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The Bang Bang Theories

Bent, Not Broken

Broken promises, Reader. That’s all I am able to give you at the moment.  Oh, it’s not for lack of stories. Those, I have pee-lenty. I just have not made the time to blab them down here for you. Because I really haven’t had many minutes to spare when I’m not bushed.

In fact, I have so few minutes to spare I shouldn’t even be sitting here right this very moment at 12:20 a.m. I should be finishing packing – I have a work trip to Chicago in a very few short hours.

But I just wanted to say hi. I”m thinking of you, Reader. I know you’re sometimes thinking of me. Don’t give up on us, baby.  With a little luck – and a little time – we can make this whole damn thing work out.

Now go watch Starsky & Hutch reruns until I get back.

Trixie Bang Bang Fun Fact: Back in her childhood, she’d play Starsky & Hutch with her cousin we’ll call Dawn (because that is her name) and she’d insist on being Starsky because she wasn’t into blond guys, she had a penchant for the more swarthy fellas. Then one time, riding her bike all reckless through the woods on a high-speed chase, “Starsky” fell of her bike and sprained her ankle and cried.



Nothing Much To See Here

Good Evening, Reader. It’s Smunday, which is that time on Sunday when you start thinking about your work week. I learned that on Facebook today, and thought you should know, too. I’m gearing down. I’ve got a bizzzy week, and as usual, Night Girl thinks that Morning Girl should get up early and work out, as a way to jumpstart the day and start getting in shape before her May girlie trip with her friendie.  You know, doing the countdown….if I lose 2 lbs./day, I can lose 110 lbs. before our trip, because that makes perfect sense and is completely do-able. And wow, I would be wafer thin!

But then I think, “Well, I do have that chocolate babka sitting on the counter, and it’s not going to eat itself.”

So you can see the dichotomy of the Warring Me’s

This is really just a quickie, to say hi Reader, I promised more me this month and gol’dern it, I will not let us down, even if I have nothing of interest to say. You will be worded by me. But I don’t have much time because it’s late and I’ve got two Walking Dead’s to catch up on, and you know, priorities.

I thought you may be interested in a Spidey Bitey Foot Update, although it’s last year’s news, the swelling is ongoing. I wore less comfy shoes a week or so ago for a few hours – now, they should have been perfectly comfy shoes, they were Sketchers Go Walks, known for comfort, but they still left a line of demarkation across the top of my foot as it swelled up as the day wore on.  I can’t even remember exactly what I was doing that day, but knowing me, rest assured it wasn’t enough to have warranted all this swelling.

It did, however, warrant a bubble bath, and so I thought I’d show you a completely unsexy foot in the tub. You can see the scar, it’s usually purple in color. Sometimes it’s an angry red, but mostly purple.

So there it is. Now you can get on with your week. You’re welcome.


O. M. G. Reader – it’s March already and I haven’t been here since the beginning of February.  One might mistakenly think that I was off doing Very Glamorous Things, and I was, if you consider switching internet providers and then not having internet service at home for a week, and then coughing myself into sore ribs and a constant headache this week – if you consider that glamorous, then yes, I have been leading a very glamorous life ~she typed, then straightened her tiara, wherein “straightening her tiara” is actually sipping her nighttime cough tea~

Very. Glamorous.

However! It wasn’t all no-internet and coughing – I did go to New York City for a work trade show a couple of weekends ago. I was flying solo, which is never quite as much fun as going with my co-worker, but I still managed to see a Broadway show, Beautiful, The Carole King Story, which was mag.nif.i.cent.  I had a 3rd row seat, which was indulgently delicious, and I loved this show so hard I wanted to marry it, except that would make me a Mormon, collecting another wife to go along with my Instant Pot Wife and Mitchell’s Salted Caramel Ice Cream. Wait. I technically DO have two wives already, so I guess I am a Mormon. Hm. Religion is tricky.

But really. Reader, if you like shows, this is worth a ticket. That was probably my February highlight.

March and I, on the other hand, are having a rocky start with this coughing situation. After the 3rd day of missing work today, I hauled myself to the Minute Clinic to see what’s what. Because I wasn’t sure I had a real “thing” that needed to be treated, but my dad’s lady friend said, “Suuugar, that sure sounds like bronchitis to me,” when I was on the phone with her the other night.

So I went to get it checked out, and sure enough, bronchitis. Now I have a prescription of something, and an inhaler because I’ve been short of breath, and my ribs hurt from coughing, and also don’t get me started laughing, which is exactly what happened when I was reading though my Minute Clinic report while waiting for my ‘scripts to be filled. 

