Question: Does it count as “cleaning” if you use the worn-all-damn-day dirty sock you just took off to dust the dresser before tossing said sock in the washing machine?
Asking for a friend.
Question: Does it count as “cleaning” if you use the worn-all-damn-day dirty sock you just took off to dust the dresser before tossing said sock in the washing machine?
Asking for a friend.
Today I was almost killed by a meatball, Reader.
Well, not a lone meatball. It was a gang of them.
“Tell me more, Trixie!” I can hear your chants clamoring for details, Reader.
It all started with an overpacked freezer.
I don’t know HOW I have such a stuffed freezer, yet nothing to cook. I don’t understand it either.
Sometimes things show up in the freezer from when the cat uncle stays and watches them, like that Marie Callender Salisbury steak thing.
Other times it’s just things I buy that hang around too long, like the talenti raspberry gelato. Why hasn’t that been eaten already? It’s delicious. But there it sits, months after it was purchased. I don’t know why.
Then there’s the Mystery Meals I pack away in there, leftovers boxed and bagged up from pretty good dinners that were just too much, and we’ll save ’em for another day, then never get around to actually eating them, or I give them to My Artist to discover what’s in the box.
The other day I took him his favorite spaghetti sauce, and it turned out to be a frozen bag of mediocre chili.
He was severely disappointed on the defrost.
Today I went to shove in a couple-ah containers of the Most Delicious Meatahballz, which I made for Christmas Day and there were only about one jillion of them so I boxed some up to go to My Artist, and My HandyDan, and My Own Mouf at a later date. I planned on freezing them since I’m not sure when I’ll actually get to the delivery.
And that’s where Trouble began. Those meatahballz, they wanted to fight.
As I slid the first container onto it’s precarious top-shelf perch, and then wedged the second container next to it, the first container slid right out of the freezer and landed with a splat on the floor.
Now, the meatahballz remained contained, so it wasn’t a meatahballz loss; however, the container split open on the sides and spilled out delicious meatahballz sauce all over the floor and bottom of the freezer.
loud expletives calm and deep breaths, I got busy with the task of cleaning up sauce from all the places.
And that’s when the second container of meatahballz decided to attack.
That big container slid right off it’s shelf and hit me right on my bent-over-and-cleaning head, plumb near knocking me out.
After the stars stopped swirling around my head, I repacked both containers and gently – ever so gently – nudged them into a secure space in the freezer.
Now we wait to see who they attack next.
The highlight of my day so far, Reader, has been getting my license renewed at the DMV* today, Reader.
Let that sink in.
The best part of my day.
Was being #70 when they were on #60.
At the license renewal place.
Where every. single. person.
I sort of skipped in and happily grabbed my number, because it was an escape from Alcatraz*, at least for an hour, and I saw the sunshine.
*Alcatraz, because my work building’s neighborhood is in a sketchy part of town so there is a fence surrounding the joint with barbed wire all across the top. I don’t know if that’s to keep us in or keep people out, quite frankly.
And also, Kenny and I disagree on whether it’s the DMV or the BMV, I keep calling it the DMV; he disagrees.
We also disagreed on how to spell the word “blond” as I had it without the “e” because that is one unnecessary “e,” and he said it has the “e” so he asked Almighty Google and apparently the Feminine version is with the “e” and the Masculine version is without but I vote for my Gender Neutral version and I’m not sure what that is exactly, but spelling just got a lot more difficult at the DMV.
While at the DMV, I realized that I left my driving glasses in my car door, which had me fretting about the eye exam. The last time I took it, I only passed it due to a little bit of grace. I can see, Reader. I just can’t see-see.
This conversation happened when I was told to go to the eye test machine and look inside:
Me: “Um, are there letters and numbers, or just numbers?”
Her: “Do you see letters??”
Kenny: Picks up my purse, prepares to leave.
Me: “Well, I’m only asking because the first thing could either be an 8 or a B.”
Her: “Only numbers.”
So then I passed, but let me tell you I wasn’t sure I was going to so I just talked really fast to confuse her a little.
It must have worked.
I got a new picture, and because I wasn’t planning on getting it renewed today I had no time to panic prep, and maybe that’s the solution to my pictures for me because it turned out okay enough and didn’t involve a whole lot of effort. Or maybe I’m just a natural beauty. Ahem.
I also found out in this new fangled world we’re living in, there are now two kindz of licenses you can have: one federal ID or just a regular old boring driver’s license. To get the Fed ID you need all sorts of extra papers, and I do have to say I was pleased as punch when Kenny was able to locate my social security card, passport and two bills with my name and address. The bills part was the most difficult as I toss that crap out almost immediately, and get most of it online.
