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The Bang Bang Theories

Hips Don’t Lie. Very much, anyway.

Hi Reader, it’s a refreshed and relaxed Trixie Bang Bang at your service! That is, if your “service” is just sitting on your ass somewhere, preferably with a drinkie-poo (that someone else got for you, not me) and/or eating pizza and taking a two-second break. If that’s your service, then I am at it for you!

**so I think that whole above paragraph was a big fat lie, or at least a delayed statement – because I started to be at your service YESTERDAY, but then I never finished servicing you. Ahem. So here I am today, to try to finish servicing you. Because as we’re established many many many times over, I’m a giver. One who enjoys the servicing.

As several of you who are part of the kool kids klub who follow Trixie Bang Bang on Facebook, you had advance notice that she .. er …. me .. I?? was travelling this past week.

Now, lest I inundate you with a whole buncha vacation pictures that you give two shits about, let’s talk about what’s really important here: What I had in my mouth this past week.

Well, in surprising news, you’d be wrong if you guessed I had a lot of alcohol in my mouth. In fact, my new group of friendies that I met could possibly assume I was something of a missionary, visiting the island to do good deeds, based on the chaste lifestyle I led during that week on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, where I was also visited* by Kim Kardashian, FYI.

I rarely drank, was generally in bed by 10 p.m. (if not sooner, but sssshhhh…..we don’t want to get the word out I’m a total vacation dud, Reader), and watched more than my fair share of Naked & Afraid & Golden Girls. Because I’m a player.

My missionary work was done during the day (well, only twice that week, but who’s counting), at a dog rescue place named Potcakes, which frankly I don’t understand the name and kept referring to it as Pupcakes, because it makes a lot more sense, and let me do your naming for you, Rescue Place! During my daytime missionary work, I petted and smooched puppies, Reader, because that’s how I like to enjoy charity work.

That little fat-bellied black & white one? Was dreaming and moving his little feet and making cooing noises. It was adorbs.

In the spirit of continuing my missionary work from afar, you’ll be excited to know that you can rescue one of these littles and make it your own! Pupcakes doesn’t charge, you just have to pay the airline fees to bring the little one back to you. And oh, p.s., the most interesting part is that since the island doesn’t have rabies, there is no quarantining – you just walk right off the plane into the US and declare your pup at customs. Easy peasy. And with that said, no I did not adopt a puppy because my seven three cats would take turns shitting on my head.

*if by “I was visited” we’re saying that she and I was both on the exact same small island at the exact same time and we looked exactly the same in our swimsuits –  if I were to show you a full-body image, that is – but I unfortunately I don’t have one so you’ll have to assume we look exactly the same, only she’s a  little more “hippy.” Right, Reader?? Agree with me, Reader, it’s the rules we have established here. I write things and you tell me I’m pretty and not hippy at all. That’s exactly how she and I visited, and then oh, by no small coincidence, she flew right from Turks & Caicos to CLE, which also happens to be where you can find me most of the time, and also there’s the similarity of name between Ken-ye and Kanye so maybe she’s trying to steal my identify and then we’re not really friends at all.








So maybe she and I aren’t exactly as close of friends as we are in my mind this past week. What a shame when friendships end this way. Well, you’re not my first, Kim Kardashian – I’m getting good at goodbye! You’ll miss me when I’m gone, is all I’m going to say. Because all this. Highly missable.

But anyway, back to the point of this nonsense story.  What is the point of this, exactly?? Oh! What I had in my mouth that was worthy of a mention!


Don’t be put off by the looks. This bread? Was baked with love and also white chocolate on the inside. Just like my heart.

I dubbed this little delight “Boyfriend Bread” because I wanted to date it for the week. And also, it was the best thing I’d had between my lips.  All the girls enjoyed Boyfriend Bread and were bringing loaves of it to the table.