That happened.

And I think that it will probably be the highlight of my March, and also the title of my book that I’m writing, if by “writing” we mean writing only in my head and not actually on paper or computer. But now, with this sentence, I need to write a book as this is begging to be my byline.

I’ll be back soon. Pinky swears.  Stop back. I’ve missed you, Reader, and I’m sure you’ve missed me too. Because let’s face facts: I’m a charmer.  A well-developed, well-nourished charmer.

Until You Try

I’m the opposite of an Early Adopter, Reader. While this information may come as a surprise to you, because some of my actions may at times be described as impetuous, I take a very long time in deciding to try new fangled gizmos. I’m sort of like my grandmother in that respect, who had zero interest in a microwave oven until she actually got a microwave oven and learned she could cook a potato in seven minutes instead of using up all that gol’dern expensive electricity baking a potato for an hour.

I’m sort of like that.

I’m usually skeptical that something would be as great as the hype and so I just stick with my old fashioned stuff that’s doing the job just fine, thank you very much.

Take, for instance, the Kitchenaid mixer. Now, I’ve had a little hunger in my heart for a stand mixer for years now – years, I tell you – yet I’ve never felt the actual need to push the button on Amazon Prime and just buy one already. Because how great can it be, really, and I already have a hand mixer that I can shove in a cabinet when I’m done with it and not have it sitting out on my counter day in and day out.

You know, Reader, despite the clutter that resides on my kitchen counter at any given time, I really cannot and do not want to have big permanent things sitting there. It makes my heart heavy to even think about it. It’s all I can stand to have my Instant Pot Wife and my Vitamix sitting out there.

I used to have a toaster sitting there, too, but that’s another story, one which involves one of my three cats actually peeing in said toaster –  somewhat recently – and so it was thrown in the trash.

By the way, guess how you discover your cat has peed in your toaster?

Also, guess what smells great with coffee on a Sunday morning, Reader?

Hot-cat-pee toast. That’s what. In case you hadn’t guessed.

So now we don’t have a toaster, which made me really sad because this thing was an old-school Black & Decker 4-slice number from the 1970’s that looked just like something that Alice would be using to make those Brady kids breakfast.  And it worked amazing. Rugged. Not the flimsy crap they make nowadays. But alas, it wasn’t tough enough to recover from the cat pee. Well, maybe it was, but there was no amount of cleaning that could happen that would ever make me slide another piece of bread in there, toast it and then slide it into my mouth. Not after the pee lived in there. We have standards around Chez Bang Bang, is what I’m saying. They are very loose standards, but hey, we draw the line at ingesting cat pee. Except for that one time, when Kitty Purry backed up against me in bed and peed on me and it ricocheted off my butt and a drop or two landed in My Mister’s mid-sentence  mouth and he sputtered, “Wha…why…..did something wet just land in my mouth!?” about the same exact time I was wondering why my back was all wet and there sat Kitty Purry looking all, “Finally! I got these motherfucker’s attention!”  And then she was all:

That’s the one and only time anyone here has ingested cat pee. So far.

But back to the story about how I’m not an early adopter and even though I think I want to try some new stuff sometimes, I’m also quite happy not trying them.

The Kitchenaid stand mixer finally made it’s way here because it was a great deal on Amazon Prime Day, and I was almost fifty years old, for chrissake, and thought to myself, “If I don’t buy one of these damn mixers by this point in my life, I may as well just give up this dream already.”

So I did. Not give up the dream, but instead added it to my cart because Pinterest is all about telling us not to give up on our dreams, so I didn’t and I bought it. In red, of course, which matches my kitchen not at all exactly, with my cornflower blue countertops. So even if I talked myself into letting this sit out on the counter there’s no good way in hell I could do that, because red mixer + blue counter is awful and why oh why, Me, didn’t you buy the stainless color??

I don’t know why. I guess I like red appliances.

But the purchase was made. And then it arrived.

And then I had the regrets to the extent I couldn’t open it up, because I was for-sure sending it back. And the bigness of it all was overwhelming. It just seemed like so much damn work. Too much.

It was going back. No doubts about it.


I procrastinated. And it sat in my garage for a few months. And sat. And sat. And then I’d finally had enough and went to Amazon to initiate the return and guess what?

So much time had passed, they were not accepting returns.

After I was done harumpfing around about how dare they not accept returns months and months later, I left it to sit in the garage some more.

I just…couldn’t.

I didn’t want it.

