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The Bang Bang Theories

In Season

This is my view right now, which I am throughly enjoying:

A little evening writing. I was worried the mosquitos would be severe, but so far only one or two little annoyers. Worth putting up with to hear my little creek and the night sounds.

I’m so happy on my little deck, that rail with the lights really transformed the place.  I’ll be sad when it’s time to put it all away. Speaking of which, this tree a couple houses down from mine seems to think it’s already autumn:

I mean, comeon now, Tree. I feel almost certain it was green at one point this year, so I can’t quite believe it’s dead. I’m no horticulturist, but I’d think it would have zero leaves on it if it were dead, right? I need a tree expert to weigh in on the situation. Mr. M? Ask your brother. This is the most important thing he needs to work on right now. Why is the tree on my street prematurely seasoning??

Mostly I’m glad that this tree isn’t in my front yard or I’d be beside myself. I don’t keep up on every thing around Chez Bang Bang – on, no sirrree, not by a long shot – however, I get very picky about certain aspects of house and yard, and a deadish tree in the front would drive me nuts.  The other night, while working on my office space (going on two years now, stop judging me, Reader – I’m a slow-and-steady-wins-the-race-if-I-don’t-die-first turtle) I was fucking around with the window in the dormer and noticed the upper portion has a gigantic crack in it. It’s not shattered or anything like that, but there’s a crack and it’s been haunting the back of my brain ever since I discovered it. I don’t even know how the hell it could have happened – there’s nothing near it, inside or out. Maybe a bird – like a hawk-sized hard-headed bird flew into it. Wouldn’t be the first time Nature has fucked with my glass.  A deer crashed into my sliding door in the basement and shattered it a couple of years ago.

So yeah. That’s it for a quiet Tuesday night in the neighborhood, Reader. Hope you’re enjoying some of these short-lived summer nights.



Last month my auntie was a docent on a home days tour of a historic city in our area.  First, let me note that all those hours I’ve spent watching Sex & The City have been educational, and I should receive credit for the time I’ve put in to that show. I would be a Ph.D if they counted those hours. I had never heard of the job/word “docent” until Charlotte became one on Sex & The City.  And thanks to my dedicated studying of that show, I didn’t have to act like an uneducated dum-dum in front of my worldly auntie when she told me she was going to be a docent for historical homes tour day,  instead I got to be all nonchalant with an “oh, that’s cool” attitude.

Continuing education hours of Sex & The city pays off is what I’m saying, Reader, even if they don’t give me a cap & a gown.

The most exciting part for me with my auntie docent-doeing was that I got to join her on her pre-tour, where she learned all about the house and got her script. So I got to nibby-nose around the house, which was like being on a real-life episode of something on HGTV.

It was very exciting. The house is very old, and had some very interesting history, including an ex-Cleveland Brownie lived there. But of course what totally captured my attention was this, outside:

When I pulled in the long and winding drive, I did a double-take and then lol’d.

If anyone would care to make me a wooden man peeing I certainly wouldn’t say no. I would put it right up somewhere off of my ravine, probably along my treeline so all the neighborhood could be annoyed enjoy it.  And then one day it could be part of a docent tour.

And that’s what happens when you take an educated-by-Sex-&-The-City girl on your docenting with you. She enjoys the history, sure – but mostly the wooden man peeing.

Frowny Upside Downy

I’ve been a Grouchy Gus this entire weekend so to counter my own worst enemy (me) I’m posting things that I like.

It’s a short list, don’t get too comfy.

But the first thing that made me smile out loud today was this mug:

And at the low low low low price of $2.99, it came home with me.

I’ll be enjoying my morning coffee out of it tomorrow. It may go to work with me and be my Official Work Mug, although my work offers a drawer of mugs for our convenience, and then they even wash ’em for us so it pays to not bring your own mug, but they don’t make me smile like como se llama does.

When I came home today from getting my llama mug, Gussy made me smile as he was lounging on the bistro chair, like a little guest waiting for his tea.

That’s not the official home of that little bistro set, although it’s been there all summer so far. It was handed over from My Mister’s mama, and was in the garage, and then I needed to move it out of the garage and it just sort of ended up there. The neighbor across the street commented that she liked it there so I haven’t been in a real rush this summer to re-home it someplace else in the yard.

