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The Bang Bang Theories

I Beg Your Pardon

So I’ve been doing a little something extra around the bedroom lately, Reader.  Not really in the bedroom, but they say you have to hook your audience with the first line or two, so I figured we’d start with a sentence alluding to sexual things happening around here, and by the time you’ve gotten this far you are sticking around just to see what the hell I’m talking about this time.

You will be won’t be disappointed.

So there’s this crazy-helpful – see, crazy-helpful with a dash makes it a complimentary adjective vs. a condemnation – woman who thinks you need to set your house into zones to keep it clean. She’s known as the Flylady, which is not intuitive to remember at all, because I picture a dirty house with a bunch of flies, so maybe it actually is a really great moniker for her because in all the clutter in my brain I was able to remember her and look her back up to link you to her.

Well, based on some of the pressure helpful advice I read on her website, I incorporated two pieces of her tips into my own chaotic life. First, I added her 5-minute bathroom wipe down on a daily basis. Usually twice a day, because frankly I’m a Messy Marvin in there, and splash water and spill makeup and then there’s the hairsprays and the lotions and other magic potions – well, it takes no time at all for it to become a place that the Flylady would find very disappointing had she ever decided to come hang out in my bathroom.

So I’ve been wiping it all down, and cleaning the mirror. And guess what, Reader?

It’s REALLY fucking helpful, that’s what.

I know! Not the outcome you had hoped for! You had hoped I would report that it’s a giant waste of time and the Flylady could shove her judge-y tips right up her twat, but nope. Her tips are pretty damn solid.

I don’t cringe when I walk into my bathroom! I don’t have a giant bathroom cleaning job saved up for the weekend, which, let’s be honest here, was rarely getting accomplished on a timely basis.

Now, I still have to periodically give the shower a thorough scrubbing, as much as I wish it would just get cleaned from being NEAR the other clean parts, but so far that hasn’t happened.


If you happened over, and people were occupying the other three bathrooms in the house at the same time and you needed to poop, you could walk right into my en suite (see what I did there, Reader?? I got all fancy-sounding like I’m on House Hunters! I blame it on the high I’m on from cleaning fumes) and take that poop without shame. Well, I wouldn’t feel the shame if you had to poop in my en suite.  You might, but really you shouldn’t unless you plugged it up and it overflowed. Then, maybe a little shame should be felt. But I don’t have any shame, and it’s all thanks to the Flylady and a few microfiber towels I keep at the ready.

The other zone that I’ve accepted that needs to be cleaned on a daily basis is the cat litter box room. My three *ahem* cats are filthy, and my trying to even skip one little day creates a bigger mess, and turns a ten minute job into a really yucky job. So this year I just decided, “Fuck it, I guess this is my other zone,” and I scoop and sweep and mop on a daily basis, usually right when I get home to get it out of the way or before bed, because nothing is quite as relaxing as cleaning up cat pee and poop and then jumping into bed for a relaxing night of zzzz’s.


Now you’ve had just one more glimpse into my Glamour Life. And also, now you know why I drink.

*now, it has dawned on me that some of you would never even consider NOT cleaning your bathroom/floors/what-the-fuck-evers on a daily basis. It’s just what you do. So pin a rose on your nose, Show-off.

**my mother was a daily floor-mopper, bathroom cleaner, duster, and general tidy house-keeper. But she also didn’t work til six at night!

***my mother also used the saying “Well, pin a rose on your nose” all the time, and I think it’s time to bring it back.

****if you don’t know what the saying means, go look it up while I’m pinning a rose on my own nose for knowing something you don’t.


Sunday Funday Leads to Monday. Soon. But Not Just Yet.

I just cannot even believe we’re here already, on Sunday night, Reader. And what have we accomplished, I ask you.  I mean, nicely and without any sort of condemnation in my tone, because just because I haven’t accomplished much doesn’t mean you haven’t, amiright.

I’m right.

So I’m not here to judge you very much because that’s not what we do – we do the opposite here, complete trust falls – in our minds, anyway. We can’t actually do trust falls with each other unless you come over, which of course you’re more than welcomed to, unless – as we’ve established numerous times here – unless you’re a bad guy. Then, stay away.