It was too heavy, too big, too red. And all that was decided before I’d ever even opened the box.

And then one day last weekend I decided it was time to open that fucking box. I had cleared a space under my cabinet where I could shove it, so I wouldn’t have to have it on the countertop.

I decided while I was unboxing it I may as well test it’s amazingness by making a batch of the Best Chocolate Chip Cookies in the World.

I fully expected to be disappointed. Not in the cookies – those are never a disappointment – but in the mixer.

This damn appliance was so complicated I had to watch a couple of Youtube videos to understand how to switch out the mixing things and lock the bowl in place. The entire time, I was cursing me for buying this ridiculous monstrosity that would no doubt be a giant waste of money and effort and space.

And then?

It started whipping that butter and sugar into a light and creamy confection with zero effort from me.

And I started to soften, like room-temperature butter.

By the time I’d added in the flour and it had mixed and stirred and blended that recipe into perfect consistency batter, I was in full-blown love.

Where, oh where, Kitchenaid Stand Mixer, have you been all my life??

Making this cookie dough became a cinch. And it was fluffier than I’ve ever made it using a hand mixer.  And clean up was also a breeze, by the way.

I left the batter to rest in the fridge for a week or so, which only makes this particular recipe better, FYI. Letting it rest and meld together is one of the reasons these are the Best Chocolate Chip Cookies in the World.

This morning I finally baked up this confection of delights and we had them with coffee. Which is a lot more delightful than making cat-pee toast to go with our coffee.

I’m now fully committed to my mixer and am sorry that I let this lovely appliance sit in the cold uncaring garage for months on end.

Stop in, Reader. We can get plump and happy eating baked treats together. Don’t fret, I won’t be serving toast.

p.s. Despite peeing on me – three times – and inadvertently in My Mister’s mouth once, Kitty Purry still gets bundled and cuddled and kissed just like she’s a good cat. Because we’re idiot assholes here, Reader, and they rule the roost. Apparently.


Soft Belly. Hot Pie.

I was leaving you with the same old post since last week, Reader, and for that I apologize so I decided to at least put up a cute picture of Wally’s soft tummy. Because I know you depend on me for a two-minute distraction when you should be doing something productive. We all have our responsibilities in life. I’m fine with that being one of mine.

That’s Walter WhiteEars, sitting pretty in his cat tower.  He’s the official Soft-Off Champion of Chez Bang Bang.

Oh, what is a Soft-Off, you ask?

Well. There used to be some debate on which of my eight three cats had the most delicious fur.

There is some soft competition around here including this belly:

So naturally, there was some debate.

We solved this by having a Triple-Blind Soft-Off Challenge.

One evening about a year or so ago I came home from work and my brother was here. We were discussing the softness of the kittens, because why discuss other less important world matters, and we decided to settle it then and there.

We moved a chair to the middle of the room and I grabbed my sleeping mask as the official Soft-Off blindfold. One at a time, cat bellies were presented to me for a quick pet, and I had to not only guess which of my eight three cats it belonged to, but then determine who was softer, much like the eye doctors test where they show you two things and you have to decide which is better or worse, which often just becomes a really tough guessing game and quite frankly brings a lot of unnecessary pressure.

My brother and My Mister mixed it up so ensure objectivity in the test, and would sometimes present the same cat belly – unknowing to me – to ensure the blinded petter (me) was staying true to the decision.

Time and time again, Walter WhiteEars was the unanimous winner.  His fur needs to be touched to be believed, quite frankly.

Lest you think it was just myself who had softness bias, both The Brother and The Mister also took the official Soft-Off Chair, donned the official Soft-Off Blindfold and proceeded with the same belly-petting test.

This challenge was tougher than one might imagine. You didn’t want the blinded petter to grab too much belly or it would be quite easy to tell who was who, and bias may have played a role. So we guided the hand, with a pet to a smaller area. Because we take our Soft-Offs seriously around here.

Competition was fierce, pitting softness against fluffiness.

One might think that since the brothers look alike, they would feel alike, too.

One would be wrong.

This? The softest tummy in town.

Officially determined by a Triple-Blind Soft-Off.

And now? You have just another glimmer of the excitement that goes on around Chez Bang Bang.

You’re welcome.

And oh, ps, this was a whole lot more fun – and dry – than dumping a bucket of ice over your head.

And pss., My Mister just took a Razzleberry pie outta the oven, and we are going to now eat pie at 1 a.m. on a Sunday night. Because that’s some of the other excitement that goes on around here. It’s a wild ride, Reader.