By day five, I knew in my heart-of-white-chocolate-hearts that no amount of water aerobics, known as AquaGym (pronounced Acua-geeeeeemah) was going to keep my hippies smaller than Kim K’s so I said my goodbyes around day six.

Some of the girlies packed up the Boyfriend Bread and enjoyed some while back at home. I chose to live with nothing but the memories of the time we spent together.

When I weighed myself this morning I had neither lost nor gained any weight. And the lesson learned here is, don’t dump your Boyfriend Bread early. Nothing good came from that decision, except a few delicious missed mouth opportunities. 

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Get Into the Groove

So what can I say, Reader – I’m a terrible lame-o prankster. My jokies fall into about three categories: Getting married, getting pregnant, or the holy-terror-threat of blog-stopping. We both know, Reader, that getting married is plum crazy-talk! And the ovary ship has sailed on the preggers jokie. That left no choice but the threat of all this nonsense going away. It didn’t seem too far-fetched as I haven’t been around much – not as much as I had hoped anyway.

I had such lofty aspirations to be more writer that I even started using Trello to organize my thoughts, but then that didn’t really work either because it was just one more thing to do, and then I didn’t have much that was interesting me lately.

But it’s going to get better! I’m feeling more interested! And I’ve tried some new things and I can’t WAIT to embarrass myself share them with you here!  Tomorrow night I had hoped to try a bungee workout, except I’ve thought better of it because I’m leaving for a week-long vacay on one of the officially prettiest beaches on God’s Blue Earth, and I can’t risk a bungee injury beforehand.

So I’m going to save that up for my return.  I was going to link it here for you to see, but instead just go to Almighty Google yourself and you’ll see the craziness my brain thinks I should try. I’m not sure if this is crazier or safer than the jumping shoes.  But apparently I want to get aloft, because I keep entertaining all these ideas. The heart wants what the heart wants.

In other news, things that have been keeping me busy have involved using my hardwood living room floor as a discotheque, because I had made up my mind to learn some cool moves for my trip beachy beach.  Now, there is absolutely zero point zero reason to think that this vacation is going to have dancing in the evenings, but I wanted to be prepared.  I don’t have natural born dancing skillz. I don’t have any hop in my step, I don’t have any rhythm.

One night I threw a tantrum until he complied sweetly asked K to teach me some line dancing. He’s a DJ, he’s seem ’em all a jillion times – so we spent a few minutes practicing some hipping and hopping and shuffling and casper sliding and then he just sort of gave up and went to brush his teeth because after about the first four steps I was lost.

His advice to me is, ‘If there IS dancing, stay in the middle of the group. All those bodies will sort of shuffle you along in the right direction.”

My plan is to mostly just stay a little drunk.

These are the things I focus on, Reader, when I’m not here with you.

I’m sorry there’s no video of these endeavors. And you’re welcome, because really it should only be witnessed with a drink or twelve in your own hand.

April Foolin’

Except you can’t get rid of me that easily, Reader! And p.s., April Fools.

Now.  I don’t have a story for you, but lesssjussss say, I may have stories sooner rather than later.

I feel like my foggy brain is lifting a little, the foggy parts were keeping me from finding the funny things in life. Mostly I’ve been mad and annoyed lately. I’m working on it. Hard. Complete with meditations and chit-chatties with people who are good at this stuff.

So while this isn’t the fun posty, we’re going to give it another whirl. Soonish. Pinky swearsies.

All Good(enough) Things Come To An End

I’ve decided it’s time to put an end to the blog.

It’s been fun, Reader. Well, fun is a relative term. It’s been probably more interesting learning about my favorite coffee creamers, what my seven three cats are up to, how many toasters I’ve had that have died a death of pee, and the general shenanigans of life at Chez Bang Bang.

Miss me, will ya. That’s your part in this relationship.


