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The Bang Bang Theories

Champagne Wishes & Caviar Dreams

Guess what I’m doing here, Reader?

You’ll never guess, so I’ll give you a multiple choice. Because as we’ve established, I’m a giver.

A)  Searching for diamonds

B) Checking for a wormhole to another dimension

C) Testing for a new place to nap

D) Sniffing for cat pee

You will NEVER guess, Reader.  It’s tricky.

Well, if you guessed looking for a time-travel wormhole, you’d be correct, Reader.

If by “time-travel wormhole” you mean “sniffing for cat pee.”

Because my house was stinkin’ like we keep a den of lions hidden somewhere, as I was actually informed. And we couldn’t figure out why because we were sniffing all around and cleaning and scrubbing and wiping and spraying and there was still the odiferous smell of cat pee.

So we got down to business and I hauled my morbidly obese body down to the floor, in full-body contact and sniffed inch-by-inch on the sparse amount of rugs I actually have.

It was yet another Saturday afternoon of my Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous life.

After all that carpet sniffing, I only discovered one little section of an offending area, and I Bissell’ed the hell out of it, and sprayed and cleaned and scubbed and put my nose RIGHT ON IT, Reader, to see if the prob was resolved.

It was resolved for this carpet, but still the smell lingered in the air.

The only place left to check that was fabric was the curtains.  So the curtains were sniffed and Weeeee-Doggie as Jed Clampett would say. Or in this case, “Weeeeee-Kitty!”

The olfactory offender was discovered. Because as my vet warned me three years ago, “You have waaaay too many male cats, good luck with that!” I have a “marker” boy cat who is an asshole, but he’s also cute enough, and see the conundrum, Reader? Cute, but bad.

So we threw those drapes right in the trash, because wowwee, no amount of washing them would convince me they would be good again, plus they came with the house and were only placeholders until I figured out what to do in the living room. Now that I have discovered the extent of my beloved little asshole sprayer, I won’t be buying new drapes because I’m sure I’d get a repeat performance.

And now I have an Open Concept as the House Hunters would say, only I mean on my windows. 

But guess what? The Lion’s Den has been subdued.

And for all the guests I’ve loved before, who’ve travelled in and out my door, I’m glad you came along, but I had no idea how strong, this odor really was…..So yeah.  Sorry.  The blame fully lies at my eight three cat’s paws for your unpleasant experience.

It’s better. Pinky swear-zies. Please come back. But keep your clothes on in the living room or the neighbors will be enjoying a peep show. Unless you want to put on a peep show. I’m not here to judge you, Reader. You do you.

Eye of the Beholder

Well, Reader, it looks as if my job here is done – I’ve completely befuddled you with my last post about jumping back into bed with my ex and having babies.

Let’s be clear, I’m not actually sexing up any ex. I mean, come’on – a little credit, Reader. I know I am an impulsive wildflower at times, but seri. I can keep my pants up.


I’m not doing anything nearly as cray as that – just going back to my old company, the only “ex” that still moves my heartstrings a little. Because that ex has $$. And benefits. And friendies. And a nice new pretty building.

So that’s the arms I’m headed back into.

In the meantime, I have a week between j-o-b-s, because I need to get my shitz together.

Last week, in a move to squeeze the last bit of juice from my health insurance I had a physical, complete with a fasting blood test. They also had one of those 600-lb-Life scales, the kind with the arms that can support super biggies.

I felt some foreshadowing going on.

Then I got paperwork from the office that called me morbidly obese. In writing, Reader, where I can’t pretend I didn’t hear it.

Reader. That seemed a little mean. And uncalled for. And just plain hurtful. This is the very definition of body shaming me, in writing! – and we should all take to Twitter and stage an uprising, with celebrities coming to my rescue and telling me I’m fine, just fine with my soft and doughy shape.

