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The Bang Bang Theories

Running on Average

You Guys.  A very flattering friend of mine told me, ‘You’re gorgeous.”

First, that is an egregious use of the word.

Second, it’s totally not true and we all know it.  All of us know it. So stop. I’m passable when I’m at my best.

Today I went to deliver a thing I sold for $10 and then popped into the store to pick up carrots and celery to make ham and potato soup, not because I necessarily wanted to make soup, but because I opened my freezer and the hambone I had shoved in there back at Christmastime crashed out and refused to be re-wedged back into a spot.  A hambone forced me to cook, which is really obnoxious of a damn hambone.

Today I also realized that no saying has ever been more true than, “The older I get, the more comfortable I am leaving the house looking like shit,” or however that saying goes.

I wore no undie-wears, no bra, no deodorant, dirty hair in a pony, and not one stitch of makeup. And I went into the store looking like that. Kinda probably how many guys just naturally walk into a store on every day.

Well, for me, it prompted a stern talking to with myself of, “So this is what it’s come down to now, Me??”

And then I answered myself, “Yep, this is how we’re now going shopping. At least I brushed my teeth.”

So now I’m walking around looking like a homeless lady and talking to myself, and we’ve officially entered a new phase of life.

But back to my flatterer.

My response to him was, “I took off my bra tonight and a Dorito fell out.”

You want to describe me accurately, Reader? Call me delicious. Because I occasionally have surprise treats stashed in my bosom.

Update: Here’s a photo of my Bossy Soup.  You know you want some. Come get it.


Under Construction

Hi Reader, Hey!

It’s been a while.


For a girl who’s not working, I’m sure awfully bizzzzzy.  And I look around Chez Bang Bang and just don’t see where I’ve made any progress.

I have applied for every possible job in the area, and nothing is panning out yet.  It’s time-consuming to apply for jobs, by the way.  And it’s not like in the olden days where you actually heard back from places you applied to.

One place I went to on Thursday, I was interviewed by a kid who just turned 21. I know that, because he told me he still hadn’t taken his first officially-legal drink yet. And then he told me about the awesome growth potential with the company, because, “Look at me, I started a year ago, and now here I am behind the desk, interviewing you!”

I don’t know exactly what was meant by that.

But then it got better.  He told me, “We hire young, cool people to work here. Tell me why we should hire you.”

The job itself sounded like a dream.

It involved going around to the houses of people who call to complain about their gas bills, and getting them back into a fixed rate vs. a variable rate or some shit along those lines.

I inquired about what sorts of neighborhoods we canvass to accomplish this auspicious task, which frankly sounds like a job that could be more safely handled over the phonelines, but hey, what do I know compared to the young, cool kids.

Nothing, that’s what I know.

This morning I received a text message from a temp agency I applied to, they are looking for help to clean an office building Monday and Tuesday.

I’m totally on board with that and replied Yes, Sure, I can do that!

But then I started wondering what sort of office cleaning we’d be doing.

My concern deepened when they said in another text, “Be sure to wear work boots.”

Reader.  I don’t have work boots. I have bad knees and a 52 year old back. I’m neither young nor cool enough to work on gas bill complaints (as was evidenced by my not getting a call back), much less do the jobs that require work boots.

The “office cleaning” job was actually cleaning up a demo site, they are pulling out the ceilings and ripping up the floors of some space and need people to haul that crap to dumpsters.

While I would appreciate the very low amount of money I’d be making, I also appreciate what’s left of my knees and the bendiness of my back. So I politely declined.


Although I’d probably look pretty cute in a hard hat, sometimes you have to say no, even if you can’t really afford it.

Know your limits.

Mine is right around the “wear work boots” line.

I’m more aligned with “wear comfy sneakers” tasks.

Let’s face facts, Reader. I can barely carry stuff upstairs to my office, and need one free hand to hold the railing while doing so.

There is no way I’m a work-boots-demo-clean-up Trixie Bang Bang kinda girl. She was thirty years ago. She remodeled two houses and hauled construction trash and once even fell down the steps doing so, but was able to bounce back up and keep on truckin’.

This version of Trixie? Would be in traction.