Gus seems to enjoy it. Who am I to argue with him. No one, that’s who.

On my way to work one day this past week, I had to stop while this little family made it’s way across the street at their leisurely pace.

I was happy to wait.

It would be remiss of me to not include a picture of the Best Cat Napper in the Entire World, which is his official title. I mean. That face. Those curled in paws.

How can a girl remain crabby with all that cuteness going on? She can’t. She won’t. Grouchy Bang Bang must end with the setting of the sun. There are kittens that need smooched and gol’dern it, she’s going to do it. And it’s hard to be frowny when you’re kissing cats.

Let’s make it a great week.  And if we can’t achieve great, let’s go for Good Enough.  Have a good enough week, Reader.


Soured, No Sweets

You guys. Today I’m just a little…. edgy…disappointed…maybe a tich on the grouchy side. For no good reason, sometimes the mood just settles and now it’s become my job today to shake it off and lift the fog and have a good enough day (no advertising here, just a simple little trademark-in-progress statement!)

I did have a harrowing nightmare last night, one that had me muttering in my sleep to the point My Mister awakened me to relieve me from my thrashing around and mumbling distress. I’m a very vivid dreamer, and a good dream remember-er, which can also be a fault when it’s bad dreams and they hang around. It was a haunting dream – where there were bad spirits in an old home and I opened a bathroom door and it was trying to suck me in to it’s bad spirit world and in my dream I was trying to grab a hand and screaming “help me……..”  from being sucked in to the bad spirit world.

So maybe that’s part of it. And while I’m feeling edgy I may as well drag you down with me, because misery loves company, right? Hey, Reader, I never promised you a rose garden.  Here’s what’s on my mind lately.

#1/  Back at the end of May I squeezed in a doctors appointment before I started my new old job and had a full tune up. Remember, this is when I was deemed officially morbidly obese? Well, as a result of treating my body like a dumpster for the past oh, say ten years, I was treated to a diagnosis of Type 2, and now I can’t love cake anymore. I mean, I can still love cake, I just have to love it from afar and not with my mouth. Which frankly is hurtful and rude towards cake.

I debated to share my medical information with all dozen of you, but I usually operate in a world of transparency so why stop now. It’s not a super-high Type 2 situation, but it’s enough that I’m on a pill and really watching what I’m now shoving in my cake hole.

Which leads me to the next thing I’m annoyed with.

#2/ For about three weeks now, I’ve been strictly monitoring what I shove in my cake hole. Ever since we came back from our Bermuda cruise, as a matter of fact. I’m attacking this Type 2 head-on, like it’s my job. And I lost seven pounds, which is a drop in the deep bucket, however it’s also 28 sticks of butter!! And when I have a visual of 28 sticks of butter, it is much more motivating than seven crappy pounds.

I’ve had more salads. And passed up breads. And have climbed more stairs in the past month than I have in the past ten years. And got onto my pilates reformer machine and did some stuff. And been downright hungry, Reader. Not starving – that’s a term I eradicated from my vocabulary as it is complete hyperbole compared to little children in Africa – but I’ve had pangs and growls.

And then this morning I was three pounds heavier than I was last week. I mean, W. T. F!

#3/ As a result of Type 2 and weight loss efforts, I made the drastic switch and gave up my much beloved flavored coffee creamer.  Reader. I have struggled with this in the past.  But now it became more of a necessity, as I do not want to switch to sugar free versions of things because I’m not a fan of artificial sweetners. I do use half-n-half, as opposed to 2% milk, because comeon, but it’s certainly not my delicious Almond Joy. I miss you, flavored creamer, but have adjusted to the half-n-half for the most part. It still has sugar – I was surprised, all milk does! – but every little cutback counts. You’d think this concession would at least equate to a pound of weight loss per week, because of the sheer sacrifice alone, but nope. Just one more reason to be mad and want to kick the scale.