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Forcing Spring

I seem to always have a list of a million things that need to get done at all times. I’m sure I’m not alone in this complaint, and yes, it’s a complaint. It’s not necessarily stuff I want to do, they are all things on the need-to-do list because #1/ I enjoy a somewhat decent looking house and #2/ The cats are filthy little a-holes with zero respect for other people’s property.

Not exaggerating, there is always something that needs washed or wiped up because of them. Last night someone puked around my shoes, and as I was cleaning that up around oh, say, 1:00 a.m., I was actually feeling grateful because they hadn’t puked IN my shoes.  They have managed to set the bar very low for my expectations

Today I started to tackle some of the things on my in-my-brain list, and instead threw a bunch of fuck-it’s to the wind and headed outdoors to take care of outside-of-the-house things and get some fresh air and sunshine.

I grabbed the rake and decided to start the fifty-sixth-millionth-time of leaf cleanup. I’ve raked and blown leaves all fall long, and had A Guy who’s lawn team also did about three leaf clean-ups, and yet there were (and are) still leaves in the yard. I left them for insulation around some of the plants, but decided today I was going to get a jump on Spring.

I just ran outside and took a photo because I wanted to revel in my three plus hours of hard work, and now you get to look at it, too. It makes me rail my fists to the heavens and scream aaarrrrgh when I still see leaves in the front yard!

There was still snow in parts of the yard from last week’s March Lioning.

I’m feeling pressured to get ahead of the work because

a/ there’s so much of it and

b/ we’re not having A Guy this year because the prices keep going up and up and up and

c/ I’m really not looking forward to a summer of yard work and

d/ I really don’t like yard work at all and

e/ it could be said that I hate yard work and

f/ summer will be here before I’m ready and I don’t want to spend the nice days doing yard work. I especially don’t want to spend Memorial Weekend doing yard work, hence, my early March start.

I’d much rather do yard work on less ideal days. Today was one of those days.

I still have the whole side yard and back to tackle. Lucky me.

And I have a whole buncha work ahead of me to get this place looking the way I want this summer. Topsoil is needed around the lampost, and that little bistro set was never intended to reside there. I have been thinking about putting in some pretty slabs and creating a little place to sit outside in the front of the house vs. the back. The front porch doesn’t afford the room to do that. All the neighbors hang out in the driveways during the summertime.

There’s also painting the door trim, and powerwashing, and general overall cute-ing up of the entranceway. I’m tired in advance.

So that’s what’s happenin’ at Chez Bang Bang this weekend.  I know, another weekend of Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous.


I don’t need it to rain Men, Weather Girls. Money will suffice.

Some days life is two steps forward and twenty steps back. You’d think with all these steps I’d be a skinny-minny, but unfairly the backwards steps don’t seem to count, except toward the grey hairs on my head.

I wanted to write a post of all the things I heart, but then my day became stupid and I lost sight of the good stuff.

This morning I spent a good hour or more sorting through a bin of mail that had piled up and had subsequently been stuffed into a drawer so I could completely ignore it address it at a later date because I hate the mail. Mostly, anyway. Even the good stuff, except for unexpected checks in the mail, which I DID receive because I opened what looked like a piece of junk as part of my due-diligence to the project today, as I made an agreement with myself to open every single thing and address it so the stack could disappear.

What looked like a piece of junk was actually a teensy little bit of money. From February. I guess it was my Valentine’s Day gift from Discover. 

I thought by addressing the myriad of bills and pile of papers I would feel lightened up on the inside.

I’ve been feeling weighted down for months now, Reader. In spirit.  Not every day or all the time, but just an underlying hum of heaviness around my spirit, as if Life itself were trying to dim my brilliance, but I can’t have that so I figured maybe just maybe some of it was because I had this container of shit I’ve been ignoring literally since October.

And I was feeling a smidge better as I whittled down that pile. I paid off a bunch of stuff – medical bills and whatnot from my first and second foot injury over the past couple of years. I just figured I would just write some big checks, cry on the inside, and deal with it all once and for all and move forward.