My Mister and I went to a very late lunchio today, and it was the surprise fun time of my weekend. I don’t normally mention other people’s business, except this business became my business, when a stranger-man came up to me in the restaurant and in an excited voice asked if he was in the presence of the Great-And-Famous-Amongst-Dozens-Trixie-Bang-Bang, and so I had my first sighting as the local celebrity that I am. I signed his chest in red lipstick as his souvenir. Except that part didn’t really happen, because it was a set-up by his girliefriendie, who is also my friendie, and I appreciated her effort at this little interlude because it made me lol, and then we schooched over and ordered drinks and proceeded to tell the Untold Stories of Trixie Bang Bang, which may or may not have included embarrassing stories of bodily functions, with the sort of sharing that is usually reserved for more-than-the-first-time-meetings and accompanied by many many more drinks. But it was as if we had done mental trust falls with each other and so the stories, much to their dismay delight, flowed like the wine that was spilled across the table. Not by me, Reader. Not this time, anyway.

So there.

I do want to say we also had some other fun times this weekend, but this was the surprise fun time.  The other times were planned fun times.

It’s because of those fun times that my floors didn’t get scrubbed this weekend, not even lightly vacuumed. I may go and do that before the night is over so I don’t feel like a totally non-accomplished home owner. Sometimes I don’t think I deserve to even own a house, because ya know what, Reader – it’s hard to carve out the time to do the should-do’s and also the wanna-do’s.

This afternoon I had a call with another one of my friendies and we chatted about creative things and it was really inspiring and then I created a whole entire new business and ordered business cards for it, and also started to re-design a few of my things and yet I still feel as if I didn’t do enough.

I think I’m an overachiever if i can’t take “Create a Whole New Business” as enough of an accomplishment for one day. A procrastinating overachiever, which is really something special, frankly, and takes a lot of extra skill.

But there’s always just too many things on the to-do list.

Bills. Cleaning. Organizing. Putting away. Picking up. Water plants. Cleaning up after cats. t’s tough to make the time for the fun creative things.  Which is why I decided to sit down and write some sort of a story here for you, Reader, despite it not being super exciting stuff, but more “eh, this is life” stuff. Because sometimes the ‘eh, this is life stuff’ is all that you get in the day, and sometimes that is good enough.

UPDATE:: OMG, Reader. I’m going to be insufferable right now. I have POWERED THROUGH a buncha house cleaning.  It is lookin’ shiny like a new penny around here at the moment! Vacuum, dusting, mopping, scrubbing – window cleaning in the bedroom.  BAM!  And I’m not even drunk!! Double-BAM!  I have a smidgen of dusting left to do in the bedroom, then fresh sheets and it is time to hunker down for the night. I just thought I’d take a moment to gloat share with you, Reader.


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She Asks How High

I have very ambitious Life Goals at times, Reader. I realize you may find that hard to believe, considering my propensity for excessive naps with cats, yet I do think a lot about trying new, adventurous things.

Two weeks ago, I sent MM this video, and asked him, “Hey, they are holding classes for this just down the street from our house. It’s as if the Universe is begging me to try it. What do you think my chances are of being able to do this?”

I need an outsiders opinion, because in my mind’s eye, I’m capable of doing a lot of stuff like this:

Pretend This is Me. Because for all you know, it is.


So it’s not that I seek out a dream-dasher, but rather that I NEED someone to help me define the real me and not the fantasy me. Otherwise I could break a hip. A hip-hop-hip-hip-hippity-hop. I could break all those things if I’m not playing with a realistic deck of cards.

I mean, no jokies, my NECK has been stiff on the left side, complete with an ouchy pain every time I move, for several weeks now, most probably from SLEEPING. On my hundred dollar pillow, on my super-comfy king-sized bed with nice sheets and soft blankets. Because that can be so dangerously painful and tricky to get it right, so it’s really no surprise my neck is stiff and ouchy.

Two seconds after I’d sent that video, my phone rang.

MM: “No. Nope. No way.”

TBB: “Well, did you watch the video?? Aren’t you being a little hasty??”

MM: “Did you happen to notice every girl in that video is under the age of 30?? Not one 50-something in that video at. all.”

TBB: “Hm, I hadn’t noticed that at all. A little rude on their part, don’t-cha-think? Do you think that means something??”

MM: “Do you remember that time, several years ago, when you dragged me out in a snowstorm because you had to have the mini trampoline, it was going to revolutionize your workout?”

*let’s be clear, by “revolutionizing” my workout we mean, “maybe working out a little bit on occasion.”

TBB: “Yeah, but….I mean, that was dangerous!”

MM: “You took two hops, almost fell into the television, and had me move it to the basement, where it’s sat untouched for going on three years now.”

TBB: “I guess you’re right, I was a little precarious on that. So what I’m hearing is, I need to try that again, and once I master that, then I should explore the jumping boots.”

