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The Bang Bang Theories

No, I Don’t Want Fries With That.

We’ve made it to Memorial Weekend, our nation’s weekend to commemorate our veterans. With the holiday comes a delicious 3-day weekend for me.

I’ve already squandered Saturday morning of it.

Because I was out until 4 a.m. at the gambling house, making then losing then making then losing a few bucks. Yes, it ended on a, “Well, maybe next time,” note. I’ve been unlucky in gambling for a while now, no big wins in more than a year. I’m mad at the Universe, because it should know by now that I’m a WINNER when it comes to gambling. Except it must have forgotten.

Yesterday I was somewhat easily agitated in the evening. First, this conversation happened at the Burger King drive through:

K: “I’d like a large Diet Pepsi or Coke, whatever you have.”

The Drive Through Speaker: “Will that be all?”

K: “Yes.”

The Drive Through Speaker: “Pull ahead.”

K: “Wait. The screen says large fries. I wanted a diet pepsi.”

TDTS: “A large fry and a diet pepsi?”

K: “No! Just a diet pepsi.”

TDTS: “So fries?”

Me, from the passenger seat of the car: “Jesusfuckingchrist, A DIET PEPSI, HOW FUCKING HARD IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND.”

Yes, I blasphemied all over the parking lot at Burger King.

TDTS: “Okay, got it. Pull ahead.”

Then, K & Trixie looking at each other and said in unison, “You know they’re going to jizz or spit in our diet pepsi now, right?”

Yep. We both knowingly agreed.

T: “Pull out, let’s just leave.”

K: Pulls up anyway and pays $2.58 for a cuppa soda and spit.

*we’d agreed they probably didn’t have the time to jizz in the soda, but they definitely had time to spit or wipe boogers in it.

K: Hands me the drink.

T: “Nope. No thanks. Not even on a Fear-Factor dare.”

K: “But the guy said “sorry about that” – he wouldn’t have apologized if he was going to jizz in it.”

K: Drinks it. Declares it to be spit-free.

T: “But how do you know that for sure?”
K: “It would be …. thicker.”

T: “More …. viscousy??”

K: “Yes, viscousy. It’s not viscous.”

No one wants a viscousy soda pop. No one. Ever.

But I still couldn’t trust it, and therefore it rode around with us all evening until we parked the car in the drive at 4 a.m. and I told K, “Grab the jizzy soda and dump it out.”

*yes, I know we’ve already established there was no time for jizz in the soda. Let’s just agree that “jizzy” is the term that covers any viscousy liquids that could be concealed in our food.

So after my no-gain from yelling at the drive through speaker, I told myself I need to chill the fuck out a little and that came in handy much later that evening when I was behind a group of really-really-oldies doing their entire week’s worth of banking at the cashier’s window at the casino.

I had to simmer myself down, and then as I was in the process of de-working myself up, I noticed the man oldie had on a Navy Veteran hat and then said, “Thank you for your service!” instead of “Hurry the. fuck. up.” Except I didn’t really say either of those things out loud (he was too far away to hear me), but I said them in my head, so I’m counting it as a good deed because it DID make me change my attitude.  Well played, Memorial Weekend.

 

Just a Little Perspective

I’m going to cheat here a little bit, and give you a little something worth thinking about, from another writer’s perspective.

It’s eye-opening and not exactly funny, but may inspire you to do more of what matters to you.  It’s making me want more oceans, tacos and friend-dates.

On the other hand, it’s also providing me with a “how many more cat-pees will I have to clean up in my lifetime” perspective.  I’m still not sure if that number is good or bad.

I know, I know. You came here for nonsense and not thinking stuff. We’ll get back to that in a bit. I know you’re super-curious to learn about my life as a farmer, which I’m preparing to tell you all about.

In the meantime, make it count.

xoxo,

 

 

 

The Tail End

 

 

One-Sided Relationship.

You guys, I’ve experienced PrematureDeckElation*. Some of you may suffer from this too, which is sad for all parties involved. Except one person is usually a lot more sad.

*say that three times fast. it’ll bring out the 12-year-old-schoolboy in you.

First, in my haste to hasten summer, I blew the deck too soon.  I know, right?  I didn’t know there was a “too soon to blow it,” but I’ve since been corrected.

