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The Bang Bang Theories

On The Road Again, Day 1

Reader, I’ve started my career as a one-tank-trip reporter except 1/ No one is paying me for my experience, 2/ So far it’s more than one tank, and 3/ I’m really not great at roadtrips that last more than two hours. That’s about my threshold.

Today was my first day on the move towards my friendie JodyGirlie (that’s her official blogging nickname) and let’s give it all a quick recap.

1/ I am not an early starter on road trips, when I don’t have an agenda or anyone else depending upon me to be somewhere. I didn’t get actually ON THE ROAD towards upstate NY until close to 2 p.m. I know, I know. My target time was 10 a.m. I’m not sure exactly what happened.

2/ At my one-hour-forty in, I decided to stop to stretch my legs, and conveniently I was right by Presque Isle Casino, so what better place for clean bathrooms, free coffee and a hot second of video poker.   As actual luck and not just the saying “as luck would have it,” I skipped on outta there with $100+ ahead in no time flat. Because that’s how we do it like a badass.

3/ Based on my experience eating on the road during my last road trip to Chicago, I became my Grandmother and packed myself a peanut-butter-and-peach-jalapeno-jelly sandwich (which frankly was quite spicy and maybe not the best jelly choice, Reader)  to eat on the road. Those rest stop places really did not impress me last month. I also brought fresh cantaloupe, a plum, a banana, some candy, two bottled waters, a Coke Zero to make my in-room rum & coke, which I’m enjoying right this very minute, and a couple of “complete nutrition” protein drinks just in case I found myself getting a little peckish.

I was peckish.

I am peckish.

Because I picked a crap hotel high on a hill in Farmington due to the ‘it’s-getting-late-and-it’s-raining’ hour and there is NO FOOD that delivers to this Finger Lakes Hotel, and the restaurant closed early due to lack of patrons. Instead I’m enjoying my rum & coke, my plum and my cantaloupe.

Good thing this hotel comes with a continental breakfast in the morning, and I plan on eating ALL OF THE BAGELS and ALL of the other foods there out of SPITE starting at 7 a.m.

4/ Why am I going to Spite Eat, you ask? Well, let me shed a little light on that for you, Reader. At the risk fo this being a long long story, the cliff’s notes version is I pulled off and decided to “wing it” at a hotel instead of going to my planned-in-my-head destination in BALDWINSVILLE because I must be a part-owner of that town and therefore should visit my property, except I was still an hour out at 8 p.m. and it started to rain and so why not here.

I found the Finger Lakes Hotel which sounded nice enough, it’s high up on a hill and not near a motherfucking other thing. Plus it was cheapish, $86.50 to be exact, which was less than my casino winnings and therefore free with money left over.

Except. I went to the room, and there were a bunch of people drinking and carrying on in the parking lot, and a lot lot lotta empty beer cases were strewn about right outside the steps to my room. I decided to just take my purse and go check it out, and it was dark and dirty complete with other people’s hair in the sink, and it has a movable air conditioning unit sitting in the room with a big vent thing going out the window, and preventing the window from closing. The bed looked …. not great. I turned on my phone flashlight to check for bedbugs, and it looked clean enough but I was still quite hesitant.

After a moment of thought I decided to just go get my money back and truck on down the road.

That’s when All The Troubles began. All of them. Every. Single Trouble. And my decision to Spite Eat in the morning.

Because they said nope, no refundies.  The manager wouldn’t even get on the phone, she just texted the girl who was working the desk with a nope. It got so bad in that lobby I ended up calling the police PURELY to inconvenience everyone and make the girl cry, which it did. The police guy showed up and said he can’t do anything about it – of course he can’t – and I’ll have to file a civil suit, so I demanded the managers name – it’s ALECIA STEPHENSON and she’s on Facebook and she’s a C.U.N.T. by the way, and then I demanded a new room since I wasn’t getting a refund and told her that I’d be down in the morning and eating $86 worth of all the free breakfast.

