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The Bang Bang Theories

That Time I Caught Snorkel Lip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Writing’s on The Wall. Sort of.

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

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

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

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

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


Not there either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re welcome once again.

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


Bada Bing

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OLD!,” I replied. “Fiddy-ONE!”

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

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

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

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

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


More On The Road Again, Day 2

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

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


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

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

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

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

I peed and got on the road.


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


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

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

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

I entered the bartering phase of panic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who. The Fuck. Would know that??

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

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


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

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

The Police: “Ma’am, are you safe?”

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

TP: “You’re in the store right now?”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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On The Road Again, Day 1

Reader, I’ve started my career as a one-tank-trip reporter except 1/ No one is paying me for my experience, 2/ So far it’s more than one tank, and 3/ I’m really not great at roadtrips that last more than two hours. That’s about my threshold.

Today was my first day on the move towards my friendie JodyGirlie (that’s her official blogging nickname) and let’s give it all a quick recap.

1/ I am not an early starter on road trips, when I don’t have an agenda or anyone else depending upon me to be somewhere. I didn’t get actually ON THE ROAD towards upstate NY until close to 2 p.m. I know, I know. My target time was 10 a.m. I’m not sure exactly what happened.

2/ At my one-hour-forty in, I decided to stop to stretch my legs, and conveniently I was right by Presque Isle Casino, so what better place for clean bathrooms, free coffee and a hot second of video poker.   As actual luck and not just the saying “as luck would have it,” I skipped on outta there with $100+ ahead in no time flat. Because that’s how we do it like a badass.

3/ Based on my experience eating on the road during my last road trip to Chicago, I became my Grandmother and packed myself a peanut-butter-and-peach-jalapeno-jelly sandwich (which frankly was quite spicy and maybe not the best jelly choice, Reader)  to eat on the road. Those rest stop places really did not impress me last month. I also brought fresh cantaloupe, a plum, a banana, some candy, two bottled waters, a Coke Zero to make my in-room rum & coke, which I’m enjoying right this very minute, and a couple of “complete nutrition” protein drinks just in case I found myself getting a little peckish.

I was peckish.

I am peckish.

Because I picked a crap hotel high on a hill in Farmington due to the ‘it’s-getting-late-and-it’s-raining’ hour and there is NO FOOD that delivers to this Finger Lakes Hotel, and the restaurant closed early due to lack of patrons. Instead I’m enjoying my rum & coke, my plum and my cantaloupe.

Good thing this hotel comes with a continental breakfast in the morning, and I plan on eating ALL OF THE BAGELS and ALL of the other foods there out of SPITE starting at 7 a.m.

4/ Why am I going to Spite Eat, you ask? Well, let me shed a little light on that for you, Reader. At the risk fo this being a long long story, the cliff’s notes version is I pulled off and decided to “wing it” at a hotel instead of going to my planned-in-my-head destination in BALDWINSVILLE because I must be a part-owner of that town and therefore should visit my property, except I was still an hour out at 8 p.m. and it started to rain and so why not here.

I found the Finger Lakes Hotel which sounded nice enough, it’s high up on a hill and not near a motherfucking other thing. Plus it was cheapish, $86.50 to be exact, which was less than my casino winnings and therefore free with money left over.

Except. I went to the room, and there were a bunch of people drinking and carrying on in the parking lot, and a lot lot lotta empty beer cases were strewn about right outside the steps to my room. I decided to just take my purse and go check it out, and it was dark and dirty complete with other people’s hair in the sink, and it has a movable air conditioning unit sitting in the room with a big vent thing going out the window, and preventing the window from closing. The bed looked …. not great. I turned on my phone flashlight to check for bedbugs, and it looked clean enough but I was still quite hesitant.

After a moment of thought I decided to just go get my money back and truck on down the road.

That’s when All The Troubles began. All of them. Every. Single Trouble. And my decision to Spite Eat in the morning.