The flowers from the pretty pretty trees on my street are all. over. the entire world. 

But mostly on my deck.

Yellow pollen all over the furniture. And up my snorkeltube. That’s a nose for those of you who didn’t grow up with a coolio daddio who called noses snorkeltubes.

Also, I’ve taken for granted that the rains we’ve had was going to do it’s job of watering my plants.

It did not, and today, when I stepped out onto my 54-degree morning deck – bundled up in a robe and slippers because it’s only mid-May, why would I expect it to be warm?? – I discovered one of my pretties is …. a little worse for the wear, in just a week. 

Can this plant be saved, Reader??

I don’t know. I’m no green thumb. Obviously.

Every summer I’m annoyed by the amount of attention plants require. They are just so. damn. needy. At the first sign of my saying, ‘eh, fuck it, they’ll be fine with the rain,” they teach me a little lesson. They’re really rather bossy, Reader.

This little beauty is trying to help me out, though. She’s still standing pretty.

And my herbs are still looking good. Just that little planter on the side says nope.

So now I’ve got to go give my deck another blow job. And make it a point to keep all my plants at optimum moistness.

It’s a lot of work being in a relationship with my deck, Reader. Don’t get the impression all this comes easy.

 

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Just a Little Sunday Morning Coming Down

Well, my bigga plans for cinco de drinko fell apart last night, Reader. I wasn’t feeling a hundred percent, not well enough for mucho drinkies, and so I skipped out. There’s always next year, if i make it to another one. Hope along with me, Reader, because I still have a big to-go list filled with fun destinations.

Yesterday I did manage to put some effort into summering up the deck, and it’s looking s-h-a-r-p.

I scored the deal of the season on a new bright and stripey rug that makes me happy to see it, $40 and it is big and nice and cat-approved.

Nosey spent a good ten minutes pinning down his brother and giving him a thorough cat bath. 

 

In fact, it’s such a good deal, I’m going to head back to the store tomorrow and hope they still have some and buy a back-up rug to store, just in case buying a mostly-cream outdoor rug that will see a lot of rain and cats starts to look the worse for wear by July.

My Artist* advised me to buy the navy blue diamond pattern, except it didn’t make me as happy and also when do I ever take good advice? Rarely is the answer, Reader. I’ve been told I’m impulsive, against better judgements, and there could be some troof to that.

*Yes, I have a personal Artist friendie, so there, and also I highly recommend having one in your back or front pocket (whichever part of your pants makes you happiest, Reader – I’m not here to judge), because Artists? They know things. And can do things. He’s the very reason my porch is so damn cute now. He saw the vision I verbalized and found the perfect corner posts and figured out the perfect steel poles we needed and color-matched it all together and strung lights and now my deck is my happy place in the house during nice weather.  And he’s never even come over and enjoyed the fruits of his labors, which is sad, and he’s been extended an open invitation, but he’s a do-er and not a sitter-on-the-decker. Maybe this post will convince him to come and sit with me.

I managed to round up some coconut planter things (last year I was too late to the game and they were sold out everywhere in the shape I needed), so I threw together some herbs and just looking at it makes me happy.

I planted mint, basil and cilantro.  Three favorites for pesto, mint tea, and salsa.

The deck is looking night-time pretty, and is begging for friendies to come fill up the seats.

Soon, Reader. There’s a tentative party planned in June. Tentative, as in “only in my head so far.”

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What’s Going On

Hola, Reader-itos!  That’s my nod to Cinco de Mayo for this beautiful Saturday morning. I may or may not* be doing more nodding to the occasion later today, with tacos in my mouf and a cinco-de-margarito-drinko in my hand.

*I’m acting coy, as if there is the possibility I will be making other choices, but we both know the writing is on the taco-and-margarita wall for this evening.

So for today’s bloggie, I need to make it a quickie, and we both know that sometimes a quickie does the trick just fine. For imparting all my words to you, Reader. That’s exactly what I meant, because I’m a lady. Emphasis on the “lay.”* Ahem.

*the emphasis is mostly on the “lay” if we’re referring to my reclined position while I’m snoozing away in bed. I’m sure that’s exactly what you were thinking, amiright, Reader?

Anyway, back to the point, or else this will NOT be the promised quickie.