Not As I Do

It’s still the fresh start to the new year and one of my goals was to post more often because my brain needs it’s creative stretch, but here we sit on Sunday night and I’m drained, Reader.

And – get this – I didn’t roll my ass outta bed until 12:30. Yep. That’s right.

And I was in bed by midnight or thereabouts, so really, no excuse, other than Girlie wasn’t knocking all the shit off the nightstand, which is her morning routine that starts with the tv remote hitting the floor, then the cellphone, then the watch, and finally her big finale involves making a move towards the lamp, with her sole intent of getting enough attention that we will haul up and put food in her mousetrap. She wasn’t doing any of that so we just kept sleeping and sleeping and sleeping and sleeping.

So yeah, somewhat drained despite all that sleep.

In a quickie update, I held the course on my lower-carb plan throughout the week, even navigating the minefields of two Italian restaurants.  No bread bowls, no pastas – the interesting thing is, I found plenty to eat with a little bit – very little bit – of planning ahead, checking on carb counts before I ate the food and checked later. On Friday I was down 3 lbs, after only starting on Monday, so really not too bad except there’s always a looming weekend.  That has been a different story, and included a delicious biscuit from Bob Evans and a slice of banana bread to boot, because Bob Evans banana bread.

Everything’s a process, right, Reader.  Right.

Speaking of a process, we began the arduous task of organizing my garage yesterday. My darling and dearest Pencil (who’s done the artwork for this blog) came and helped me with Man Skillz.  We have a good section of shelves added, and I need to take a huge carload – or several – of stuff to Goodwill.  My Pencil actually equated it to hoarder-esque proportions, which is a bit overinflated, and then he actually called me Tyrant Trixie, and stated that I’m “bossy.” Me! Bossy! I mean. Come on. I like to think it’s helping him be his best by doing his best work. He calls that bossy. My daddy has a saying, “You can do it right or do it twice.” So yeah. While my garage may look like a jumbled heap of garage sale items, once I sort it out I only want to do it once, and I want it to look good when it’s finished.

That’s about the only thing I miss about my exhusband, his organizational skills. Everything was labeled and in it’s place. Except for his dick, which he put in many wrong places (no, Reader, not my butt! Sheesh. I can’t believe you even went there! – other women is the answer) and it would have probably helped him out had we labeled that thing for him, so he’d have known where it was supposed to go and he wouldn’t have been trying to store it in other women.

But anyway. You can tell I’m drained. I’m all over the place from cats to carbs to shelves and wandering wieners. Since I’m not feeling like this is going to get any better tonight, let’s just say goodnight, Gracie.  Let’s chat later this week, mmkay?

Sunday Morning Coming Down

So these two things happened today, Reader, which has me questioning my life choices and also my agility.

#1/ This afternoon I suddenly became nauseated, right there out of the blue. I had been feeling fine, sleeping in on this quiet Sunday with no Big Things that I needed to do.  I had a cuppa coffee and a slice of date-nut cake for breakfast (Breakfast of Champions, if you’re the Champion of My 600 lb. Life), and messed around on the internets for a bit, and decided it was nap time.  Realized my knees are even l less bendy than their norm, calculated I hadn’t had my arthritis pills in a few days (inconsistent pill taker sometimes) and popped one before I bedded down for my 2 p.m. nap.

That’s when I started not feeling well. Could it be the cake? The coffee? What??

And then I realized I had taken a pill that wasn’t for mah aching joints. And then? I stayed in bed anyway and figured I’d figure it out once I got up. Because at that point, what can ya do, other than induce vomiting and I wasn’t up to that as it would be a waste of a perfectly good ingested date nut cake.

So I slept it off, asked Almighty Google once I awoke and realized it was some antibiotic from the spider-bite era (why did I have one left?? I took my entire prescription as instructed! I still have no idea why there was a bottle of one on the counter), and that the #1 side effect is nausea.

Mystery solved. And I went through all the bottles on the counter and tossed what’s not relevant to today. But ya know, I have to read these things more carefully, because while we were on vacation last month I took My Mister’s cholesterol pill because it was next to my toothbrush in the bathroom. Good thing there’s not random bottles of viagra in our household or I’d be walking around with a possible hard-on somewhere.

2/ After I got up from my nap and deduced why I had an upset bellyache I decided it was shower time, so we could go out and get some soothing hot tea and soup for dinner.   Stepping out of the shower I saw my whole entire neeked body in the mirror from the side, and I was afraid, Reader. Very Naked & Afraid.

