so we don’t have to pay to get our kitty back.  However, it was past adoption hours tonight so he’s sitting for one more night in his jail.

There’s a few lessons that can be learned from this story.

1/ Novenas and praying to false statues must work

2/ If you know your neighbor has a cat, maybe check with them before taking the suddenly-friendly feral cat named “Tuxedo” to the APL

3/ I’m a little annoyed that this particular neighbor didn’t say something when he’s had to have heard me calling for Gussy, night after night

4/ Will i ever be able to politely wave to these neighbors again??

5/ I know there are way way way worse pet neighbors than mine – some even shoot your damn dog with a bb gun (yes, that’s a true thing that happened to my cousin)

6/ We, as his mama and daddy, are responsible for him not staying in the house, but I don’t like being his Ariel Castro – if he wants some fresh air and sunshine, what right do I have to deny his freedom

7/ I know he’s a cat, and I have every right to deny his freedom

8/ I still can’t deny his freedom

9/ I think he’ll be getting a microchip shortly

10/ The good news is, he’s all caught up on his shots now

11/ What kinda idiot thinks his markings are that of a “tuxedo”??? I mean. Good. Lord.

12/ He’s now listed as “pending adoption” by the people who own him, which is just a crazy game that we have to formally adopt him

13/ As they say, alls well that ends well.

I think I’ll leave the light on just for one more night, to let The Universe know he belongs back home and we’re waiting.

 

 

A Little More, Please.

You guys, I think I’m finally learning important stuff!

Remember last time we were here, and I was trying to force myself out of a bad mood by “relaxing” a.k.a., sitting down on my deck to create a really hasty painting because damnit, I was going to accomplish something, whether I enjoyed myself or not!?

Well, I certainly wasn’t happy with what I had created and was scrapping that one up for a loss.

But the paints sat on the porch all week.

And sometimes after work I’d go out there and sit and look at my untalented work.

And then I started to think, “Well, hm, what if I just paint white paint over the parts I really hate, and see what happens next.”

So I’d mix some colors, and pick up my brush and start to dap at the canvas.

Slowly I started to not hate my painting. I started to enjoy watching a few touches here or there transform it just a little. Slowly. Slowly. Take your time and enjoy the process.  Little changes began to add up. And I started to relax into the process and have a new appreciation for the outcome.

Is it going to win any awards? No it is not.

I’ve been evolving it.  And just adding some touches here and there, and it takes a super long time for oils to dry (do they ever even dry??) and then maybe tomorrow I’ll try something else.

But the lesson learned is, that now, with a little patience and persistence, I’m starting to like what I’m creating.  And I’m enjoying the experience.

What else I know is this: Someone I know is going to inherit all the arts I create when I die and then think to themselves, “Oh fuck me, this is awful but if I throw it out I’m going to feel like an asshole because my dead aunt/friend/daughter/cousin/sister/lovah painted this with her own two hands and bequeathed it to me and now I have to put this somewhere in my house!”  And then my job here is officially done, because it’s one last HA! I’ve gotten to play on someone because that’s the way death works, or at least the way I’m going to do it. I will make you regret getting named in my will.

I’m also excited for the part of this story, where if you’ve paid any attention whatsoever to Trixie Bang Bang and her penchant for naps, you may have noticed I’ve said that sometimes in the evenings I’d sit on the deck and dap at my painting. Because I’m NOT NAPPING, Reader – I’m dapping!!! A YUUUUGE shift has happened in my bod for the past couple of weeks, and I can attribute it all to starting a 30-day Detox thing-a-mah-jig using Arbonne products as my main supplier for good things in mah bod.

This is in no way a sales pitch. I’m not good with pitching products. You either want stuff or you don’t, and my telling you I like it has little effect. I’m happy keeping all the effects to myself, quite frankly.

Here’s what I do know:

I’m not tired for the next day before I’ve even gone to bed the night before.

I’m not in need of my pre-bedtime nap as soon as I rush home from work.

I’m not exhausted during the day.

I don’t want to crawl under my desk and Costanza at 2 p.m. 

I have – no shit – been getting up BEFORE NOON on the weekends. VOLUNTARILY!! I mean, waaaay before noon!! Some days before 9 a.m. which I had always considered crazy talk.

I mean, comeon’ Reader. I heart sleep like I heart soft kittens and chocolate cake. A lot lot lot of hearts.