Because they said nope, no refundies.  The manager wouldn’t even get on the phone, she just texted the girl who was working the desk with a nope. It got so bad in that lobby I ended up calling the police PURELY to inconvenience everyone and make the girl cry, which it did. The police guy showed up and said he can’t do anything about it – of course he can’t – and I’ll have to file a civil suit, so I demanded the managers name – it’s ALECIA STEPHENSON and she’s on Facebook and she’s a C.U.N.T. by the way, and then I demanded a new room since I wasn’t getting a refund and told her that I’d be down in the morning and eating $86 worth of all the free breakfast.

That Alecia Stephenson is going to RUE the day she wouldn’t give me my refund, once the wrath of my vast readership boycotts this hotel and trolls her on social media (go ahead, Reader, give her hell!).

I don’t really even know how trolling works, but I may figure it out. Unless that means I have to reinstate my Twitter account. I’m not doing that.

I also made a big stink that of course I wasn’t staying at this shithole, but then my new room? Was actually updated. Had I gotten the decent room first a whole lotta drama coulda been avoided.

But seriously, what kind of customer service is it that I couldn’t get my money back after looking at the room? There was nothing in the paperwork that said no refunds or final sale. So if I had opened the room and it just had a big steaming pile of shit on the bed, oh well?  I’ve decided it’s some podunk-town shit and I even told the girl something like, “maybe you should look for a job someplace where you could have some pride in where you work,” and the police man yelled at ME and said “Enough!” and I thought FUCK YOU, civil rights, but I didn’t say that because I’m too far from home and don’t need to go to jail for being lippy.

My Mister called me a little while ago and begged me not to eat all the bagels in the morning.  I can’t commit to that, but he’s nervous they’re going to have the police watching the buffet for bagel over-takers, and if they did my god that would really be something!

After all that lobby drama I figured I’d better not head out to try to find food somewhere and that’s why I’m having rum for dinner.

5/ The saddest part of my whole journey was when I passed a sign announcing the Jello Museum, and it was too late to visit and learn about the history of jello. Because I totally would have been there, and then probably would have had a whole different hotel and wouldn’t be forced on principle to have a carb overload in the morning, so basically it’s the Jello Museum’s fault for not being opened past 4 p.m. as to why I’m going to be bloated up on bread tomorrow.

You better believe I’m already planning to hit that up on my return trip, Exit 47, baby. Exit 47 is where the magic happens.

6/ I plan on taking the toilet paper tomorrow, too. Yes, out of spite.

7/ When I was in the lobby complaining, some guy showed up and looked really uncomfortable and when she asked what he needed he said, “Uh, a plunger. My dad clogged up the toilet.”  She had to send maintenance to deal with that shit.

8/ Dealing with that bitch manager of this place made it really crystal clear to me how things with Thelma and Louise escalated so quickly. If I had dynamite, I’d probably throw a stick of it over my shoulder on my way out of town tomorrow, too.

9/ No, that’s not over reacting, it’s completely justified especially when your dinner is rum.

10/ Basically there is nothing I need to visit in this particular region of the world ever again because I’m now super-soured on the Farmington and this little surrounding area because people around here are assholes. Except I need to visit that Jello Museum. There’s always room for a little Jello.*

*yes, I went there. It begged for it.

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What I’ve Had In My Mouth Lately

Reader, while I may not be going to a traditional job each day, I am making each day a learning opportunity. Because continuing education is very important for personal development.*

*see how I can still sound all corporate-y?? skillz, yo.

What I’ve learned today is that I do, in fact, dislike pesto. It’s no longer a mystery, I have reached a definitive conclusion on the subject.

Pesto has been like curry for me.  Everyone talks it up to such a degree that surely I’m missing something, and so I keep trying.

And trying.

And trying.

Because my mouth is not a quitter.

Until it finally quits.

I’ve had restaurant pesto, and World Market pesto, and other pestos and today I made my own to see if perhaps that’s the missing link to my liking pesto.