#4/ My new department has played a cruel trick on me starting at the beginning of this month. As a way to keep things peppy, they have deemed Fridays in July as “Cake Fridays” and someone is bringing in a new and delicious-looking giant cake every Friday.  The first week was cassata. The second was yellow with fudge frosting. This past Friday was homemade chocolate on chocolate.  I have walked by it week after week. I have said, “No thank you,” when they have walked to my cube and asked if I’d like a slice. Let me repeat: I have said NO THANK YOU. The girl who has never met a piece of cake she didn’t like is saying NO THANK YOU to cake, and then she turns around in her chair and drinks her non-almond-joyed cuppa coffee and whimpers a little in the corner of her cube. You’d think that saying NO THANK YOU to CAKE would net a 1 lb weight loss per week, from the sheer effort of saying those words! You’d be wrong.

#5/ My poor dead Girlie cat is ready to be picked up from the vet’s office. The month I have had to deal with Type 2 and a dead cat. Those two reasons alone allow me to be a little cranky, Reader.

#6/ Facebook. I mean, I get it. We can all post whatever we want on there. and I love keeping up with what my peeps are doing, if the best we can do is from afar. I feel like I can at least check in with folks who I may not see very often. And no, it’s not replacing those visits, or phone calls – they just didn’t happen in the past. If I called everyone on my FB page that I comment / send a message to, it would be a full-time job. No one has time for that.

But. There are also so many Go Fund Me requests,  I can’t even. I find myself ignoring those in need because everyone seems to be in need. Not necessarily my friends directly, but shared stories, etc – it can show up in my newsfeed from all over.  And then I feel bad because I judge some of the need requests, and also I can’t afford to even send $10 to every one or I’ll be broke, and when did we start asking everyone to pay our bills for us?? I am still sitting on my own medical bills from the awful spider, as I had a $5000 deductible and worked for a start-up and now I have new Type 2 bills adding to the stack, and it wouldn’t even cross my mind to ask anyone to send me $10.

I know, this is super sour sounding, it is. I don’t like to not help people in need. But maybe I’m not as generous as I like to think I am. Maybe I’m really a stingy asshole. I don’t know. I guess I can afford to get the occasional manicure, I should be sending that money to someone I don’t know. I am fortunate to have had jobs that have paid well enough, even if some times were leaner than others. And I am fortunate that I haven’t had a bigger crisis, except I was unemployed with a big-ass mortgage and skrimpy unemployment and guess what, I racked up some credit debt and also took out of my retirement to pay my own bills, which snowballed into penalties and owing the IRS a shit ton of money that I paid myself, a little at a time, the old fashioned way. I’m just being honest. I don’t want to pay for everyones needs, especially those who have jobs already which probably pay better than mine does. Those requests are the ones that I judge. I basically run a cat rescue, which let me tell you does not come cheaply, just on the monthly food and litter and flea-medications fees alone. Add in a dead-cat-anyway emergency room visit at 1 a.m. and an unexpected hunk outta my paycheck is gone in a flash.

It also galls me a bit when I know that the people setting up the accounts are pro-Trumpers. And anti-Obama-he’s-a-socialist crusaders, but if everyone on my friends list chips in $20, we can raise the funds. It makes me question how many of those folks walk past the homeless person on the street without putting a dollar in the cup, or they guy who stands at the top of the exit ramp with a God Bless sign, hoping that while you’re stopped at the red light you don’t fiddle with the radio in an attempt to ignore him. At least those folks are working for it, in some respect. Go Fund Me has become the modern age tin cup – with a lot more lucrative results – where you don’t even have to go out into the heat and ask people to hand you money. Maybe I’m a Republican now.

Reader, I get it. I sound like an asshole. Possibly I am an asshole, and not the generous Liberal Libby I sometimes think I am. Let’s blame the lack of sugar in my diet for making me sour vs. sweet. It’s the only explanation I can offer.


Just Peachy

I have tendencies to impulse purchase, Reader. I try hard to curb them, because I also aspire to KonMari the eff out of my life, and like to tout that there are no physical things I even need in my world, I have enough of everything.


I still seem to manage to buy things. Take for instance Prime Day.  If I don’t need anything, why was every day since last Wednesday Christmas Day at Chez Bang Bang??

I don’t have an answer for you, either.

What I do have are several Alexa’s, an Echo, a Sonicare toothbrush, a new cat litter box, another aromatherapy diffuser, and the most-needed item, a Cordaroy’s bean bag chair that converts into a full sized bed. Because who doesn’t need that, Reader?? It was on Shark Tank. It must be good.

So that’s unfurling in the upstairs bedroom, just in case at some point in our lives we need more sleeping space than the guest bedroom can provide. Like a boy scout, I like to be prepared.