And lately, I have felt like my sleep fuel tank has been running plum full’up after a normal night of sleep.

I’m sitting here on Sunday at 5 p.m. and am absolutely flabbergasted at how much day I still have left, and how much I’ve already packed in.

Now, I haven’t gotten all my to-do’s ticked off the list, but guess what?? There’s still time to do them!!

So yeah. Arbonne for the win with this one, and it’s not even a struggle. Now, I do my own version, which is probably why I’ve only lost 4 lbs., but I still like a meal. I mostly stick with their protein shakes during the work day, then have something for dinner. I drink several glasses of their detox tea a day because it’s delish. And I swig down in two gulps some digestive health stuff that smells like cat pee, but is supposed to do me a world of good so I just go with it. Let’s face facts, I’ve swallowed several unpleasant tastes in my lifetime. Ahem. You just don’t get to fiddy without trying stuff, is what I’m saying. Curiosity alone is a motivator to test things out.

The weekend has been filled with beautiful weather, and also a strong scent of the unavoidable changing of the seasons. A leaf blew in and landed next to my masterpiece, reminding me that our days outdoors are limited and to soak them up while we can.

Purry gave me quite a scare this week. It seemed as if her days were limited. She stopped eating, probably lost a whole pound or two and at her teensy size, that is significant.

We waited to take her to the vet, to see if she’d bounce back, and by the time I’d declared it was time to take her in, she started eating and drinking more.

Her little trick worked well for getting her very own strategically placed crystal bowls of water with ice cubes all around her hangouts.

She became whisper-thin in just a few short days, but here she is actually enjoying a nap on the deck while mama paints/writes/creates/frets about life. 

She seems to be out of the woods. Now I just need to get her fattened back up a little.  Purry could have used a few extra protective layer of pounds on her, and now I’m heeding this warning and thinking about a dessert in my future tonight.

In the meantime, I’m going to go and get a few more things checked off my to-do list, including a quick whore’s bath for my car. On Friday one of the other tasks I swore I would complete before the sun went down on the weekend would be planting my hydrangea, which looked like it was a lost cause and then it surprised the eff out of me when I noticed fresh greenery sprouting. It’s not done with me yet, Reader, so I need to give it a helping hand. Off to find my shovel.

Sometimes, like a bad painting, a sick cat, or a brown plant – hope springs eternal.

Here’s hoping for a little bit more of that in all our worlds.

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Point, Counterpoint.

Me, at work this week: “Shitfuckdamnitall, I have to get this presentation done!! And I’m sooo behind on it!! I just don’t have enough time!!”

Him: “Interesting.  No time, yet you managed to make not one, but two versions of Hurricane Harvey Cat.”

I still think this was time well-spent, regardless of the fact that I have to finish my presentation this weekend.

Priorities.

The Painted Woman

My day today was going downhill fast, Reader. I started the weekend with a lot of optimism, but then sometimes things happen that shoot the wind right outta your sails, and that’s what happened today. You know the kinds of things, those things that have you wondering what the hell does any of it even matter, why is just living such a struggle, blah blah.  I have no business complaining about anything, I’ve got it rather easy, yet that doesn’t stop me from the Woe-is-Me’s. Sometimes they just arrive unannounced and no matter if you tell them to take a hike, they sit down on the couch and settle in for a while.

I hate this kind of unexpected company, except my dirty floors don’t matter to them. But they are exactly what’s preventing me from getting rid of those dirty floors.

It was quickly apparent by mid-day that I wasn’t accomplishing anything productive. While I was in my office feeling overwhelmed by the sheer amount of Things I HAVE To Do, I spied some painting canvas I bought almost a year ago, and decided Fuck it ALL, I’m going to sit on my deck and paint a motherfucking picture.

Now, I am an awfully amazing talented painter – with an emphasis on the awful. I’m also an award winning motherfucking awful artist, as evidenced below:

Most Organic Looking painting award, so suck on that, naysayers. Before you get too judgey, the owl was supposed to look all funky like that according to our instruction sheet which I thought I’d saved to SHOW YOU how close to awesome it really is, but somehow I can’t find that  now. No matters, you can see the awful awesomeness wif your own eyes.