That Alecia Stephenson is going to RUE the day she wouldn’t give me my refund, once the wrath of my vast readership boycotts this hotel and trolls her on social media (go ahead, Reader, give her hell!).

I don’t really even know how trolling works, but I may figure it out. Unless that means I have to reinstate my Twitter account. I’m not doing that.

I also made a big stink that of course I wasn’t staying at this shithole, but then my new room? Was actually updated. Had I gotten the decent room first a whole lotta drama coulda been avoided.

But seriously, what kind of customer service is it that I couldn’t get my money back after looking at the room? There was nothing in the paperwork that said no refunds or final sale. So if I had opened the room and it just had a big steaming pile of shit on the bed, oh well?  I’ve decided it’s some podunk-town shit and I even told the girl something like, “maybe you should look for a job someplace where you could have some pride in where you work,” and the police man yelled at ME and said “Enough!” and I thought FUCK YOU, civil rights, but I didn’t say that because I’m too far from home and don’t need to go to jail for being lippy.

My Mister called me a little while ago and begged me not to eat all the bagels in the morning.  I can’t commit to that, but he’s nervous they’re going to have the police watching the buffet for bagel over-takers, and if they did my god that would really be something!

After all that lobby drama I figured I’d better not head out to try to find food somewhere and that’s why I’m having rum for dinner.

5/ The saddest part of my whole journey was when I passed a sign announcing the Jello Museum, and it was too late to visit and learn about the history of jello. Because I totally would have been there, and then probably would have had a whole different hotel and wouldn’t be forced on principle to have a carb overload in the morning, so basically it’s the Jello Museum’s fault for not being opened past 4 p.m. as to why I’m going to be bloated up on bread tomorrow.

You better believe I’m already planning to hit that up on my return trip, Exit 47, baby. Exit 47 is where the magic happens.

6/ I plan on taking the toilet paper tomorrow, too. Yes, out of spite.

7/ When I was in the lobby complaining, some guy showed up and looked really uncomfortable and when she asked what he needed he said, “Uh, a plunger. My dad clogged up the toilet.”  She had to send maintenance to deal with that shit.

8/ Dealing with that bitch manager of this place made it really crystal clear to me how things with Thelma and Louise escalated so quickly. If I had dynamite, I’d probably throw a stick of it over my shoulder on my way out of town tomorrow, too.

9/ No, that’s not over reacting, it’s completely justified especially when your dinner is rum.

10/ Basically there is nothing I need to visit in this particular region of the world ever again because I’m now super-soured on the Farmington and this little surrounding area because people around here are assholes. Except I need to visit that Jello Museum. There’s always room for a little Jello.*

*yes, I went there. It begged for it.

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What I’ve Had In My Mouth Lately

Reader, while I may not be going to a traditional job each day, I am making each day a learning opportunity. Because continuing education is very important for personal development.*

*see how I can still sound all corporate-y?? skillz, yo.

What I’ve learned today is that I do, in fact, dislike pesto. It’s no longer a mystery, I have reached a definitive conclusion on the subject.

Pesto has been like curry for me.  Everyone talks it up to such a degree that surely I’m missing something, and so I keep trying.

And trying.

And trying.

Because my mouth is not a quitter.

Until it finally quits.

I’ve had restaurant pesto, and World Market pesto, and other pestos and today I made my own to see if perhaps that’s the missing link to my liking pesto.

When my kump’ney was over last weekend, she and I took a trip to the Market and she was super-excited to find garlic scapes to make garlic scape pesto with. So I followed suit and figured THIS must be the missing link to my liking pesto.

I’ve been on a cooking-at-home spurt because finances, and even though we had enough cheesy potatoes and stuffed peppers to have as leftovers today, I decided it was the time to use the garlic scapes before they went to waste.

I followed a recipe and everything, except I followed one with a twist, using pistachio’s instead of pine nuts. I like both nuts equally, and thought the garlicky scapes might blend well.

I loosely chopped up the scapes, threw all the ingredients into the Vitamix and whirled.

And it got thick.

And glumpy.

I drizzled in the oil.