Which is why it seemed only natural that when I was stopping in to Whole Foods for lunch several months ago (when I was at my old job) the trees at the front of the entrance stopped me in my tracks.  Fruit Trees?? For $19.99? Of course I need an orchard!  And after careful selection I decided I needed to grow my own peaches because I love peaches and won’t it be great to go out and pick my own peaches and make cobblers and jams, like a homesteader.

My tree had several small fruits on it when I purchased it. I kept it on my deck so I could monitor my harvest, and keep it watered and away from the ravenous deer that eat all my foliage and flowers in the yard.

Except something happened and all of the small peach buds fell off, except for one.

My Mister negatively predicted it would never amount to a real peach because the tree was too little.

Oh, he of little faith.

I watered and tended and fretted over the bugs that seemed to be eating my leaves.

And I grew a peach!

It had a tentative spot on the top, something was trying to get at it but I wanted to give it more incubation time.

This morning during my watering and nurturing session I noticed something – probably a bird – had decided to taste-test my dern peach. MINE, Bird, not yours.

So it was time to harvest.  One side was picture-peachy-perfect.

I cut out the birdie bite – only cutting myself twice with those Wusthof knives which are intent on taking a digit from me – and sliced it up in a bowl and enjoyed it on my patio this morning.

And that’s what a $20 peach looks like, and it was juicy and ripe, made only sweeter by the fact that I grew this peach myself. I think I’m now officially considered a farmer, Reader. Farmer Bang Bang. Peach Grower. Cat Wrangler. Living the untidy dream.

*p.s., several Alexa’s are for gifting occasions. I’m not just a selfish shopper. I’m also a giver. Except of my lone peach, which I shared with no one. Except that bird.

No One Will Believe It

I’ve been told by a very good friend of mine – “very good” in the sense she’s part of my Wolf Pack good – well, she’s a very honest wolf. Crushingly honest at times. Most times. She’s just not one to sugar coat things is what I’m saying. So when she tells you something, it’s the troof – or at the very least, her true feelings version of the troof.

When I was considering embarking on the Mary Kay skincare and make-up pushing business two years ago during my Funemployment era,  she informed me quite matter-of-factly,  “You don’t have a face that can sell make-up.”

You don’t have a face that can sell make up.

Was told right to that very face that can’t sell makeup.

Let that sink in.

However. Never one to heed someone’s unsolicited advice, I went ahead and figured, “I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT THIS FACE CAN DO!!” and proceeded to order a thousand plus dollars of Mary Kay products that I was going to sell the hell out of.  While I was unemployed. Smarty Cookie, that’s me.

And while it quite possibly was my face that couldn’t sell Mary Kay, I know for a fact that my brain was more of the stopper because I just am not up to going to house parties and pushing stuff on people even if I think it’s good stuff. It’s not my jam.

So the point is, I have an office filled with Mary Kay that very shortly I plan to unload for a song, Reader, so if that is your jam, stay tuned and I’ll hook you up with very good products at a fraction of the cost.

But that’s not the point of the story, in fact – not at all. The point of this story is, my face has been insulted right to it’s FACE, and so it really should have come as no surprise to me when on my last cruise vacation to Bermuda I received yet another insult about my face right to my face.

Royal Caribbean now has a thing during the sign-in process where you can upload a photo of yourself for your profile. They have parameters, such as no background distractions, nothing obsuring your face – those type of rules. So I uploaded a photo. The very photo that is posted here, in the “About Trixie Bang Bang” section of this blog.

It’s a good photo. I had several days of unwashed hair so it was nice and flat. I have just enough lip lift to not look bitchy, with direct eye contact as if I’m saying, “Hi Reader, I’m glad you’re here!” And of course the black and white hides a lot of facial distractions.  As a good photo does.

I uploaded it thinking they’d never use it to recognize me on the ship, but in case I turned up missing on the ship and they were flashing photos of me on the news this is the face I’d want them to flash and hold vigils around town with. It would look good with a lot of vigil candlelight glow.

We get to the ship and start the onboarding process and normally they take a new photo of you but the woman told me, “Nope, you’re good, we don’t need a new photo of you.”

So there I am, sailing on through and feeling smug that should I go overboard I’ve got a good photo for the television.