MM: “Nope, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying just move on from the whole idea of the jumping boots. You’re good at tv. Do more of that. Or maybe an occasional walk if you must.”

So for the past week I’ve been getting up a little earlier in the morning and making my way to the basement in my bra & undies, and I hang on my inversion table for a spell, to put a little space between my vertebrae and kick out this hip pain I have and also possibly gain the two inches the doctors office seems to think I’ve lost and then I step right up onto the mini trampoline and get some jumps in to start the day. I have worked up to three whole minutes, complete with continuous jumping jacks which lemme tell you, feels like a heart attack is just around the corner.

MM was correct on one point. I am not ready for jumping boots. Yet, Reader.

Yesterday, while driving around I casually mentioned to MM, “I made it the whole week with some jumps on the trampoline, I’m going to be ready for the kangaroo boots by spring.”

MM, with a heavy sigh, “So you’ve still got your sights set on those jumping boots….”

Because he knows what you don’t know, Reader.

He’s going to be the someone who has to pick up the pieces if I ever do try the jumping boots. And those pieces will most likely be in the form of some sort of broken bones.

Don’t confuse being negative with being realistic, Reader. Sometimes someone else needs to point out your limits for you. For two years in a row I’ve had some sort of foot issue that has required surgery and doctors appointments and surprised comments from said doctors about the amount of arthritis and lack of cushion in my joints, which is exactly the reason that jumping boots are the perfect workout for me. Full circle.

If I’ve learned nothing else from watching the Olympics this week, it’s something about the word “can’t.”

Keep Your Eye On the Sparrow

Reader, remember how back around Thanksgiving, we were treated to a turkey who was trying to bust into Chez Bang Bang, but he chose the wrong casa to bust into because our shed has no weapons or tools, but instead just spiders and old broken DJ equipment so jokes on you, Bad Guy?

This year was his year of reckoning, and there have been a couple of court dates, which we have not attended, because we knew nothing was actually going to happen because all he really did was open an unlocked shed and dumped a box of shit we don’t need anyway on the ground. I mean, I’m all for capital PUNISHMENT (see what I did there, Reader?? It’s a clever pun, that’s what that is right there, thanks lotsa sleep & strong coffee) except mostly his punishment should involve coming over and mowing my grass in the spring, if you’re asking me.

And to my surprise, they actually ARE asking me, because I was sent a victim impact statement to fill out which will be read to him on Valentine’s Day, how romantic!, during his probation hearing.

Call me a softie, but I’m kinda thinking three court dates is punishment enough for spilling out a box of junk in my yard. Although he did make me really jumpy for several weeks after, including even last night when I heard some noises I couldn’t blame on cats, but decided to calm the fuck down, Me, and just chalked it up to House Noises because it is cold and icy out in my backyard and NO ONE is there, so go back to watching the Olympics, which is what I did and guess what, I didn’t wake up murdered this morning so it must have been nothing after all.

I am considering filling out this statement, because I’d really like to tell this kid (he’s in his early twenties) a thing or two, you know, like when I yelled at him as he was being cuffed and hauled away, ‘YOU’RE A BAD PERSON!”

I had considered writing on my impact statement, “Just don’t be a dick again.”  But since it’s going to be read to him on Valentine’s Day, I think it would be fitting to write him something a little more poetic.

Roses are Red

Attempted Robbery is Not Cool

Life Has Many Good Options

So Don’t Choose the Ones Where You’re a Dick

I think it has a certain panache.



*of COURSE I’m not actually going to write that. At least probably not.

**If you don’t understand the title of this, you missed out on some memorable 70’s teevee.




Words From The Wise One

Just when I thought I was going along quite strongly in the New Year with being a better connector, Friday thwapped me on the snoot and told me, “Nope.”

I had lunch plans with My Artist. And I knew his birthday was coming up, and since I FAILED last year to put it on my calendar, I asked him at lunch, “So what day is your birfday, I know it’s this month.”

“Today,” he shared so politely – and somewhat smugly – with me.


Let me assure you, Reader, it’s on my calendar now.

I think this example just points to another way in which I’m much more of a giver than most other people. I POLITELY and CONSISTENTLY announce my birthday month at the KICKOFF of the month. No one has to ask, and risk missing showering me with messages and cards and cakes. I do it for YOU, Reader, because as I’ve said before and will say many times again and again, I’m a GIVER and NOT a knowledge hoarder!

Keeping your birthday a non-announced event basically ensures your losing out on a caking opportunity, which is really the saddest loss of all (except for actual real losses, but let’s just talk about missed opportunities for your mouth).