Where, o’ where are all the “cuddle kittens in your pajamas” jobs?

Or the cake sampling jobs?

Comeon, Workforce. Work with me.


All Choked Up

This afternoon I was giving one of my three cats, Nosey Dots, a vigorous scratching on his very robust tummy.

He was throughly enjoying it and was wriggling all around, kicking up some tufts of fur.

Since I’m an exceptional multi-tasker, I happened to be on the phone at the time during this vigorous tummy scratching and right in mid-talk, a giant tuft wafted up and got sucked right into my cakehole.

And lodged in my throat.

My phone caller contemplated calling 9-1-1, as the crazy old cat lady on the line (me) was obviously being choked to death by her clowder.

After I regrouped enough to put my call on mute and continue coughing til I broke five ribs, that hair tuft was still lodged.

I’m not sure it’s ever came out, as I sit here I can still feel something bothering me in my froat.

So today? Marks the day I had a cat hairball in my very own throat. And that secures another nail in the coffin of my crazy cat ladyhood.

The Bitches Whatevered.


It’s been a week of highs and lows, Reader. I mean, relative to my particular thang that’s happening, which isn’t all that high or all that low. It’s been a week of mids.

I am still looking for a job that won’t suck, and it is getting tougher rather than easier. I had two good prospects, and I got the Nope Not You one last week (low) and then a job offer on Friday for the other (high), however the salary was so. damn. low. it was a low-high. I mean, comeon. I have a giant bag of tricks I bring to a job. I’m not totally sucky at stuff.  I can think, and mostly spell.

So I thought about that low-balling me offer and countered with literally a buck and half/two bucks more.  And they said, “No. And there is nothing else we can add to the deal. You won’t get your third week of vacation for 10 years. And you don’t get to participate in the 401k until after a year or so here (she wasn’t really sure). And there’s really no room for growth, so you’re going to basically die in your low-paying position.You’re not going to be happy here, this is the most we can do, so we’re going to move on to other candidates. ”

I may have paraphrased that part about so basically you’re going to die in this crummy job. But that’s all that may be hyperbole. The rest? Was actually said.

I was stunned to say the least. I mean, on Saturday I went out and squandered $21 on a new pillow like I was some sort of a Rockefeller, because my neck has been stiff and I thought, “hey! I’m going to be bringing in a sad-but-not-as-bad-as-unemployment paycheck!” and went glad-happy spending on a new pillow.

It seemed to have worked, my neck wasn’t stiff Sunday or Monday morning. But now I am second guessing that willy-nilly spending.

But yeah. The Bitches totally Whatevered on me today.

I may or may not have had a mild nervous breakdown with a few tears being shed. Once I was off the phone, Reader. I do have some dignity, and I would never let the whatevering bitches think they got me.  I was gracious on the phone and said what a pleasure it was to meet with everyone, thanks, blah-de-blah-blah, but then I was all flipping them off and crying for a hot second.

But yeah.  I’m so trying to be like tiny grass, and bend with the wind. I’m so. so. trying.  But somedays I just feel mowed over.

Now I’m pep-talking myself, and applying for new and better jobs and trying to think like a badass, and oh, by the way, I’m starting a new business so WHATEVER, BITCHES, it’s going to be AWESOME and that’s not an April Fool’s joke, but the truth, and I’m going to work the fuck out of that all day tomorrow and make my own damn luck.

Because some things are just not meant for me.


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80’s, Baby

Hi Reader, Good Morning!! Yes, it actually IS morning when I’m typing those words. I’ve turned over a new leaf. Well, actually I’ve been turning over A LOT of leaves this past week.

It’s been my “nice day in Cle” mission to get a jump on my yard work, doing it in stages because there’s just. so. much.  I have a “city” yard, which doesn’t sound like much and normally isn’t, except I have a double lot and a bazillion trees. Someone said, “Oh, look at all this green space you have here!” and it’s more like BROWN space because of all the dead leaves piled up everywhere.

The leaves, like the mail, they just keep coming. We did Fall Cleanup. And then more leaves would fall. And we’d Fall Cleanup again.  And more leaves would fall. I guess that’s why the season is named Fall. I think I just got that, lol.