Then we get to the boarding of the ship. And I hand over my seapass card for them to scan- which they do for all comings and goings on the ship – and the man sees my pretty photo come up and stops me.

And points to the photo and while looking at me and says, “This is YOU??”

Me, slightly taken aback, replies somewhat indigently, “Yes, that’s me!”

With a slow shake of his head while looking right at me and pointing at the photo he says,  “No one will believe this is you. No one.”

I semi-shouted,  “I’m standing right here! You’re insulting me RIGHT TO MY FACE!”  And then my supportive friendies laughed and laughed and we all walked onto the ship, thinking that would be the last of it, except for them rubbing it in from time to time.

We thought wrong.

At our first stop in Bermuda, when getting off the ship, where once again I had to scan my seapass card, a different person there stopped me before I could get off the ship and said, “No. We need a new photo. No one will believe this is you.”

No one. Will believe. Your face is your face.

And they made me stand there and get a new photo, which was the most godawfully bad picture in the history of pictures, I think it was an up angle with a lot of neck and chin and nostrils and then I thought screw you, Cruise Ship People! And flounced off the ship and onto the beaches of Bermuda where my face that can’t sell make up or get recognized if its a photo that doesn’t look like it’s gone three rounds with a boxing kangaroo soothed it’s ego in the chilly waters that sweep the pink sand beaches.

I mean, I get it. Tropical weathers and humidity are not my friends. They frizz up my hair and red up my face. Apparently to the point where I’m unrecognizable. 

So there you have it, Face. You can’t sell make-up. And Real You is unrecognizable from black & white you.

It’s a tough crowd, this world, Reader.

It’s making me question my natural beauty!

I’m wearing face masks to bed:

And eye bag correctors: 

Basically, the point is, sometimes you take a good picture. Sometimes you don’t. If you’re boarding a cruise ship, use the worst version of yourself. It’s the only way you’ll be recognized. Apparently.

And oh, by the way, Reader. All that Mary Kay makeup and skin care? The blow-out sale is coming. Prove my Wolf Pack wrong, and buy some from me. Prove I do have a face that can sell make up so I can stuff a great big bag of “suck it” in her face.

*now that’s a twist on selling shit I never entertained before – the pity/revenge sales push!

**you really don’t have to buy anything from me. unless you use some of that stuff and want a good deal.

***you can leave a comment and tell me I’m pretty to try and rebuild my ego a bit. i’m not opposed to lies. i get plenty of truths. help to balance them out, Reader.

****another woman who was disembarking in front of me to Bermuda also was questioned about her photo. She was an African American woman, and the only reason I mention that is so you can put in your head the amount of sass that accompanied her response, “It’s called lipstick! I was wearing lipstick in that photo!!” and sassed herself right off the ship without having to get a new photo taken. I need to learn some black woman sass if I’m going to take this face around. Apparently.




Slice of Heaven

Happy Fourth of July week, Reader! Lots of things that go “bang bang” are all around.

Me? What am I  doing? Well, how nice of you to ask!

I just got back from a shortie cruise to Bermuda, from New Jersey.  We travelled on Anthem of the Seas, which was a new ship and a new destination for me, so win-win.  And we DROVE there, which is also a first-in-a-very-long-time for me, as I don’t generally do driving trips because long driving trips take up too much of the actual vacationing time. However, flight prices were horrendous and I refused to be a party to these airline games so we loaded up and made the trip, heading out on a Wednesday after working all day.

Guess what make for a really long day?

Heading out on a roadtrip at 7 p.m. at night after working all day.

I wasn’t even driving and was sick of driving.

It felt like we were in the car for hours and hadn’t covered any ground.

Of course, we did stop in PA at the original Quaker Steak & Lube ’cause a girl’s gotta eat, and that probably didn’t help the drivetime at all.

And then after we stopped to fill up the car, the dash “lit up like a Christmas tree” as it was described by MM. And so he and Dan put their heads together and opened the hood of the car and shrugged their shoulders and we all sat and just sort of looked at each other.

Me, being the bossypants of the group, said, “Let’s just keep going if the car doesn’t feel like its acting like an asshole,” because a girl’s also got a cruise ship to catch in the morning and sitting in a gas station at midnight in bumfuck nowhere isn’t moving the agenda forward.

