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The Bang Bang Theories

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.

The Longest Shortest Month

Hi, Reader, Hi.

I’ve been s*i*c*k  for a gol’dern week already.

Not “deathbed sick,” just a cough that won’t quit, and is so severe I think I expelled my uterus. And probably other internal body parts got all discombobulated and probably aren’t where they’re supposed to be any longer, either.

Food tastes blecky. That’s a combo of blah and yucky.  Right at this very moment I’m trying to eat an English Muffin w/ a little slice of chicken on it to get some protein in my bod, but it’s too blecky. The muffin with a small swimming pool of butter is just okay.

Despite all that blecky feeling going on around Chez Bang Bang, I’m still trying to rally into some form of productivity around here. My friendie was over and she was helping me get some shiz organized and I have to say, seeing my shiz through HER eyes have made me realize I’m not krazee – we have far far far too much shizzz around here.  We have a million little things.

This friendie also twisted my arm and pulled my hair, FORCING me to sign up for a flea market/craft sale thingamajig this past Saturday. I had one day to figger out what the what was going to make it onto my eight feet of retail space.  We pulled together a bunch of greeting card products and paper goods that were – no jokie – 20 years old. The napkins were for New Year 2000! So I must have picked them up in 1999?? This friendie told me I was forbidden from bringing any of those napkins back into the house, so I forced them on gave them away to every person who walked by.

But JUST NOW I wished I had kept those year 2000 napkins and had a party using them, just to confuse everyone. We always miss it when it’s gone, Reader.

Friendie also pointed out I have more greeting cards than I could ever send in a lifetime, so a whole buncha very spensive $10 cards went at 4/$1.  Keep in mind, Reader, my years at the Card Mines are the reason for this accumulation. Cards came to me easily and freely.

Do I feel lighter now after selling some stuff?


I still have a buncha stuff I’ll never use.

Do I feel richer?


I made about $14 after all was said and done. And I spent that on potato chips and Lawson’s chip dip, because feed a cough chip dip is an old wive’s cure.

Do I feel inspired to keep getting rid of stuff?

Yes. But jeez. There’s just so much.

I posted a buncha crap valuable items on The Facebook and sold $75 worth of stuff in a matter of minutes. Some of it to my friends, which I would really just like to have an open house and have everyone I know stop in and pick out what they want to save me a whole buncha posting effort.

Did I learn a lesson that I need to stop shlepping shit to flea markets and just post it online?

Yes. Yes I did.

Today my goal is to clean and take photos of a giant box of stuff and then sit back and watch the Bennys roll in.

And here you’ve been thinking I’ve been sitting around doing nothing except neglecting you, Dear Reader.  I’ve been neglecting Me, actually, to the point that I had to get out of bed at three a.m. the other night to shave my hairy-AF legs because they were prickling me THROUGH my pajamas.

So that’s the state of affairs at Chez Bang Bang.

I’m sick. But recovering-ish.

My legs are smooth. Smoother. For a moment.

Closets are cleaning out. Slowly slowly.  But it’s gotta start somewhere.

It’s all gotta start somewhere.


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The Breakup

Reeeee-der!  This is a difficult post to share with you.  This has been on my mind for a while now, and I’ve been wrassling* with it.

*yes, that’s right. that’s how my family pronounced “wrestling” – and I also blame them for Youth Me not knowing the proper pronunciation of the word “tiger” as my mom pronounced it “tagger,” as in, “Let’s go to Giant Tagger and do a little shopping.”  I mean, WTF, Parents.  I’m not blaming you, but I am *blaming* you.  A little. You can’t send a kid off to grade school where she might have to wrassle taggers and then get teased because she doesn’t know the word wrestle or tiger.  And she’s maybe nine years old or something.  And also probably why I struggle to pronounce the words warrior or entrepreneur.  Two words I just slide over should I have to actually use them in a conversation. I don’t know why I’m putting the blame for those two words back on my upbringing, but there’s probably a very good reason for it somewhere.

That was a serious left turn from the conversation we were having, Reader.  Let’s get back on track. We have some sirrious* bidnizz* to chat about and get it right there and out in the opened so we’re not harboring secrets.

*so apparently we’re going to have a post with a lot of sound-it-out words in it.  I don’t know why, Reader. It just is.

Are you ready for the big secret reveal??

Grab a chair. This might be a sit-down revelation.



I had to say it really fast like that to get the words out there in public.

Now, before you pish-posh that statement, let’s go over some facts.

Fact #1) Recently, I’ve THROWN OUT CAKE. Perfectly good cake that was sitting on the counter, minding it’s own business. Got thrown out. Because I just wasn’t enjoying it anymore.