So now it’s back to the drawing board with trying to stay on top of February Events.

Today is my youngest nephews 24th birthday, and I have been pleasantly shocked that he has invited me to dinner. Yes, dinner that I’m going to pay for, but it’s actually very gracious of him to spend his weekend birthday night with me and I ENJOY treating people to acknowledge their special life events. It makes me happy, and it’s also one of the things I keep telling the Universe lately: “I have enough money to do all the treating and gifting I desire,” and then I keep myself open to receiving said funds to do so. The Universe is falling a little short on it’s part of the bargain, but I’m not going to live with Scared Money any longer.

Oh, what is scared money, you ask? Well, let me tell you a little story. I mean, that’s why we’re here, amiright?

My friendie from way back in the olden days, let’s call her Becky (because that is her name), and I used to be big ol’ Bingo Players. We were the twenty-year-olds at the Bingo Parlor, and man-o’-fuck was it F.U.N. Friday night at Bingo or a Bar? Bingo, yes and thank you! We sometimes took my mom, too, and made it a full-on girls night out, because that’s how bitchez in their twenties roll.  At least the super cool ones.

Anyway, Becky would buy instant pull-tab tickets like a mad-woman, and I would follow suit as I could, and then once when I was a little hesitant with my finances, Becky grabbed my arm, looked me straight in the eye and informed me with the seriousness as if she were revealing the seven secrets of the universe, “You can’t play with scared money. Scared money never wins.”

Scared money never wins.

And also, My Artist revealed to me some big effing news I missed in December, which is that UFOs have been acknowledged by the Pentagon, and why in the hell isn’t THIS in the news as much as which porn star Trump slept with I’ll never know, but it points to the fact that life is just one giant game filled with man-made rules and currencies and treat it as such and it’ll be a lot more fun, until the Aliens invade. Then? Anything goes. So in the meantime, stop playing with scared money. Feel free to replace the word “money” with whatever it is that is holding you back.

Stop playing with fears of what other people think. Stop playing with the fear of success. You get the picture.

Scared money never wins, Reader.

Oh, and PS, she DID win, an inexplicable number of times. And yes, I also won big money enough times to be happy about it. 


Things to Do in Fiddy-Two

Here we are, with the first of February finding us a month into the new year. And what have I accomplished so far, Reader?

Well, certainly not a lotta writing right here for ya. But you know that already and I know your month has been lacking as a result. Humor me, Reader. It’s how we friendship.

While I never quite got around to a written list of resolving, I did make a few mental checklist items, and I’m still truckin’ along.  I’m calling the list The Fiddy-Two. Because it’s things I hope to do in the next 52 weeks, which also corresponds to oh-my-eff-ing-lawd I’m going to be 52 this year. See, synchronicity, Reader. That’s how that works. Or something.

One thing I wanted to do was be a better stay-in-touch-er. Because that makes me happy. So I’m writing my dad on a weekly basis, because calling is often more difficult. He has a tough time hearing me on the phone, and usually timing is just off. I figure, Hey, I work at the Card Mines. I’m surrounded by cards. I’ve discovered The Best Pen in the World That’s Also Affordable. Write him a note, Me. And that’s what I’ve done, weekly now, and it’s just a little nothing of a note filled with words about the minutia of my week, sans stories about where the cats have peed lately, because we aren’t speaking that into the Universe for fear that the Universe may misinterpret it as a cry for more.

We have more than enough cat pee, Universe. In case we weren’t clear on that point.

I also said hi, hello to new opportunities in January. And I plan to keep up that pace, because it’s usually fun and why not. As a result I’ll be re-connecting with a girl I met once in real life, on a trip to Alaska, and we’ve both said Yes to the Dress, which in this case the Dress is actually a week-long stay at an all-inclusive on Turks and Caicos. Let me also state for the record that this is exactly my favorite kind of dress.

How do we know we’ll get along in person for seven days? Well, firstly, Reader, in case you didn’t know it, I am fun AF. Usually. And then to cement the deal I told her, “Well, be warned, I’ve been told I’m a snore-er” to which she replied, “Fuck it, I wear a sleep apnea mask,” so I’d say we’re a match made in heaven if heaven is full of snorers who momentarily die in their sleep throughout the night.

p.s. Reader, I’m currently drinking rum from the island of Bermuda from when I was there last June and it is a fucking delight on my tongue on this first day of February. This Goslings rum? Is also good AF. 

Last night I had the very fortunate opportunity to catch up with my childhood friend from 5th grade and beyond. Or 6th grade. Maybe 6th grade. I can’t remember, I’m old and drunkish.