At some point in the Fall – around November, when the snows started – I decided to just leave what was left, as it’s better for the wildlife anyway or so I read and it seemed like a good enough reason to me to stop with the endless raking. And lemme just say, I did have hordes of birds feasting in my yard back in Jan/Feb so there’s something to be said for just leaving it be.

But now that Spring is coming, and since I have the luxury of time, I want the yard to be ready before I start working again. No, I don’t have a job yet, and in fact I just got my “Nope, Not You” rejection from the city of Cleveland, which I actually thought I had a strong shot of getting until the 2nd interview when the guy just didn’t like me from the get-go. There was no charming him. Which is somewhat impossible to comprehend, because I’m quite a delight.  Ahem.

So the story goes.  I’m still unemployed, but trying to get ahead of Life this year, and was outside yesterday as the sun was a-shining and the leaves needed a-raking out from my landscaping that stretches all across the front of the house.

At one point I worked up a little sweat, so I took off my sleeveless puffy jacket thing that I was wearing to keep me warm, yet nimble for raking.

I wear this sometimes because it makes me feel like I’m twinning with Debra Winger in An Officer and a Gentleman. She wore that sleeveless jacket like a boss, and therefore so do I, without giving any effs if it’s stylish or not. It caught her an Officer and a Gentleman.

Except her jacket wasn’t as puffy.

Or green.

Regardless, I keep waiting for Zack Mayo-NAISE to come and swoop me up and make sweet, sweet love to me.  So far I’m still waiting.

Anyway, I was talking about blowing leaves….

Since I was working up a sweat, I took off my puffy vest and hung it up on my lamp post.

And then I got back to blowing and raking.

I was absorbed in my work.

And then something caught my peripheral vision.

I jumped with a start, and a ‘Fuck!” on my lips.

Someone was behind me!!

Creeping up close on me!!! 

And I thought, “Well, here it is!  All Jabs’ talk about my getting my b-hole raped in my own house because I don’t have strong enough curtains on my windows was coming true, except it was going to happen right outside in the light of day, in my very own front yard!”

I whirled around with a, “Oh, no, you won’t!” attitude and my fists raised in defense. I did not have my $10 b-hole-saver whistle on me because who needs that in her very own front yard??

I faced my potential accoster.

And discovered it was my very own puffy jacket that had turned into the enemy.

Once I beat the hell out of that jacket, I decided maybe I’d done enough for one day.

Later, as I was recounting the scary puffy vest drama to My Mister, I gave him a pop quiz:

Trixie BB: “Guess which movie character I’m channeling when I’m wearing my puffy vest?”

My Mister, without missing a beat:  “Marty McFly.”

Hard to argue, Reader. And we can totally tell which 80’s movies held the most influence over us.

It’s probably safe to assume I have a better chance of getting a hoverboard than I do getting Richard Gere.

“B” as in “Bigtoe”

So after my big proclamation yesterday, how did it go today, you’re probably wondering. I mean, there’s probably no “probably” about it — I’d bet dollars to donuts* you’ve been wondering about what I got bizzy planting today. Because I’m of course the top thing on every single person’s mind. Obvi.


Well, anyway. The day started out like any other Monday in my world.

Except! It was super-sunny and bright and pretty outside and that motivated me to spring up and just get busy with the day at eleven a.m.

Over a cuppa coffee, I jotted down my To-Day List, pulling things forward from my lengthy and intimidating To Do List, which for the record is 2 pages and there’s not nearly enough “fun” on it. Even after my big deal about putting fun on it. I mean, there IS some, it’s just still a lot more task-heavy. Baby steps, Reader.

But on my To-DAY list, I was sure to add in the things I wanted to do alongside the things I needed to do.

The sunny was shiny and so I took a neighborhood walky. No one is ever happier than my decision to go for a walk than the cats.

It was this pretty today in real life. No filter.

I did some yard work after the walk, because I’m working on intermittent raking. The yard at Chez Bang Bang is wide and long and leaf-heavy and blister-making when I save it all up to do in a day or two. So I’m working on it in stages. A little patch every week, and by the end of April I’ll be ready for summer. Probably sooner, because I was so full of spark today I did a section I was going to break out over three days. I just got on a roll.  And also was hoping I was early enough that the snakes are still in hiding and won’t be scaring me from under a pile of leaves.

