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.
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.
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.
In interesting 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.
TGIM, Reader!! Said no one ever, except my friend Choo last night, and I told him, “I’m stealing that!” and here we are with it officially stolen.
This is the backyard view of Chez Bang Bang right now, and it is bleak and sparse and has been matching my mood this past holiday weekend. I hate to be a cliche and have the Holiday Blues, so I’m working extra hard to knock myself into a GREAT MOOD, and we’re starting with TGIM!!
I also started with pulling out my Rituals for Transformation 108 Day Journal that I bought a year or more ago and haven’t written a single word in it, until just a few moments ago. Why?? I think in my mind I thought it was over a year long process, and it just now dawned on me it’s just about three months, because I didn’t do the math AT ALL until now, and I think I can stick to 108 days. It’s short little windows to write.
I read an article last night about journaling and it got me motivated to start keeping one, and it also said you’re supposed to write a minimum of three pages in the morning and my book does not allow the space for that so I’m giving you some blog, which isn’t the same thing at all, and it may in fact make me late for work so I need to wrap it up here, Me, or it’s going to NOT be a TGIM.
Apparently the “write 3 pages in the morning” ritual is straight from The Artist’s Way, which I’ve never read, but think maybe I should. Reader, have you read this? Should I add it to my reading materials? Please advise. Do I already have enough crap I’m adding to my life that can also be considered procrastinating?
Speaking of procrastinating, I have recently been commissioned to PAINT a PICTURE for someone, Reader!! I know, I know — you didn’t even realize how deep my talents ran.
Neither did I. Neither does he, and boy howdy, is he going to be in for a surprise.
I am in a Not-a-Secret-Santa gift exchange and the person who I have to surprise has requested “something from the heart, like a painting” and first, that’s quite bold, to want something from my heart and he’s never even met me – I could have a very dark heart for all he knows – but what the hell. So now I have to get busy in my art studio, also known as the spare bedroom I’ve turned into an office and not an art studio at all.
TGIM, Reader. It’s time for me to get along down the road and start this day.
Hi there, Reader, Hey. So Trixie BB is on her way to marking off another year of life with her b-day looming quickly, and ya know, it’s not been exactly an EASY year, but it has been sprinkled with a whole buncha wonderful moments and people and learnings along the way.
I’ve been employed, unemployed, and now re-employed. I never wrote that book while I had four months off, nor did I paint one picture, finish one craft project, or start a work-out routine. I did, however, finally get my house de-catted, which took a whole bunch of Nature’s Miracle and a black light. So I’m counting that as a win, and I didn’t have to kill any of ’em for their bad behavior. Yet. A couple of my little a-holes are still on notice.
I’ve reconnected with friends that I hadn’t seen in YEARS, which has been the most excellent part of this year. Friends who are in Kentucky, Roatan, Houston, and upstate NY. Friends from high school and work and chance meetings on previous trips, people I haven’t seen in many years whom* I was fortunate to see and reconnect with again.
*look at me being all fancy with using “whom” – which may or may not be used correctly, but I’m going with it, because it’s Fancy Sunday.
I’ve travelled to new places, including Turks & Caicos, Cuba, Upstate NY, Houston and close-to-home Kentucky.
My heart has the wanderlust, even still. So many places still to explore, so many things I yearn to see. My well-intentioned tribe of fans have encouraged me to get a travelling job, but I can’t seem to quite be able to figure that out.
I’ve said goodbye to people who were friends, and made brand-spankin’ new ones.
My heart remains open.
It’s been an interesting year to find out who people are, as well as finding out more about myself along the way. What I will tolerate, and what – and who – I won’t. It creates a churn of changes, and times of incredible sadness, but like all things, the only way to get through it is to keep moving forward. I’m still working on those parts.
It’s been a good enough year, Reader.
I still have a lot of things I want to do. Things I’m working on. Things that may never get done, but I think about doing nonetheless. Sometimes it’s easy to feel stalled out, and I’ve been beating myself up a little bit about all the things I haven’t accomplished. Sometimes other people do the beating-up for me, too, even when their intentions are good. I know what I haven’t done yet, so no thanks for the reminder.
It’s easy to fall into the negative-self mind trap, and it’s work to dig yourself out. I’m digging right now, Reader. Because social media makes it easy to compare yourself to others who seem to have it all, and that is a trap. A super-bad, Indiana-Jones-Falling-Into-a-Pit-of-Snakes trap. It makes me wonder if I’m the one setting the trap for others, because on the social media surface, my life looks like one fun ride after another. I mean, let’s face facts, I got a sloooow and amazing hug from Olivia the Sloth while on an amazingly beautiful Caribbean island. If that’s not a “look at my super-fun life” trap, I don’t know what is.
