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The Bang Bang Theories

Farmer Bang Bang: The Finale

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

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

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

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

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

The fertilizer was working!

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

Except.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

He sniffed the harvest and walked on by, disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

As Real As It May Seem

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

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

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

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

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

The poltergeist sat there very dejected at his defeat.

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

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

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

domo arigato look what i-bota

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

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

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

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

 

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

Wine. That’s what.

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

*inspire is open to interpretation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll never guess.

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

The Force Is With You

I did a whole buncha wife-ing on Monday, Reader, and it was good. Good for someone, the verdict is still out on who exactly. Maybe me, which sucks when you have to be your own wife because it’s more fun when a wife is doing the wife-ing FOR you.

Today’s Wife did a lotta cooking. And she even mopped her floors, so BAM!

I was going to post pictures of all the foods I made, but no one cares what’s cookin’ at Chez Bang Bang, unless that someone is eating the food. So you’ve been saved from a buncha food photos.

In other happenings, I’m sitting here ready for my 1:00 appointment, only to have checked my calendar and discovered it’s actually at 2:30. For once I’m ready early, Reader, except that I’m not dressed yet. I’m on the deck in my brassiere and undies. No, I’m not worried about the neighbors, unless they do happen to catch a glimpse and take up a petition that I always remain fully dressed when outdoors as I’m scaring the wildlife.

I’ve got a lot of little irons in the fire, but the worst part about not having a time table each day is that things very easily can get shoveled to tomorrow. But! I’m making my all-trusty to-do list, which is usually pretty great at keeping me on track. So far I’ve crossed off three things I’ve been meaning to do, but none of those things are painting a picture, which is what I really want to do.

I just felt something walking on my naked back, and lemme just say, Reader, I do not care for that feeling one bit. So whatever you are, get off my back!

My mantra today is What Steps Am I Going to Take Today To Climb The Mountain?? I read this today and found it very inspirational and I started my list and checked some things off, and feel all positive and action-y. But I also read another thing about mountains, and it’s a lot less motivating, because:

So you know, yin/yang.

The yinning and the yanging are why it’s so hard to accomplish things. And also, did you know that in yin/yang, the female is the negative/dark influence?? I just read about that, because I’m a researcher, Reader, and at first I was pursed-lip perturbed that the female is the negative/dark force and then as I sat here I thought, “Damn straight we are, so watch. the fuck. out.”

 

 

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In On the Joke

Trixie Bang Bang is grabbing onto the last days of nice-ish weather. The weather feels a little bit on the brisk side, but it’s clear and I’m fortunate to be able to spend a little more time porching.

Eventually TBB has to go back to work.

Maybe.

She …er … I … have a THING I’m working on, and it may be just enough to patch us through over here at Chez Bang Bang, and leave me with the free time I love so damn hard.

As we both know, Reader, I’m not getting any younger, and in fact I’ve apparently scadaddled ahead rather quickly and went right to my Senior Moments, not to be confused with my Señor moments, when I’m just a very nice gentleman who sips tequila and eats guacamole

Señor Moment Me

 

On Tuesday night My Mister and I decided on a spur-of-the-moment to go see a movie. I hopped* in the shower**, dried the front of my hair, slathered on my Arbonne-look-young-long-time moisturizer, put on actual PANTS instead of those of the yoga variety, but decided to skip harnessing my bajongas into place as I was still mildly damp from the shower and didn’t want to wrestle with a brassiere. I was doubled up in a shirt with a sweater over it because Fall is nipping at our heels, so I didn’t need to apologize to the world for my boobs on the loose.

*my old broken knees version of hopping, which plays out more like a very careful grasping of the wall and gently hoisting one leg at a time into the shower area

**yes, it was EVENING before I decided to shower, stop judging me, the trick is that I’ve been MOSTLY showered during funemployment!

So off we go, where we decided to see the movie Silence, which was good enough, by the way, on Cheap Movie Night (Tuesdays), and since the movie was cheap and My Mister’s was free (thanks, Costco Moviepass subscription, as I only get three a month now, but he still gets unlimited. I did not buy though Costco, I bought through their Moviepass website, damn me) it was decided we’d have a popcorn and diet soda treatsie.