Anyway, I super love her and it was nice, although – and I know this is going to come as a surprise to you – sometimes my mouth will. not. stop. talking.  I just said words and words and words and words and teared up at times and kept saying words. I think it’s because she’s a counselor/therapist and has too good of a way about her of listening. So basically I blame her, which I’ll then blame that statement on the alcohol, so no ownership, yay me!

Other things I did in the first month of the new year include almost reaching my goal of reading one book per month – which isn’t even a lofty goal, yet somehow I was unable to summit that mountain. Because usually I’m tired, or watching too many episodes of Forensic Files. But I at least am reading more than I did last year, so I put that in the Win pile of my mind’s list.

By the way, I’m reading The Paris Wife, which now has me completely enamored with finding out more about Hemingway, and I want to go back to Key West – where I just was in December! – and re-visit Hemmy’s house and really gawk around at the pictures in there. I’ve been three times already, which is why we didn’t do it again in December, except now I’d have a new appreciation for all the little tidbits and factoids the tour guide would share. And also he’s kindof a jerk who for some really weird reason wanted to box all his friends, and I blame that one-thousand-percent on the fact that they didn’t have t.v., so right there is just one more reason television is great. It keeps the men from just stripping off their shirts after dinner and boxing each other. No one wants to see that, Testosterone Guys.

That’s not all that happened in this first glorious month of the brand-spanking new year, but it’s enough to talk about for now. Mostly because see above: drinking rum, and Forensic Files isn’t going to watch itself this evening.

Your turn, Reader. What exciting thing happened for you in January? Let’s celebrate the Wins, no matter how big or small.


The “F” in Diet

Where are we at in this New Year, Reader?  Twenty days into the new year, have you made resolutions that are helping you to be your best you? I started to very loosely strictly follow The F-Factor Diet, because they had me at hello:



As one may guess, I’m really focused on all of those points above. I’m doing a GREAT job at it, actually.

Per the nitty-gritty of the plan, I’ve also become hyper-focused on eating foods with a lot of fiber, targeting at least 35 grams a day, which is frankly very difficult to achieve unless you are hyper-focused on the fiber content of foods.  This is where I bow to the gods who created Fiber One (p.s.- click that link, it’s a really funny story) the long-forgotten cereal I enjoyed when I weighed 120 lbs back in my much much much much younger days. I was a Fiber One-er back in my heyday (as in “hey, girl, hey!” day)

and yet I somehow just abandoned the good things it did for me and moved on to more (actually, less) shitty options.  I’m the hey, girl, hey with the darker hair and the non-vampy pose.

Now, I don’t attribute all that to Fiber One. I exercised, ran on the cross-country team, exercised some more, did hundreds of sit-ups every day on my bedroom floor, and I was like, seventeen.

The long & lanky one next to me, with the sassy pose like she knows what she’s doing, she just opened her own psychology practice. Standing next to her, my very boring pose shows exactly why I never made it as a super model. That’s the only reason.

Time marches on and many things change, including my not-seventeen-year-old bikini body.

However! I’ve added Fiber One back into my day since the beginning of the new year, and I swear-to-fuck, my pants this week were looser. Now, my eating patterns have been modified as a result of trying to cram in a lotta fiber, and I feel much fuller for longer during the day, so I’m sure that is also playing a part. In fact, when I don’t have my nutritionally dense cereal with milk and greek yogurt and raspberries, I am much less satisfied throughout the day and hungry a lot more quickly. So there’s something to this whole eat a buncha fiber thing.

So basically that’s how I’m following the F-Factor diet. I’m eating a buncha fiber. I’m continuing to drink alcohol, dine out, have some carb (although they are mostly of the high-fiber variety), and go to the gym not at all less as directed by the F-Factor diet recommendations. Because I’m nothing if not a tee-totaler-rule-follower. Ahem.

And that’s how we win at dieting. You’re welcome.



Things I Like and You Might, Too.

Reader, I have to get in a second post today so I can test out my new subscribe-via-email thingamajig, it deploys again tonight at 10 p.m., but only if I have something new.

So I’ve decided to share some things I’ve liked in 2017 with you.

But before I do that, I just want to complain for a minute, about how come I’m often on the tail-end of learning about things that other people know for a long time and knowledge-hoard?? For instance, NO ONE – until recently – told me that to combat massive tangles in my hair, to put a Wet Brush in my shower and brush my conditioner through my wet hair, which is much easier than trying to drag a brush through the birds nest that seems to evolve after I get out of the shower. Plus, it keeps it smoother, it dries easier and is overall much much better.