Not an hour after I accomplished that and was feeling a little bit accomplished, I went to empty the dishwasher and discovered the bottom filled with dirty water.

So I bailed it out. And then later K came in and got the filter thing off and it was all gunked up, but not the cause of the sitch. Because I ran a short load and it didn’t drain again.

Now I’m pricing out a new dishwasher, or a fix for this one, which according to my calculations is going to be in the neighborhood of $250 or so, for parts and a HandyDan. And that’s a conservative estimate.

I’ve been selling a bunch of crap recently to pad my bank account and fund my next vacay – including selling a Prada wallet for $300 bucks, and then misc. things like a Tiffany ring, and a pair of sunnies I never wear, and things of that nature.  The dishwasher is trying to waylay my plans.

Except. I’ve got an old-fashioned plan, which is washing the dishes in the sink, with my hands. That works, too, ya know, Universe! (except I’m not challenging you, Universe, at all, because I know you have the powers to stick it to me any ol’ time you wish).

This development wouldn’t be quite as annoying, except for the fact that a couple of weeks ago, along with a blanket,  I threw my iPhone into the washing machine.

Guess how long it takes for an iPhone that’s been through an entire wash cycle to dry out in a bag of rice and work again?

Never is the answer, Reader. It couldn’t come back from that.

To my utter surprise, service providers don’t offer free or cheap phones with their service plans any longer. I remember the olden days (four or so years ago!) when the phones were practically free if you signed a two year contract. Which I’m going to have the service anyway, I don’t care about signing a contract.

For my next surprise, I discovered a phone is as expensive – if not more so – than my very first used car, and it’s also more expensive than a bottom-end dishwasher. I went three days without a phone while I reconciled that price in my mind.

It’s still not completely reconciled, but I figured a phone is just a thing ya need nowadays, especially since I don’t have a landline. So I bought a new phone this month, and now possibly a new dishwasher because appliances are out to stick it to me. Obviously.

When it rains, it pours. But why can’t it rain money?


**I had originally titled this “I don’t need it to rain men, Annie Lenox. And then I fact-checked myself and per usual with my knowing song artists — completely wrong. Humpf. I thought that was an annie lenox song all this time. Who knew. Not counting everyone else.

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Solution-Oriented (it even says so on my resume, so it must be true)

This morning I got an email (actually, 1 p.m., but it SHOULD still be morning, loosely, anyway, stupid time change!) that made me lol. I had been lamenting the fact that I never seem to be done cleaning around Chez Bang Bang, and yet it is always in some disheveled state regardless of my efforts.

Looking around me right now, I see at least twenty-five things that need to be cleaned/swept/wiped down/picked up/put away. And I spent a couple hours last night cleaning things!! Maybe I’m just really ineffective at it.

I don’t know anymore. It seems as soon as I get one thing handled, one of my seven three cats or my one lone man undo’s my efforts.

This line from that email is the one that made me lol:

They say man was made out of dust, so I’ve got enough to make one, but hey, One is enough!

I could make a man, too, but like she said, ONE is more than enough when he’s a contributor to the dust and the dirt.

As part of my Saturday Night Funsies last night, I pulled the bed out from the wall – because one of my clowder knocked the remote on the floor with such force the back flew off and the batteries rolled to the darkest reaches of the underneath – and boy howdy, did I ever discover where #1/ All of The Mister’s socks have gone and #2/where my eighth fourth cat has been living.

If my house has enough dust to create another man, there was certainly enough fur and dust under that bed to create at a minimum one giant Maine Coon cat.  And I do clean under there!!

But apparently not towards the top, where my head rests on the pillow, and hey, maybe that’s why I have a smokers cough despite the fact that I’m not a smoker! I have a cat-hair cough. It just keeps getting sexier around here, Reader.