Reader.

This is where my night took a turn.

The bill rang up to about $2.50 less than I normally pay.

Me, excitedly asking the counter girl:

“Why is this so cheap tonight? Is there a special? Did I earn a reward from my Cinemark app???”

Countergirl: just looks at me.

Me, still pushing it: “Well, that’s a good price, hm, I’m surprised it’s not $11.75! What a deal!”

Countergirl: “Um, well, it’s the senior discount price.”

Me, still not actually getting it, gives the girl a conspiratorial wink: “This old age really pays off!”

Wink~Wink.

Long, steady wink, to let her know I’m in on the shenanigans.

My Mister and I grab our plunder and saunter away, proud of the scamming of the system.

And then.

I realized it wasn’t a scamming-of-the-system conspiracy between the Young Countergirl and myself.

We were not in cahoots.

She was all of sixteen.

I hadn’t even been asked if I qualified for the senior discount.

It was just assumed.

“Of course this woman is a senior discount getter,” Young Countergirl must have said in her own brain.

Prodding My Mister, “Do you think she thought I was really a senior citizen??”

MM: “Well, I think the discounts start at 50.”

TBB: “No. No they don’t.”

MM: “Just go with it, you saved over two bucks, and from here on out you’re a senior citizen.”

TBB: “Well, fine, but then YOU’RE DATING A SENIOR CITIZEN. SO THERE.”

NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

I took a picture of myself on the way home, to do a little senior citizen analysis.

SENIOR MOMENT ME

I mean, not too wrinklie. But yes, Girl could use a little smoothing-of-the-complexion concealer, perhaps.

And the next day I made an appointment at my Fancy Salon to get a good and youthful looking haircut, to begin the process of whipping my head back into shape.

I’m not going down without a fight, Old Age.

I mean, unless you kick me in one of my arthritic-the-likes-the-doctor-has-never-seen-in-a-person-my-age bad knees. Then I’ll go down pretty quick and easy.

 

Rummin’ Down A Dream

Hi-Howdy, Reader! It’s Saturday night, or so they tell me, and I’m sittin’ here in a quiet-ish house and want to tell you stories.

Except the stories aren’t on the tips of my fingers, and haven’t been for a while, and so I decided to lube them up with a lil’ bit of see below:

For you, Reader, I’m breaking my Health Kick*, which has included NO ALCOHOL** for a almost an entire week now – well, it would have been 8 nights since I got back into town and decided I needed a 30-day clean out of mah insides.

*”health kick” being used in a very loose sense, because yesterday included wedding cake, which also became breakfast with coffee this morning, because wedding cake doesn’t come along just any ol’ day, so you have to strike while it’s around.

but I have been eating mostly better, and cooking at home, and enjoying my power-house Arbonne shakes for breakfast/lunch AND – hold on now – going to the gym this week!!

**mostly no alcohol, except for last night when I needed three vodka/lemonades during a wedding we DJ’d, which is also where the wedding cake came from, so basically MARRIAGE is to blame for all of my downfalls. that should not be any surprise for me, yet here i sit, surprised. damn marriage sticks it to me again.

Anyway, that breakfast cake tasted better than it looks, and was quite worth being between my lips.

As a matter of fact, this rum and coke-sy I’m sipping right now is also quite worth being between my lips rights now, it’s that damn delicious.

Notice above how I didn’t belabor the point of how I am better than you went to the gym four out of five days this week, and the time I didn’t go, I went for a really sweaty walk in my neighborhood AND I’ve engaged my quads in a 30-day squat challenge?? Because I’m not an insufferable gloater, Reader.

Except maybe I am, because did I mention my working out and my squatting and my almost giving up alcohols this past week??