Now I’m all fancy with my federal ID, or will be in thirty days or less, and that was the best part of my day. So far, anyway. I’m planning on redeeming it just a little by heading up to see some friendies at the bowling alley, because everyone knows all the magic happens at the bowling alley. At least some good laughs should happen there. And a drink. And maybe a piece of chicken or something.
Oh, p.s., I think I actually licked an envelope yesterday that had been cat peed on. So there was that. Hashtag LivingMyBestLife.
p.p.s. that last sentence probably should have been it’s own blog, but I mean, what else is there really to say about that. I licked it. It tasted like pee. I was sad. Someone’s getting that card in the mail anyway. Merry Christmas.
I sat down this morning – technically, before NOON is morning, Reader, so stop with all the judgy stuff – to entertain you with some
trivial very important words, and then Kenny got up and sat down at the table and started drinking some coffee and just needling me – which he has been doing for the entire weekend – and then I got mad, and yelling happened, and the cats meowed very loudly in protest and then I LOST all the words I wanted to tell you here today because I’m stewing in being mad at him for his incessant need to antagonize me – as if I don’t have enough problems lately, by the way, which I do and are many and some super-big and annoying on their own – and finally it ended with my yelling at him to JUST. SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. AND STOP. TALKING TO ME. and he DID, Thank Garth, but now I’m still TOO MAD to write a post and now you know why this is all you’re getting, the worlds longest run-on-sentence and BLAME KENNY because he is an a-hole.
Reader, I just asked my fighting cat if he wanted to get “banquished” for not being nice to his siblings.
Sometimes I think I’m relatively smart because I read books and stuff, but then things like “banquished” come out of my mouth, all out-loud and into the world, to a cat no less, and I rethink my high esteem.
I believe I meant banished or vanquished to the other room, by himself, all alone, to think about his behavior. But banquished came out, with all sorts of authority in the statement.
It may be the red, but I don’t think banquished is a word, but I sort of like it if it means I would get sent to a banquet.
Please, Reader, banquish me. I’m hungry and wouldn’t mind a little alone time with a nice meal and perhaps a cocktail.
Unless maybe banquish really is a word already and I’m assigning my own definition? But even if it is a word, I’m assigning my own definition of being sent to a banquet.
I don’t know, Reader. I shouldn’t drink and type. The cat ignored me, too.
p.s. READER! I’m cracking myself up over here, compete with authentic LOLs! You should really be here! I just typed up the caption for this, thinking I was all creative, but then I’m not quite tipsy enough to not spot-check myself and realized it’s NOT, in fact, MERRIMAN-WEBSTER dictionary, but the Merriam-Webster, and that’s a lot not what I thought. Maybe I am in fact the Merriman Dictionary. My olden married last name was Merrifield, so maybe it rubbed in.
Because work is so worky, I’m JUST NOW sitting down and stuffing food in my face in the name of lunch/dinner, Reader. And it’s 9:03 p.m.
Feel the sorries for me.
I’m eating salami right out of the bag, wrapped in a torn off piece of muenster cheese, which is actually quite tasty, although would be better with a glass of red because then we’d feel fancy, except because my day hasn’t punished me enough already, I’m punishing me even more and making me drink a tall glass of water before I’m allowed to have the red.
Because I’ve only peed about twice in the entire whole damn day, because I was even too busy to drink.
How in the holy-heck can I be that busy, Reader?? It’s not even the busy time so I’m super
not looking forward to January when it really ramps up.
Please hold your thoughts for a moment or two, I’m going to guzzle down this water and switch to wine with my last slice of cheese and salami.
~hold moment one~
~hold moment two~
Okay, I’m back and now ready to rock and roll, coochi-coo.
My dinner was getting the sniff of approval.
Yes, he may or may not have licked my cheese.
Yes, I am eating it anyway.
In other news, my other kitteh is home with his $1,424 wiener.
I really hope he extra enjoys it every time he licks it. He needs to get my money’s worth out of it.
After work today I went on a vision quest to find a pill-popper thing-a-mah-jig to launch the twice-a-day cat pills down his gullet.
Well, a vision quest may be an overstatement, however I am seeking my life’s direction and maybe there was a chance I could have found it at Target. I didn’t; however I did find Pine scented Meyer’s cleaner, which is an absolute DE-LIGHT to sniff, and not at all pine-sol-y and artificial. I cleaned all the kitchen counters just so I could get some good sniffs in, and I’m not done yet, Reader, as I think I’m going to clean some things around the bedroom so I can enjoy it in my sleeps. Or else I’ll be too tipsy from all the wine and skip that for tonight.