The Bosses of Painting Day killed some of my creativity by making us hold them for photos before I was finished and my paint was still wet. So now I’ve got a nice little drippy owl, which frankly galls the artist in my soul. We only had two hours to paint our masterpieces, it was a sip & paint work team building event, which is frankly how I like all my corporate team building events : drinking and alone with my art. My piece is still missing a lot of details due to the time constraints,  I didn’t have time to flesh in all the details which would have really made this orange-slice eye’d owl a showstopper.

But I worked with the time I had and really enjoyed myself.

So when I finally recognized that today wasn’t going to go to plan with Doing Productive Things, like I said, I decided to unleash my badass artist self.

Tomorrow I will be sad I didn’t focus on the floors instead.

I got all set up on the deck, squirted my paints and tried to loosen up these awful, horrible little paintbrushes that came with the paint kit. and took a damn stab at it.

You guys. I think I’m supposed to enjoy the process more than I did.

I think I like watercolors better than oils. I like to just mash all my colors together. I have zero knowledge of how oils even work, or what I’m actually supposed to do to get them to turn out nicely.

Oils had a lot of waiting time. And then try some new colors. And then my flowers became big circle blobs and my hand got some paint on the bottom of the canvas that i then smeared to look ‘intentional’ and I hated that a lot, and my flower box looks like a giant black blob and well, the end story is, it just made me frustrated and I started intentionally making the flowers look worse so I can justify throwing it right in the outside garbage can and those are some hours I’m not going to get back.

I think oils are supposed to be something you dabble in, and then come back to, and it’s a whole “journey” and I wasn’t in the mood for a trip today, I just wanted to paint like a mad woman and have something to show for it at the end.

This was not the thing I wanted to show for it at the end. And it’s not even at the end, because wow, it’s still in need of a lot of something.

Regrets, yep, I’ve got a few. Spending part of my day painting a piece of crap instead of painting my door frame is one of them.

Relax = Fail.  But I’m still an award-winning artist, mo’fucks.

Same Time This Year.

I have three quick minutes for you right here, right now, Reader. I need to be washing up mah hoohahhh and getting finished packed up, because I’m heading to Graceland in a couple short hours. So really I have zero business sitting here doing this except I have free will, so here I sit.  Right now, I’m really really really glad I recognized my limits last night and knew I could not leave ALL the packing til this morning. It’s 90% done. Just make-up & toiletries, after I shower all this up. I don’t want to risk a stinky hoohahhhhahah for The King. Or stinky armpits.  It would be a disgraceland.

Why am I worried about my armpits, you ask? Oh, why thank you for inquiring, Reader! I’m worried because I’m back on that dern antibiotic  – again – for a recurring motherfucking infection in mah tootsie.

I can. not. seem. to. get. this. to. go. bye. bye.

It’s presenting a challenge, shall we say.

My last doctor appoint brought up the topic of possible surgery to see what the what is going on down there, putting me under so he can dig in deep.

I was thrilled at that last appointment, as you can imagine. Let’s pretend they were tears of joy oozing out of my ducts.

My doctor kept trying the old diversion tactic once again.  It wasn’t working.

So the long and short of it is, I have to go get packed. Let’s do a quickie recappie summary of what we’ve learned:

  • I’m back on a strong antibiotic.
  • This is the same antibiotic that made my armpits shoooo-weeee last time.
  • I’m thrilled about it.
  • I’m going to eat BBQ this weekend.
  • And listen to jazzy music on Beale Street.
  • I get to probably have surgery when I get back.
  • There won’t be as much fine drinking as I had anticipated this weekend.
  • My work portion of the trip – which was my whole entire reason for going in early (sssshhhh, don’t tell Elvis, I don’t want to hurty his feelings) – has been cancelled because I cannot participate in extreme walking which is what this work trip entailed.
  • Despite this little set-back, I’m still going to Graceland.
  • I will squander precious time to blab out words to you, Reader. Despite a firm time I have to actually be out of the house. You’re welcome.
  • I also might get to wear another wound vac!! More good news, Reader!! I loved that thing attached to my foot!!
  • It’s been almost a year exactly since I had the spider bitey footsy problemo. Seems to be my theme.
  • Things could always be worse. Little problems, Me. Little problems.

Hope your weekend is filled with weensy-teensy mild interruptions and we all blow right by the big problems, Reader. Especially my Irma Pathway friends. Stay dry. Stay safe.  We can weather our storms together.