Nosey Dots doesn’t have any shame at all in his soft and fluffy tummy, as evidenced by the photo above. He owns that shit. I guess it’s a little cuter when it’s covered in soft fluffy fur. Except on me that wouldn’t actually be cuter, it would be troublesome if my tummy was hairy and covered in soft white fur.

It’s a double standard, I say.

On top of that, I was told I’m now “at the age” where I need to get a colonoscopy. So they wanna check out what’s up mah butt.  But. They gave me the option to poop from home, and then ship my poop in a container and have it looked at by some facility that examines poop.

Guess which option I’m going with?

And then, just moments ago, I got a call from my neighborhood family practice that they want to SEE ME to review my blood test results. So now that’s happening tomorrow morning. No good can come of them having to see me to review. No good at all. I have a feeling cake will not be in my future much longer.

This old abused body has had enough. Good thing I plan on starting the Whole 30. Because my body is apparently angry at the choices my mouth is making, too.

I can’t imagine why my real ex’s aren’t clamoring to jump back into bed with my morbidly obese body who needs to get her pooper checked out. I just can’t imagine.

Ex’s and Oh’s!!

Reader, where have you beeeeeeen???? I mean, where have I been! I mean, I know where I’ve been, and it’s been being busy, but we’re all busy.

I’ve been sitting a lot on my deck for the past two weeks. Because it’s all cute-ed up early in the season, and we, meaning me and my eight three kittehs have really been enjoying some nice weather and back-porch sitting.



Because nice weather is sometimes tough to come by in CLE and we’ve gotta make some hay while the sun is shining, except we’re not really making hay, we’re making other things.




You Guys, I’ve got some exciting not exciting news to tell you about!!

I’ve been working on a big project since the beginning of the year.  With a smarty-pants talented ar-teest, who has been collaborating with me to bring a product to market.

He’s also the ar-teest who has helped me get my deck all cute-ed, because he’s extremely handy with his hands. Ahem.

This product has been a lot of fun to work on, except it also takes a while to grow a baby, and there have been a lot of steps involved and we’re still not ready yet with websites and all the behind-the-scenes hoopla that needs to happen. But I’m going to share it with you now because in other news which is exciting not exciting, I have to give my baby up for adoption, and while I know it’s new mama will take great care of it, it still hurts my heart to not be hands-on as it grows.

Life is full of a lot of choices, and while the rewards can be worth it, it seems like there’s often some sort of sacrifice.

Sometimes you make choices and then just have to sit with it and hope it all works out.

So some of the exciting not exciting news is, I’ve been getting woo’ed into getting back in bed with my ex.

He’s made me an offer that was too interesting to pass up. I know, Reader, I know! We’ve had our issues in the past, and I should leave the past in the past, but sometimes the best way to move forward is to go backwards. Right? I think that’s a saying somewhere and if it’s not I’m going to coin it right now and put it on Pinterest and make it all official.

But my ex is still super-bossy, which is a tough environment for a wildflower like myself to flourish. It’s required sacrifice on my part. I’m always the one to sacrifice and frankly that part stinks.

My ex is making me give up mah baby.

Yep, he can still be a real dick.

But. I’m willing to sacrifice in order to make our relationship work. Because the benefits are better than anything I’m currently getting at home.

Reader, I know, I know – you’re wondering what exactly the fuck I’m talking about. Well, at the beginning of the year my ar-teest and I had an idea, along the lines of “Life is Good” only different, because life isn’t always good, sometimes it sucks a bagga dicks, and also we’re a no-pressure zone here, so we’ve TM’d some art that we think most of you can get behind:

I know, it’s pretty great, isn’t it??

And you want a t-shirt!

And a coffee mug!!

And magnets!!!

And keychains!!!!

And decals for your car!!!!!

Because it’s super-cute, and not all pressure-y about seizing the damn day, because who can even do that day-in-and-day-out, no one, that’s who, unless by “seizing the day” you mean going to work, packing lunches, cooking dinners, cleaning litter boxes, etc.

