web analytics
The Bang Bang Theories

Blue Ain’t My Color. Except this one time, when it is.

Reader, I don’t know about you, but I’m having a rocky start to 2018.  I don’t know why we believe in this notion, that a tick mark of a clock chiming to midnight into the start of a new year holds some sort of magic-ry, but the reality is, it doesn’t.

At least not for me.

Not now.

Not so far anyway.

I usually do a retrospective of the the prior year, to see how I’ve done. I only did a short mental checklist of the ups & downs of 2017. The downs definitely outweighed the ups, as we’ve had death that took the wind out of our sails.

The Good-ish:

  • I did change jobs. Again.
  • We cruised. Again and again and again.
  • We Elvis’ed.
  • We didn’t get any additional cats. Thank the Lawd.

There were good things, really fun things. But then there was just a pallor of “eh, not so great” hanging over.

Not Good:

  • Deaths
  • Relationships got capsized and still haven’t gotten all the way back upright
  • Money was a thing I worried about. A lot. You’d never know it from some of my lavish vacations, but it’s a thing
  • My house had a bad-guy trying to rob my stuff
  • Kenny had a bad business situation that hung over him for a while, because he was in business with cheating, lying a-holes which led me to say really loudly, numerous times I TOLD YOU THEY WERE BAD APPLES!!! Only I didn’t say Apples.
  • Girlie Cat died all of a sudden one night
  • Kenny’s mom was very irrational for much of the year, and somehow got ME involved as the bad influence. I don’t mind being a bad influence, but mostly as it pertains to drinking, swearing and gambling. She just thought I was a bad influence for being the kind of human being I am.
  • My dad had some health woes that gave me several grey hairs
  • I almost forgot to mention my stupid health sitch, which took 7 months and thousands of dollars to heal. But at least it healed. I’m trying to brightside it.
  • Other things, but you get the drift

Really, I think I’m in a space of disillusionment that I’m not even going into 2018 all Pollyanna. Which is sad, because generally I can fake-it-til-I-feel-it just fine. But not so, so far anyway. I am just not having any expectations. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, I’m just not expecting great things. Yet. Maybe soon. Maybe not.

Back in my Olden Life, my exhusband and I used to take New Years Eve and write down our goals for the upcoming year, and then we’d read them to each other, see where we aligned, and seal them up. On New Years Eve of the following year, we’d read back our plans, see where we hit it or missed it, and make new goals for the future year. I’ve maintained that tradition, except now I just do it myself, because Kenny has zero.point-zero interest in doing this, but I always liked it, and so I do it alone. Except this year I couldn’t find my last year’s plans to read back to myself, so I don’t know if maybe I just didn’t have dreams and hopes for 2017 or if they’re just misplaced like so many things around here.

I’ve mostly been agitated and anxious so far this year. I know, this isn’t our agreement of why you come here.  You come for the nonsense, stay for the cute cat pictures (well, that’s what I tell them, anyway, ssshhhh, don’t hurt their feelings, Reader!). I mostly deliver on the nonsense. I guess just not this time. We’ll get back to shenanigans sooner rather than later. Pinky swearsies.

But for now, for today, for this post? We’ve gone in a different direction than what I had planned out in my head, but we’re just going to let it roll as-is.  I’ve thought about deleting this whole thing and not dragging you down by a “I feel meh” post, except I’m sure this little blog doesn’t have that much power, and deleting the real feels just didn’t feel like the right thing to do.  Because sometimes meh it is.

So far 2018 has delivered:

  • An unexpected visit from our little family member, which was throughly enjoyed albeit, too short – that’s the Good!
  • A really good batch of brownies last night – Also good!
  • A really good batch of rice krispie treats from my friendie – Exceptionally good!
  • A broken fireplace remote and now I can’t just turn it on without it being a take-the-fireplace-apart production
  • A broken refrigerator water filter line thing
  • A broken car battery
  • A super-noisy furnace last night which has me fretting a future Major Expense

This afternoon it’s going to deliver a movie. Because when all else fails, buttered popcorn may hold the answer.

Posted in Uncategorized - Comments Off on Blue Ain’t My Color. Except this one time, when it is.

New Year-Palooza. because everything’s more fun if it’s a palooza…

Hi, Reader, Hey, hAppY nEwYEAR!!!!!!

We’re so happy over here at Chez Bang Bang that the happy is dancing up there in that first last sentence.

I cannut even believe it’s days, days I say! into the New Year already and I’ve left you with nothing but a bad post since before Christmas.  PS., “cannut” is not a typo, that’s an intentional, just because I felt like typing with an accent for a moment. You’re going to have to read that in your own head with an accent, Reader. It’s your part in this relationship. Also, I don’t know what sort of accent “cannut” would have the predilection towards, again, that’s on you. In my mind it reads in the voice of Koothrappali from Big Bang. You’re welcome to use that, too. I’m not stingy with the accents in my head, Reader.