 

 

Signs for the Times

As much as I am afraid of nature, it’s a bit of a contradiction that I  bought a house with a backyard that contains a whole lotta wildish nature.

Not wildish by Alaskan or African or other crazy parts of wildass animals, insects and things to be afraid of, but wildish by city slicker standards.

I mean, there are BUGS that can bite you really hard. And sneaky snakes that could be right under the next footfall. And some coyote, and a blind raccoon named Taco that the neighbors care for, who wanders the ‘hood at his leisure, and skunks and moles and groundhogs and oh, yes, a beaver who used to live here until a really hard storm washed away his dam and now I haven’t seen our old grey-snoot feller in quite some time. Damn.

I miss our beaver. Because I like nature, just usually from the vantage point of the deck.

So it came as a complete surprise to both myself and My Mister when last Sunday, after a day of mostly bed and sadness, I popped up and said, “Let’s go walk around the ravine!”

My Mister didn’t move because he was fairly certain those words would just hang in the air and disappear and we’d go right back to watching more telly and probably order a pizza.  That was his hope, I’m sure.

But nope, not this time – I was meaning it.

I like to journey into my backyard once a year – ya know, get my money’s worth – and last Sunday seemed to be the day for it. The weather has been really Fall around these parts, far sooner than I’m happy about. I love autumn, and if cold winter weather only lasted a month, I’d like that, too. But it’s a long season of it and frankly I can’t afford to put on another winter layer of chub so I need more Fall, which makes me frisky like my friend’s doggie who wants to go for lots of walks now that there’s a bit more nip to the air. I don’t want lots of walks, but my yearly jaunt to the ravine seemed like a good idea then, and maybe one more time, too. Just when you think you know me, you don’t. I’m an unpredictable wildflower, Reader.

It’s not exactly a dangerous hike to my ravine as there is a stair set.

Now it can be a bit treacherous as the top step is missing a board and needs fixed up, and quite frankly I’d like a rope rail or something that fits naturally while helping old Trixie Bang Bang keep from tumbling down and cracking her skull at the base of rocks. So far she’s been lucky and steady and it hasn’t come to that.

So far.

I did, however, buy a $12 hiking stick from myself at my old job, and it has a light on it and navigation. Because I may need all those bells and whistles for my yearly fifteen minute walk in the ravine.

I do have aspirations to hike, Reader. I’ve been daydreaming of hiking to Havasupai Falls, to the point it’s a bucket list aspiration. But it’s TEN MILES in and TEN MILES out. Reader.

Reader, Reader, Reader.

My 24-year old hair stylist just went and texted me a few details. She’s 24. She CRIED during the hike. Many times. She said it was the hardest thing she’s ever done. She’s 24 and bendy and has good knees!  But I’m still not deterred.

Is this where Trixie Bang Bang has taken a breach from reality, where I think that maybe just maybe if I park far enough from the shopping mall entrance I can condition myself to the point I can hike to and from these falls?? Sure, there may be some tears, but in the end they will be washed away as I stand underneath these waterfalls.

Oh, Beautiful Nature, why do you have to come with such a difficult journey??

While there is a fairly good chance this will remain an unfulfilled bucket list aspiration, at least I keep it on the list. I maintain my hope, Reader, is what I’m saying.

Which is quite possibly exactly what I got from my unexpected and unplanned walk in the ravine last weekend. I needed a reminder to maintain hope.

Everywhere I turned I saw signs. Some from nature, some manmade, but kind of exactly what my heart needed last weekend and now.

The ravine runs really high with water throughout the year. It can wash away big trees.  There’s a lot of turnover – nothing stays forever down there. It’s constantly changing and moving on down stream.

This rock was sitting there by the water, saying to me, “Come on over, take a look.”  So I marched over in my flip flops rugged hiking boots to get a closer look.

I’m not a church-going type. Don’t mistake that for non-believer. I believe in a higher power. I don’t believe in a Jesus-on-the-cross-prayer-will-heal-everything religious point of view. I have learned that prayer cannot heal. We have prayed hard as a large community and it does not heal. However, it may bring comfort. I pray for comfort and peace within our souls. For myself. My family. My friends.

The beauty of signs is that we can interpret them however we choose. Whatever brings us what we need.