So we did, and we made it to a Quality Inn Motel somewhere about three hours from our Final Destination, which gave us enough time to get up, have complimentary waffles, and figure out wtf to do with the broken Lexus.

Me, being the self-annointed thinker of the group, called the Lexus dealership back in Cle and asked to speak to a person who actually knows stuff about all those engine lights and not just an appointment scheduler. So the guy said, “Eh, if it feels like it’s running fine, just keep going.”

So that’s what we did. And we made it all the way to the cruise port without breaking down, and then the toughest decision I had to decide was how many airline-sized bottles of forbidden alcohol I was going to shove up each of our buttholes, because I was hellbent on doing a little liquor smuggling, despite the fact we get a lot of free liquor on the ship already.

No one was volunteering up their buttholes for smuggling purposes. Surprisingly.

So I went with Plan B because again, I’m the thinker,  which was loading up some pants pockets. Boring, if you ask me, but at that point no one was asking.

Our only stop on this trip was Bermuda, and I pay so little attention to my vacation plans that all along I thought we were stopping overnight there, and then My John Boy said nope, it’s just a one-day trip, so that was disappointing. Luckily she planned out where we needed to go in that short time, so we dipped our toes in yet another one of the Top 10 Most Beautiful Beaches, Horseshoe Bay Beach, and it was lovely, if a little on the cold side.

I’m used to more tropical southern water, and the cooler water in Bermuda took a moment of adjusting.

But that pink sand!! So worth it.  Of course I took a picture. And then realized I had some people’s legs and not-so-attractive butts in there, and asked my Artist to use his magic skills to remove, and he did.

And he left me with a little something extra, see below.

The point is, you don’t always get what you ask for. Sometimes you get a random penis pointing the way.

There are still a couple of vacation stories to share, but I purchased a set of really amazing, grown-up Wusthof knives, and mother-of-fuck, they are not kidding with those German steel blades as I’ve not only stabbed myself with the point of two different ones tonight as I was attempting to use them for the first time, but I was joking that they could probably slice my finger clean off if I ‘twernt careful and the next second I near sliced my finger clean off. Except with less drama than that sentence implies, and really just sliced off some of the skin on the side of my pointer, leaving a flap-over behind, but it hurts and was bleeding like a ‘mo-fo, and of course I don’t have new old job insurance until August 1st so I had to apply a lot of pressure and hope for the best because I cannot afford to get ‘er stitched up by a professional. I need to put those knives on a hiatus until August.

And that’s the reason you’re not getting more stories right now as my pointer finger is bandaged up and needs to rest. And also why I shouldn’t be allowed to have grown-up knives.

Lastly, the car of course made it home or I wouldn’t be sitting around Chez Bang Bang slicing off body parts and showing you sand dicks, and what a loss that would be for you, Reader. Because sometimes mechanics work with the ‘eh let it sit for a while and maybe the car will just fix itself’ method which it did and all the Christmas tree lights were off by the time we docked and headed for home. And that’s what we call a Christmas-tree-light dashboard miracle.

Bumps in the Night

You guys.  I’ve been at my new old job for 11 days now and training and learning is hard. And tiring. Who knew going back would be so dern exhausting, Reader??

It’s a good thing I’ve already had a day off, am-I-right?

Yes, 11 days and I already had a day off.  Because some things – like a new old job – need to be eased into, like an old man into a warm bath.

I had a few fun events planned prior to my getting a new job-ie-oh. Part of  that fun was going to a country music fest in Columbus with my girlie friendie, and we spent two nights down there listening to music.

It was also a bajillion degrees that weekend so we spent part of the hot afternoon in our hotel room, watching a movie and eating Ritz crackers and drinking rums and cokes.

My girlie friendie also discovered that I’m an awful awesome driver at night, on unfamiliar highways undergoing construction.

Because I dropped the speed to seven and used my brights which had her a little on edge, but better safe than wrecked, except maybe that would be the exact cause of a wreck, and therefore no bueno.

Except. I had a really bad premonition dream a week or two before our trip, and that has had me a little on edge, so I blame the bad dream.

We’re not hear to swap dream stories, because that’s even more boring that my telling you that while I was in C-bus I ate this really giant cream puff from Man vs. Food restaurant in German Town. Except this dream, I’ll share the cliffs notes version with you, as a defense for my Officially Old Lady Driving skills.