It was still glumpy.  And a little stringy looking from the scapes.

I added in more oil.

And an uncalled for squirt of lemon because it felt like it needed it.

Then a few basil leaves because after first taste, it still needed something else.

More salt was added.

I was not feeling confident in this but forged ahead with my spaghetti noodles and got those going on.

My Mister walked into the kitchen and declared it smelled like a garlic whorehouse.*

He didn’t really say anything that creative, but we’re taking creative liberties here.

*I’m not sure what a garlic whorehouse would exactly smell like, other than a lot lot lot of garlic covering up the smell of disillusionment.

Finally I determined that was as good as the garlic scape pesto was going to get, and mixed it all up with the noodles.

My Mister: “It looks good.”

Me: “It’s still glumpy. I don’t know how to make it less glumpy. Is it supposed to be glumpy???”

My Mister: “Well, I wish I could stay and try some, but I’ve gotta run off to work!”

Do we think that was a coincidence, Reader??

I mashed it around in the noodles with a fork and decided to get a back-up plan in place in the form of a piece of toast (from the toaster oven, not an actual toaster because remember I can’t have one because cats) and added lotsa lotsa butter to the toast with fresh garlic and a slice of provolone and toasted that up.

Taking my little dinner out to the deck to give it some ambiance didn’t help.

I’m not saying it’s awful. For weirdos folks that enjoy pesto, it’s probably quite tasty.

But Trixie Bang Bang had BLECK to say about it, and finished up her cheesy garlic toast and threw her plate of pesto right in the trashie can because did she mention BLECK??

Now SHE ….. er I … smell like a garlic whorehouse and my tongue tastes like the garlic is never ever ever going to come off it.


I am going to try to drown the taste of that glumpy blecky pesto with my pineapple coconut cake that I made this afternoon too.  Well, I’m in the process of frosting it up. In the process of my continuing education, I’ve learned that I also did not adequately space out the pineapple filling, and feel like I’m missing a frosting layer somewhere inside there, but I’m not sure where or how.

Additionally, the recipe never once suggested that I’m going to have all these uneven layers and I have no idea how that’s going to become a same-depth cake edge, but I guess I’ll be using that frosting like mortar and practice my masonry skills.

Because I take my education seriously, Reader. And my cakes.

But we both know that already, don’t we.

To recap, we’ve learned today that pesto is blecky, the same as curry, and cake filling spacing is challenging.

I think that’s a lotta learning for one day. I’ve put my tongue through a lot today.

No wonder I’m tired.

Weep for the Willow

Once upon a time last week, a young shut yer mouth girl was sitting on the deck minding her very own business and enjoying a large cuppa black* coffee and listening to the birds sing and she was startled plumb up outta her seat by the sound of the world ending in her very own backyard.

*i’ve been drinking my coffee black ever since I completed the Whole30 diet, which was completed in 5 days, because I’ve an overachiever. except I don’t drink it black if I have my sweet jizzy coffee creamer on hand.

When she leaped up like a startled gazelle and looked over the rail of the deck, she quickly noticed that where once stood a tall and hardy willow tree*, was now an upended trunk with roots asunder and a brand new canopy of leaves to dangle over the ravine.

This used to be an upright situation.

*the roots of the willow trees are super shallow and basically suck, why are these planted in my backyard??

In other words, I got the holy-smokes-Batman crap scared outta me when a giant tree just fell right on over from my backyard’s edge, crashed through some smaller trees, took them out in the process because obvi dead trees love company, and now it’s hanging on by a thin thread over the babbling brook.

Perfectly well and good smaller tree until the big mean tree knocked it out. Now it’s a cat balance beam, being used by Nadia Cat-maneci.

All that on a clear and bright summer morn*, with no wind nor rain to hasten the falling leading up to any of the commotion.

The good-ish news is, the remaining willows that border the backyard mostly lean into the ravine as well, except for one big one that looks like it would be happy to fall right into the corner of my house, demolishing the living room in the process.

It seems steady for now, but frankly so did this other one, which is why it came as quite a surprise to Trixie BB that bright and cheery July morning when it just uprooted itself right in front of her ears.