I still have a wrapped-up-but-still-open foot wound, so I was careful not to just plod across the water n my flip flops hiking boots. We found a little rock bridge and crossed over to the other side.

The cats were beyond excited to follow us on our adventure.

All of us except for Nosey Dots crossed over and took a little stroll downstream. He was not feeling curious enough to risk getting splashed.

This was waiting for us on the other side.

I put in my official twenty or so minutes in the backyard, but since we weren’t interested in going around the bend we rounded up all the kittehs and told them it was time to head back.

A bit of nature does the soul happy, and I was feeling a bit more bouncy on my way back towards the other side.

The other side of the ravine was cheering me on.

Closer: 

Now, My Mister didn’t see a rock smiling at me when I pointed it out to him, but comeon. It’s RIGHT THERE. Smiling at me! I think an open heart can see extraordinary in the ordinary. Or it’s the copious amounts of wine.  Whatever, stop judging me, Reader. I see a smiling rock and a cross rock and a heart in paint, which was not tough to imagine.

However. This heart was letting me know it wasn’t all by happenstance.

Nature was cheering me on during some weak times, making it possible for me to cheer for others who need a rally.

It’s been some sad times and also some happy times, and river of tears and some big belly-laughing moments and hugging your friends and holding your family and saying I love you more often. Which is really just life.

I should listen to Gussy a little more often and enjoy the treasures of the ravine. He thinks this is the ultimate playground, right there in his own back yard.

 

p.s. – this is once again a post that started a week ago, and I just can’t seem to finish them up lately. Sometimes when they start I have a whole story laid out in my head and then it comes with a flat ending when I pick it back up again.What da ya want for nothing? … a rrrrrrrrubber biscuit?

Fancy Feets

While we’re on the subject of Trixie Bang Bang’s Stinky Body Parts, I figured it best to stay on topic with what my body is doing lately.

Because I might as well completely gross you out, or my job is only half done, and no one likes a quitter unless you’re a smoker, and then I truly appreciate quitters. Unless you’re smoking a little Mary Jane, and then I know you’re doing it for your health because that’s the only way it’s legal.  And we all are striving towards better health. So toke up, is what I’m saying. Legally, of course. I’m not here to encourage debauchery. At least not in writing. In an open-to-the-world format. Ahem.

~puts ciggy down, sips coffee~

So if you’ve been here before, you know that I’ll try just about anything that promises better health/dewrinkled skin/weight loss/fuller eyelashes/beautiful tans/shiny hair etc, and I’m even less discriminatory if that item comes with an under-ten-dollars price tag, and even less less discriminatory if it happens to be on a shelf at TJ Maxx.

Somehow those items just pop right into my shopping cart and I can’t rationalize a good enough reason to take ’em back out because usually they are less then the cost of a McDonald’s Awful Meal, so I say in my head, “eh, what the hell, let’s give it a whirl” which is exactly how detoxifying maxi pads for my feet ended up in my bedroom this weekend.

They promise to enhance my metabolism, improve circulation, energize me, bring optimal balance and pain relief, all naturally. For $5.99. That is a whole lotta promise for under six bucks.

To reiterate, it would be stupidly foolish to pass this up, amiright, Reader? Yes, I am.

I did hesitate with this purchase for a moment, because I am not quite sure that putting something on my feet – which still has an infected blister hole – is where I want to draw more toxins to, but then I said in my brain, “well, just put ’em on one foot, removing half the toxins is better than none of the toxins and then I get twice as many pads that way, too, so win-win.” And in my cart they went, along with a new mop which broke on my first use so it’s going back to TJ Maxx because it was $20. I will spend twice as much money on items from TJ Maxx that promise me clean and shiny floors. It’s another of my financial weakness indulgences.

So after an emotionally draining Saturday I was putting myself to bed and saw my recent magic foot pad purchase sitting there on the nightstand and figured I have a lot of toxins that must be floating around, if my recent stinky armpits are any indication, and should try them out.

The package disclaimer indicates that the should ideally be used when you can afford a good eight hours of sleep, and I scoffed at that child’s play recommendation because comeon. I can get eight hours of sleep with my eyes closed. Literally.

In fact, when I woke up for good this morning – not the 9 a.m. waking where I just got up to pee – I pondered the time out loud and asked My Mister with a trace of disgust at the slothy-ness of our lives if we’d once again slept til noon.