Although I’ve just refreshed my squat challenge calendar and I think I’m about 20 squats per day behind because I think I’ve been sticking at 30 and oh, p.s., that’s hard. I only plan on getting to the 100-squats-per-day, not 250, because get a life, Squat Challenge Designers. So basically I figure my squats are like this:

Week 1 – start with 20, get to 30 – check

Week 2 – move from 30 to 50, increments of 5 each day or whatever feels good

Week 3 – move from 50 to 75, increments of 5 per day or whatever feels good

Week 4 – move from 75 to 100, pat yourself on your newly uplifted butt area and gloat about it to everyone you know.

Tonight, right after I’m done with my rum*** I’ll get my 30 or 35 in for the night. Except I may have done them this morning, but I can’t rightly recall – because I believe in checking it off in my head and not on paper and it’s not entirely a failsafe method, also thanks rum.

***all the on-line squat challenges are missing the whole “add rum at the end of each week” to their little system, which is where they’ve failed us all, and why working out is tough to stick to, and frankly I need to write this whole method down and market it, complete with ratio of rum to coke for optimum drinkage and people will ENJOY working out more and the whole world will be happier.

See, I told you a little rum would get a story outta me. I never promised a good one, but ya know. We’re just getting back into the swing of things.

I’ve got a floor that needs mopping, also made more fun with the addition of rum on my lips. And then a little Netflix & Chill, which does not mean having sex with myself or anyone else, but more likely means Forensic Files & Sleep, because my damn Netflix plays hard to get and works sporadically, like an asshole. Not literally “sporadically like an asshole,” unless your asshole doesn’t work well all the time and takes a lot of coaxing, then it would be literally accurate to say my Netflix works like an asshole, instead of just an adjective to describe the frustrating fuckery it delivers from time-to-time.

Rum apparently makes me sweary, too.

What’s new with you, Reader?? Let me know if you need any exercise tips, because I’m almost a guru with four hard days at the gym under my belt and a 30-squat repetition underway.

**p.s., did anyone get my title?? anyone? damn, Rum, you make me clever.

**if you didn’t get it, you’re going to get kicked out of the Tom Petty fan club. Yes, petty, I know, but those are the rules. I don’t make the rules,* I just enforce ’em.

*i actually do make the rules.

**which is why I’m using these little star annotations *** however the hell I see fit tonight.

~~Trixie Bang-Bang makes the rules. 

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That Time I Caught Snorkel Lip

Reeeeee.Deeerrrrrr. Hi there, and welcome back, Me!

When I haven’t been here with you, I’ve been busy acquiring and suffering from Snorkel Lip.

Yes, it’s a thing. A very real and very scabby thing, evidenced here*.

*also evidenced here is my face on freckle overload. it makes me still shake my head with a laugh when I think about this one time I met a guy for a date and he took one look at me and said, “I’m not into freckles,” threw back his drink, and quickly left. One would think he would have SEEN said freckles in online dating pictures but apparently he was focused on my giant (not naked, but freckle-free in case you were wondering) boobs. 

A few nights ago I noticed a hard spot under my lip and for realz I thought I was catching the mother of all herpes simplexes or complexes that affect your upper lip and not your Downstairs Lips, as I was sure that big hard part under the surface was going to ERUPT and look extra sexy at any moment and make all the muchachos want to bésame mucho. I thought I may have gotten whatever epizoodie was happening below the surface of my face from sucking on a dirty snorkel in Meh-heee-co.

But instead it was just the perfect storm of salt water, blazing sun and muchos muchos muchos like maybe fifteen but who’s counting margaritas on the rocks with more salt, and did I mention blazing sun? And also add a whole buncha extra salt from the beachside homemade tortilla-eating:

As all that salt and sand and sun was happening, I spent several hours with a snorkel crammed between those salty hot lips doing a lot of this:

Because there were fish that needed to be seen and I was determined to do my part, even if it meant sacrificing my lip in the process.

Luckily, this didn’t become a permanent reminder of a time I sucked on a dirty snorkel and instead just became a giant scabby zone of chapped-ness that will probably clear up at some point this week, with the help of a lot of shea butter and cat smooching.

We hope so anyway. At least I hope so. I’m not so sure about the cats.

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The Writing’s on The Wall. Sort of.