Not a one of you told me to do that, Reader, and for this I blame you.  It took a random trip to a Best Cuts for a blowout for the stylist to tell me it would probably help my tangle-y hair. And she was correct, despite my almost not taking her advice because she smelled like cigarette smoke. Yes, that was almost my deciding factor to trust in her or to not. I never said anything here makes sense, Reader.

In addition to that step, Part Two that I’ve added to the shampooing/conditioning routine was investing in a $6 microfiber hair towel, which I wrap my hairs up in after showering, and it gets a lot of the extra damp out and contributes to a much shorter drying time.

And now I’m officially a Beauty Blogger. BOOM!

Since  I have a newly found status, I may as well share another beauty tip with you.

This is great info for my man reader. You’re welcome.

I learned this from my super-cool Gen Y co-worker at my last company, who shared an inexpensive makeup website which has basically saved me hundreds of dollars, because I haven’t walked into Sephora since.  The makeup website is ColorPop and they have makeup for $5 – nice stuff – and also it’s what all the cool beauty bloggers of Instagram use so you’ll feel like part of the kool kid klub and that? Is priceless. Or at least worth ten bucks.

I’m not a huge fan of their lip stuff, it’s all really matte, and maybe that’s cool when you’re twenty, but my lips like moisture. It’s better for cat-kissing.

So now you’ve learned three good tips from me, and you were thinking that this wasn’t worthy of your time. Now don’t you feel silly.

To Recap:

1/ Trouble with tangles? Stick a wet brush in the shower, brush your conditioner through.

2/ Cut down on the lengthy drying time after shampoo by wrapping your head up in a microfiber drying towel. Use those minutes you save for either more sleep, an extra cuppa morning coffee, or additional cat smooching to start the day.

3/ Wanna try some new makeup without breaking the bank? Go where the kool kids hang out.

And of course I’m not getting any throwback for the reccos. I’m just a giver of info of free, of things I like. Because you might, too, and I may be a lot of things, Reader, but I am not a knowledge hoarder.

I had originally intended to tell you all about the books I enjoyed in 2017, but we never made it there, did we.  Well, there’s still time, it’s a super-short list. I’m no book critic. Just a critic.

Books I read and got something out of in 2017:

1/ You are a Badass. This book? Easy to read, and just a good message to keep yourself grounded in your greatness. If you haven’t heard of the app Overdrive, I also recommend signing up for that – it lets you sign out books from the library to read on your Kindle for free.  I use it all. the time. Because I’m a badass.  And a cheapass. Who uses free library services.

Now, the Badass book needs to come with a companion workbook. So I’ve decided to create my own, as a place to keep working through the lessons. The worst part of reading “better me” books is keeping the momentum going once its over. I need a cliffs notes thing to stay on track with the messages.

2/The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck. First, of course I loved it because it has my favorite profanity in the title – it’s like it was written expressly for me. Second, it had really good messages in there. Again, it could use a companion workbook because frankly once I’m done reading a book it’s very hard for me to remember all the little tidbits and lessons. Because I’m old and have a short attention span.

Basically, when I write my book it’ll have a companion workbook with it. Even if it’s just a book about cats, I’ll have a companion book of cats to accompany you, and it may even come with a live cat if you’re lucky.

Speaking of cats, what’s up with all these cities getting “pop up cat cafes” – I totally figured that would be a short-lived fad, but it seems to be growing in popularity. I’d call them ‘catfes’ however, because more accurate. I basically have a cat cafe – you can stop in, get free wi-fi, have a cuppa coffee and pet one of my three cats. No one seems to be clamoring to do that, however, which is why you can understand my surprise that these seem to be a thing people want to do.

Alrightie, I think that’s all the recommendations we can handle in one post. Plus, I can’t remember anything else I read or tips I’ve learned. So there’s that.

What did you love in 2017, Reader? Other than me, that is.

Share! Don’t be accused of being a knowledge hoarder, which Kenny has been called on more than one occasion, mostly when he just grabs and does all the remote things with the tv and then I can’t watch it without him because he hoards all the knowledge on how to turn everything on.

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I’m a-moving on up. Just like the Jeffersons.

We’re getting hi-tech over here at Chez Bang Bang, Reader.

I’m working on adding a “subscribe via email” section so you never have to miss a word. Because that? Would be totally tragic, no hyperbole there.

Sign up.  You won’t need to wait on Facebook to find out What’s Happening.