Nope, we did not, is the answer.  It was twenty to one. In the afternoon. Well played, Clock. Well played.

Now, before you come over and check me for bedsores, I was up on and off throughout yesterday’s evening, putting aways some laundry, kissing kittens, watching Guy Fiery eat a bunch of deliciously described foods that made me hungry and all we had was Arbonne shake powder, which is actually quite delicious and I made myself a shake and drank it with glee, and anyway I was only resting, from the time I put on my jammies and tucked into bed around 7 p.m. until about 1 a.m., not actually sleeping.

I started my job of actual sleeping around one-ish, which puts my sleeping hours at only eleven hours and forty minutes. Stop judging me, Reader! I have toxins in my body! And I’ve had a lot of emotions this weekend and needed to sleep it off, much like drunk Otis in the Andy Griffin show, who would just lock himself up to get a good nights worth when he’d had a snoot full.

But back to the business at hand, which was deciding to rid myself of toxins while I slept, which is also my favorite way to self-care, and can they please invent exercise that happens while I’m fast asleep, thanks in advance, Inventors.

With a lot of skepticism, I opened the pads and applied the first one to my left foot, which is also the “good” foot and not home to the fucking infected blister situation. After taking another hard read at the ingredients – mostly of which included different kinds of vinegars and rose hips, I decided to apply to the bottoms of both feet because now I didn’t want to jip the foot that really has toxins out of this magic toxic removing pad, and this is what it looked like once applied.

I mean, it’s not like vinegar solutions can mash bad things up into my skin, can it? I’m actually asking, that’s not rhetorical, I really don’t know and hadn’t considered that until just this second, and I sure hope that’s not the case. Vinegar is practically a magic elixer – it can lower blood pressure & diabetes, clean your windows to a sparkling shine, rid your coffee pot of scales and also your washing machine tub.  Surely putting a vinegar soaked pad on my foot can’t do any harm, right? Can it push bad stuff up into my foot as well as pulling stuff out of my feet?? How does this even work, really?? Is it a two-way street?? It seems a little crazy, as things don’t normally ooze outta the bottoms of my feet, except for stinkiness, so maybe toxins can actually drain out from there. I don’t know or pretend to know, Reader, is what I’m saying, all I know is I tried it.

When I woke up this afternoon at the crack of dawn this morning and pulled off my maxi-pads I sort of screamed a little in disgusted shock when the first one came off.

They looked like this, plus there was a sticky residue left behind on the bottoms of my feet and all I can say is just wow.

I went into the bathroom to scrub ’em up, and took a look in the mirror and I swear-to-fuck I noticed my under eye area was less puffy than it’s been in a very long while, and also my fingers did not feel swollen.

My feet have had a little bit of tingling sensation all day long, but a good tingle, like they DO feel rejuvenated, and not even achy in the arthritis areas, and is it all in my head?? Or is it actually in my feet???

I decided to reward the day by not wearing any undergarments, and just letting all my body parts have a free-wheeling good time. I don’t know what that decision actually has to do with magic feet maxi-pads, but I just felt a little bouncier today and decided to roll with it.

I even told My Mister later this evening to take a look at my face, my lips were forming a smile all on their own, without my even trying to think about being happy, and then I took a photo to capture it because it was a SMILE FORMING ALL ON IT’S OWN today, and let me tell you, it has NOT been my most favorite weekend of all time at all, so this is a BIG DEAL.

And yes I know you may not notice my depuffy eyes, but believe you me, with all the crying that’s happened around here lately, this is looking good and do not even try to steal my joy, I will not allow that one bit.

So the final verdict on the foot pads is, I want to open one up and just leave it on the nightstand and see if it turns the same yuckky color as the one that’s attached to my body tonight, but on the other hand I don’t want to waste it if it’s really doing something and it could be detoxin-ing me instead of sitting on the nightstand and getting stuck on Kitty Purry when she inevitably walks across it on the way to her nightstand water dish. It’s a Sophie’s Choice. To pad both feet or run the test. Only time will tell which road I take at bedtime.

Have you ever tried a toxin-pulling maxi-pad for your feet, Reader? Is it all in my head, or is there actually something to this and it’s a six dollar miracle?? Chime in. I may need to buy stock in this product. And then stick a couple under my arm pits just for good measure.

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