1. Firstly, I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath to know how my floor-orgy turned out. I’m super-happy to report that the hand job with lots of alcohol in a giant bucket did the trick!  I have a squeaky-clean and sanitized floor and it has held up all. week. long. In addition to cleaning up the mess that I made with my borax-and-vinegar-and-baking-soda-and-murphy’s-oil-soap concoction,  I’ve finally gotten rid of the all the lingering spots that seemed to reappear shortly after washing.

2. The bad news is, I am now compelled to follow through with the entire rest of the floors, and I’m not sure my old-ass-broken-down-knees-of-a-ninety-year-old are up to that task. Imma gonna try, though. At some point. Not necessarily this weekend. I need to work up to it in my mind.

3. P.S., the tea-bagging trick seemed to work, too! I only tried it on a few planks of the floor to test it out before went full-tea-bagging on the entire thing, but I also think that might be in my future. Aren’t you jealous you’re not me, Reader?? Because of all the fun I have planned? It’s fun. Fun fun fun.

4. In other news, we finally got all caught up on the tales of the Walking Dead.  We’ve been three episodes behind, and no one cares that I’ve watched t.v., but I did need to get my words out. It could end right there for me. It was a good ending, it had an ending that was acceptable, and I’m ready to move on from it. I may consider that the ending regardless if they create more episodes. So there, Writers and Producers.

5. Other media that has captured my attention lately has been making good on reading more books this year.  One of the first that I read this year was The Paris Wife, and then I got a little obsessed with Hemmingway, his wives and their lives and THEN last night I got the chance to meet the author and get a copy of her new book, and also touch and hug her and let’s just say I get super-excitable when I meet people I admire so much and my mouth runs away from me and I can’t stop gushing and I want to put her in my pocket and take her home with me and sit around drinking wine and eating cakes with her.  

6. She wasn’t up for the plan of coming home with me and eating cakes, but she did pose pretty for a picture and remembered how to spell my name when I bought another book of hers and got back in line to get the second one signed. So basically she’s probably planning on cyberstalking ME now, remembering how to spell my name so she can look me up. Except she doesn’t need to look very far to find me, because I already friend requested her months ago on Facebook and she accepted my proposal so basically we’re married.

7. It was hot in the library and my hair is super-frizzy and big.

8. I got to enjoy the evening with my cousin, who kept me in check from committing any crimes and being on a stalker list, and also it makes me happy to just be in her company for several hours at a time. She has good energy, and an even better laugh. She’s a tonic to my soul.

9. Speaking of tonic, I recently had a gin martini with ELDERFLOWER liquor thrown into the mix, and I think I’ve found my summer patio drink. It was a bouquet of deliciousness bursting in my mouth. Try one. Better yet, come over and join me on the deck and try one. As the saying goes, drinking loves company.

10. I bought a new outdoor rug for the patio yesterday, so I’m going to finish up getting that deck ready for said drinking and company.  I started cleaning up all the furniture a couple weekends ago, but then it got cold again and rained and rained and rained.  Today is the day to finish it all up.

And that, Reader, is ten things to tell you this morning. What’s new with you? Tell me something new to try (drink, book, tv show, hair-de-frizzer). And clear your calendar for a drinkie invite. No sense letting a perfectly cute patio go to waste. Also, @PaulaMcClain, you’re invited anytime. We can talk about how we’re both wide-reaching authors with a large readership.  We’re practically twinsies.  You’re just a tich taller.

All That’s Missing is the Brown-Chicken-Brown-Cow

Last night left my phone in my purse (instead of placing it my nightstand) and lemmee tell you, it was …. freeing? …. to not be on my phone checking dumbness at 2 a.m. (when I went to bed, because I’m a par-tay-er, Reader!). But the VERY BEST PART of not having my phone on my nightstand was Sunday morning, when I wasn’t rolling over and checking the time, and thinking to myself, “I should really be getting up, my day is being squandered!”

I wasn’t thinking any of that, because I had no idea what time it actually was, and so I’d assume it was still very early in the morning and I’d roll over and go back to sleep. Like it was my job.

Purry joined me at my job today.  She worked side-by-side with me all night and into the morning. Because she’s dedicated, Reader. And a hard worker. She will be getting an exceeds expectations in her job review this year, with an added bonus of Pounce treats.