You’ll only get an email when there’s a new post. No spam-sies.

The first time I went to add the code for this I crashed the entire website. It was a good time. Especially for her Website Genius who received a frantic message, but he was able to reboot her back into business. Because his last name is Genius.

And then he told the non-tech girl, “Give me a heads up if you’re going to touch your stuff again.”

But I didn’t this time because I think I’ve grown smarter overnight. I read a tutorial and everything.

I’ve got a test email going to myself. I needed a new post for it to engage. So that’s why we have this buncha nothing. But for realz, subscribe if you’d like. Who knows how long I’ll be around Facebook in the New Year.  I’ve got Big Creative Plans I’m working on and need to cut the fat somewhere. And I’m not starting with the butter I smeared on my Storm-Warning Nutroll.

What in the world is a Storm-Warning Nutroll, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. When we got the word yesterday that an ice storm was descending upon us and we were dismissed from the Card Mines early, my first emergency-preparedness stop was at the bakery, and then the convenience store for coffee creamer. If I’m going to be snowed in, I’m going to be snowed in with better-than-homemade nutroll and copious cuppsa joe.

And that’s exactly what’s happening here today.


Won’t Take Nothing but a Memory…

I’ve been a-thinking, Reader, and there seems to be a pattern: I get the woe-is-me-bluesies after the holidays, probably every year. I know I’ve been here before, same timeframe, same sads. I had a whole 365 days and haven’t done anything noteworthy. I get all reminiscent like an old sailor*

*that was the actual “use it in a sentence” sentence on the interwebs. 

and then I get the bluesies. Reader, did you know my mama died 12/26 – the day after Christmas?

No, not THIS year, way back in the olden days of the 1990’s.  Maybe that’s one of the reasons I liken to an old sailor this timeah year.

She just died right in my arms, the day after Christmas. Her dying words to me were aggravated-sounding, as if I were bothering her from getting where she needed to go. Because I was, shaking her back to the NOW, or at least trying to.

But it was not to be, she only got 59 years on this planet, which isn’t all that old, because while I’m not going to name names here because I’ll get punched in the tits tomorrow because a lady** never tells another lady’s** age, let’s just say that someone I know just turned that very same age, and I only point that out so we can all feel how young 59 actually is.  It’s YOUNG. If that’s my same fate, I only get 8 more years to fuck off be a super-productive member of society. Now don’t you feel a little bit assholie, for ever thinking a bad thought about me? I’ve been dealt HARD HANDS, Reader. I should be treated with kid gloves.  At least from Nov-Feb.  The rest of the time you can think I’m an assholie.

**that I’m referring to either one of us as a “lady” is a spectacular liberty I’m taking with language!

So anyway, that’s probably one of the contributing factors for me getting the sads, and it’s been sticking around and making me put on my pjs and just go to bed when I get in the door at night. Last night being a prime example, where I was in bed at 7 p.m. and barely budged except for water, pee and more pee.  And I still struggled to get outta bed this morning, so this sad is being extra aggressive.

Except! This morning I decided Fuck You, Sads, and I made a decision to do something productive tonight so that I’ll feel like I’m in control and getting my chaotic personal life under control. I’m much better with things once I make a list. Life is do-able once a list is in place.

Instead of doing the one actual less-fun thing on my list that I really need to be doing, here I sit, writing you a love letter. A really badly written love letter, because it’s not even about you at all. It’s about me and my life things. So maybe it’s just a love letter ABOUT me, to you.

One of the things I old-sailor reminiscent-ed up about was thinking about some of my past homes.  Places I’ve lived at different times in my life, and thanks to zillow, it’s easier than ever to stroll through the houses that built me.

This was the first house I ever lived in. It was a tinyish house, tiny for a family of five by today’s standards. House Hunters wouldn’t be able to wipe their asses in this size house.

The window in the front, between the huge giant overgrown bushes was my bedroom window.

I think this is the correct shot of the room.

My bed was in the same spot, but sirriously, it was MUCH BIGGER than this. I mean, there was just tons of space for a girl to build a Barbie Dream House out of shoe boxes, and have a little table set up for playing school, and a little cardboard kitchen and a record player once I got a little older. It was big enough to hold all that, and a skating rink.

The floors were hardwood, and I remember one time, because I had a minor obsession with skating, I used furniture polish to turn the floors into my personal rink.

And then my younger, unsuspecting brother came running in with socks on, and slid from the doorway to underneath a small blue table I had there next to the bed. I think I might have gotten spanked after that and told never to spray furniture polish on the floors again.