Adding extra outdoorsy time through raking?  It was Gussy’s Perfect Day.

While waiting for one of my marketplace sales to show up at the nearby CVS parking lot later this afternoon, I jotted down my “Gratitude List” for the day. I just don’t know if I like the ABC format for my list of gratitude. It’s a lot of things to think of and it’s tough to get through 26 things. I hop-skipped around a little bit and didn’t complete it all, but I did enough to feel happy about it.

Fun Fact:  Every single time I have to think of anything that begins with the letter E, I always, every single time think, “Elvis!” Not just in my gratitude list, but also if I’m spelling out a word for someone. I can mostly fake in into sounding like I’m a smarty pants using the NATO phonetic alphabet; I can Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot with the best of ’em. But every. single. time.  I get to E, and instead of Echo, my brain and mouth automatically go right to Elvis, which frankly it SHOULD be Elvis, as he’s an internationally known name that the whole entire world can spell and knows it start with an “E” whereas “echo” may be confusing to other languages. And here is my thesis on reasons why to change the “E” in the phonetic alphabet. And also that is one long comma-heavy sentence. I win in that, too. So there.

In Fun Fact 2 regarding the phonetic alphabet*, one time a long long time ago, I was scheduling an appointment for someone and the guy on the phone had a heavy accent and was spelling something for me and I thought he said, “B as in Bigtoe.”  He had actually said “V as in Victor.”  But ever since then? B as in Bigtoe. It just makes sense.

Lastly, I never knew I had so many thoughts on the phonetic alphabet. Hm. Maybe this is something I need to look into rewriting because my ideas are actually borderline crazy brilliant and I feel very strongly about it.

But back to life at hand today.

My Mister is off having Man Week for the next 10 days so I’m mostly solo with my dinner plans. Which would be fine if I wasn’t poor and could just go dine around town myself. Less fun concocting something at home. I almost shortchanged myself with cereal (which is good enough, don’t get me wrong – but not tonight), but instead I decided I was worthy of a butter garlic shrimp and pasta dinner.

I made up a recipe and just went for it – it’s tough to go wrong with butter, garlic, lemon and mozzarella – and let me just say, it was yummy. Sometimes when I wing it, it can turn out no bueno, but this time? Winner.

So I made my mouth happy today.

How about you, Reader? What part of your body did you make happy today? Er… nevermind.

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Three Months

When I was going through my divorce, I did a lot of planting. It still stands out to me, because I frankly hate gardening and the digging and worms and spiders and bugs.  That’s not to say I don’t like worms and spiders and bugs – as long as they stay in their habitat and don’t invade mine. When I’m digging around in the dirt, they are perfectly within their rights to scare the bejeezus out of me, as I’m invading their home. So I generally tend to avoid that activity.

But I can remember getting out my gardening gloves that November weekend when my marriage exploded and I got busy digging and planting.

I didn’t have the words to know WHY I was doing it, only that I felt the need to put something in the ground that would bloom in 8 months time, breaking free from it’s dark place with all it’s beauty and splendor, and reaching towards brighter skies.

It would be a tangible, visual reminder that both me and those bulbs made it through to sunnier days.

It took me longer than those 8 months to re-find my more natural sunnier skies mindset, but I got there eventually.

Like most people, we all have highs and lows.  Life brings us challenges, many we don’t want to accept, but have no choice in the matter.

Many of us have things we are going through that we just don’t talk about. Including me, Reader, which you may find difficult to believe as I write these words and send them off to your eyes and anyone else’s who may be snooping around the internets looking for nonsense.  I’m an open-ish book.  But there are things that we just handle under our own roofs, and those can be the things that try to sink us. Sometimes it’s just piled too high.

I think that’s where I’ve been lately. The pile has been too high. It makes me sleep more and create less. It makes me edgy and yell-ie and chicken-little-the-sky-is-falling. I’ve felt badly about being me – overall as a human, not because of an individual action.