Speaking of vision quest, does anyone remember that 1985 movie by that name? That movie pops through my mind on occasion, which is also where Madonna had her Crazy For You song debut, and also I was an impressionable young girl and learned the importance of keeping nice undies in case a guy wanted to sniff them.
Yes, that’s an actual thing from the movie.
Yes, one time my first ex-husband was caught sniffing my undies. So the lesson paid off, because they were nice. Not nice enough to keep him from being an ex-husband, but hey, I did my part with nice undies.
This, Reader, is going no where except every where, all over the place and all at once. I sat down to tell you something – who knows what by now – and here we are talking about my dinner and twenty-year-old-me undies getting a sniffing, and not by the same sniffers because that would be REALLY weird, although now that I think about it, while I don’t have any proof, that cheese-sniffing cat probably has walked by and sniffed my undies at some point. While they were on the floor, Reader, not on my person, because that would be creepy and we’re a lot of things around here, but we’re not that creepy.
Speaking of undies, one time several years ago, Kenny had an acquaintance who wanted to buy my worn and unwashed panties. He was willing to pay upwards of twenty bucks a pair, depending upon how gamey they were – the more gamey, the more $$, naturally. He requested the big, bloomer-ie type of under pants. Believe it or not, we actually TURNED DOWN that offer, and holy smokes, just think of the extra vacations and cat wiener repairs I could have paid for with gamey underwear money.
Missed opportunities, Reader.
If that opportunity decides to come a-knocking at Chez Bang Bang’s door again, I’m going to throw open that door and greet Opportunity with a whole laundry basket full of gamey, big panties.
Knock with caution if you decide to come visit, Reader. Don’t sound like Opportunity, or you may get something you’re not expecting.
I’ve got the very definition of First-World Privilege Problem for you RIGHT HERE, Reader.
For the past few months, I’ve been thinking about selling my watch. It’s done it’s time with me, it served it’s purpose – which was mostly driven by in-your-fat-dumb-face towards my exhusband, who informed me once during our married existence that, “You will NEVER have a Rolex. That is ridiculous!” as he climbed on his Harley and rode it out to his 4-person airplane.
I was ridiculous.
So upon my divorce, and after acquiring a hefty chunk of his retirement, I treated my fat dumb face to a Rolex while I was in St. Maarten.
And I wore the hell out of it, and enjoyed it, and now I’m over it.
The problem with having a statement piece watch is that I won’t ever wear any other watch. I think about getting an Apple watch, but would never wear it. I don’t wear trendy watches. One one hand, it’s kept me from spending additional monies. On the other hand, the maintenance alone on it is around $600 when it needs a tune-up, so I’m still spending monies.
I have decided the TIME is now to get rid of it, and went in search of her box and all her papers. And I cannot find it anywhere.
I know where I last saw it.
Why isn’t it still there??
I don’t know.
I’ve searched every drawer and closet.
It’s still a no show.
What. the. hell. Is the new catchphrase that my friend Cee-Lee and I latched on to last night when discussing the absurdities of this crazy and unexplainable life, where actual real tragedies are happening every single day. I know the difference, believe you me, I’m just mostly annoyed that what I need – when I need it – cannot be found.
I could try to sell it without the papers and box, but that increases the value significantly and after I don’t have the watch the papers and box are no good to me.
What. the. hell.
Life, I know you’re trying to thwart me. I feel it in every breath I take. It feels heavy and stale and hard. But I’m going to keep on keeping on, and go look around one more time today, and see what I can rustle up. If I don’t find it, I’m going to move forward anyway. You won’t win, Bad Luck.
And yes, my big problem of the day is finding the box and papers for my Rolex spite-purchased watch.
Keep it all in perspective, Me.
Yes, I’ve stated that very emphatically. I’m Field of Dreams-ing over here from Chez Bang Bang (if I say it, it will come).
This is my current writing situation, with Purry smooshed between my boobies and the table.
I had to get croppy and get my unfettered nip out of that picture for you, Reader, because no one wants to see that while sipping on a cuppa coffee. Because I care about you, Reader, and what you can’t unsee. You’re welcome. Unless you would have appreciated kitten and nipple all in one picture and I denied you, then I’m sorry. I have to keep thinking of the Great Good, Reader.
What exactly is the Greater Good?? I feel as if I no longer know.
It’s been a hard week.
Between work being so worky, and family situations which have recently arisen, and then MONEY becoming a recent challenge to acquire and KEEP it because part of my clowder became sick in his pee pee, well, it’s been a struggle in finding any Good – Greater or even Just-Okay Good – lately.