When we finally decided we’d filled up our sleep-tanks, I just knew it must be the heat of the afternoon. I felt refreshed and bouncy when I sprang* outta bed. And imagine my delight when I found it out was only 10:30 in the morning, Reader! It was still MORNING!!

*let’s face facts, my “sprang-ing” at any time is a very loosely interpreted word.

My Sunday Funday is shaking out to be a day of Things to Do, instead of “and on the seventh day we rested all day and not just the morning part.”  I would say it’s all my own fault, except a lot of the blame must be shared by Product Makers and the Internet, for providing misleading information, also known in today’s day and age as Fake News. Because I’ve been long convinced that Murphy’s Oil Soap is the shitttzz to use on hardwood, including hardwood floors.

But guess what I’ve recently learned, Reader? Anything with the word “Soap” in it is AWFUL for use on hardwood floors.

Guess what else I’ve learned, Reader? Even worse for hardwood floors are products that are made and say “Hardwood Floor Cleaner” on them!

This one? Awful awful awful reviews on hardwood floor cleaning websites. 

Have I used this before?

Of course. This, and just about every other hardwood floor cleaning product out there.  This, per an independent review site:

Orange Glo restores the shine of polyurethaned floors, but only temporarily. In fact, wood floors look fabulous immediately when you use Orange Glo. Orange Glo leaves a grimy build-up or residue on hardwood floors. This filmy residue will appear in dull streaks that are very tricky to remove. The sticky residue can often be so thick that you literally have to scrape it off! 

My floors are constantly grabbing every piece of dirt and scuff, and look dirty and dull all the time, which I usually blame on my seven three cats and one messy mister.

It all came to a head last weekend, when I had the misguided brilliant idea to use a little borax, vinegar, baking soda and a squirt of Dawn dishwashing liquid to really get my floors deep-cleaned.

Because I had read that recipe online for cleaning my patio furniture, and then I got really invested in reading about the many uses of good, ol’ fashioned Borax, and it all just culminated into one awful, sticky, dirt-and-foot-print attracting MESS, all over my bedroom floor.

Now, this is where Trixie’s Laziness really pays off. Because Trixie only did one area of the floors with this concoction, and not the entire house.

I excitedly waited to see how amazing and shiny and clean my floors would be upon drying.

And boy, howdy, was I in for an amazing surprise.

Every. Single. Toe imprint. Swipe of the mop. Run of the dishrag. Dirt. Dust. Cat hair. Was laid across my floors for my enjoyment.

So I was re-mopping my floors at around 11 p.m., because while I may look like a slobby housekeeper, dirt like that causes me great unrest and it was easier for me to remop and get a restful night’s sleep than tossing and turning thinking about those floors.

I filled a hot steaming bucket with water and a splash of Murphy’s Oil Soap.

Upon drying, no difference, except maybe a tich worse.

For the next two days My Mister gave it a hand-job with just a wet cloth and some hard scrubbing.

It was marginally  improved.

I filled another bucket of hot water and clear vinegar to just cut right through the crap.

Again, only a slight improvement, and you could just feel the grit when you touched the floor.

So that brought me to Friday morning, when I decided I’d try pure old rubbing alcohol on a cloth in a small section near the edge and see what happens.

This was the first solution that left me with a slick-as-a-whistle feeling floor once again. Except I only had a teensy bit of rubbing alcohol left, so the project has been saved up for today.

Now there’s a buncha alcohol and a hand job in my very near future, Reader. Because I know how to enjoy my weekends, amiright?!

If this doesn’t work, I’m going to tea-bag the floors next, per this little nugget I read on the Internet today:

You can also use boiling water and two teabags to clean hardwood floors. The tannic acid in tea creates a beautiful shine. Let two teabags steep in the boiling water for a few minutes. Pour the tea into a bucket. Take a soft cloth and wring it out in the tea. The cloth merely needs to be damp, not soaked. This will enable the floor to dry quickly. Wash the floor and be ready to be amazed by the sheen.

Come over, grab a rag and join me on all fours. We’ll turn this day into a floor orgy in the bedroom. We can film it and make it our own version of a dirty movie, one that Heloise would approve.