You, Reader, may well be wondering why the hell I haven’t been giving you good blog. Or even bad blog for that matter.  We both thought I’d be banging out stories day in and day out with my newfound luxury of time.

Just like almost every one of my best-laid plans, it’s gone astray and here we are sitting in the Dog Daze of summer already.

I have been somewhat productive during my luxury of time era.  I’ve been working on an updated resume, and have had a couple of live interviews, which so far I’ve heard crickets about, which is frankly plain rude, Jobs, because you’ve had the good fortune of spending time with me, at least say nope, but this is the way of the world it seems.  Flanked in rudeness.

I’d like to report that my house is sparkling clean during this time, but that would be a lie. I mean, it’s clean-er most of the time, anyway, but I seem to always get waylaid by a whole buncha non-fun ways of getting way laid.

Just yesterday I went to the closet to get out my Hoover Hardwood Floor cleaner, and it wasn’t in there. Befuddled, I went to the garage to look around, thinking I may have shoved it in there for some reason.

Nope.

Not there either.

It’s a pretty big item, Reader. It’s not a teensy-weensy hand-held thing.  It’s the size of an upright vacuum because it’s an upright vacuum.

So. That begs the question, “Where the fuck is my hardwood floor cleaner??”

Did the cats sell it on Ebay to pay for their Pounce addiction?

Did a rouge cleaning bandit break into Chez Bang Bang and STEAL my cleaner??

We both know for a fact that My Mister didn’t use it and store it someplace else. Hahahhahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahha!!! Right, Reader. Shew-ieeee, that’s a good one.

I haven’t even asked him because I already know how that conversation would go down:
MM: “Uh, what? What did it look like? We had a hardwood floor cleaner? Do you mean the carpet cleaner??”
TBB: “Nope, not the carpet cleaner. The HOOVER hardwood floor cleaner, not the BISSEL carpet cleaner. You remember, I bought it, I used it a few times, it left streaks on the floor so I didn’t love it and shoved it in the laundry room closet??”

MM: “Nope. Never heard of this before right now. Are you sure we had one?”

TBB: Bangs head on wall, creating more dirt from the crumbling drywall.

I wanted to try to use it again, this time with no soap, just water and rubbing alcohol and vinegar, instead of their cleaning solutions that just attract dirt. But who. the. fuck. even knows where it is.  Not me, that I know.

I’ve had some other things that I used to have mysteriously disappear. It always befuddles me when I see a past photo that I’m in and I wonder, “What ever happened to that shirt/necklace/ring/pants??” Just the other day I saw a photo with a shirt I used to like wearing, and I haven’t seen it in eons.

I rechecked my closet, thinking it was in there and I’ve just been overlooking it. Nope. And by the way, my closet was VERY easy to check, because during my Luxury of Time Era, I took out all my “work” clothes and shuffled them to the upstairs closet, and then sorted and arranged what was left by color, because I want to make Marie Kondo proud, but she would not be proud at the loss of a big vacuum thing and a shirt.

Maybe that shirt got stuck in with the clothes I’ve moved to the spare closet, which is what I’ll have to go check next, and maybe the vacuum somehow got relocated to the basement, which I”ll have to go check after that, and you, Reader, want to know why I don’t have time for us?? This is why!! I spend all my time checking and looking and looking and checking. Apology accepted.

When I’m not looking for things that should be in the house, or booking cruises, which I just booked ANOTHER ONE yesterday, Reader, and am looking for a date, by the way – I’ve got an invitation out there, but I have not heard her say Yes to the Dress yet, which in this case the dress is actually the Harmony of the Seas, wherein I scored a practically FREE balcony stateroom with the only caveat that I have to go on 9/1, which means I’ll be back from my CUBA trip on 8/21, then hosting my girlie friendie from NY on the 22-27th-ish, then repacking my bags to get on the Harmony on 9/1, and how the hell did I ever have time to work before is the real question, Reader.

When I’m not doing ALL THAT, I’ve been trying to get reacquainted with my muse, who inspired me just this morning to create the cover of my book I’m working on! Yes, I’m mostly working on it in my head, but I decided that this morning over a cuppa coffee was the perfect time to manifest the cover and the rest will soon follow.