Because that’s what my day usually involves and I sure as fuck don’t feel like I’m seizing it, and certainly not “living each day like it’s going to be my last” because I would be drunk on a beach surrounded by friendies if that were the case, like more of this, only with empty bottles of rum littering my blankie.

And then no one would be around to clean the litter boxes.

So we’re shooting for “good enough.” Just “good enough” is perfectly fucking fine. I can usually find something good enough about each day.

And I hope you can, too, Reader.

So that’s my exciting news. I am working on selling six in each category right now. Want yours? Let me know.  I have until next week before I have to give up my baby.

Because as I mentioned above, the ex is back in my life.  And he no likey my involvement. Something about a conflict, which hurts my feelings, but I’ve said okay as long as I can give my baby to a good family to raise, and I think I’m able to do that.

Here’s the last of my exciting not exciting news: I quit my job. And am going back to my old company at the Card Mines. Not to be confused with Tiny Town, as there is no amount of money on God’s Green Earth that would make me even consider going there.

I’m leaving my job that I really love to go back with my friendies, to a stable company where I’m hopefully a little more stimulated. I feel I’ve gotten a little lazy/rusty in thinking, except the Card Mines won’t let me raise my baby.  I have a few days until I start, so I’m not currently in violation of anything, which is why I’m letting you know today about our exciting product line that someone else will be marketing, developing, selling.  Insert sad face here.

But I’m also excited about other things. My ex def has his good points, which is why I’m going back.

So yeah.  I’m currently unemployed for the next week. Then I’m re-employed with my ex. And I’m trying to grow a baby in the meantime.

And you wonder why I haven’t been here for you. Now don’t you feel ashamed?? That’s okay. You’re forgiven for all your bad thoughts about me.

Have a good enough day (TM), Reader.

I’ll do the same.









Hi Reader, hey!  It’s been far, far too long since we’ve spent some time together. I know, it’s all me, always me, I’m not pointing any fingers your way because we’re friendies and we have a deal that I write nonsense and you show up and read it and maybe leave a comment here or on Facebook and I say in my head, “yay, we’ve connected!” And I’ve let us down, because absence DOES NOT make the heart grow fonder, it’s more “out of sight, out of mind.” We both know that.

I’ll try to do a little better. Because I love you, Reader.

Anyway, I left you at “getting ready to go somewhere” or something – I know a spider story was involved – and I did go somewhere! I had my yearly trip with one of my very favorites, the John Boy to my Mary Ellen. Yes, I know she’s a girl, but she’s also my “Goodnight, John Boy.” It’s a backstory, one that involves my mama, and since it actually is Mother’s Day today let’s tell the story.

Growing up, in our very small 2-bedroom house on Lloyd Road in Cleveland, Ohio, my daddy worked night shift on and off to bring the bacon home. And so my mama would sleep downstairs in one of the beds and we’d yell across from room to room in the dark, “Goodnight John Boy,” “Goodnight Mary Ellen,” “Goodnight Elizabeth,” “Goodnight Erin,” until we little ones ran out of Walton names we knew.  And then we’d drift off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that we’d all said our goodnights and all was safe on BangBang Mountain.

If you don’t know the Walton’s, you won’t understand and also I feel sad for you because it’s too good not to know.

I guess I’m just partial to Simpler Times shows, which is why I also am a #1 fan of The Andy Griffith Show. Small town. Friendships. Good food. Music. Family dinners. Cake. It just appeals to my heart, where I’ll always be a small town girl. Who likes to stick her toes in the sands of far-away beaches. 


Little White Lies

It’s almost 3 a.m. and I’m in my cleaning groove. I’m a night bloomer, Reader.  I had a cuppa coffee around 6:00 p.m. tonight and, well, now here we are.  Which is fine. I’ve got a weekend filled with activities beginning at 9 a.m. in the morning. Which – let’s do the math – is only 6 short hours away.

I’m trying to wrap up the cleaning before my company arrives.