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You Can Take the Girl Outta The Country…

I am nothing if not classy, right, Reader. Some of you may think that word is misspelled, and there’s an unnecessary CL at the beginning of it, but either way. I’m one, the other, or both at times.

And it’s that very class that came into play when I was staying at my purrty resort in Turks a couple-a weeks ago. 

 

We were having a little struggle to get all our damp things to dry out for the next day’s use.

Every morning was slipping into a wet corn husk.  Nothing ever dried out unless it was in the hot-hot-hot afternoon sun and not re-wetted after.

But once we rinsed all the salt & chlorine out of our suits, it was back to damp again, and stayed damn two days later.

So we made a hillbilly clothes line out of our jalousie windows, the hope being the breeze would blow them around and through them and dry them out.

It added a certain panache to the place.

If the definition of “panache” is “trashing up the pretty views.”

Except. We weren’t the only ones adding panache.

On the way to our room there were several doors that had a whole slew of laundry hanging off their rails on the common walkway.

We* were much more considerate. We hung ’em on the inside.

*I’m using the collective “we” but it was mostly just me. I say “mostly” to imply it may have also been my roomy, but it also may not have been, so we’ll just leave it at that and share the blame.

Need to class up your place, Reader? Invite me over. I’ve got some undies I can hang out to dry.

 

 

 

 

 

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Bowled Over

So you know how at the end of that last post I mentioned that I had placed my first online order at The Walmart and was scadoodling on out to pick ‘er up?

In an unexpected turn of events, while on route I had an email that my order was cancelled. Just like that. No explanation noted.

Dear The Walmart, this is not getting us off on a good footing together, ya know.

Since I still needed all the stuff I’d wasted my time ordering, we continued onward to just do it the old-fashioned way, by actually going into the store and selecting the items needed, putting them in a buggy with my own two hands and cashing out with an actual human instead of online.

While I was there I saw several of the online order shopper people in their bright yellow vests, selecting things and checking them off their lists. I mosey’d on over and and asked two young fellas who were picking produce if they would happen to know why I had placed an order on Saturday, and then on my way there, it had cancelled all on it’s own.

One of the young fellas turned to me and no exaggeration, his eyes were BLOODY RED where they should have been white and I almost screamed WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOUR EYES!! but I caught myself and instead asked my question all casual-like, and not at all like my thoughts of THAT SHIT LOOKS CONTAGIOUS AND SHOULD YOU BE HANDLING SOMEONES POTATOES? AND I’M SO GLAD IT’S NOT MY POTATOES!!! And then I said a little note to self that maybe this is why I need to just go select my own damn produce.

Anyhoo, the reply was, “Yeah, that happened today. All the systems crashed. They cancelled a buncha orders.”

So there it is. They just willy-nilly-nelson cancelled a whole “buncha” orders, and mine happened to be one.

I have a different theory, actually, and it is, “We will not let everyone shop online, because we need those impulse purchases!  And she’s a girl who can deliver on those!”

And they were right. Because while my online order was sixty-nine dollars and some change, my actual in-store shopping extravaganza resulted in a $200.77 whop-a-palooza. And I still forgot to get avocados.

However! While we were there browsing around, I decided that since a $13 tablecloth was on my original shopping list, I was going to pick that up because it was a planned purchase.

I was digging a little floral number in from the Pioneer Woman collection, who, let’s just be real here, if you are into florals, her stuff is cute-cute-cute.  I found a pretty table cloth from her collection, and then lovely caressed these bowls:

Me, dreamily: “Wouldn’t these be so pretty to have?? They have a footed base.”

MM: “NO! THESE bowls are NICE BOWLS.Why can’t we have something like this??” 

Me: “Those aren’t pretty! The flowers are pretty!”

MM: “My bowls could kick your bowls ass.”

And then I laughed and had to agree, that if there were to be a fight between the bowls his selection could probably kick my bowls ass.

Since bowls were not on the original shopping list, we left them all on the shelves where they belonged and still somehow managed to spend a hundred & thirty bucks more than my original order.

Well played, Walmart. Well played.

Spot On

Gooooooood Morning, Reader! Unless you’re reading this at some other time, then Gooooooooood whatever time that is!

Why is ol’ Trixie Bang Bang so gol’dern peppy this early (no judging her definition of “early” Reader, remember our ground rules of she’s the only one who does any judging that needs to be done)?