You’re welcome once again.

It’s coming.  You have been warned. I mean tantalized.

 

Bada Bing

I just got home from spending a wonderfully long week with a friendie in upstate New York and I have so many exciting things to tell you about, Reader!  But in the meantime, I’m going to make this a shortie because I’m busy doing Responsible Things, a.k.a., preparing for the Real World again as I have a couple of interviews tomorrow and Friday and I’ve gotta prepare myself to be more dazzling than my norm.

Also, my house smells catty, and I’ve got to get that wrangled.

But I wanted to gloat share this one story with you, which made such an impression on me that I actually told it to My Mister TWICE, much to his dismay delight and then he questioned if maybe I was getting a tich of dementia or just becoming Trixie-Two-Times, which would be my mafia name* if I were in fact “made.” I haven’t been made, in case you were wondering, but one time for about a year I was an actual maid at a hotel, so probably the same thing. I had to clean up someone else’s mess.

*you are probably incorrectly and frankly insultingly assuming Trixie Bang Bang is my alter-ego-stripper form, but you’re wrong. and maybe i’m not exactly insulted, for that matter, that you think this bod would have actually been part of a stripper pole ever. but it hasn’t been, mostly due to my lack of bendy-ness vs. some righteous morals; however, TBB is actually my POKER playing name, because my poker face leaves ’em all dead on the table, or something like that which was said whilst drinking and gambling. ya know what, just go with whatever story suits the narrative better: stripper, gambler, drinker, potato, potahtoh.   

Back to the story. While I was super-duper busy floating around in the pool at the Oasis, we spent a day hosting a little cookout, complete with a few kids jumping around with us in the pool. Jody had actually set up a really nifty American Ninja Warrior Pint-Size Edition in her yard and I had course responsibilities in the pool, wherein I had to hold a jumping pad thing for the kids.

One Little, who is six, quite boldly asked me, “Hey, how old are you??”

“OLD!,” I replied. “Fiddy-ONE!”

“Wow!!” the Little responded with awe. “I thought you were TWENTY!!”

With that sentence she became my new favorite six year old, and probably my new favorite person in the whole entire universe. Also, six year olds are the smartest people on the planet.

She may or may not know that twenty is younger than fifty-one. That’s just minutiae, Reader. I look twenty. So let it be written, because it was said by a six year old.

Should I ever find myself as Trixie Two-Times, Mafia Edition, I will do just fine in witness protection because I look 31-years-YOUNGER than my age.

If you need me, I’ll be the one looking twenty over here in the corner.

 

More On The Road Again, Day 2

So true to my usual form, I had plans to tell you all about my continuing adventures, but then got tarred (that’s tired with a hillbilly twang, in case you don’t read hillbilly, Reader), and choose bed instead because I have been a Bizzzzzyyyy Bang Bang and needed mah sleep.

I’ve left you with a bit of a cliffhanger from my last post wherein I was going to be an early riser and get up and spite eat all the bagels from the free continental breakfast at my crappy-manager hotel. I know you want to know how that all went down in the morning.

Well.

Because the breakfast was served from 7 a.m. – 10 a.m., there was very little good chance that I was actually going to be up and at’em to eat all the foods at 7 a.m. My laziness saved breakfast for all the other guests, so you’re welcome, other guests.

After a decent night’s sleep in a rather comfortable new and updated room, I wasn’t feeling nearly as froggy about the situation and decided to instead just use my room up til checkout and then scadaddle on down the road. I had places to git to. And I didn’t want to start my day on a negative, as no good would have come from my actually meeting the hotel manager. Overnight I had found my zen again.  Sometimes people make it hard to be a nice human all the time, but lawd, I’m trying.

Since breakfast needed to be the first thing on the agenda, I asked Almighty Google to find a neato diner and she delivered, just a hop, skip and a jump away.

I had a good enough turkey club sandwich, bypassing the New York “garbage plate” thing because I didn’t need to eat something called garbage with a three hour trip ahead of me. Or ever, frankly.

I peed and got on the road.

Except.