Some who have ridden with me may dispute that this is a new thing. To you, I say suck it. You’re getting a free ride. Making left turns can be scary, and shouldn’t be taken lightly, Passengers. I proceed with caution.

This was  a cute bench made from a wagon wheel and someone should make this for Chez Bang Bang’s yard. Ahem. Yes, I’m pointing the finger at you, Talented Reader. All you need is an old wagon wheel. How hard can it be?

So back to the cautious dream. First, let me go on the record as stating that I’ve had a lot lot lot of dreams of dead people lately.  They’re not inviting me over to their side to party, but they’re around. And then the most recent dream was three dead people, my mom included, and an old friend, and my ex-husbands dead dad. And they were all looking out for me – I think. The old friend was telling my mom she was “watching over me to keep me safe.”

And then at one point I was compelled to roll over and open my eyes, and I swear this is zero point zero amount of exaggeration, I saw a male figure standing over my bed, and I was just sure it was my Forensic Files episode come to life and I was being home invaded and very soon to be bludgeoned to death.  And I know it was not a dream because I looked at my phone for the time and it was 2:26 a.m., which is also high-time for Forensic Files crimes to be committed, so great.

But back to the figure standing over me. It was SO REAL, I screamed in a really annoyed tone of voice, “What are you doing??!!” because that’s the appropriate reaction when you think there’s a home invader, but then the figure sort of turned and left the room, and I think it was my ex-husband’s dead dad, but he had his arms crossed over his chest, which wasn’t the most welcoming position but it also didn’t feel too scary.

And then I elbowed My Mister to wake the fuck up, how could he be sleeping through all that, and he said he heard me talking but thought I was speaking to him so he just ignored me. Because again, that’s how we show love at Chez Bang Bang.

I had him get up – much to his dismay delight – and check the house for bad guys and also shut the one window I had opened because why invite a murdery raper into the house.

And that’s the reason I have been a super cautious night-driver this month, and haven’t wanted  to dance with danger or take any risks. There’s been some foreshadowing shadows in my bedroom.

Now, lest you think this is the end of that story, you’d be wrong, Reader.

The very next day after I saw the shadowy ex-husband’s dead dad figure float-ish out of my room, a problem door knob that I’ve had was magically fixed.

You see, I have a door leading out to the garage. And the knob suddenly became an asshole and wouldn’t turn anymore. It just froze the fuck up for no apparent reason about a month or so ago.

Weeks ago I took it apart. I tried to figure it out. I sprayed it with WD-40, which I thought fixed just about anything.

And it still would not budge. Wouldn’t turn. It was frozen with the sticky-outtie-part stuck out, so the door wouldn’t close, it was just resting against the plate.

The very next morning, after the figure?  My Mister went to the garage to take the trash out, and the door slammed shut behind him. He was taken aback. And has admitted that it is quite a coincidence in timing of the lock fixing right that very morning.

One friendie said I need to lay off the crack pipe. Another said perhaps all that WD-40 finally worked it’s way into the frozen parts and choose that very instant to work.

But that lock, it just fixed itself. Or the ghost fixed it. All I know is, it’s working now and hasn’t been an asshole since.

So basically, my wish for a handyman ghost seems to have appeared. Now I’m just waiting on my cleaning ghost. And by the way, Ghost, it would be nice if you didn’t scare me at night. Or wake me from a good night’s sleep. Just sayin’. Show up around 5 p.m., and make dinner while you’re here.  It doesn’t have to be as fancy as the German food we had before the cream puffs, but ya know. A little something cookin’ would be nice.

Champagne Wishes & Caviar Dreams

Guess what I’m doing here, Reader?

You’ll never guess, so I’ll give you a multiple choice. Because as we’ve established, I’m a giver.

A)  Searching for diamonds

B) Checking for a wormhole to another dimension

C) Testing for a new place to nap

D) Sniffing for cat pee

You will NEVER guess, Reader.  It’s tricky.

Well, if you guessed looking for a time-travel wormhole, you’d be correct, Reader.

If by “time-travel wormhole” you mean “sniffing for cat pee.”