Shwew-ie I need to take a moment.

~pause~

~pause~

~pause~

Alrightie. Back to the story. Yep, there is a story, or something trying to come out of my head to you tonight.

I don’t believe we’ve touched on any holiday shenanigans, except I told you that I was out sailing around for the holidays. Things were good, good enough.

Everything has sort of gone by in a giant rush, and now it’s the 4th of the first month of the New Year already and I’m feeling like I need to deliver on my end of our relationship here. Because I’m the giver, and how can I expect you to hang around if I’m not giving you new words from my head?? It’s unfair of me, actually, to keep my thoughts from you.

But before we get into any meat-n-potatoes sort of posts, it’s time to share a lotta photos from the cat’s favorite time of the year: Cat’s In New Year’s Hats!

I had a heckovatime trying to find a cat-head sized Santa hat, and gave up on that this year since we were travelling, but then I felt the pressure to produce for New Years, and I had no hat for that, either. Except Kenny was DJing at an event and for reasons we won’t get into here his stupid Lexus battery died in the cold and I had to drive Miss Daisy at 2 a.m. I used that opportunity to find party hats left behind by drunks and they did not disappoint me.

With hat in hand, the only thing missing was a buncha cat heads. Luckily, I have seven three adoring cats awaiting their opportunity to shine in the new year.

We got to it, myself going all “brave*” in the new year with a bare face, unbra-ed titties and bedhead. Because I like to keep it real for you, and also make you feel better by comparison.

Toby was the first to get his opportunity, and he looked thrilled:

Gussy was awoken from a really had nap for a chance to wear the crown, and he only kicked me in the face a couple of times:

Spoiled Purry was not too happy as a clam.

See how happy she is??

My second cat, DJ is amish and wouldn’t even look at the camera:

My first cat Sami wore her crown like a lopsided unicorn. Hey, I’m not here to judge. I let her do her.

Then there was Nose Dots, or Nosey or Dottie – he ignores us to either name – had a chance to show us his 22-lbs-and-counting belly:

And then our third cat, Wally, had his chance to look festive and happy:

Finally, our first cat, Toby, took another turn while he was lying down, and seemed to enjoy the experience a little more. 

And that, Reader, was our New Year’s Day My Three Cats-In-Hats Photo Tour.

Also, we’ve revealed why I’m not allowed to have a toaster. Because they exact their revenge in the form of no toast for me.

 

 

*there are actual published articles which refer to celebrities not wearing makeup as “brave” because that’s exactly the correct use of the word.  So I’d like to be heralded for bravery, too. And also I’d like a medal, in which I really mean a tiara because it goes with my outfit better and also distracts from my bouncing-around titties and bedhead. Or would a tiara actually draw more attention to my bedhead?? Hm. This bravery comes with conundrums.

 

Top Knot

It’s Sunday afternoon, Wednesday night at 9:39 p.m., and I should be packing but here we sit, Reader.  Because all good intentions on Sunday blew by the wayside. But regardless of what happened then, and what I should be doing now, it’s a few o’holy nights before Christmas so it’s time to get our feels on.

How do I have twelve months to prepare for Christmas and it always seems to spring up on me?  Although, since I’m preparing for a holiday trip, and knew I needed to speed up the festivity preparations I will say that cards have been mailed, all gifts have been ordered and are out for delivery to my out-of-state family, cookies were made and shared, what little amount of gifts I have here are all wrapped and ready.

Oh, you’re not letting me blow by the holiday trip comment?  I can’t slip one by you, Reader, can I.  Yes, we leave for a trip in the morn. So once again, instead of packing, I’m here for you. I mean, right here at my kitchen table and not necessarily there for you. ATTN Robbers & Thieves: STAY AWAY. OF COURSE I have a house sitter and cat-pee-cleaner-upper, and he’s prepared to kill you if needed.* He will be here the entire time we are gone, so don’t try any funny business.

So I’ll be having a brown Christmas this year, right there on the beach.

I keep meaning to get back to posting about all the nostalgia, so why not now. Let’s do it, Reader.  I’m not prepared to make it as entertaining of a story as it was originally in my head, but we’re drinking  little wine and let’s see what happens here. Usually what I write is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you.

But before we get into the nostalgia, let’s talk about one little thing.  After I got out of the nail salon this evening I popped into Dollar Tree to try and find a cat-head size Santa hat, because I had one and then I lost it and I had hoped to fuck off be productive just a little more tonight and take some Cats in Santa Hats 2017 Pictures since I’ll be gone on our traditional night of shenanigans.