It’s not actually so much “company” as it is a contractor, coming in to get some measurements and whatnot, as I’ve got Joanna-Gaines-Fixer-Upper-Kitchen-Itis. It’s a real thing, Reader.  I figured it can’t hurt anything to just talk to the man, see what my options are with my starter-life budget.

I feel a little asshole-y because my kitchen is really fine, just fine, and the nicest kitchen I’ve ever had, actually. Except for my early ’90s blue countertops. Those are something special. However, they are in fine shape, just fine. But I’m just seeing the man, so stop judging me, Reader, sheesh, I’m not a House Hunter who has to rip out her perfectly good granite because she just doesn’t like the swirl of the stone.

Or maybe I’m exactly like that. It’s tough to call.

So I’m getting an estimate, seeing what my options are for a little re-design. Just chatting, an easy little convo that costs nothing. That’s what I’m saying to myself in my brain. Except it does cost something, and that something is me cleaning at 3 a.m. in the morning instead of getting a restless night of sleep after hours and hours of Forensic Files.

I did have a jumpy moment whilst cleaning the kitchen, and it had nothing to do with a Forensic-Files-Style Bad Guy, unless that you would call that scary albino spider walking on my black refrigerator a scary bad guy.

I turned around from wiping down the counters and saw him and screamed, not unlike probably how the victims on Forensic Files scream at some point.

The spider froze in his tracks.

I tried to comfort myself by telling me, “He’s more afraid of you than you are of him,” except he probably wasn’t almost pissing his pink pajama pants and doing a little hop-skip to the other side of the room.

I kept a close eye on him and pondered how to handle this unexpected home invader. My first thought was “do nothing and he will be in my agape-mouth when I’m finally fast asleep and snoring.” So I had to do something.

I called My Mister, who was working, and inquired as to when he would be home. Five minutes was the answer, and I couldn’t trust that timeline so I went to get the vacuum. The albino spider was beginning to walk across the fridge and climbed up into a card I had magneted on the fridge.

By the time I came back armed with the vacuum, he had disappeared.

I vacuumed in all the crevices in the kitchen on the off chance he would be hiding somewhere. And now I’m telling myself that of course I sucked him up and he’s safely inside that filthy canister, dying a really rude death, which truth be told I feel a little bit bad about because “All God’s Creatures” except those fucking creatures need to get their own damn house and stay out of mine if they want to live. They’ve already gotten their pound of flesh from me.

My rational brain (do I have one, you’re asking yourself which is also more judge-y, Reader) knows I didn’t get him – probably not – and when I wake up coughing later it’ll be because an albino spider is stuck in my throat. But the other side is telling me one of my eight three cats will surely get him if he’s wandering around. Because they’re good little hunters and they will protect their mama.  Right, Reader??


The little lies I tell myself comfort me, so let’s go with it. The mean, bad, scary albino spider is gone, girl.

Here’s What’s Cookin’

After 5 or so years, I was finally able to enjoy having Good Friday off from work.  I decided to use that gift of time to work on Family Traditions, including making cabbage rolls for Easter weekend.

Now, in the spirit of being open minded, I have to say that this isn’t my traditional family recipe. I’m open to experimentation, is what I’m saying. Ahem.

I’ve taken my friendie’s direction of sautéing the onions prior to adding them to the meat, and also using ground pork instead of the cheaper and more greasy Bob Evans sausage that my grandmother Sophie used.

I will spend the extra few dollars for less greasy cabbages, thanks.

I also switched it up a little this time, too, and actually did a little something with my sauce, per Ina Garten’s recipe, because she did not steer me wrong with her homemade brownies –  I combined some stuff, and added a little vinegar and brown sugar to the tomatoes, as well as a can of V8 juice which is my own idea. The family recipe calls for just dumping the canned sauce over the rolls.

I may have totally fucked up my family recipe.

It may also be the best cabbages I’ve ever made.

Taste will tell.