So that’s what goes on around Chez Bang Bang when nature thinks no one is listening.


Much Too Young (to feel this damn old)

Reader, I’ve got kump’ney coming tomorrow and a little shindig we’re throwing on Saturday and because of all that you know I have to repaint the house, build an addition and homeschool the cats into looking like a well-behaved clowder.

Everyone got a brushing on the deck earlier this week. To feign respectability with less dander.

The reason things take me so dern long to get tidied up around here is because I Find Things and then think O’My Law, these things MUST BE SHARED with my adoring public (that would be you, Reader).

So then I’m taking pictures and planning the story and the next thing I know it’s the night before kump’ney is coming and I still have a floor to scrub to get our “fake house” in shape.

Just don’t open any cupboards, closets or drawers, please.

I wish I were exaggerating about how kump’ney motivates me, Reader.

Right now I’m looking at PAINT that needs to be touched up – that I’ve conveniently ignored for several YEARS – but think, “hm, that should really get taken care of tonight!”

Now, it most likely will NOT, and my backup plan is to keep everyone’s glass full up with wine and no one will notice the paint.

Instead of doing any one of the things that should be getting done, though, I determined that this right here needed to be shared.

It’s Young Trixie Bang Bang, way way way a lotta years ago, when she had a Little Dutch Boy haircut

And her infatuation with Garth Brooks during his let’s wear the flag era*

Well, you put those two things together, and here we have young young young skinny-but-she-thought-she-was-fat-my-what-I-wouldn’t-give-to-be-this-“fat”-again Trixie Bang Bang in all her concert finery.

The hair, the shirt and some fifth-row seats, and a SIGN beseeching Garth to SIGN ME, well, it was pert-near a perfect night.

*p.s., I’m still just as infatuated with Garth and wouldn’t be above capturing his eye with matching shirts should our paths cross again.  Because Garth.

Urine Trouble (and no, the cats are not involved this time)

Hi Reader, Happy Friday to you, or just Happy Day if you’re reading this another day.

Join me on the patio for a cuppa joe, why don’t ‘cha, and let’s chat about what’s been going on.

Firstly, I’m happy to report that during my recent bout of unemployment, I have managed to take a shower every. single. day.

I know, right?!

That is some accomplishment around Chez Bang Bang!

Now, I may or may not have been gadding about town without all of my foundational support systems in place, a.k.a., proper bajonga support, but that’s for the neighborhood to worry about and not your problem, Reader.  It’s their nightmare, not yours.

Also, I’ve taken to enjoying my face in it’s natural state during my unemployed status. I’m sort of beginning to like it just fine in as-is condition.

I’ve used my newly free time to mostly sleep in til eleven a.m. … er… I mean being super productive! It’s not even NINE A.M. and we’re on the deck – which I leaf-blowed off already – and we’re typing up words! Talk about progress!!

I also went to Chicago for a quickie trippie, because I thought I was going to be meeting an author who I like, but she decided she had better things to do and was a no-show, which is frankly RUDE and I have vowed when I am famous I will ALWAYS SHOW for my fans! I’m here for you NOW, because I’m a giver!

But all was not lost, and I enjoyed the weekend with my cousin, and also eating pizza and drinking wine and seeing things and I met other nice people that showed up for the No-Show-Jen-Lancaster, yes, I called her out right HERE on this very popular blog.

My biggest takeaway from the trip was learning from my cousin about Groupon Getaways, which is how she and her husband enjoyed a $650 trip to ‘Gina and she advised me if I plan to go I need to get a little more limber because public restrooms involve squatting over a hole in the ground.

After she told me about all the wonders she witnessed while in China, she began that information sharing session with, “Um, also you need to know this. It may be a deal-breaker for you.”

I’m not exactly…bendy.  Or squatty. She saw me in motion over the few days in Chicago, when she was showoffy with her super-bendy knees and squatted for a photo and I sort of had to bend at the waist while pretending to squat. I fooled no one.