I couldn’t find one, but did browse around for a minute and found one of those bun makers for the top of your head. Well, not necessarily YOUR head, but a head with hair long enough to put up in a bun.

I thought maybe I’d glam up my look, ala this:

The reality?

So yeah, don’t fret, Reader, thinking I’m going to run away and become a beauty blogger and give up shelling out a buncha nonsense to you.

High fashion just maybe isn’t for me, unless we mean “high” fashion and then maybe I’d look pretty and we’d enjoy a pizza, chips and some donuts together.

And YES, I know I look awful and tired and have messy smeared make up. Because I don’t like to hide behind my image of total perfection for you. I keep it realz. For YOU, Reader, so if nothing else you can feel better about yourself.

Alright, so once again we didn’t get to the nostalgia. I don’t think we ever will at this rate, Reader. Assume it would be something good.

 

*I’m not totally sure if he’s ready to kill you, but just assume he is. Because he might. Don’t risk it, Bad Guys. We’re jumpy around here. 

Wax Off

As I left off on that last post, Reader, we were engaged in a one-sided convo, chatting about how I sometimes like to wax things, and also take a stroll down memory lane.

Sometimes I’m curious about the past and I like to sit back, drink a cuppa fresh-brewed  with my NEW favorite coffee creamer and see what lives out there on the interwebs.  It’s the waxing. Of the nostalgia. Maybe especially more so this time of the year.

But before we get involved in the waxing, let’s circle back to the sentence about my new favorite coffee creamer.  Because this? Is Big News. At least Big News in the World According to Bang Bang.*

You may or probably may not recall that I have a love of flavored coffee creamers, in particular Almond Joy. It brings my mouth mucho joy in the early hours of the morn when I’m trying to convince mah body it’s time to participate in the day.

I’ve tried to quit the flavored creamers. And then my mouth was sad, and my body was sad, and I heard an ex-friend, who’s an “ex” because she turned into an a-hole, lament that she would never sacrifice coffee because, “Sometimes that cuppa coffee is the best part of my day!”

So I stopped trying to love my coffee without my Almond Joy creamer. Because why have a less than stellar start to the day?!

But for some reason I don’t even know why, I picked up an unflavored coffee creamer when I was shopping recently.  I think they didn’t have any flavors that appealed to me – I’m quite picky with my flavors, actually, and do not like the ones you would think I would love. I guess I figured what the eff, which is often what I think nowadays about many things.

So I am coffee-creamer picky.  For instance, I happily and eagerly tossed in a large bottle of the new Reeses Peanut Butter cup flavored creamer. That sounded like a party in my mouf.

Except it wasn’t, and I thought it was awful, and took it to work for someone else to enjoy. One mouf’s trash and all that.

Recently, in deference to trying to have less sugary blood, I even tried out the sugar-free vanilla version of coffee creamer, because trying for better health. I don’t really want a buncha sugars hitting my bloodstream first thing in the morning. If I do, I’ll save that for donut’s job.

But that sugar free creamer? Blech! I hated the aftertaste, therefore hated my coffee, therefore hated my start to the day, and kept hearing “And what if this was the best part??”

So back to sugars. Until I was shopping, and decided to put this in my cart:

 

Now, I do not know WHAT is in this – it has 15 calories, is lactose free yet contains milk, contains zero grams of sugar, yet it has corn syrup listed as an ingredient, so super-confusing. How can something have corn syrup but zero grams of sugar? I think it’s a labeling trick.

Well, regardless, these trickers have made a coffee creamer that I PREFER now over my beloved Almond Joy.  So despite it containing corn syrup, I figure it has to be somewhat more of the healthy option vs. a flavored creamer. Now, I know, Healthy Readers, it’s not ideal, and I should Cowboy Up and drink it black, or with milk squooze from a nut.

That’s not going to happen. Because see above, what if this cuppa coffee is the best part of my day, and I’ve now taken away this little bit of deliciousness. So save your preachin’. I’ve got enough other bad habits you can focus on.

READER. We are now close to 700 words. Again. So I can’t get back – again – to the original intent of this, which was to share my waxing nostalgia.

You now have even more to look forward to this weekend. You’re welcome.

 

 

*I hold firmly in my belief that the World According to Bang Bang is way more interesting and important than Garp. Who is Garp, anyway??  

***Woah! I just read a synopsis of The World According to Garp, and I think I stand corrected – that is slightly more interesting than TBB’s World! That is, if you’re interested in best-selling novels that are based around perpetual autonomic sexual arousal.  

Little Drummer Girl

Every now and then I wax nostalgic, Reader.  Well, I’m not sure “nostalgic” is the right term, but something is getting waxed and it isn’t my floors. Ba-dum-dump-chsh!