Well, she’s so dern peppy because she has had TWELVE HOURS of rest. And she….er ME….will not be shamed by that statement!

Because some bodies just need a little more sleep than others and I seem to have been aggrieved blessed with that need.  I’ve also been blessed with not being a morning person, so if it takes twelve hours of sleep for my body to say, “okay, enough, get up, you’re getting bed sores” for me to rise at the early-birdy hour of 8:30 a.m. on a weekend, so be it. I rose to your challenge, Body, and put you right to bed at 8 p.m. last  night.

So now that we’re both up, let’s chat about a few things, in no particular order, and also probably of no particular interest, but we’re here so let’s get on it, Reader.

On Saturday, I spent AT LEAST three hours transferring and organizing all of my phone photos to my laptop so I could scrub my phone of 3000+ pictures and begin anew. As I was transferring upwards of a thousand cat pictures into my folder cleverly named “Cats” I came to the realization that perhaps – just maybe a teensy weensy little bit – I take a few too many pictures of my seven three cats. But sirriously, Reader….is it MY FAULT they are so dag-gum cute??

Is this the cutest picture of the boys, or even the most recent? No. But sorting through a thousand pictures was yesterdays job, not today. It is cute enough.
Seven hundred pictures are of him sleeping. Because adorable.

 

And, you sort of know what you’re getting here, Reader, as you’re here at Partly CLOWDER.  So you’re going to get Clowder. It’s my job.

In the second news of today, MY TAN is fading. Already. I’m so so so so so so sad to watch it go. Tanning for a freckly-faced fair-skinned gal like myself is always such a delicate dance. I have to get some sun, but not too much all at once, or it’s instant sun poisoning, which I of course DID manage to get on my left leg in a delicate spot that is always the sun’s victim, and also on my big toe of my right foot, which also stepped on a rock on the beach and bruised like a motherfucker just for fun.

Super-frecklie and also I have a blistered/peeled spot on my nose, and also some early peeling happening. Because I am a golden sun goddess. And oh p.s., I was using THREE different sun screens throughout the day.
Sun poisoning on big toe. OUCHY MOTHERFUCKER BRUISES ON THE OTHERS. No pedicure on any. I will never be a foot fetish model. I think i am okay with that.

 

My legs are nearly their old Winter White once again.   My Frecklie-Face is fading, too, and now it’s just looking like age-spots, and oh, p.s., in the spirit of over-analyzing every square inch of my own head, I have developed a very brown freckle on my chin that I could frankly do without.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this little freckle is going to cost me $200 and some stinging laser pain to try to lighten when I’m fully sick of looking at it, which is coming soon.  I’m focused on the tree, and not the forest. Stupid tree-freckle.

My eyebrows got bleached into almost non-existence by the sun, too.  That looks like a $350 microblading treatment coming soon, too.

It’s expensive to be beautiful, Reader. The saying really needs revised from “beauty is only skin deep” to “beauty is as deep as your wallet.”

But enough of picking my beautiful self apart, amiright, Reader? Because that serves none of us, unless you’re here just to see how awful I look and actually enjoy my pointing out my flaws. Believe me, you don’t have to look too hard to find ’em, but guess what else? I like me just fine regardless. I mean, I will continue to update the outside parts, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like me. Inside that freckly head is a whole buncha wit and nonsense, and I enjoy the hell out of myself.  This right here? Is my way of letting you catch a glimpse. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry.

Well, that brings us to an over-word count once again, Reader, and I never even touched on what was originally planned.  But I must dash, because yesterday for the first time I ordered my shopping online from The Walmart, and my pick up time is between 11 a.m. and noon, and I have to get my freckly self ready and go pick up my wares.

My Mister found it absurd that I ordered online, he is very old school and still likes to go inside to do his banking for crying out loud, so grocery shopping without going into the store is uncalled for to him.

I, however, am looking forward to curb-side pickup and not succumbing to impulse purchases of miracle freckle removing creams.  However, in the interest of disclosure, I’m not really sure how much time this is going to save me, because while placing my online orders, I ordered a couple of vacation photos for my Wander Wall, and those are coming from a different Walmart, so did I really save any effort, Reader? In the words of the Magic 8 Ball,  all signs point to No.

We could use a little update here.

 

 

 

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