I grilled her for more specifics.

“So, how close do you have to get to this hole in the ground??”

“Well, you know…you have to get close enough to not miss the hole. Kinda like camping when you were a kid and had to squat in the woods.”

“Hm.  Well, I was never good at that when I had eight-year-old knees. I used to pee all over the back of my pants.”  And p.s., I have never been much of a camper, either, so I used the more recent memory (of only 20 years ago) of the one time way back in my married life when I was in Texas with my Ex’es (because it rhymes, Reader) and we were drinking in the car from a cooler stuffed with cold brews because it’s TEXAS (except the drinker was not the driver, it was mostly me and his step-mama as the drinkers) and we had to pull over into a scrub-brush area and I had to walk out there by some cactus and hope to Good Garth we didn’t step on a rattler or a fire ant hill, and I had to pee.

I effectively peed on the back of my shorts. Because I’m not good at outdoors.

My cousin concurred it can be a challenge.

With this new knowledge that a cheap trip to China can be had, I came home and have gotten right to work.

I’ve been Youtube-ing how-to-get-bendy-enough-to-pee-in-‘Gina videos and doing them every day this week.  In fact, I did a new 19-minute-get-more-stretchy before I even had my first cuppa coffee today.

What I’ve learned is this:  I am. really. really. really. not. bendy.

I think I used to be more bendy. I have recollections about doing fancy sex trickery moves in my twenties and maybe my thirties. I mean, I caught a couple’a husbands back then, I was able to Do Things.

I’m not sure when it all got stiffened up.  But knowing I once had it gives me hope that with enough dedication to youtube videos and my yoga mat,  I may be able to pee in China before the end of the year.

Goals, Reader. We all need to have goals.

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I Like Me To

I’ve been working on making my office space a working office space, Reader. One where I can sit down and have no other projects that catch my attention and drive me away from my writing. I’m like a dog chasing a squirrel sometimes, off in all directions.

It’s a tough job, whipping that office into a good working space, because I’m sorry to say (to myself) that I have acquired Too Much Stuff, and I just don’t know what to do with it all. Most of it sat in the middle of the floor, which then in one cleaning attempt got pushed to the peripheral, and now it is all going to be be filed and put away or it is going in the trash or a goodwill pile. Or a sell-this-shit  space, because as I’ve lamented before, some of the stuff is Good and needs to be sold to generate a few bucks for the UP (unemployed person).

One of the little nuggets I did find was this note, written by 8-year-old Me, according to my mom’s  notation on the back of the paper:

I’m only surprised there is no mention of cake, had 8-year-old-Me identified that in the note I would have known my destiny was set early on and I would stop fighting against the force of buttery, sugary confections. My guess is I started to write it just below the “i like cats” stanza but it was going to throw off the whole meter of the poetry so I scribbled it out and just kept that knowledge deep in my heart.

Sometimes the secrets to life are spilled at the hands of an 8-year-old girl. The things worth liking are basic business –  mom, dad, dogs and cats. And don’t forget to like yourself to.






Cat Scratch Fever

Reader, hi!

I have been biiiiizee!

Not really, but really.

I feel like my days are plumb full-up, but I’m not sure exactly with what.

I do know I’ve made it through a week as an Unemployed Person (UP! coincidence? I think not!) and have used the time to tackle some household projects. Still have many to work my way though, but it’ll get there.

I have a doctor’s appointment for their never-ending-we-must-always-check-you-all-the-time-for-everything-pay-us-your-copay-please on July 2nd, which is also when I no longer have health care coverage until I get new in place, and that just reminded me I was supposed to get up at 8:30 a.m. today and call for a same-day appointment opportunity, but I just remembered that right now, so oops.

Instead I was busy giving the cat a scratch on the chin probably around that time*.

The same face I make when I get my back scratched…


*I want to pretend to you that his chin-scratching happiness was possibly happening at 8:30 a.m., but the only happiness that was happening at that time was me, snuggled up in another two hours of dreamy dreams.