But I’ve been reading and practicing my friend Jabs’ A-B-C’s of gratitude and truly absorbing some of the positive messages that you can find anywhere online. I’ve been loving Mel Robbins on insta lately.  I mean, she said this:

And I’ve decided it’s time to start planting again.  Only this time, I’m going to plant creativity. It’s a lot more enjoyable and a lot less wormy.

I’m writing my to-do list to include CREATIVE tasks, and not just “polish kitchen cabinets with new magic stuff you just bought on Amazon” – which is also an actual thing on my to-do list that I’m going to do today at some point. But I’m going to rework my list, into To-Do and To-Day and it’s going to have a mix of less fun stuff (but truth? satisfying in a measurable way when something goes from effed up to organized/cleaned) and creativity.

I have a new website to build.

I have a vision board to create. The poster board had been riding around in the back of my car for two weeks now. It was never considered “important” when I had so much garage to clean.

I need to outline my little book idea I’ve been writing in my head for the past twenty years.

I want to paint an awful picture. I mean, I want to paint a GREAT picture, but talent does not equal desire in this case, so I’ll settle for what I can do. Maybe – just maybe – I’ll take a class this year.

I want to host a painting a “let’s paint the beach” event at Chez Bang Bang. I have the canvas. And paints. And friends. It’s going on the list for April or May or June. But it’s going on the In the Next 3 Months list.

I want to take some actual skillz classes – like social media marketing stuff. Because I like it, and want to formally understand it instead of my current method of winging it.  It’s going on my To Do list.

So what are you planting today, so that you believe in tomorrow?

It Looked Different on the Model

I used to think that old people in their forties and fifties and sixties had it all figured out. They knew how to do Life, because they’d lived so much of it already, that certainly they were the experts.

And then one day I woke up and I was one of those old people who was supposed to have all the answers, and had lived responsibly and owned a home and had a serious bank account and a super-clean-all-the-time house with matching things or things that were designed to match unmatchingly. Someone who knew what she was good at and had a thriving career and a balanced bank account and was leaving the world a better place.

I spent the morning applying for jobs. Jobs with words I hated, like “ability to perform hard work” and “jump to reach high-hanging fruit” and “high intensity and long hours.” And I didn’t want to apply to any of those jobs.

As I was stirring together my peanut butter layer for a batch of decadent brownies I was making, I just really started to question myself and what are my actual abilities and do I even have any any longer?

I don’t know, Reader. I don’t have any of Life’s Important Things together.

I don’t have a successful 30-year marriage to lean back on.

I don’t have a pack of children to be proud of.

Don’t even ask about my bank account, unless you’re asking me how much money I’d like you to put into it. Unemployment comes at a cost, Reader.

My three cats are cute, but mostly ill-behaved.

Hard to dispute the cute.

I don’t have any answers to life’s hard questions. All I do is what I can each day and hope for the best. And sometimes that doesn’t work out like I hope.  Many times, actually.

I don’t know what I’m good at any more.

I’m a mediocre cook who puts more effort into it than the return warrants.

I’m a mediocre blogger who writes sometimes. I have ideas that don’t always make it to the execution phase for one reason or another. And no, I don’t need you to guilt me about it, I already know.

What I’ve learned is that I muddle through on most days, hoping some things turn out okay. I just thought that by the time I was in my fifties, I’d have this shit figured out and I’d know where I was going in life and have one house paid for and would be vacationing in my second home six months a year.

I don’t.

I don’t have any of that.

The only thing I have on a regular basis is unprompted aches and pains.  Yesterday I was walking around just fine, doing some yard work, and then out of the blue, my foot just started aching so hard I could barely stand on it. I mean, to the point where I had to figure out just how badly I needed to go pee, and by the time it wasn’t optional, I had waited too long and I may or may not have peed my pajama pants a little.

That’s not having life by the horns, Reader. I mean, if that had actually happened.

I guess the point of this is that I just don’t know. And I feel like I’m alone in this, and that everyone else KNOWS how to do life very successfully and well, and am I ever going to figure it out?

I don’t know.

