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The Bang Bang Theories

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.




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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