Don’t step into that trap.
Reader, it’s just a mostly normal life, by middle-privilege standards.
It’s ups and downs and dirty floors and too much laundry and unfulfilled promises to myself which play round and round in my mind all damn day.
It’s rotten tomatoes in the veggie bin, and a porch that needs winterized and oh-my-lawd, I’ve accomplished nothing of substance in my life and now I’m too damn old.
It’s all those things, but it’s also bright and shiny in spots, and those are the spots you might see, as those are my favorite spots, so I share them easily because they are the best parts that make me the happiest.
But don’t fall into these traps I may have unintentionally set.
I’m going to side-step those traps that have been set by others today, and focus on being enough, right for this moment, for right now.
Because I know that everything can’t be as wonderful as it appears on line, and those traps come with dirty floors, too, and just because I haven’t done it yet doesn’t mean I won’t or can’t. I’ve got to steer clear of the traps that drag me down.
Let’s make it a November to Remember, for all the right reasons, Reader. I’m going to go make today just a little bit better. Starting with mowing the lawn, because when I’m in a trap and feeling as if I’ve accomplished nothing? I’m going to go and accomplish something that gives back an immediate result.
*p.s., leave me a comment with another line from the blog title reference and you’ll win a Major Award, Reader.
**p.p.s. – that Major Award may or may not be something that I didn’t sell at a flea market yesterday. I know, I know, now you REALLY want to win! Don’t fret, there’s enough for everyone, Reader.
Fun Fact: Every time I use a public restroom, I do a silent evaluation of it’s design for successful evasion of a Terminator.
Because don’t we all do that same evaluation, Reader??
I mean, it’s an important thing to consider, and if you think it couldn’t happen, so did Sarah Connor and we both know that she was in grave danger while she was just la-dee-dah-deeing her way though the evening until she realized a TERMINATOR was after her and she tried to hide in an ill-equipped-for-hiding-from-a-Terminator public bathroom.
So I’ve been studying and learning, Reader.
It always pays to be prepared for a Terminator Evasion.
You may be asking what criteria makes for a well-equipped-for-Terminator-evasion bathroom.
Let’s do it by the numbers, Reader, since we’re already in the room for doing a number one and/or a number two.
#1 – A place to HIDE where you can’t be spied from underneath the doorway.
When I first pushed open the door for this food court restroom in a suburban mall, I was struck by the wide and stable ledge right above the toity, which even my non-limber legs could access. And did I mention it was WIDE? You could easily climb from the toilet onto that ledge and keep yourself hidden from underneath-the-door-looking Terminators.
As an aside, it also had a nice wall treatment that would make any Househunters-Twenty-Year-Old-Newlywed Couple on a billion-dollar budget proud.
The bathroom below also passed muster, despite it’s lack of a built-in shelf. There was solid wall to partially obscure the back of the toilet, which could keep you well-hidden from Terminator View, if you were pancake thin at least. In fact, this might even be BETTER than a full-size shelf, as perhaps a Terminator Eye can’t see through that super-solid wall, which we hope is crafted from impenetrable*-by-a-terminator-eye steel.
*wow oh wow, Reader, did I have a tough time figuring out how to spell impenetrable – some attempts include imprentatble, inpenatrrable, imprentatable … I finally had to ask My Mister because I was confusing Google! and as he asked me what I was trying to spell, I had such a difficult time even pronouncing the word I had to provide this definition for him to try to help me: Him: “what are you trying to spell??” TBB: “you know, that word for when something is so solid, even Superman’s eyes can’t see through it.”
#2/ Solid-closing doors, without any thigh-gap.
Reader, we’ve all been in those public restrooms that leave a lot of door gap between you and the people at the sink. It’s unsettling, and frankly unnecessary.
These doors were in a MCDONALD’s, and if they can get the doors to snuggly meet the walls, well, surely every other public restroom should be able to do so, too.
Also, nice work on the stripes, McDonalds. You must be spending your evenings and weekends watching a lot of HGTV as well.
#3/ Enough space between stall and ceiling where you can CLIMB over your stall wall and into a neighboring stall, as you elude capture and subsequent death from a Terminator.
Floor-to-ceiling fancy bathroom stalls are not going to cut it in the event that a damn Terminator is after you to thwart your attempt to make a future baby that can save the future world.
This bathroom was spot-on in it’s design for stall hopping.
First, of course the ledge above the toilet extended the full length of the very spacious stall. That stall was so roomy, in fact, you could have a full-out anxiety attack complete with hyperventilating and the need to pace back and forth for a moment to collect your thoughts as you come to the decision to climb up and over.