That’s the sound of my drum set, in case you couldn’t figure that out, Reader. I don’t wanna stress you this early in the morning with hard-to-make-out typing….stop judging! I know it’s not EARLY morning, it’s already closer to noon than “early morning” but in our pretend world where I play the drums, it’s also very early morning. So early, I fed the squirrels breakfast outside today to help them start the day off right.

I actually DID feed the squirrels a breakfast of vanilla wafer cookies, peanut M&M’s and some actual nuts from My Misters nut mix from Costco. Because I saw a really cute thing on Facebook or the news – somewhere where I get all life’s important updates – where a family was leaving out snacks on their porch for random hobos walking by, and then they got upset when all their chocolates were gone  – the very chocolates they were leaving out for someone to take! – and so they sleuthed it and discovered it was a squirrel coming up for a Hershey’s with Almonds nugget and then they were MAD and put a lid on the candy, which is frankly RUDE because they had a BASKET OF SNACKS on their PORCH for someone to take! So they are basically very discriminatory and probably voted for Trump. Ba-dum-dump-chsh!

See what I did there, I made a non-political story political! and also Trump hates nature, which he’s proven over and over again, so troof.

But anyway, back to the squirrel story – the part where they tried to shut the squirrel out of the snack jar wasn’t the cute part of the story – that’s actually the VERY MEAN part of the story – but the part of the story where the squirrel wanted a daily chocolate was cute to me, and now I want to have a Daily Squirrel that comes for a snack that I leave on the porch.

So I started with cookies, candies and nuts. But p.s., some of my boy cats are out there lurking around and so the squirrel is going to have to wait to get his snackie, or he will end up a snackie.  I would be worried for the safety of the squirrel, however my cats aren’t exactly the fleetest of feet, their girth slows them down, plus they have very limited tree climbing skillz. They can make it knee-high up the trunk at best. The squirrel clearly has the advantage.

Speaking of girthy cats, due to my unexpected plumbing event yesterday, when the plumbing guy was on his way out he saw Nosey wobbling down to the basement and couldn’t help from exclaiming, “Wow! That is one fat cat!” and then Nosey was fat-shamed and his mama didn’t defend him.

He’s going to need therapy. And also his mama (aka, ME) needs to bathe him now, because the plumber wasn’t wrong at all, Nosey is my 600-lb-life cat version,  and I’ve been having to wash his back for him because he just can’t reach it any longer and it was not feeling like good cat hair. It was feeling the opposite of nice, and also dirty and gritty.  He hates it when I tend to him with warm cloth baths and brushing, but like a good Mama Cat, I do it anyway.

Poor Nosey. But he’s finally starting to look & feel a little bit better.

Sheew, that was a long way to get a story started, but nothing compared to the recap of a movie I watched the other evening, that I relayed ad nauseam to MM last night while I was making a rustic pear tart for our after-supper dessert, wherein by the end of the story he was dizzy and parched and he wasn’t even the one doing all that talking.

PS, during the creating of the rustic pear tart, My Mister leaned on the counter and looked at me and said, ‘Oh, by the way, something you should probably know, the next time you think about buying or making anything with pears, know that I HATE pears. I HATE pear everything. Just so you know.”

The 12-year relationship reveal came AS I WAS MAKING A HOMEMADE PEAR TART.

PPS – My Mister went to check on it as it was cooking, and quickly proclaimed this was the worst looking dessert item he’d ever seen. Funnily enough, I had said when I put it together, “I think this is going to leak out,” and he – being the amazing chef that he is – proclaimed, ‘It’s not going to leak!” I gave him the ‘u crazy’ look because I KNEW it would but by the time it was on the baking sheet it couldn’t be moved.

PPPS, once the tart came out of the oven, My Pear-Hating-Mister was the first to pull out the carton of cool whip and shove a great big slice of this into his tart-hole and proclaimed it delish. Because it was. So he needed to eat his words, along with that slice of rustic pear tart.

Well, Reader. Here we are at 889 & counting words, and I just read an article that said posts shouldn’t be more than 500 words. So I guess this is where I leave you? And you don’t get to hear what nostalgia was getting waxed. Sorry. I don’t make the blogging rules. Well, I guess I do in fact make them for this’chere nonsense, but I can feel you getting weary, and the nostalgia story is too good to start when you’re already tired. At least it’s good in my head. Maybe it’ll be less good when it makes it to here.

Time will tell.

We’ll try again laters, baby.

983 words…now 985…drat. Consider this double the fun of the “ideal” post size. You’re welcome.

 

Bossa Nova

Saturday morning is bringing it like a Boss today, Reader.