Somewhere between my peeing and my getting on the road, my phone froze up.

Reader.

I am dependent upon my phone. We all are. You realize how much so once you don’t have it.

The front screen was stuck on something that I’d never even looked at – some Albany airport terminal information – it was as if it had been possessed by a mean road spirit and was just going to deny my getting where I needed to go in a timely manner.

I tried all of the hard-resetting, but the Gods of ‘Lectronics just laughed rudely in my face.

I entered the bartering phase of panic.

“Dear Garth, remember when I was a good person this morning and didn’t eat ANY of the free breakfast, didn’t steal the toilet paper, left my room clean AND tipped the maid?? Remember all that goodness toward being a NICE HUMAN that I was doing?? Then WHY are you fucking with me right now???”

Garth didn’t respond, but DID allow me to use “Hey Siri” voice commands to call My Mister back home and Jody Girlie to try to figure out if I was near an AT&T store to help get my ‘lectronic fixed.

Because I needed it for my Waze map to get where I was going as I didn’t do any actual map looking because I have Waze.

After Dear Garth decided I had suffered with anxiety enough, she delivered me right into a really schmancy fancy mall area called Eastwood in the town of Victory and there was an AT&T store, with a no line and someone there to solve all my problems, I hoped.

He took the phone and said no problem, it just needed a hard reset. I smirked and said in my head, “yeah, good luck,” but out loud I said, “I tried all that, I can’t get it to reset.”

He pressed and held some buttons and some sirens went off on my phone.

“Um, is that my phone making that noise? Why is it siren-ing?”

The Guy seemed nonplussed and shrugged it off, but he didn’t know how to reset it either.

The Other Guy walked out from a back room just at that point and Reader, this is where I’m TEACHING AGAIN and giving you a lesson you may not know, just like I didn’t know, nor did the Guy at the AT&T store. So listen up.

To reset an iPhone 8, it’s not the normal power+home button hold. Oh, nosirree. It’s all tricky and meant to panic young – go with me on that, Reader, we’re friendies, remember? – solo travelling girls. First, you have to press volume up. Then, press volume down. THEN hold the power button until it resets.

Who. The Fuck. Would know that??

I said as much to The Other Guy. His reply, “Well, no one, that’s why you have to come here.”

In the middle of doing my happy-my-‘lectronics-is-fixed dance, I had a No Caller ID call come through on my now-working phone.

“Hello?”

“This is 9-1-1, are you in an emergency situation?”

TBB: “Uh, no, I’m at the AT&T store getting my phone fixed, The Guy must have called you accidently.”

The Police: “Ma’am, are you safe?”

TBB: “Yes, haha, it was just an accident.”

TP: “You’re in the store right now?”

Yep.

TP: “Are you in an emergency situation where you are unable to respond?”

TBB: “No, really, I was just getting my phone fixed, all is well. The Guy didn’t know how to reset it.”

They finally took my word for it, and we hung up and then I needed to just shush myself down and so I treated myself to a Starbucks cold brew and a cookie, looked at all the cute things I couldn’t buy at Anthropologie & Kate Spade, used the restroom and was on on way, finally, only two hours behind schedule.

Now, I really did appreciate the attention The Police was giving to the situation, in case I was actually in a mall emergency situation. Thank Garth I wasn’t, but they seemed to have it under control, except they should have given me a safe word, like Pineapple, to say if I was really under duress and unable to speak about it. So there ya go, Police, a little lesson from Teacher Bang Bang. And that’s why reading all of the 50-Shades-of-Grays was a valuable use of my time, Reader. Because I care about my continuing education. Ahem.

I was finally able to get on the road towards my destination and everything was smooth-sailing, and I arrived at the Haggart Oasis* sometime that evening, where I was greeted with a cat, a doggie, and a cake. 

Because it’s the Summer of Trixie Bang Bang, and we will NOT be thwarted by an unsavory hotel experience, a non-giving-me-directions iPhone or even two calls to the police.

And I still have the Jello Museum to look forward to on my return trip home.

*this right here is why it’s called the Haggart Oasis. Because yes, thank, you.

 

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