The INGENIOUS part of this design?? The package and purse hooks NEAR the ledge, positioned right where you’d need a little foot boost up as you climbed over.
#3/ A second escape route from the bathroom.
One escape route is never a good idea, Reader, yet almost every public restroom only has one in/out door. I’ve yet to find one with a solid, accessible second egress.
In reviewing this photo, I believe those are transom windows, but I’m not sure if they were decorative only, or if they could be busted out and you could shimmy through and escape a Terminator. It seems like you wouldn’t win, so let’s talk about the last item needed to escape a Terminator in a public restroom.
#4/ A Distraction.
Maybe your very best weapon to distract a terminator could come from the very reason you went into the public restroom to begin with.
I’m not saying anything, I’m just saying. Use your resources. Most of us don’t carry a vat of molten led in our purses to stop a Terminator. It’s the closest you can come to having an acid material at your disposal, and maybe – just maybe – it could work for a momentary distraction while you ran outta there and into the arms of Kyle Reese where you proceed to make your future save-the-world baby.
At the very least, using the Distraction that God Gave You could potentially thwart the evil of Michael Myers, because if you’ve seen the latest Halloween Movie, you should be even more aware of your public restroom escape routes, Reader.
Fighting a Terminator or a Michael Myers is no time to be a lady.
Those are the tips I’ve been cultivating for many years now, Reader. And you’ve been wondering why I haven’t written the next Great American Novel. My head is plumb full-up with the logistics of escaping from a public restroom in the event a futuristic metal man is after me.
May the odds be ever in your favor should you face a Terminator in a public restroom. You can thank me later.
ps. guys, now you know why girls spend so much time in the restroom. we’re taking pictures to document our escape methods.
pps. yes, i’ve taken pictures of public restrooms, in the name of RESEARCH, Reader, for YOU. Because I’m an EDUCATOR, and not a creepy-public-restroom-photo-taker. I should get awarded a Ph.D for this dissertation and also a Nobel Peace Prize for my dedication to Humanity vs. Terminators. it’s an unfair world and I do my work without an expectation of kudos, Reader. You’re welcome anyway.
Some days start out like any ol’ ordinary day, with ordinary happenings, and ordinary wash-rinse-repeat occurrences of events.
And then some days turn into days of unexpected, sheer unbridled joy.
When I stopped over in Roaton, Honduras*, little did I know how I was going to make some monkey’s day.
*yes, another mini-retirement trip, go ahead and hate me. I would, too, if it weren’t me having the fun.
When we were waiting to meet up with my friendie who moved to Roatan two years ago, I laid out ten large to get a couple-ah braids on my head because it was hot and my head was getting sweaty and it was only nine in the a.m. My friendie said the temperature averages 84 degrees every day, but Oh-My-Garth, is that one hella hot 84 degrees down there. So I got the braids and was a much happier hottie.
And that was before I even knew how much joy those two braids were going to bring.
We stopped at a monkey and sloth* sanctuary on the island, specifically for the opportunity for a sloth hug, and the monkey’s were part of the package.
*a story about slothing my or may not be coming soon. I’m undependable here.
We had our sloth experience – which was Ah. Mazing. – and I wanted to trade in my monkey experience for an extra slothing, but boy howdy I’m glad I wasn’t able, or these monkeys sure would have missed out on a lot. I would have hated to unknowingly denied some monkey business.
The rule with the monkeys was you just had to go stand in the enclosure and let them come to you. Unlike a sloth, you can’t force their love and hugs.
We were advised before entering the enclosure that they are a buncha little thieving monkeys and we had to get rid of anything removable or in pockets.
Sure enough, as soon as we stepped in the enclosure, one tried to take out a girl’s earrings and the other opened our friend’s pockets and had his little monkey hand extended all the way in there, searching for a treasure.
These ten dollar braids? Were all these little fella’s needed to be happy about their day.
Notice how my head is being KISSED? Because he loved my scalp.
And then he got to some serious work.
He looked me over high and low.
No hair was left unturned…
He was so tired from working so hard, he decided to take a seat…
And that’s how I ended up with a monkey’s b-hole directly on my skin.
I can’t fault him. It apparently is tireless work, looking me over from tip to top.
After a few more comprehensive searches…..
His job was complete, and he decided I should see no evil….
And that’s how I fell in love with a capuchin monkey-stylist-groomer and now want to build a giant enclosure at Chez Bang Bang and pad it with monkeys and sloths that I’ve rescued from their yucky lives looking at Caribbean waters. Because of course they’d love to live here with me and get all the hugs, all the time.
**did you really think I’d title this “Monkey Business,” Reader?? Because while I would have enjoyed that, it seemed too predictable so now I’m making you work for it a little instead.