Fact #2) I’ve made three cakes recently. THREE.  And I haven’t liked any of them.  I varied the flavors, to see if that were the problem. I’ve Mixed. It. Up! Butter pecan with a cream-cheese filling, a dark chocolate with an awful* frosting for My Artist’s b-day, and yesterday a strawberry “piecake” hodgepodge concoction that had me mixing in a can of berry pie filling to try to “fun it up” and while My Mister loved it, I felt it was meh.

It looks good enough, but nope.

So with those two facts in play, I fear I have lost my love for cake.

*that awful frosting wasn’t to blame for my not enjoying the cake. The cake itself was meh.

Where do we go from here, Reader?? Do I continue to test cakes in the name of Research?? I have thought that perhaps I didn’t like any of the three cakes I made because of the brand I used – they were all Betty Crocker – maybe I need to try Duncan Hines? Or a homemade from scratch cake?  And then maybe a small bakery cake before I come to a possibly rash conclusion? I mean, if this is in fact a truth, this whole blog premise needs to be revamped. How can we be Partly CLOWDER with a CHANCE OF CAKE if I eliminate all chances of cake??

Now that we’ve talked it out, Reader, it appears more work needs to be done in order to reach a definitive conclusion on Trixie’s Tastebuds vs. Cake.

Stop in. We’ll test cakes together.



Run Between the Raindrops

Reader, we are NOT EVEN going to talk about this weather we’re having, because we’re all having some form of it and I’m not here to tell you about something you already know and hate.

Unless what you already know and hate is the fact that I had the fortunate opportunity to travel ONCE AGAIN to another tropical destination. Then yes, I’m going to tell you a smidgen about what you already know and hate.

Most of the days were this pretty:

Because we were in a Tropical Paradise, that’s why.

But then SOME of the days were like this:

All splashy and churny with CLOUDS and even some rain drops.

I managed to make due, despite the one day I (and several other folks) got sick with a stomach virus and threw up all of my insides and spent one whole afternoon and evening lying in bed watching every single episode of North Woods Law, and now I feel like I intimately know the Game Wardens of New Hampshire and Maine and #1/ one of them should be my next husband* and #2/ people are crazy** and #3/ a lot of the times I felt that the wardens were really just picking on people*** and #4/ I know everything there is to know about what makes a lobster trap illegal****.

*I’ll take this one, please:

…..and yes, I know, I know…I have a “type” and it unfortunately often involves polyester uniforms and short hair. The part…er, I mean heart…wants what the part…er heart…wants.

**she is one of the ka-ray-zeeee train people living up there in the North Woods, who “rescued” an injured squirrel and then had a meltdown that she didn’t get to keep it and the cutie officers had to convince her to release her squirrel back to the wild.

***one of the episodes had one of the wardens checking in on a camper, who wasn’t doing anything at all illegal, and was just hanging out in her tent, and they spent an inordinate amount of time making sure she wasn’t being kidnapped by merely asking her, “Are you being held against your will?” and then they didn’t even look INSIDE the tent. They left when she insisted she was just camping with her dog.

****Lastly, it’s illegal to use zip ties to secure your lobster traps. So don’t do it, a-holes lobster catchers, or your traps will be pulled right on up out of the water and TAGGED and you will get a firm talking to.

Man alive, I should really be a North Woods Game Warden, with as much as I learned from one afternoon being sick. Because that’s how being qualified works, right? Watch t.v., think you know it all, start issuing citations.


Okay, I guess I won’t be gettin deputized. Sheesh.

Back to what I’m good it, which is not, by the way, writing stories while I’m on vacation. I always THINK I’ll have pee-lenty of time to tell you Things, Reader, but then I never pulled my iPad out of it’s bag. It just sat there, unloved and quiet.

I did witness many pretty landscapes, and saw may pretty sunsets, and frolicked around in many pretty turquoise waters and I even said YES to parasailing, because what if this is my last go-round at Turks & Caicos? I mean, it could be, prices are going up, things change, and I was not going to parasail but went along for the ride when my Roomy was going, because why miss a boating experience. Except then I was on there and thought, “If not now, when??” and said YES to the dress and got strapped into the harness and was floating up in the sky.

I wasn’t exactly afraid of doing it, it was more of, “Eh, should I spend $75 when I’m most likely going to be unemployed again soon because I hate my boss with every fiber of my being?”  – that was the question on my mind, not, “Should I do it, what if something goes wrong and I die??”

I decided to just go for it and it did not disappoint:

And then the trip was over, and I had to go back to work and then I was fired from my job by 9:15 a.m. Monday morning.

Yes, I knew it was coming. No, it didn’t have anything to do with my taking vacation. That was negotiated on the front end.