I’m talking the kinda assholie boss that makes you hate your job and your life and small babies and flowers and sunsets and long walks on the beach. This Boss sucks so hard you begin running a mental tick on your finances to see if you’ve got enough to make the Great Escape to your secluded island where you live off of coconuts and salty air.

That’s the Boss that Saturday is bringing me today.

I jumped outta bed at the break of dawn, meaning 10:00 a.m. at Chez Bang Bang, and as is my wont sometimes on the weekends, I made a cuppa coffee and started assembling dinner. I sometimes enjoy that process as soon as I get up. It’s quiet and I’m undisturbed and enjoy the creating process.

This morning I was working on assembling a meatloaf, because I had all the ingredients and figured I would give it a try in my Instant Pot Wife.  So that’s ready to go for this evening, because supposedly it takes twenty minutes til done. Potatoes layer the bottom of the pot, they’ll be ready for a quick mash. Throw in some sort of vegetable and voilà, dinner.

While working on that, I put a sheet pan of bacon in the oven to cook, for quick & easy BLT’s for breakfast.

And filled and ran the dishwasher. Because, Accomplishing Things.

Except.

I went to put my Instant Pot Wife meal in the fridge for later cooking, and noticed something red and gooey all over the bottoms of the beers on the top shelf. So I unloaded that and began the task of cleaning that sticky mess.

I still have no idea what the red and gooey explosion could have been.  But I did find a package of ground meet that had fallen behind the beer bottles and has gone undetected for who knows how long, and the only saving grace in that the top of the fridge gets super cold and partially freezes things because of the stupid design of the side-by-side.  So that got tossed.

Next as I started to clean the glass shelving in the sink, I noticed the disposer was backing up. I knew it was going to be a whole buncha No Bueno going on, but I held out hope it would all just magically go down the drain.

It did not.

Potato peels and water started pouring out of the cabinet.

Now I’ve got a plumber friend coming at 2:00 to assess the damage.

Next, My Mister inquired as to what was smoking in the oven, thinking that it just went on the fritz and was billowing out smoke.

Um, nope, no fritzing of the oven. Just the breakfast bacon.

Twenty minutes on 400 is too long to cook bacon. Apparently.

MM is dealing with some sort of Karaoke Drama today in addition to all this, which is giving him another set of problems.

This isn’t how I anticipated the day shaking out. We rarely anticipate a day filled with problems, though, do we Reader? We are optimists, and spring forth usually thinking that things will go according to the plans set in our brains.

My plan was coffee, writing nonsense to you about a whole ‘nother entirely better story, more coffee, some bacon, some light cleaning, maybe some shopping, and later some dinner and working on some of my personal growth things that I’ve been reading to make me a better Trixie Bang Bang.

I think that personal growth shit must be working, because all these problems? Rolling right off my back. Minor inconveniences. I’m still coffee-ing. I’m still writing a story. I’m still cleaning. I’ll still be shopping, just probably for a new garbage disposer instead of new clothes. And this is providing me with real-life experience is dealing with the unplanned unfun little quirks of life.

It’s all about the adjustment, Reader. Adjust your sails when the wind blows the other way. Maybe you’ll end up on that island beach anyway.

MotherPucker

Remember that time, not all too long ago, when I mentioned why I will never be able to retire, unless partially used beauty products suddenly become worth a bajillion dollars? And that I have spent probably the equivalent of the cost of a beach house – a beach house in a really poor country, filled with sunken foundations and hardships – but a beach house, nonetheless – in lipsticks and skin creams and magic elixirs?

Well, lest you think I was filled with hyperbole, I am here to prove to you that absolutely everything written here is in fact the troof and nuttin’ but the troof with no exaggerations whatsoever, except for the parts that I make up and exaggerate. Just so we’re clear.

I “won” a purse at the casino recently, Reader. I know, right?  Like, a FREE leather-ish handbag, mine-all-mine for FREE, not counting that kazaillions of dollars I’ve pumped into those damn Quick Hits machines.  Not counting that, it was completely FREE.

Since I got home late from the Card Mines tonight, and wanted to feel like I could check something off the “accomplished” side of the to-do list, I figured I’d make tonight the night to switch over from my honest-to-God-real Prada, into this non-name brand shoulder bag because it’s nice and roomy and it’s my Major Award, and gol’dern it, I’m going to use it.

I know, you’re probably wondering why I have to set “change over purse” as a to-do item, and that’s probably because you’re a man and don’t realize the time-consuming task of switching purses, or else you do carry a purse, but are much more organized than Trixie Bang Bang.

Because that girl? Carries around a lot of should-be-garbage in her handbag. Receipts and papers and scraps of notes and no less than half a dozen reminder cards from her footsie doctor as well as her chipped-tooth-fixer dentist, and also? A Taylor-Swift-worthy amount of lipsticks.

Just. In. My. Purse.