As a nod to my mama, I also made potato salad, but that too has become a hybrid recipe of sorts. I now include celery seed, per My Misters grandma, and I like it a lot.

So that’s what we’re putting in our mouths at Chez Bang Bang this weekend, Reader.

Stop in.

There’s always room for one more. Unless you’re a scary stalker murder-y type. Then, the party’s next door.


It’s April already, Reader, and you’re welcome for me pointing out the month for you. Once less thing to clutter up your pretty little mind. I had an entire weekend with no hard responsibilities and I was able to roll around in and enjoy it completely and I loved it so hard.

Guess what else I’ve been loving so hard this weekend? Mind up here ~points to brain~ and not in my pants, sheesh, I’ve gotta constantly keep you from going right to my vagina area, Reader. Or maybe that’s only me, projecting onto you. Regardless, one of us went to the Dirty Parts and that’s not where I was headed when this paragraph began. What I’ve been loving this weekend are small bites of delights.

I early-birded it on April Fool’s, which is playing a trick on my own self. Made plans with HandyDan, who is a ridiculously natural earlybirdy. We decided on a little fresh market-ing,  breakfasting and an impromptu trip to the animal shelter to smooch pups and pet kittens.  Because I just don’t get enough of that at home with my eight three cats.

So we marketed at 8 a.m.  In the MORNING, Reader. On a SATURDAY.  I mean, we were on the road by then. That’s a huge feat around Chez Bang Bang  on the weekend. There’s a reason I don’t have babies or doggies – I am not a morning person. Cats are good and lazy most of the day, and we suit each other just fine.

But anyway, back to the market.  We have an iconic indoor market in the city and I almost never go – I mean, almost never as in I’ve been there about twice in the past 12 years or more. That’s close to never. Growing up we went once a year, only at Christmas, so it’s always seemed like “special occasion only” shopping to me, and not some place I’d do my weekly shopping. It’s just in painted in my mind that way.

HandyDan and I walked in and right away I saw the Bratwurst stand where my dad always bought us a bratwurst with kraut when we would go on our yearly pilgrimage. Then I turned and on my left saw the booth that sells the fresh buttermilk, where my dad would get a glass of to wash his sandwich down, and I always thought, “eeeewwwww, who drinks a cuppa buttermilk!!!”  Just a little past that was the stand that sells the fresh fruit fillings for pastry. My mama always bought her fillings from that stand for her kolachy’s for the holidays.

So some things really never do change.

It’s been 35+ years and it took me back to a wink in time, as a 10-year-old girl shopping in this strange cacophony once a year.

I bought a container of raspberry filling as a nod to my mama and I plan on making some sort of pastry creation with it soon.

But that wasn’t all I purchased, because if I’m up and shopping that damn early on a weekend, it will be worth my while.

Three flavors of smokies, short ribs, bison, Irish meat pies and Shepards pies, papayas, and bacon went into my bags.

And then we rounded the corner and stumbled across the Home of the Monk Cake, which was nothing I remembered from my childhood. 

I hadn’t heard of a Monk Cake, but as my official duty to this blog and you, Reader, I determined it would be remiss of me not to explore this cake. 

So one went in my bag.  It’s still in it’s pretty box in the fridge. I’ll do my diligence and report my findings back to you.

I also purchased a Napoleon. Or two, it’s impolite to count, Reader. 

And this teensy strawberry-chocolate mouse confection. Because look how pretty, Reader. 

And I would have been a complete failure had I not tried their macaroons, which they touted as Authentic French Macaroons. I’ve been doing comparison research on macaroons since I had the very best one I’ve ever put in my mouth on the island of Saint-Martin, which is actually a French-sided island and therefore really are authentic French macaroons.

The verdict on the macaroons? Well, they were much more buttery and delightful than the ones I purchased in New York, but not quite as delicious as the ones from the island.

So yes, Reader, I’ve been very busy and buried in research this weekend.