When my kump’ney was over last weekend, she and I took a trip to the Market and she was super-excited to find garlic scapes to make garlic scape pesto with. So I followed suit and figured THIS must be the missing link to my liking pesto.

I’ve been on a cooking-at-home spurt because finances, and even though we had enough cheesy potatoes and stuffed peppers to have as leftovers today, I decided it was the time to use the garlic scapes before they went to waste.

I followed a recipe and everything, except I followed one with a twist, using pistachio’s instead of pine nuts. I like both nuts equally, and thought the garlicky scapes might blend well.

I loosely chopped up the scapes, threw all the ingredients into the Vitamix and whirled.

And it got thick.

And glumpy.

I drizzled in the oil.

It was still glumpy.  And a little stringy looking from the scapes.

I added in more oil.

And an uncalled for squirt of lemon because it felt like it needed it.

Then a few basil leaves because after first taste, it still needed something else.

More salt was added.

I was not feeling confident in this but forged ahead with my spaghetti noodles and got those going on.

My Mister walked into the kitchen and declared it smelled like a garlic whorehouse.*

He didn’t really say anything that creative, but we’re taking creative liberties here.

*I’m not sure what a garlic whorehouse would exactly smell like, other than a lot lot lot of garlic covering up the smell of disillusionment.

Finally I determined that was as good as the garlic scape pesto was going to get, and mixed it all up with the noodles.

My Mister: “It looks good.”

Me: “It’s still glumpy. I don’t know how to make it less glumpy. Is it supposed to be glumpy???”

My Mister: “Well, I wish I could stay and try some, but I’ve gotta run off to work!”

Do we think that was a coincidence, Reader??

I mashed it around in the noodles with a fork and decided to get a back-up plan in place in the form of a piece of toast (from the toaster oven, not an actual toaster because remember I can’t have one because cats) and added lotsa lotsa butter to the toast with fresh garlic and a slice of provolone and toasted that up.

Taking my little dinner out to the deck to give it some ambiance didn’t help.

I’m not saying it’s awful. For weirdos folks that enjoy pesto, it’s probably quite tasty.

But Trixie Bang Bang had BLECK to say about it, and finished up her cheesy garlic toast and threw her plate of pesto right in the trashie can because did she mention BLECK??

Now SHE ….. er I … smell like a garlic whorehouse and my tongue tastes like the garlic is never ever ever going to come off it.


I am going to try to drown the taste of that glumpy blecky pesto with my pineapple coconut cake that I made this afternoon too.  Well, I’m in the process of frosting it up. In the process of my continuing education, I’ve learned that I also did not adequately space out the pineapple filling, and feel like I’m missing a frosting layer somewhere inside there, but I’m not sure where or how.

Additionally, the recipe never once suggested that I’m going to have all these uneven layers and I have no idea how that’s going to become a same-depth cake edge, but I guess I’ll be using that frosting like mortar and practice my masonry skills.

Because I take my education seriously, Reader. And my cakes.

But we both know that already, don’t we.

To recap, we’ve learned today that pesto is blecky, the same as curry, and cake filling spacing is challenging.

I think that’s a lotta learning for one day. I’ve put my tongue through a lot today.

No wonder I’m tired.

Weep for the Willow

Once upon a time last week, a young shut yer mouth girl was sitting on the deck minding her very own business and enjoying a large cuppa black* coffee and listening to the birds sing and she was startled plumb up outta her seat by the sound of the world ending in her very own backyard.

*i’ve been drinking my coffee black ever since I completed the Whole30 diet, which was completed in 5 days, because I’ve an overachiever. except I don’t drink it black if I have my sweet jizzy coffee creamer on hand.

When she leaped up like a startled gazelle and looked over the rail of the deck, she quickly noticed that where once stood a tall and hardy willow tree*, was now an upended trunk with roots asunder and a brand new canopy of leaves to dangle over the ravine.

This used to be an upright situation.