Well, it’s clean now, Reader. And also I’ve tackled one of the other issues that I have in there (no, this is not about my vagina, Reader, eyes up here!) – my stupid headboard has these screws on each side that stick out way past where they should and have actually dug into my drywall.  When I first noticed that (several years ago, when the house was new and still nice – we are apparently systematically destroying it without intent to do so), I cried a little at the disfigurement of my new pretty house, but then “fixed” it by knotting a big thick black sock around the screws so there was a cushion to stop it from continued damage.

In case you didn’t know, a big black sock is suitable for various things. Ahem.

I’m a regular Jack Handy Ms. Fixit. Get me a sock, stat!* I think I need –  no – DESERVE my own tv show. You know you’d tune in, Reader.


Over time, those genius-fix-it big black socks**** slipped down and created even bigger problems that I just didn’t know how to address. I guess if i had put just a little more thought into I could have concocted a solution, but frankly it’s exhausting thinking of everything and even though there is a Mister in the household, those sorts of things absolutely never-ever-in-the-history-of-ever cross his mind. Now, that’s not “bashing” him (well, I do feel a little judgey, to be honest, but it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, so no spoilers here for him) it’s merely stating some facts. He has never seen a problem in the house and addressed it unprompted. I wish I could borrow his everythings-fine colored glasses and just never see the shit that needs to get done.

But I can’t, and so I do.

Last night I took a stroll through the Walmart to try go figure out a solution.  And it was as if the hands of Mike from Holmes on Homes reached down and steered my buggy into the arts & crafts aisle where I spied a perfect solution.  Craft foam ball half thing, which quite frankly I’m not even sure what this would be used for in it’s intended purpose.

Yes, this exactly what Mike Holmes would recommend. I’m sure of it. Joann Fabrics needs to reinvent themselves as a crafts and home repair store. Go ahead, Honchos of J-Fabrics, you can have that idea for free. Put chapstick at the register for incremental purchases to fix all squeaky and chapped things.

*several  one time, when the bedframe was super-squeaky and it needed some lube, I used chapstick.**

**get your mind outta the gutter, Reader. I know what you thought I used.

***also, the chapstick worked, so there ya go. another handy-gal tip from Trixie Bang Bang. You’re welcome.

Now, where this genius solution idea went a little askance was in the over-thinking. Because I didn’t really want a white foam thing sitting there  on the black headboard, so I grabbed a can of ninety-six-cent black spray paint, and when I got home I found some cardboard and got to work spraying them on top of the recycle bin. Because that’s how my Saturday nights roll, bitchzees.**

****i don’t really think you’re a bitchzees, Reader, I just got all caught up in myself for a moment. I beg your pardon.

Hey, Fun Fact: Guess what happen to styrofoam balls when you spray paint ’em?

Who guessed melts??

This is not my image, but adequately represents what occurred in my garage at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night.

So then I was left in a conundrum, because I wanted to push the bed back into place, but not until I had this sitch fixed once and for all.

I grabbed a kitchen knife. And began melted foam ball surgery.  I cut away at it until I had a good-enough area to work with, took it into the bedroom and to my shocked disbelief, it sort of worked perfectly, so BAM! Trixie Bang Bang, Ms. Fix-it is now added to my credentials.

It stayed right in place and there was enough foam left to absorb the sticky-outty screws, which also served to keep the foam in place.

And that’s how you do a Saturday night like a Boss, Reader. Bitchezz get shit done.

****twelve-year-old me is enjoying typing big black sock repeatedly. you know you’re enjoying it, too, Reader.

******in the event it crossed your mind that “surely that Trixie is an exaggerator story-teller” I offer you proof of the big black sock*******pile that I unearthed from under my bed, complete with hairs and dirt attached. I’ve put them all on top of the washer, that is the last I shall handle this mess. Unless they are still there when I go to do laundry, then they will be whisked right into the garbage. Bitchzees only have so much good-will towards man.