Here’s my poor boy as of yesterday. He was whisked off to the vet on Thursday afternoon, when his daddy came in and found him mournfully wailing at the base of the stairs in the basement, unable to move his hind legs.
Apparently his cat wiener got blocked up and he became unable to pee.
Our options were: sign the estimated bill or put him to sleep.
So of course he got the go-ahead, because his mama is a bleeding heart.
My very first full paycheck from my job is going straight to Toby’s wiener, which is just perfect and also somehow fitting. House payment? I guess you’ll have to wait your turn.
So I’ve thumbed my nose at the Universe, which is trying to make me Worried, and instead I gave literally the last two dollars in my purse to a homeless guy AND while I was at Dollar Tree I bought him blueberry poptarts and strawberry wafer cookies because I rationalized “fruit taste” and probably easy to chew. I’m not saying “healthy” but what the hell, I’m not here to provide a nutrient-rich diet.
My new co-workers scoffed at my giving hand. But we have an entire homeless population that lives RIGHT BY my job’s parking lot, so of course I can’t just drive right by when I see them standing around with gloves duct-taped to their tattered sleeves to keep out drafts.
I was also schooled on how homelessness is actually becoming a for-profit business, complete with a pimp/kingpin who rules their world and gets them out there begging for dollars, and some of the more successful ones are raking in $20/$30 hour, and maybe I’m in the wrong business. I’m not saying I’m naive – I know there are a ton of scammers – but also? I’m not the girl who can look the other way. I’m just. not. that girl. I’m the girl who gives her last two bucks, because I guess I believe I can always make two more bucks.
The bottom line is, I can’t change what’s happening around me. Things are happening, and they are bad, big-problem Things at the moment. I can’t afford a $1500 unexpected cat bill. Yet I’m going to afford it, somehow. And I’m going to give away my last $2 in my purse and a box of poptarts. And I know – I know this, Reader, so you don’t need to tell me – I’m a schmuck and a sap and all the other dumb liberal labels – and I know that even though I can’t change the world, I’m not going to let the world change me.
At least not today.
p.s. Reader! Guess the song that I’m referencing and YOU will win a Major Award
of something I didn’t sell at that flea market which is now cluttering up my garage of some fantastic treasure!!
Gooooood Morning, Reader!! How quickly I’ve become insufferable with all my good morning-ness. I’m up, practically bounded out of that warm bed, ready to grab this day! Well, at the least I’m grabbing my cuppa coffee with both hands, and scarfing down an egg sammy before work.
to no one really news, ever since I even started INTERVIEWING for this job, my stomach has been growling while at the office. Maybe it was really like a dog in the pit of my gut, growling out a warning to me, the way junkyard dogs can growl out Keep Out, only I didn’t heed my junkyard dog’s warnings and now I’m paying the piper, and I really hate that demanding piper, Reader. I have an 8:30 a.m. weekly one-on-one starting today, and so I’m feeding my junkyard dog beforehand.
“How are things going at the new nine-to-five, Trixie?” Well, thanks for asking Reader. It shows you care. Without saying too much, let’s just say I should have paid heed to my junkyard dog. Instead I just fed it a sandwich, squashing it’s growl. I keep reminding myself that as the winds blow, things change.
Oh, one reason the 8:30 meeting sticks in my junkyard dog’s craw is that my hours are 8:30-5:30. Planning a meeting at starting time is frankly rude. If you’re a manager and you do this, stop it. Right now. It’s incredibly controlling when there is no need to try to control people. We’re not Nazi’s, unless you are, and if so screw you, Nazi.
On that note, it’s time to throw on some pants and make like a tree and get outta here.
You guys, over the holidays I egged my cousin’s house and got a gift in the mail yesterday as a result.
So basically what I’ve learned is that crimes (against deviled eggs) does, in fact, pay.
I’m frankly surprised she’d get me an egg carrier, because I would think she really enjoyed cleaning the driveway the morning after her Thanksgiving party, the same party in which I made a tray of deviled eggs to be enjoyed at, but upon taking them out of my car, every single last deviled egg slid off the tray and landed with a splat.
*I know that is a poorly constructed sentence/thought. It’s also 7:40 a.m. and I’ve gotta get my ass outta this chair and into my car and on my way into work, so take what you can get you and say, “gee, thanks, Trixie!”
**My brother tried to clean the egg off the driveway, because it was directly in a walking path, but no amount of throwing water on the problem solved it. They were there for the party, one way or another.
***The next morning I also saw egg on the side of my car. It’s the gift that just kept on giving.