Yes, it’s a bunch of bullshit on their end and they know it, which is why I’m getting a healthy amount of severance and backpay because they have not paid me the correct salary since I started, which I bitchily kindly brought to their attention.

Yes, my boss hated me as much as I hated him. Maybe. My hatred runs pretty deeply, so it’s hard to say if it’s equal. But since he couldn’t even be present in the room with me when I was getting canned via a conference call, I’d say it’s pretty clear he despised his hiring decision.

Monday afternoon I had an interview, and was offered a new job last night.  I had to turn it down, the pay wasn’t enough to even make my mortgage payment, but the good news is I can get a new damn job when I want one, and the next time I’m going to listen to my insides and when they are screaming NO, I’m going to heed that warning. I knew this boss was not a good fit with me, yet I squashed my inner voice, but it did a few good things. #1/ it paid to get Toby’s cat weiner fixed up back in December, and #2/ it bought me some additional unemployment weeks and #3/ gave me 100% clarity on what I will not tolerate in a workplace.  ~hint: a jerk asshole boss who puts every single person on edge~

So that’s that. Here we sit again, in 2019, the first trip of the year under my belt and freshly unemployed.  I’ve got this, though, Reader. I’m rather excellent with unexpected changes.

And now I’m going to figure out the next chapter to the story.

Whistle Blower

“Show us your titties, Trixie Bang Bang!”

Reader. I think you mean “Kitties.” Amiright??

Because I’ve been a negligent poster of cute cat pictures lately.

Here’s Purry, sitting in the only possible place there is to sit this fine Sunday morning.

She started up the soundtrack from A Star is Born and just sat there enjoying it while I cooked bacon and eggs this morning, and yelled at My Mister to turn his gol’dern music down, and get off my lawn, too.

He informed me that it was the cat’s selection coming from MY computer, so sit and spin on that, Trixie.

We were going to go out for breakfast today, as part of a Weekend Treat. But then I remembered I had a package of bacon in the fridge, and thought I could save us twenty large – wherein large = single dollar bills at Chez Bang Bang – by just cooking our own breakfast like showoffy homemakers.

So I did, complete with eggs and english muffins, and it was good enough, except it was a pretty cheapo package of bacon and we think maybe it was poisonous because neither one of us had a good feeling in our insides after eating it.

It crossed my mind that maybe I should make my own suet block for the birds with the leftover lard, but My Mister just told me N. O. because he doesn’t want to kill our wildlife.

p.s., who the eff has taken over my brain that I think I’m actually going to make suet?  

Toby got his 30-day wiener check-up yesterday, and seems to be in fine working order, thank Garth. While he and I were out driving across town, I stopped in at Discount Drug Mart to pick up stamps, and you know what? That store really DOES save you the run-around!  I ended up buying a $1.49 bag of wild bird seed, which is why the idea of creating my own suet block cluttered up my brain, as if I don’t have enough undone projects to think about.

While at the Discount Drug Mart, I also bought a keychain of Mace, because it was in the checkout counter impulse purchase section, and I picked it up. And then I put it back, thinking to myself, “Trixie BB, don’t spend ten unplanned dollars when all you needed were stamps!” But THEN I thought, “Well, this is just great, should I actually NEED this I’ll be super pissed off that I didn’t spend ten cheap bucks to SAVE MY LIFE and/or VAGINA and/or B-HOLE from unwelcomed intruders!”

So I put the Mace with my birdseed and stamps purchase, and when I got home I opened my mace and discovered it’s not MACE at all, just a product from the Mace brand,  and instead it’s a super-loud whistle and panic button, which it’s a good thing I tested it before I was in a precarious situation and NO POISON flooded into my would-be-attackers eyeballs, blinding them and allowing me to scamper away while they writhed in pain and humiliation.

I was disappointed in my ten dollar purchase, but now I realize why this was only ten bucks, and maybe a loud piercing whistle will do the trick in protecting my b-hole. It did the trick in scaring all the cats into skidding out as they ran down to the basement.   That was worth about three of the ten bucks, watching that happen.

The packaging made me laugh, which is worth about four bucks, because it actually stated to keep away from irresponsible adults, which maybe that means people that blow potential-hearing-loss whistles indoors when they’re not being attacked, and scaring all the cats in the entire neighborhood.  Hm.

That’s what’s been going on around here as of late, Reader. I’m justifying impulse purchases and thinking about tackling some of my never-ending projects while recovering from partial hearing loss brought to me by my own hand and lips and breath.  Tell me about a dumb purchase you made that ended up saving your b-hole. Make me feel better about my purchase, and also I’d really love to hear any and all of those stories.


Their Turn to Attack

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.

With some 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.



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