*******still fun typing “big black sock.”

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A Few More Drops of the Good Stuff

I’ve never been the type who was ever able to climb a tree. Or build a treehouse, for that matter, which I guess goes right along with never being able to climb a tree. I mean, if I can’t get up into the tree, how the hell could I haul up stuff to build a treehouse. I couldn’t, Reader, that’s how, and also why I never had a treehouse.

I heard a country song on the radio tonight that talks about sending kids outside to climb trees, and do old-fashioned wholesomey stuff with getting dirt on their hands, and the key message is getting back to simpler times and believing most people are good. And that got me thinking about the fact that I never could climb a tree. And also questioning, “Are most people good?”

There is a big ol’ overgrown apple tree in the backyard of the house where I grew up in the country.  My dad still lives there, and the tree just keeps getting bigger and bushier and more overgrown because that’s what happens when ya get older. You just let nature run things and hope for the best.*

Back when I lived there, the apples would get pecked by birds and such before we were ever able to make use of them and eventually they would rot and fall off and attract both bees in the summer and deer in the fall

You couldn’t run barefoot in the yard in the late summer and fall because stepping on an apple held many penalties, from the least innocuous of feeling a hot rotten apple squish up between your toes, to the perilous unleashing of bees in a swarm that would be burrowed inside, getting drunk on the delicious sugary feast.

As a kid** I had really bad vision and glasses were required for me to see five feet in front of me. Sometimes, being a country kid,  I’d just run outdoors real quick to do a little something, like maybe run to the garden to grab a tomato from the vine to make my favorite summertime breakfast of toast and butter with fresh sliced tomatoes and a sprinkle of salt. I would eat so many tomatoes during the summer that i’d get sores in my mouth from the acid, and so my mama would be sure to plant enough yellow tomatoes so I could switch off because they are gentler and less acidic.

Quite frankly, remembering that reckless behavior of just charging through the lawn without shoes or glasses on  just made my chest tighten up. I would not even CONSIDER walking barefoot down my city-living driveway to get the mail nowadays, and yet there I was, all willy-nilly gadabouting through a country yard without a sole between myself and scary things.

But anyway, that’s what I did, and I lived so here we are – all my reckless behavior back then had no ill effects, other than one time when I was on my way to the tomato patch – without my glasses on – and stopped just short of jumping on a stick in the yard, and then the stick moved and it was a giant gardner snake, and for-the-holy-love-of-cake, that scared me straight into wearing shoes and also my glasses when I went outside after that.

I  guess that song just got me to thinking about the actual degree of difficulty involved to climb a tree, and just because I never mastered tree-climbing skills, is it really something simple to do? Do kids even climb trees nowadays? I never see a kid climbing a tree where I live.  The neighbor has a tire swing hanging from a tree, but nobody is ever swinging from it when I drive past.

Instead of just singing along, I’m questioning the validity of the entire song.  I don’t know if it’s as simple as just getting out there and climbing some trees. And I’m not sure most people are good. I think some people are good. I’m not willing to buy-in to most. I’m not sure I’m even considered “good.” I think I’m at best good enough. We all have had a little dirt on our hands.

What do you think, Reader –  are most people good?

I don’t know.

Sometimes the best I can do is to hope to walk with clarity in vision and avoid the swarm of the bee-filled apples.

*that is not a covert reference to the state of my vagina. It’s kept in very nice shape. Sort of. 

**I say “kid” like I was a precocious eight year old, but I was a teen – probably a fifteen teen. At my age now, I consider that a kid. 

***Until I was in my twenties, I was blind-as-a-bat-needing-glasses, but laser eye surgery provided me with the kind of eyes that can spot a snake in the grass without additional aid. If only other snakes-in-the-grass were that easy to spot.

****Now I’ve led you to believe that I’ve been wronged somehow, with my throwing shade by asking if people are good, or are they sneaky-snakes, and that’s not accurate. Nothing happened. Nothing happened recently. It’s just an overall observation about people that have passed through my life, and some of them aren’t really as good they’d like ya to believe. Probably the same could be said about me.