$100-ish dollars worth of lipsticks right there in that photo. And that’s not counting the three or four in my desk at work, and the horde in the bathroom.

Reader. I need a lipstick-intervention.  Please everyone, start writing me notes about how much I mean to you, and why I need to quit the lipsticks, and then come over and read them to me and we can drink wine together. Really I’m just looking for a reason for you to come over and drink wine with me, but hearing nice things about me would also be nice. And maybe just maybe you could give me ten good reasons why I don’t need so much stick on my lips. Number one being “maybe you can buy a beach house someday instead.”

 

p.s. – If you thought Sophie would be shaming me with her whispers of “waste” I can guar.an.tee you she would be pursed-lip disapproving of all this beauty nonsense.

 

Whisperings

Sometimes it’s the seemingly insignificant things that make you realize how much your upbringing has shaped your perceptions. I like to think I’m an Independent Thinking Trixie Bang Bang, but something small will occur and I’ll have my mother’s or my grandmother’s values whispering in my ear, shaping my thinking.

This isn’t a bad thing, Reader. It’s just a thing.

A lot of the time I hear my grandmother talking about all The Waste. We waste so much.  Time. Leftovers. Money.  I hear her every time i hesitate to throw out the stuffing that has been in a container in the fridge since Thanksgiving. I cleaned the fridge today, wiping out all the leftovers, but left them sitting on the counter rather than tossing them.

My Mister went to empty the trash bag and asked what’s up with all the stuff on the counter.

Me, hesitating…well, it’s from Thanksgiving….do you think the hambone is still good to make soup??

MM: “NO!!”

Me: “Well….do you think I should toss some of it outside, for Taco the Raccoon and the deer and the birds?”

MM: “NO! You’re going to attract coyote’s, who will not find lunchmeat one day and will instead eat Gussy.”

Me: “You’re right, I know you’re right….can you throw it all out in the trash for me then?”

I couldn’t. I just. couldn’t. do. it.

My grandmother Sophie was right there in my ear, shaming me for all that waste. She would have had bean soup made the day after Thanksgiving, using up all that good hambone.

Tonight I decided to make red velvet cupcakes, because I like the process and the smell of baking, and the eating of said baking. I know I can’t just eat two dozen cupcakes, and my co-workers aren’t that receptive to baked goods, but I’ll take some to work anyway. Because I enjoy the process.

While making the batter, I heard my mother in my ear.  I used the full three eggs the directions called for, and that is indulgently wasteful and not necessary. Growing up we never made a cake with three eggs. We used two eggs only, as my mother said, “two will work just fine.”

And you know what? It did.

In fact, I’m not sure how adding that extra egg even improves the cake , but that could be because it’s been so long since I’ve only used two.

Great, and thanks, Me. I’ve just created a project where I have to have a bake-off with myself. A batch of cakes with two eggs and one using the decadent three, and then a blind taste-off.

I’m going to need tasters, Reader. Because now we have to know if that third egg really makes a difference, or if it’s just the egg company’s way to get us to consume more, those rotten egg pushers.

In an interesting twist, eggs are now so damn inexpensive from Walmart it doesn’t even make fiscal sense to scrimp on the additional egg. It’s 26cents/dozen nowadays.  You can cook willy-nilly with 26cent/dozen eggs.

But I still hear the whisper in my ear, Reader, when I’m adding that indulgent third egg.  And tossing out leftovers. And letting the milk spoil and the hambone go to waste.

Seriously, though. I think I need to do a bake-off/taste-off. I need to get to the bottom of the necessity of that third egg. Come over, Reader. Let’s test cakes. It’ll be the most fun test you’ve ever taken. Pinky swearsies.

 

Drunk & (Dis)Orderly

Hello, my name is Trixie Bang Bang and I have a problem.

They say admitting it is the first step to recovery, right, Reader?

Well, the cows have come home to roost*, and there is no more denying my obsessive buying behavior.

My bathroom has a narrow closet. I mean, it’s super-duper awkward and I have to turn my body kinda sideways when I need to reach in and get stuff out of there.

When we first moved in I was all angels-singing-trumpets-trumpeting-glitter-falling-from-the-sky STORAGE! SPACE! I just knew this would be a place for everything and everything in it’s place.

Fast forward three or four years later – I don’t know exactly how long I’ve lived here, somewhere in this range – and my closets have become a giant cluster of fuckery with stuff mashed and crowded and piled. The exact opposite of how I dream of KonMari’ing my life. Very little in these closets spark joy. I mean, how can Gas-X and Pepto tablets and Theraflu “spark joy” – except possibly Theraflu, because when I’m sick, that does make me me more joyful to get a steaming cup.

I kept buying different plastic shelves and baskets, thinking that was the key to organizing this mess.