I find it somewhat frightening that some people look to me to help them get their own lives straightened out. I’m the brains that is supposed to help them fix their life because they think I have some magic answer. I don’t. I’m no example. I’m not. I am not a model of success. I struggle against the current that is trying to sweep me under almost every single day.

I guess I’ll try again in the morning.

And maybe that’s all that everyone is doing. Getting up and trying again, and sometimes it works out well and it looks like you’ve got it all together. At least for a minute.


Feats of Strength

Ohmyword, Reader, this week has been setting out to prove that I am one strengthless giant bag of body.  I mean, Lawdee! It’s been testing my actual physical strengths this week! And lemme just confess, I have been coming up very weak in the arms.

Firstly, my mind said to me, “Hey, Trixie, ya know what would be super-fun while you’re unemployed?? hosting a wine night with the girls!”  And my mind was correct, it was super-fun!

Except for the other part of my mind, that whispered to me, “Well, you know this means we have to do some massive cleaning and possibly home remodeling because six people who have already been to your house are going to come back to your house and drink and eat and so that requires All The Things be done in the next three days”

I mean, we’re talking about me being a little bit nutzo, Reader.

I decided that was the week to KonMarie my cabinets and drawers.  And mop and scrub and sweep and mop again and vacuum and hey, why don’cha also clean the carpet on the stairway that no one is even going to go up, now’s a good time to tackle that, too.

So I did, and boy howdy, was I tarred. And then I decided that my living room just isn’t clean unless we move the teensy tiny 80″ TV out from the wall and clean and sweep and mop and polish behind it.

So we did.  And I let My Mister tell me, “It’s not even heavy, it’s just a little awkward.”

And he revealed himself for the liar he truly is.

Because an 80″ TV? Despite being thin? Is oh-my-effing-lawd HEAVY.

This next part is where I question my own mind, which we’ve above determined is also irrational and untrustworthy with decision making skills, because I let My Pants-on-Fire-Liar Mister convince me to just pick up that 80″ tv and walk it the five steps over to the coffee table and set it down INSTEAD OF MOVING THE MOTHEREFFING COFFEE TABLE to the tv.

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me??

But lift it and walk with it we did, and got it there with only a minor panic of my shouting, “I don’t have it, I don’t have it!” but by then we were at the coffee table and we were able to set it down and say sheeweee that was hard, and wipe my brow and let my jiggly arms take a rest.

We cleaned it all out back there, and tidied up the cords and moved some ‘lectronics to the basement and polished up the tv stand and then it was time to move the not-light-at-all tv back to it’s stand.

I didn’t have it, Reader.

First, every person with a half a brain knows it’s a lot lot lot more difficult to move something heavy back to a HIGHER shelf than the one they’re currently on.  It takes HOISTING in addition to the moving, and I did NOT have hoisting in my arms.

Me: “Let’s just slide the coffee table towards the stand.”

Pants-on-Fire: “That is impossible. The tv is already on the coffee table, there is NO WAY we can move the coffee table with the tv on it towards the stand.”

So we tried, Reader, oh how we tried.

I just didn’t have enough wingspan to keep it from tipping forward, grasping the bottom, balancing the top and HOISTING.

I came up with the brilliant plan of maybe all I needed was to put on my Ove Glove because it has gripper fingers and I figured maybe that would help with my kung fu grip.

So I suited up with my Ove Glove and was ready to try again.

I made it about three steps from the coffee table to the tv stand before my cries, which were surprisingly similar to Steve Austin’s in The Six Million Dollar Man, “I can’t hold her Oscar, she’s breaking up! She’s breaking up!” And then his experimental aircraft,  and my grip on the tv, ended and she landed with a shockingly loud kapow on the hardwood floor of the living room. Not Steve Austin; the 80″ television.

My Mister was m.a.d. at me, as if I did it on purpose and then I got m.a.d at him for lying that it was, “not even heavy!” and for also being mad at me, expecting my delicate flowered-ness to do hard lifting man work.

So the good news was, neither the tv nor the floor were broken. I frankly don’t know what I would have been more upset about.

The bad news was, the tv was now at an even LOWER point of pick-up, meaning even MORE hoist was going to be required.