Lovely Lady Lumps

There’s a strong chance that my new daily uniform may be this shirt and a pair of yoga-pants-that-have-never-actually-participated-in-yoga-unless-you-count-bending-over-to-pick-up-a-cat.

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. There are enough, more legitimate reasons for that.

I had MM take a photo to showcase my uniform and also so I could make sure I wasn’t walking around with unsuspecting camel toe that I just can’t see because do you see the size of my jugs? They are camel-toe blockers. I have to put forth a concerted effort to see what’s going on below the belt, and my new laissez-faire attitude can’t be trusted to do a camel check.

Also, I’ve taken to not wearing make-up, save for a smear of lipstick, because I’m just unemployed, I’m not a barbarian.

On a positive note, I haven’t succumbed to going around unshowered, which happened a little the last time I was unemployed, except in my defense that was wintertime and how sweaty can a girl who does nothing actually get.  In the summertime that same girl can get a little ripe rather quickly. I’ve actually taken two showers a day this week, on occasion. I’m show-offy like that.

Today is the REAL Saturday, and I’ve made a shopping list and plan to make some real-honest-to-goodness Italian GRAVY, and also try a new recipe for Lasagna for tomorrow, since apparently it is never going to stop raining here and let me actually work on my freckles tan and/or get any yard work accomplished.

I did stain the furniture  on the deck last Sunday, and with my new free time during the week, I was able to put the last coats of polyurethane shininess on top, in between bouts of rain.

You can sort of see the before here, in this adorable picture of Kitty Purry looking completely stressed out. Notice the wear on the arm of the chair?

Trixie BB gave it all a light sanding and many many layers of stain. When it was 93-degrees and hot-as-balls that one day it didn’t rain this month. Because I know how to plan.

Now, with several coats of shiny water repellent topping, the water beads up nicely and I take a ridiculous amount of glee in that fact. Fi on you, Rain. You will not destroy us.

I did the three pieces of furniture and also the little table in the background.

Notice how crap-tastic my bright and colorful rug is looking? Thanks for nothing, Mother Nature.

Maybe my deck will be finished once and for all, by oh, September at this pace. But I hope sooner, because I have an out-of-town guesty coming in July and I’m hoping to be wine-drinking-ready by then.

If we can get the weather to cooperate.


In the meantime, stop in. The more the merrier is our motto at Chez Bang Bang. The odds are ever in your favor that I will be showered. Probably.

Onward! Is the Only Direction to Go.

I’m in a whole cycle of wash, rinse, repeat, Reader.  Sort of.

As of yesterday I find myself in need of a Louise to my Thelma.  Because the Card Mines laid off 100+ folks and my number (51*) was up.

*also, my age. Coincidence? Probably.

Luckily, I got an awful awesome severance package. And they wanted me to come back in for two days this week and transition my projects over to the team that would be handling them.

Now, that just isn’t going to happen. Ever.  I know very few things for sure, but that, I know for sure. I may or may not have laughed in their faces when I said, “I am NOT doing that!”

And then I gathered my things, turned in my badge and let the doors open to new adventures.

As I was driving home, pondering the endless Summer of George possibilities that now sprawl before me, the first stop was for a cake. Like marriages, new babies and birthdays, some events just beg to be shepherded in with a cake.

It’s hard to have any feels-sorries when there is a flour and sugary confection headed towards your lips.


I’m a little bit worried about my lack of worry, Reader.

Instead of coming home and frantically updating my resume and hitting the job boards, I literally spent two hours looking at all the places I can go.

A solo road trip across the USA. I would love to find a Louise to my Thelma, without the death part at the end, but am prepared to go it alone. I’m even considering buying a tent to – gasp – camp! – during parts of the adventure. Because I need to be frugal, Reader.

My friendie from upstate NY reached out and invited me to visit and float around in her pool. I plan to bother grace her with my loungy ass for a few days.

There’s Chicago next weekend, which I can now leave for any ol’ time of the day.

Then there’s the  Seashell house on Isla Mujeres, where I could probably get a lot of book-writing done, as I would be very inspired. And maybe a little drunk, also known as “releasing my creativity.”