The holidays and breakfasts of cakes have not been kind to 50-year-old-me, and it’s really not very nice of those delicious desserts. Why do they have to be so damn tasty??

The past few days, even prior to seeing my doughy likeness in the mirror, I have been proclaiming  out loud that on Monday I was going to go on a very reduced carb diet, because that’s what Dr. Nowzradan from My 600 lb. Life prescribes and also he limits their caloric intake to 1200 calories per day, which is a ka-ray-zee adjustment. But he must know what to do, he’s my new doctor expert. I figured I could start with restricting carbs, and doing some mindful calorie counting and see how that goes to the end of the month.

Seeing myself sideways in the mirror confirmed that decision today. I decided that was the time to get a weigh-in, since I was already naked, and so I scooched the scale away from the wall with my foot, took hold of the towel rack to get myself balanced, and pulled the towel rack right off the wall.

Like a giant Hulk would do.

And guess what else? This isn’t the first time I’ve put too much pressure on that poor towel rack and pulled it down. This is either the second or third time.

And guess what else? In the process of relying too heavily (get it??) on that towel rack, when it broke free from the wall, I crashed head-first into that wall. With my face.

A lovely lady lump appeared almost immediately.

So yep, I think it’s just reinforcing the decision to stop being so Hulkish, and stop eating so much damn cake, which hurts my feeling to even type those words, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

In summary, today I’ve tried to kill myself with not-correct medicines, and bash my own brains in. Inadvertently, Reader. I’ve got too good of a life to try it on purpose.

But yes. I need to review my life choices and how I’ve gotten here. I have a feeling a trail of sugar and butter is behind me.



Reader, you may or may not know this about My Mister, but he is not the … tidiest…. of dining companions.  He’s the reason I can never eat at the Captain’s Table when we cruise.

Because “messy” is using a kind adjective.

Now, this isn’t meant as a bash-the-man post, it’s merely a statement of fact.  Some people have good dining skills.  Some are still working on them. He’s in that category.

Case in point.

While dining at one of our neighborhood Chinese restaurants a few weeks back, My Mister went to empty his leftovers into the to-go container and as he rushed through the process like a bull in a Chinese-food shop, he happened to spill a good portion of his rice all over the floor.

“Uh-oh,” he expressed with some regret over creating a mess for the waitress to clean.

And then?

He started kicking the rice to my side of the table.

Me: “What. The. Fuck. Are you doing over there??”

MM: “I’m kicking the rice to your side of the table so the waitress thinks you did it.”

Because that’s how we show love in our relationship. Shirk the blame on the other.

Me, sitting back in the chair, “Okay, David Chipwack!”

MM: “Who the hell is David Chipwack?”

Me: “YOU. You are David Chipwacking me!”

And then I went on to explain.

Back in elementary school, when I attended the auspicious Cleveland Public School system, I had a 3rd grade classmate named David Chipwack. He was a really large kid, with droopy pants and he sort of lumbered though the hallways, he was a little on the dirty looking side, and he was constantly digging in his butt. I think he may have even had a five o’clock shadow.

Our desks were arranged in small groups, with 4 desks to a little pod, facing each other.

Because “Bang Bang” starts with a “B” and “Chipwack” begins with a “C” we were in a pod together.

Lucky, Lucky Me.

And one day during a test I noticed David Chipwack was studying my paper very hard, and was in the process of doing an upside-down copying of my name.  On to his test paper.

Me, to Chipwack: “What. The. Fuck. Are. You DOING, Buttdigger??!”

Well, probably 3rd Grade Me didn’t say it in quite those words, but the intent was the same.

Chipwack: “I’m putting YOUR name on MY test so YOU get an F.”  And then he let loose with a heavy and way-too-deep-for-third-grade guffaw and ran his butt-digger fingers through his beard.

Reader. That is some cold, diabolical shit right there.

I was the Teacher’s Pet back then. A-student. Long hair with matching bow braided in. Eraser-clapper. Door monitor. Goody-goody two-shoes.

And Chipwack really hated me for all my glory.  To the point he was trying to help me FAIL.

Now, it wasn’t a well-thought-through plan that he devised, because then there would be two tests with my name on them and none with his, but his third-grade brain only knew that I must fail.  So I smugly turned my paper around so he could properly spell my name, gave him a “go for it, douchebag” nod, and played with my ribboned braid until he was finished.

Well, that’s how I’d like to think that ended, but it’s a lot more likely I loudly screamed, ‘STOP WRITING MY NAME, CHIPWACK!!” and the teacher came over and smacked him with a ruler.