I called in reinforcements, meaning a text to HandyDan was placed, and he agreed to stop over so I wouldn’t have to just live with my telly on the floor for all the the rest of my live-long days. Because that was actually my only other option, and it was beginning to sound okay with the only other option being that I lift that m-effer up off the floor. I was already planning how to redecorate the room around it.


Then I didn’t want to be a quitter. So I concocted the plan to move the coffee table closer, so I could lift it in two sweeps instead of one grand one – once to the table, then a rest, then the final to the stand. And I determined I needed to balance the top of the tv with my face, so I had to stand in front of it to get some leverage and let it rest on my head.

My Mister: “Okay, on the count of three, we’ll lift. One…two…”

TBB: Begins to lift.

My Mister: “YOU’RE LIFTING ON THREE! It’s supposed to be one, two, three – then LIFT! You’re lifting before I’m lifting!”

Well, I don’t know how lifting and counting works for you, Reader, but I thought it was one, two, then ON THREE the lift happened.  Not one, two, three, THEN LIFT. That’s four beats. That’s lifting on FOUR, not three.

I was unable to resynchronize my lift sequence. I just couldn’t do it. My Mister finally decided to change up HIS lift sequence, and lo-and-behold, we managed to get that fucker lifted and back on the stand ON three, and then I had to check my milk because I’m sure it was strained.

The good news is, we did it. And the behind-the-tv was company-ready, which is a very important part of the house to be cleaned when people are stopping in and not looking there at all.

In other news, we purchased this jar of sliced mango from Costco yesterday and despite having Herculean strength to hoist that tv all around the living room, neither one of us can open this jar:

Like, there’s no-way-no-how that jar is getting opened. It cannot be done.

We were on our way to take this back to Costco because eight dollars, and instead veered off for impromptu dinner with my friendie and her boyfriendie, and we challenged them to see if they could open this jar and prove that we are, in fact, really just a couple-ah noodle arms.

They couldn’t open it either.

However, My Mister did inform me that, “You really need to go to the gym and lift some weights, I didn’t realize you were so wimpy.” And he almost found out how much strength I actually have with a quick jab to the snout. However, I am a lady, and instead politely told him to fuck off.


Marching Towards Madness

It’s a month closer to Spring, Reader, and that makes Trixie and her seven three kittah’s fill up with mucho happiness.

I’ve got the Wanderlust this morning and have looked at all of the following trips:

1/ Alaskan Cruise for June

2/ Trip to Bora Bora

3/ Flights to Kauai

4/ Driving trip to Arizona

5/ Las Vegas

6/ New Orleans

So you see, Reader, I’m really quite flexible with destination and am just basically suffering from Gasoline Ass, a condition coined by mi madre back in The Day, and also probably by other people but I heard it from her first. So there.

Now I just need to keep repeating my mantra loudly and steadily, “Money Flows To Me Freely and Easily,” per my hero Jen Sincero, and I’ve been saying it quite regularly but so far only about five dollars is flowing freely towards me. I’ll take a pile of five dollar bills, maybe I just need to be more specific.

I basically need a job with a lot of time off. Like, a six months on and six months off, with a paycheck that feels like two full-time jobs. Or I need an invention, which I’m still working on quietly and behind the scenes, Reader, so take that when you think I’m sitting here not doing much at all. I mean, you’re right for the most part, but in between napping and resting and happy hour cocktails, I’m working on things.

What I have realized is how dern difficult it is to keep Chez Bang Bang cleaned up, Reader! I mean, I’m HOME ALL THE DAYS and it’s still not spic and span.  I sweep and dust and pick up and tidy this and toady* that, and there’s still just stuff all the time that needs to be done, and what I’ve realized is that when I’m working there is just no way in hell’s green earth** that I’ll ever have a celebrity-showplace-home because it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

* doesn’t make any sense

**neither does this

On that note, I’m going to go toady something up around here. I have to go to “work” tonight with My Mister, and I’ve been toad I need to dress up which also means wearing a bra, which frankly flies in the face of how Sunday’s should be spent.

*I say “work” because I’m not actually getting paid, Reader. I’m out-of-the-goodness-of-my-hearting it.

Let’s do Sunday the right way, Reader.

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