My other friendie, who I visited in San Fran during my last bout of “Funemployment” has moved to Australia, and welcomed me to join for a visit.

My actions clearly tell me that my need to explore the world is more valued than a steady paycheck.* Except I still need to pay bills to keep a roof over my seven three cats heads and kibble in their mouths. Because we won’t all fit in an RV.

*probably will have a different thought in six months time if I’m still not working. Let’s hope for wonderful things to happen so I don’t need to worry later on.

I’m taking today to not do anything at all and then tomorrow, I will begin my Summer of George.

But instead of reading a book from beginning to end, I’m going to write that book from beginning to end!

And finish organizing my house.

And working on the yard.

And selling crap to make a little spending money.

I’ve been here before, Reader.  And it turned out just fine for a while. It’ll turn out fine again, I believe in myself.

I just have to keep my sails adjusted to catch the next breeze.

Farmer Bang Bang

It’s about dern time I set down at the computater and shared something with you, dear and patient Reader.

Yes, we started out with a slight hillbilly twang in that sentence.

It’s been since MAY since we were here together. What. In. The. World.

I was using my free time differently.

I was farming.

And yarding (which I hate, by the way).

And reading, instead of writing.

What have I been reading, you ask?

I just finished Love Warrior by Glennon Doyle, and me likey.

I also read Stories I’d Tell in Bars by Jen Lancaster, and it’s bloggy-type reading and fun. And as an aside, I’m part of her exclusive invitation-only-so-ha-I’m-fancy Facebook book club, and oh, p.s., I get to be even MORE fancy and exclusive and have been invited to have lunch with her and a group of other strangers in Chicago, so I’m super excited to meet new people and drink wine together. I’m sure they will all love me. Because what’s not to love about me, amiright, Reader.*

*rhetorical, because we all know if you’re here it’s because we love each other. 

That’s what I’ve been reading lately.

As I mentioned above, in addition to reading, I’ve also been FARMING.  Yes, I’ve gotten the farm at Chez Bang Bang tilled and planted.

With these two beauties, that blossomed with all the direct hot sunlight that drenches the front of the house in the morning.

Perfect for growing tomatoes.

I was excited when it flowered so early in the season and then my first little gal showed up:

Because I watched a Facebook video about plants who have been verbally bullied vs. one who was lovely caressed with words, I would spend time every morning and evening telling my tomato how proud I was of it, what a little beauty she was growing into, etc…

We had a whole thing going on between us, and as I watched it grow I did get a little concerned about the deer and other wildlife in my yard taking advantage of her.

So I turned my tomato around, facing the house, to keep it out of the sight of any wayward animals who thought they would sneak a snack.

And then one night I came home from work, and bounded* up the step with my encouraging words on my tongue’s tip, and stopped and rubbed my eyes in disbelief.

*bounded may be an overstatement.

My lil tomato?

Gone, girl.

All it’s flowering-friends?

Gone, too.

Apparently my stealthy ways of turning the plant around was no match for the yard snackers.

I may or may not have cried a little.

So now they’ve been moved to the back deck, probably where they should have been placed all along except the sun is an afternoon sun and not quite as good for growth.

But guess what’s worse than afternoon sun for tomato growth?


I may or may not have the scent of green tomato on my breath.


She was out rustling around in the yard just this morning, looking up at me, wondering where the hell I put her front-yard buffet.

The moral of the story is that I’m an eternal optimist, Reader, and truly believed the deer and other assorted wildlife would show some grace and an ounce of respect and leave my two-pot farm alone.

I was wrong.

I’ve got two new girls growing on the other plant right now, and So Help Me Garth, if a bird swoops down and pecks my plants to death I’m going to go coastal*.

*yes, coastal. Back in the olden days, of my olden life, when I was a somewhat respectable stepmother-ish to four kids, the oldest boy thought the saying was “going coastal” instead of “postal.” Going coastal is hella lot better, because a) less shooting and bloodiness and b) because we could all use a little more beach.

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