The big window opposite of my bedroom window was the formal living room area. It had the same oakhardwood floors that were in my bedroom, and housed the “nice” furniture which was a nubby scratchy nylon purple-ish grey formal sectional thing that nobody ever sat on. Probably because it was super-scratchy feeling. The hardwood gleamed underneath it, because my mama waxed it about once a week (hell, it could have been once a year for all I truly know, my old-sailor memory seems to think it was part of the routine).

The room is crowded with awful artwork and carpeted over.

I would loved to have done a side-by-side, room-by-room age-gap analysis (because that sounds so fun, huh, Reader!) of “then and now” but I have very few pictures.  But! I did happen to jog my old-sailor memory and recalled I had this one photo upstairs, so I got up and exercised ran quickly lumbered upstairs and it was right where I thought.

This is that same room from above, the stereo is the wall with the couch underneath the picture.  You can see the hardwood, but that’s about all. Of the room, anyway.You can also see Adorable Me, with my bikini body and my same stance. And my pudgy little legs and knees. Still have those, too. You are who you are, am-i-right, Reader.

That little room jutting off on the side of the house was the “tv” room. It had a green leather sofa and a recliner and a rabbit-earred tv that we’d all gather round and watch as a family. There was a screened in porch off the back, where I’d camp sometimes in the summer on an old army cot with an extra-horrible wool army blanket my dad gathered up for me. I know he didn’t do that with malice – at least I sure hope not because that’s awful to do to a seven year old – but fuck-to-this-day, I hate wool! I would toss and turn on that awful cot with that even more awful blanket, sweltering in the summer heat but damned if I was going to give up and come in and admit I didn’t have what it took to rough it.

My my my, how times have changed, huh, Reader. Because that is the same girl that CRIED that one time when I booked an interior stateroom on a cruise ship and would have sold Kenny’s left nut for an upgrade, had one been available.

So I spent a little bit of time scruitinizing the pictures on zillow, down to the room layouts, paint colors and decorating choices, and tried to remember how it looked when it was home to Lil’ BangBang.

I looked at the indoors and the out. What happened to  my mama’s rose garden (gone), the pool (gone), the four pear trees that did nothing but attract bees (gone), the crooked stones of the walkways (about the same), the basement shower (gone), the scary-ass preserves room in the basement, which was always several degrees colder and spider-webby and there was a curtain I think over the doorway that you’d have to push into and hope a web wasn’t on it, and I hated it when I was asked to go down and get some green beans or whatever was needed for that night’s supper, but I went anyway because back in my day, kids did what their parents told ’em to do, even it the scary-ass nightmares of that room stayed with her for the next one hundred years.

I didn’t see any pictures of that on the web. Because no one wants to advertise their scary-ass rooms as a selling feature.

The house is for-sale, if I were to purchase it my zestimate for a monthly payment would be $263/month. Which seems pricey by comparison of when I went next to look up the last house I lived, when I lived in Cleveland.

That? Broke my heart a little, because all the love and elbow grease that went into restoring it and fixing it up? Gone. A shabby, unloved, broken down version of the house I sold.

A shutter is missing from the upstairs window. That whole upstairs span of windows is the master bedroom, it was really big for an old city house.

Of course we put up the little decorative fence. Because I wanted to cute it up at the holidays.

Now? It’s missing spindle tops. No one cares.

That garage?? I can’t. even. The backyard was tiny, but cute.  I remember spending a few days one summer painting that garage. Wild mint grew behind it and we’d pick it and make mint iced tea throughout the summer.

Two trash cans tucked neatly inside the garage, never just shambled up all over the yard.

It recently sold for $18,000.  I sold it in 2005 or 2006 for just under $100,000. Right before the housing market burst, which was one of the perfect-timing moments in my life.

I don’t think I have any photos of it when I lived there, which is odd, but I can’t even think of where they could be if I had any. That’s one more difference between then and now – life didn’t have to be daily documented. Now? I have plenty of interior photos of my current house, just from photographing cats, myself and various shenanigans.

That’s the story of some of the nostalgia I had intended to post last month, but I just couldn’t seem to get around to it. Maybe Christmastime isn’t the time to spend waking memories. Memories can either be friend or foe, and while it seems innocent enough to look up houses you’ve lived in before, a lot of memories come with it.

My mama for one.

Playing and dreaming and singing out the bedroom window, chasing fireflies up and down that uneven walkway.

Working and planning and loving and moving on and letting go and finding yourself along the way. Even when you sometimes have to look underneath that heap of sad, you’re still there because you were built on unshakable solid ground.



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