All it ended up doing was costing me money and excess containers and I was still left with Jenga-style pile of stuff – I’d have to delicately pull out what I needed at the risk of it all toppling down.

This whole mess was finally brought to a head this weekend, ironically because of yet another purchase. I had read about a new cleaner, Clorox Medical Hydrogen Peroxide, and ordered it up from Amazon. My shipment finally arrived on Friday. I was excited to start spraying every possible surface down in the house, killing all the germs that may have decided to take up residence.

Now, a few folks have said, “Just use Lysol, it’s a lot cheaper and does the same thing,” and “Good ol’ Clorox is a lot cheaper and does the same thing,” however, it’s NOT the same thing. This is hydrogen peroxide based and kills Norovirus, which while I don’t think I have that lying around on the counters, who knows what germs, in addition to fog, come in on little cat feet.  And this doesn’t have the strong bleachy smell of Clorox, nor does it discolor fabrics ala bleach.

So I got to work on a Friday night. I had thought about going for drinks – again – and instead opened a bottle of Apothic Red and unloaded my bathroom closet.

I needed a lot lot lot of drinks of that wine once I saw the mountain I was facing.

At one point I just sat down and looked at it all, not knowing where to begin.  Then I realized if I didn’t know what to do with it now, I’m sure not going to know what to do with it later so just do SOMETHING, Me.

I started tossing stuff that was god-only-knows-how-old, half used products that I have too much of, created a basket of travel-sizes of stuff to donate to a place that needs this stuff, and then sifted and purged and carefully reorganized back into three buckets: Hair/Products, Medicine, Cleaning.

I had a GIANT bag of stuff that became trash, also known as Why I’ll Never Be Able to Retire, Because I Bought a Million Lotions and Shampoos and Lipsticks and Mascaras.

The good news is, I discovered a brand new bottle of conditioner that is exactly like the one I had just purchased at TJ Maxx that afternoon. So my obsessive behavior is consistent, Reader. And now I have to make one more return to TJ Maxx, because I’m not keeping a $17 bottle of conditioner when I already have one that will last six months. I can blow that $17 on something else. Or, put it back in my bank account and keep it there, said Responsible Me.

And that’s how I spent Black Friday, Reader. Cleaning and drinking. It’s exciting times at Chez Bang Bang. Don’t envy my glamorous lifestyle of the rich (in cleaners and products) & (not at all) famous.

*p.s., why would cows come home to roost?? I mean, where did they go in the first place, that they are now coming home, and I think they are trying to steal the chicken’s thunder by roosting. Or the roosters thunder. Something.  

Thumps In the Night

That last post left us hanging on to all’s well that ends well on Tuesday night. I’ve now officially become a soap opera writer, complete with a cliff hanger! And also I’m the main character so I am now living out my life’s dream of BEING a soap opera actress.  That’s no jokie right there, that is my official dream job. Great hair, perfect make-up, hotsy lovahs, intrigue and evil twins that you take down. And then when bad things happen you can wake up and it may have all just been a dream.

Except real life isn’t quite like that part. Actually, my real life isn’t anything like those parts, except for sometimes I have nice hair.  And you know, the hotsy lovah (I feel pressured to say that).

If you recall from Part 1, I had big plans for getting a snoot full to kick off Thanksgiving Weekend, and it was the prime motivator for me to step up my cleaning on Tuesday.

By the time I’d worked a jam-packed day on Wednesday, came home and started to prep for meal planning by sautéing and chopping and blending and mashing. That led to more cleaning and washing and wiping and rinsing. By the time the “party” hour rolled around, I was bushed and gave up the dream of being part of the drunken foray at the local watering hole and my bed was calling my name.

Because I’m fiddyone now. It’s a love-hate relationship I’m now having with myself. I seek the potential fun of going out, but I want to do it in my pajamas and from the comfort of my bed.

So my big plans became a nice shower, bed and the endless loop of Planes, Trains & Automobiles on the telly.

At around 12:30 a.m. or thereabouts, MM turned the sound down on the telly and poked me and said,  “Did you hear that?”

TBB, having done all this the night before replied, “Yep. Cats.”

About ten minutes or so later, MM paused the telly again and inquired, “Do you hear THAT?? Look out your window, do you see anything?” As the sound was now coming from the garage side of the house, nearest to me.

I turned my head and looked out my bedroom window, which provides a direct line of sight to the shed:

First I noticed a light reflecting off the bedroom window and knew something was up. Then I saw a BAD GUY standing right there, with the shed door opened up.

I moved like the greased-lightening version of me – which as Joanne has seen once before when we were at an airport and the danger-everyone-evacuate message came on and I was out the door and down the steps before Joanne knew what was happening – this me-version can move, baby – I jumped up from bed, grabbed my phone and whisper-said, “Um, no joke! We ARE being robbed!! There’s a bad guy right outside the window!!”