****I’m blaming the rum. 

*****And the cats. Because they peed on the bed – AGAIN – Last night and today – so basically we change our sheets and entire bedding more often than Heloise would ever suggest to a normal person – and while that load of laundry is in the dryer, I decided to make a little drinkie-poo to take the edge off and NOT kill a cat or two, and then I sat down to write, and all this came out. 

*******I take it back, I think I AM good, in fact I may be GREAT, because not one of my seven three cats have been strangled this week. Or thrown outdoors to go live in a tree somewhere. 

********Maybe when I sing that song I’m actually thinking “kittens” instead of “people” during the line “and i believe most kittens people are good” and since I live with so many a-hole kittens I’m now questioning everything, including my ability to climb trees.

********I still blame the rum. 

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What’s Been In My Mouth Lately

It’s been a while (well, I think it has been a while, but frankly my memory isn’t what it used to be, so maybe it’s not that long ago after all, but I’m not going to go and check around, so just go with “it’s been a while”) since we talked about Things That Have Been In My Mouth.

I know! You’ve been wondering! Well, I’m here to tell you about something that has been newly introduced and has delighted my tongue.

If you follow along here much at all, you may (or may not, I’m not here to judge your memory, Reader) recall that I have had a passionate love affair with flavored coffee creamers for all my years, and have talked about my favorites here and here and Almond Joy Coffee Creamer even has a spot under my “A Few of My Favorite Things” sidebar which you should really go read right now, Reader, and get to learn more of my “likes” so you could maybe surprise me with things to show how much you love me. Someone did that for me once, and it was nice, as a matter of fact. If it wasn’t you, Reader, you need to step it up. Ahem. BRING ME AN OCEAN BREEZE RIGHT NOW!

After sitting here and reviewing all the times I’ve talked about coffee creamer, I’ve come to the conclusion that I may have an unhealthy obsession with it.  I mean, comeon. Several blog posts about coffee creamer?? Is this really what we’re here for? Well, apparently it is, and so let’s chat.

I have worked really hard over the past several months to disrupt my love affair with sugared creamers because I don’t need the extra sugars (thanks, Type 2), and had gotten quite enamored with plain old Hood Coffee Creamer which let the actual coffee bean flavor sing on it’s own. I was getting to the point where I wasn’t even tempted by the flavored stuff and could march right past it with an air of superiority that I was able to resist the siren’s call of that sugary temptress.

Then last weekend while at The Walmarts while on my way to the half & half, I spied a new coffee creamer in the dairy case, and it ended up in my cart as if it had wings of it’s own. It just fluttered down from the shelf and right into my buggy.

It’s TAHITIAN vanilla, Reader. Not just any old ‘bean’ vanilla. And I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti, so if a cuppa coffee in the morning can transport me there, I say I should go.

This creamer? Is a thick and creamy creamer.*

It doesn’t pour into your cup, it sort of tumbles down from the spout in a slow rolling somersault, before sticking the landing with a ten out of ten performance.

And the taste? Sweet – but not too sweet – while adding a nice touch of vanilla, and making your coffee density somehow thicker. But a good thicker, like you want to enjoy rolling it around on your tongue for a bit  and enjoying the velvety smoothness before swallowing.**

It turned my very nice coffee from this:

To this:

And who doesn’t want a fireworks party in their mouth first thing in the morning? No one, that’s who, Reader.

* know, I know – that’s a lot of times the word “creamer” has been used, and it’s getting a little bit jizzy sounding. 

**and now you can’t get the image of jizzy coffee creamer rolling around in your mouth out of your head. i’m sorry. or you’re welcome. 

***i don’t know why i’m not tapped to write advertising for these people. it’s insulting, quite frankly, because i’m a natural at talking this stuff up. at the very least I should get a free bottle of delicious jizzy tahitian creamer. or at a bare minimum, a fiddy-cent coupon. 


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