*the roots of the willow trees are super shallow and basically suck, why are these planted in my backyard??

In other words, I got the holy-smokes-Batman crap scared outta me when a giant tree just fell right on over from my backyard’s edge, crashed through some smaller trees, took them out in the process because obvi dead trees love company, and now it’s hanging on by a thin thread over the babbling brook.

Perfectly well and good smaller tree until the big mean tree knocked it out. Now it’s a cat balance beam, being used by Nadia Cat-maneci.

All that on a clear and bright summer morn*, with no wind nor rain to hasten the falling leading up to any of the commotion.

The good-ish news is, the remaining willows that border the backyard mostly lean into the ravine as well, except for one big one that looks like it would be happy to fall right into the corner of my house, demolishing the living room in the process.

It seems steady for now, but frankly so did this other one, which is why it came as quite a surprise to Trixie BB that bright and cheery July morning when it just uprooted itself right in front of her ears.

So that’s what goes on around Chez Bang Bang when nature thinks no one is listening.


Much Too Young (to feel this damn old)

Reader, I’ve got kump’ney coming tomorrow and a little shindig we’re throwing on Saturday and because of all that you know I have to repaint the house, build an addition and homeschool the cats into looking like a well-behaved clowder.

Everyone got a brushing on the deck earlier this week. To feign respectability with less dander.

The reason things take me so dern long to get tidied up around here is because I Find Things and then think O’My Law, these things MUST BE SHARED with my adoring public (that would be you, Reader).

So then I’m taking pictures and planning the story and the next thing I know it’s the night before kump’ney is coming and I still have a floor to scrub to get our “fake house” in shape.

Just don’t open any cupboards, closets or drawers, please.

I wish I were exaggerating about how kump’ney motivates me, Reader.

Right now I’m looking at PAINT that needs to be touched up – that I’ve conveniently ignored for several YEARS – but think, “hm, that should really get taken care of tonight!”

Now, it most likely will NOT, and my backup plan is to keep everyone’s glass full up with wine and no one will notice the paint.

Instead of doing any one of the things that should be getting done, though, I determined that this right here needed to be shared.

It’s Young Trixie Bang Bang, way way way a lotta years ago, when she had a Little Dutch Boy haircut

And her infatuation with Garth Brooks during his let’s wear the flag era*

Well, you put those two things together, and here we have young young young skinny-but-she-thought-she-was-fat-my-what-I-wouldn’t-give-to-be-this-“fat”-again Trixie Bang Bang in all her concert finery.

The hair, the shirt and some fifth-row seats, and a SIGN beseeching Garth to SIGN ME, well, it was pert-near a perfect night.

*p.s., I’m still just as infatuated with Garth and wouldn’t be above capturing his eye with matching shirts should our paths cross again.  Because Garth.

Urine Trouble (and no, the cats are not involved this time)

Hi Reader, Happy Friday to you, or just Happy Day if you’re reading this another day.

Join me on the patio for a cuppa joe, why don’t ‘cha, and let’s chat about what’s been going on.

Firstly, I’m happy to report that during my recent bout of unemployment, I have managed to take a shower every. single. day.

I know, right?!

That is some accomplishment around Chez Bang Bang!

Now, I may or may not have been gadding about town without all of my foundational support systems in place, a.k.a., proper bajonga support, but that’s for the neighborhood to worry about and not your problem, Reader.  It’s their nightmare, not yours.

Also, I’ve taken to enjoying my face in it’s natural state during my unemployed status. I’m sort of beginning to like it just fine in as-is condition.

I’ve used my newly free time to mostly sleep in til eleven a.m. … er… I mean being super productive! It’s not even NINE A.M. and we’re on the deck – which I leaf-blowed off already – and we’re typing up words! Talk about progress!!

I also went to Chicago for a quickie trippie, because I thought I was going to be meeting an author who I like, but she decided she had better things to do and was a no-show, which is frankly RUDE and I have vowed when I am famous I will ALWAYS SHOW for my fans! I’m here for you NOW, because I’m a giver!