Now? My Mister is my new Chipwack, sans the butt digging, intent on blaming his Messy-Marvin Meals on me. Except this plan wasn’t well-thought out either, because the rice got trapped by the table leg and remained on his side despite his best kicking efforts.

And Goody-Two-Shoes Me? Really did sit back and laugh and laugh once again at the foiled attempt to fail me. Because I’m the Unsinkable Trixie Bang Bang. And no amount of Chipwacking is going to bring this girl down. Or put rice under her seat. I think there’s a life analogy buried in there somewhere, if you dig deep enough. Maybe that’s what David Chipwack was trying to find all along, buried up his ass.

*Yes, Reader, of course I’ve tried to find David Chipwack on Facebook. No luck.  Or maybe that is the luck.  If he accomplished nothing else in life, he did make a name for himself, stuck in my brain all these years later. 



Me & My Shadow

It’s our brand new year, Reader, and we are all excited to greet 2017 and see a clean slate in front of us! Time to get our shit together.

My word for the year is “Doing.”

Yep, I’m one of those insufferable resolvers who decides on a word to motivate my behavior for the year. 2016’s word was “Discipline,” but I found that really hard to achieve because I lack discipline. A total Catch 22 and a dumb word because it was too loose for interpretation, and I could too easily find loopholes in my own goal word.

So this year, Doing. Action word vs. some vague concept. I know how to “do.” Thinking of going for a walk? Don’t think, do. You see how that works? Easy.

And the sun was shining in Cleveland on New Year’s Day, and my new resolve of “Doing” was super-fresh as it’s still the very first day of the new year and I’m not disgusted yet with resolution-making. I slipped on my sneakers to go for a walk around the block.

Two exciting things about that sentence.

#1, I can slip on sneakers. On both feet.

#2, in November I was only able to walk to the house next door.  So attempting a walk around the block? Was a big leap in progress.

My little pal Gussy was super-excited to have company outside and wanted to join me on my stroll.

Except his idea of a walk starts with rubbing against your legs as you start to move.


And then he begins wending his way between your legs.


Two more steps forward, and he starts his “drop, flop and roll” routine, which is frankly adorable when it’s not being trip-ie.




After enough belly scratches, he decides it’s time to get on with the walk.

He picks himself up.


He chooses a side.
Changes his mind and switches over.

And we find our cadence.

And that’s why a walk around the block takes a half hour instead of fifteen minutes. But exercise is always better with a friend.


& A Dollar Short…

….so here we are on Friday…er… SATURDAY, to announce our winner from the End-of-Year Gift Giveaway from Trixie Bang Bang. Yup. Saturday. Just like I said we would.

We had seven total entrants for the free Magic Make-up Eraser. You know, Reader, for all the alcohol that went into my eyeball, you’d think more of you would have been clamoring for one of these fine sham-wows, but nope. So the odds were ever in your favor, a 1 in 7 chance.


And now we have a winner!!

I made an official bowl of names this morning – a Trixie Bang Bang morning, that is, like at 1:00 p.m., complete with folded papers that I swirled around in the official cereal contest bowl.


And then to be completely unbiased, I handed the bowl to My Mister, who held it way up over his head to ensure he couldn’t see a name, and he selected…..


still drumming….


Yep!! Joanne, who also happens to be one of my bests AND also by the way left me a very nice comment telling me lies about my prettiness and funnish-ness, so I’m glad I wasn’t the one to draw the name or it would seem fishy, and her Make Up Eraser has been ordered from Amazon and is on it’s way to her.

I’m also sending one to my hair stylist, as we’ve already discussed the tough job she has keeping me groomed, so one was going to her before the contest even happened.

Thanks for liking/commenting, Reader – I do appreciate your participation, it’s how I justify in my mind that I’m not just sitting here fucking off when bathtubs should be getting scrubbed, but rather I’m doing my part as an educator. And educator in nonsense and make-up removal, but so be it.

Speaking of scrubbing the bathtub, I purchased and just received the Hurricane Spin Scrubber Cleaning Brush, and I have to say I’m super-excited to go and try it out. One more reason to not have to bend over, is what I’m saying. Even less exercise will be happening around Chez Bang Bang in 2017 if this little gizmo lives up to my expectations. But comeon, Reader – I have three bathtubs here. That’s a lot of scrubbing that should be taking place. And now will. Hopefully. I’ll keep you posted on how much I love it.  Stay tuned. I know you can hardly wait with that sort of a teaser.



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