Because my house was stinkin’ like we keep a den of lions hidden somewhere, as I was actually informed. And we couldn’t figure out why because we were sniffing all around and cleaning and scrubbing and wiping and spraying and there was still the odiferous smell of cat pee.

So we got down to business and I hauled my morbidly obese body down to the floor, in full-body contact and sniffed inch-by-inch on the sparse amount of rugs I actually have.

It was yet another Saturday afternoon of my Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous life.

After all that carpet sniffing, I only discovered one little section of an offending area, and I Bissell’ed the hell out of it, and sprayed and cleaned and scubbed and put my nose RIGHT ON IT, Reader, to see if the prob was resolved.

It was resolved for this carpet, but still the smell lingered in the air.

The only place left to check that was fabric was the curtains.  So the curtains were sniffed and Weeeee-Doggie as Jed Clampett would say. Or in this case, “Weeeeee-Kitty!”

The olfactory offender was discovered. Because as my vet warned me three years ago, “You have waaaay too many male cats, good luck with that!” I have a “marker” boy cat who is an asshole, but he’s also cute enough, and see the conundrum, Reader? Cute, but bad.

So we threw those drapes right in the trash, because wowwee, no amount of washing them would convince me they would be good again, plus they came with the house and were only placeholders until I figured out what to do in the living room. Now that I have discovered the extent of my beloved little asshole sprayer, I won’t be buying new drapes because I’m sure I’d get a repeat performance.

And now I have an Open Concept as the House Hunters would say, only I mean on my windows. 

But guess what? The Lion’s Den has been subdued.

And for all the guests I’ve loved before, who’ve travelled in and out my door, I’m glad you came along, but I had no idea how strong, this odor really was…..So yeah.  Sorry.  The blame fully lies at my eight three cat’s paws for your unpleasant experience.

It’s better. Pinky swear-zies. Please come back. But keep your clothes on in the living room or the neighbors will be enjoying a peep show. Unless you want to put on a peep show. I’m not here to judge you, Reader. You do you.

Eye of the Beholder

Well, Reader, it looks as if my job here is done – I’ve completely befuddled you with my last post about jumping back into bed with my ex and having babies.

Let’s be clear, I’m not actually sexing up any ex. I mean, come’on – a little credit, Reader. I know I am an impulsive wildflower at times, but seri. I can keep my pants up.


I’m not doing anything nearly as cray as that – just going back to my old company, the only “ex” that still moves my heartstrings a little. Because that ex has $$. And benefits. And friendies. And a nice new pretty building.

So that’s the arms I’m headed back into.

In the meantime, I have a week between j-o-b-s, because I need to get my shitz together.

Last week, in a move to squeeze the last bit of juice from my health insurance I had a physical, complete with a fasting blood test. They also had one of those 600-lb-Life scales, the kind with the arms that can support super biggies.

I felt some foreshadowing going on.

Then I got paperwork from the office that called me morbidly obese. In writing, Reader, where I can’t pretend I didn’t hear it.

Reader. That seemed a little mean. And uncalled for. And just plain hurtful. This is the very definition of body shaming me, in writing! – and we should all take to Twitter and stage an uprising, with celebrities coming to my rescue and telling me I’m fine, just fine with my soft and doughy shape.

Nosey Dots doesn’t have any shame at all in his soft and fluffy tummy, as evidenced by the photo above. He owns that shit. I guess it’s a little cuter when it’s covered in soft fluffy fur. Except on me that wouldn’t actually be cuter, it would be troublesome if my tummy was hairy and covered in soft white fur.

It’s a double standard, I say.

On top of that, I was told I’m now “at the age” where I need to get a colonoscopy. So they wanna check out what’s up mah butt.  But. They gave me the option to poop from home, and then ship my poop in a container and have it looked at by some facility that examines poop.

Guess which option I’m going with?

And then, just moments ago, I got a call from my neighborhood family practice that they want to SEE ME to review my blood test results. So now that’s happening tomorrow morning. No good can come of them having to see me to review. No good at all. I have a feeling cake will not be in my future much longer.

This old abused body has had enough. Good thing I plan on starting the Whole 30. Because my body is apparently angry at the choices my mouth is making, too.

I can’t imagine why my real ex’s aren’t clamoring to jump back into bed with my morbidly obese body who needs to get her pooper checked out. I just can’t imagine.

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