But all was not lost, and I enjoyed the weekend with my cousin, and also eating pizza and drinking wine and seeing things and I met other nice people that showed up for the No-Show-Jen-Lancaster, yes, I called her out right HERE on this very popular blog.

My biggest takeaway from the trip was learning from my cousin about Groupon Getaways, which is how she and her husband enjoyed a $650 trip to ‘Gina and she advised me if I plan to go I need to get a little more limber because public restrooms involve squatting over a hole in the ground.

After she told me about all the wonders she witnessed while in China, she began that information sharing session with, “Um, also you need to know this. It may be a deal-breaker for you.”

I’m not exactly…bendy.  Or squatty. She saw me in motion over the few days in Chicago, when she was showoffy with her super-bendy knees and squatted for a photo and I sort of had to bend at the waist while pretending to squat. I fooled no one.

I grilled her for more specifics.

“So, how close do you have to get to this hole in the ground??”

“Well, you know…you have to get close enough to not miss the hole. Kinda like camping when you were a kid and had to squat in the woods.”

“Hm.  Well, I was never good at that when I had eight-year-old knees. I used to pee all over the back of my pants.”  And p.s., I have never been much of a camper, either, so I used the more recent memory (of only 20 years ago) of the one time way back in my married life when I was in Texas with my Ex’es (because it rhymes, Reader) and we were drinking in the car from a cooler stuffed with cold brews because it’s TEXAS (except the drinker was not the driver, it was mostly me and his step-mama as the drinkers) and we had to pull over into a scrub-brush area and I had to walk out there by some cactus and hope to Good Garth we didn’t step on a rattler or a fire ant hill, and I had to pee.

I effectively peed on the back of my shorts. Because I’m not good at outdoors.

My cousin concurred it can be a challenge.

With this new knowledge that a cheap trip to China can be had, I came home and have gotten right to work.

I’ve been Youtube-ing how-to-get-bendy-enough-to-pee-in-‘Gina videos and doing them every day this week.  In fact, I did a new 19-minute-get-more-stretchy before I even had my first cuppa coffee today.

What I’ve learned is this:  I am. really. really. really. not. bendy.

I think I used to be more bendy. I have recollections about doing fancy sex trickery moves in my twenties and maybe my thirties. I mean, I caught a couple’a husbands back then, I was able to Do Things.

I’m not sure when it all got stiffened up.  But knowing I once had it gives me hope that with enough dedication to youtube videos and my yoga mat,  I may be able to pee in China before the end of the year.

Goals, Reader. We all need to have goals.

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I Like Me To

I’ve been working on making my office space a working office space, Reader. One where I can sit down and have no other projects that catch my attention and drive me away from my writing. I’m like a dog chasing a squirrel sometimes, off in all directions.

It’s a tough job, whipping that office into a good working space, because I’m sorry to say (to myself) that I have acquired Too Much Stuff, and I just don’t know what to do with it all. Most of it sat in the middle of the floor, which then in one cleaning attempt got pushed to the peripheral, and now it is all going to be be filed and put away or it is going in the trash or a goodwill pile. Or a sell-this-shit  space, because as I’ve lamented before, some of the stuff is Good and needs to be sold to generate a few bucks for the UP (unemployed person).

One of the little nuggets I did find was this note, written by 8-year-old Me, according to my mom’s  notation on the back of the paper:

I’m only surprised there is no mention of cake, had 8-year-old-Me identified that in the note I would have known my destiny was set early on and I would stop fighting against the force of buttery, sugary confections. My guess is I started to write it just below the “i like cats” stanza but it was going to throw off the whole meter of the poetry so I scribbled it out and just kept that knowledge deep in my heart.

Sometimes the secrets to life are spilled at the hands of an 8-year-old girl. The things worth liking are basic business –  mom, dad, dogs and cats. And don’t forget to like yourself to.






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