MM grabbed the gun, I grabbed the phone and called 911 for the second time in as many days.

Bad Guys, take note: We will not hesitate to put the ‘Bang Bang’ in your ass should you decide to come in uninvited.

Now, I know how 911 actually works, at least I think I do, based on all the Forensic Files I’ve studied. But it FEELS like they are wasting a whole lotta time asking a bajillion questions. I went and waited by the front door, to be on the lookout in case the bad guy ran around to the front of the house and to be on the lookout for the good guys arrival.

The 911 caller was asking me if the bad guy was still there, and I couldn’t answer definitively. I couldn’t see him, but he could have been in the dark shadows or in the shed by that time.

An SUV pulled up and I thought maybe it was a get-away car, but then the back door opened and they released the kraken, in the form of a GIANT German Shepard who took off like hells fire down the side yard and rounded the back. The cop was right behind him.

Then we heard A LOT of shouting and growling and rawring and shouts to “GET DOWN or the dog will chew you up!”

I was hoping for some dog-chewing, quite frankly.

Apparently the bad guy was “out of it,” either on drugs or drunk, and didn’t have the forethought to run away, and instead was hiding between the shed and the house.

He was no match for the kraken.

More cops came and swarmed Chez Bang Bang shortly thereafter. And in fact it was several of the same faces from the night before and I actually looked at one, raised a fist in the air and proclaimed that the crazy cat lady has been vindicated!

A few things we found out:

1)There had just been an attempted break-in on a street directly across from our house on the other side of the ravine. The bad guy threw something through a window and tried to get in, but the homeowner thwarted that attempt.

The theory is, it’s the same bad guy, who then jumped down the ravine – a move that would absolutely put me in traction for the rest of my life, because it’s steep as fuck and also includes a lot of pointy and ouchy concrete slabs – and arrived in our backyard.

2) While the bad guy was being handcuffed and taken down the yard, I couldn’t stop myself from yelling out at him, “YOU’RE A BAD PERSON!” I know, those are some strong words right there, but maybe just maybe they will be the push he needs to turn his life around. Because you know, shame.

3) Apparently the bad guy had some choice feelings he expressed, too, along the lines of he hopes all of our families die – the police, us, everyone.

4) My Mister & I are not against a little police roughing-up and I felt this guy should have at the very least been pushed down in the street to skin a knee or something. Apparently the police are “against” this type of behavior in today’s day & age. But I miss the good old days and the stories I used to hear while married to my expoliceman husband, which while not necessarily on this side of legal, may have provided a few ass whoppings that their mama’s didn’t.

5) I know that’s an unpopular opinion with the liberals, of which I mostly am, and I’m not saying he should be killed for his actions, but sometimes a good ass kickin’ is just the right thing to do when you catch a bad guy in the act of being the bad guy.  Of course, I grew up in an age when you could spank a kid. I’m PRO spankings. Under many circumstances. Ahem.

6) One of the same policeman was also the one who we agreed about the three cats. He cracked wise and said something along the lines of only seeing three cats again.

7) The police informed we live in a very liberal city and the bad guy will probably never get any time from his crime. So Baretta is wrong, because you can do the crime and not have to do the time.

8) I may get called to testify, which would be totally exciting for me. I’d have to practice not blurting out things like, “You’re a BAD PERSON!”

9) The cops seemed to think this incident was unrelated to the Tuesday incident, but apparently the bad guy mumbled something about being in the neighborhood the night before. Now, I have no idea why he would offer that up, but that’s what we were told. I told the cops I didn’t think they were unrelated at all, because that’s some strong coincidence.

10) Probably the most disappointed person in this whole story was the Bad Guy, because he broke into Chez Bang Bang’s shed, which only houses a lot of boxes filled with disappointment. In fact, our shed is so full of crap no one wants that we don’t even have a lock on it. Why encourage a bad guy to bust the door, which will end up just costing me money.  I mean, if he were looking for normal garden-type tools he could use as weapons to break windows and ladders to climb into said windows, he was sorely disappointed. We have boxes of shit to sell on Ebay, old cables and DJ equipment that probably doesn’t work, and black widow spiders.

No one won in this story, except for me, a little, because I got that second chance to show the police that #1/ noises are sometimes not the cats and #2/ I DO, in fact, keep a tidy house (sometimes) that doesn’t smell like crazy cat lady lives here.

During the light of morning, my three cats and I took a stroll around to the back of the house to check for any other damage. Toby decided to leave a surprise for any other potential bad guys who mill around between the house and the shed. 

Because that’s where that goes, Creepers.

Scroll To Top