What have you been researching with your mouth lately, Reader? Share it.

I’ve got more to tell, but it’s your turn, and plus I need to find out what the what Negan is up to on the season finale of Walking Dead right now.  And digest all that buttery goodness from my dessert-a-thon.

Oopsie Cakesie

Dear Cracker Barrel,

You know I love you. That hash brown casserole. The tiny tender baby carrots. Your biscuits with butter and blackberry jam in the tiny tin. Those pancakes – Lawd, those pancakes.

Your cute country store with your seasonal knick-knacks of which I need none, but walk by and touch them all on the way both in and out of the restaurant. The overpriced rockers on the front porch where we sit and wait our turn, if needed.

All good. All cute. We have no problems betwixt or between us, and I’m not here to stir any up, neither.


It would be remiss of me not to take issue with your marketing sign that greeted me as I was seated at your table for lunch a few Sundays back.


When in any instance is a dose of doubling my chocolate in chocolate cake an oops??

I mean, I get it. You’re trying to act all coy about having a double-dose of chocolate in your cake. But Oops? Implies you want to feed me your mistake food. And also it’s insulting to chocolate. And cake.

Don’t insult chocolate. Or cake. Or your customers with half-baked cake marketing.

With peace & love,

Trixie BB


And p.s., the answer is no, Reader I didn’t try it, because see paragraph 1. However should you like to send me a slice to sample and review, send that right on over to Chez Bang Bang. Perhaps Cracker Barrel and Nabisco can duel for my favors.


Clean Up in Aisle 6

Er mah gersh, Reader.  My time has been swallowed up lately.  I mean, it’s been pretty fun, except for the having to keep my house clean all. the. time. because it’s sort of like I’m running a flop-house lately, with folks coming and going. Which I love, truly, except for the non-self-cleaning house.

In fact, I have kumpney coming in a few short hours and I need to clean up after my eight three cats, who are really quite filthy. It’s difficult to believe that such cuteness can cause so much dirt, but somehow they manage.

Speaking of cuteness, some of my company was from out of town and they brought our baby back to visit.

He’s one and walking.

That’s a whole lot different than when he was six months and snuggly. Now he’s squirmy and fast.

This was my view of him much of the time, as he toddled down my hallway in search of “kee-kee”.

Kee-Kee hissed at him and totally hurt his feelings, resulting in an all-out bawl with crocodile tears. It took a major distraction with a non-working remote to soothe his ruffled feathers.

The other upside to seeing my family is that I had been going through a phase – a phase I was even vocalizing – that I felt I was ready to have a baby, right now in my life. At the age of 50. I was having a yearning for soft cuddly babyness.

Except. Fifty is too old to chase endlessly after a baby. At least this fifty year old is. I was bushed. Did you know walking babies need constant monitoring?? I mean, unlike a cat, you can’t just let him off to do his own thing for a few hours. I’m not cut out for that.

Thank God my ovaries know better and have been looking out on my behalf for several years now.

I got my baby cravings calmed right the fuck down. I’m best suited for the role of visiting.

My Mister pointed out – harshly, and a little uncalled for, if you ask me – that when the baby is my age, I’ll be 101. Which is unfathomable to me. I mean, he won’t even KNOW me. I’ll be that distant relation he visits occasionally who always wants to kiss his face, offers him a hard candy that has a little lint stuck to it from her housecoat pocket, and smells like powder and age.

But for now? I made him snuggle a little, because I’m bigger than he is and that’s the way it works.

And oh, p.s., I know that’s an awful picture, with no  makeup, bad skin and bags under my eyes, and it’s okay because you don’t need to think I’m always glamourous. I’m keeping it real, so you feel better about yourself.

You’re welcome.

Now I really do have to dash, that kumpney is on their way and I need to de-cat the house with a quick little whore’s bath. And slap some fresh sheets on their bed.

Come over and visit. The house’ll be clean for a couple more days. Maybe.

Bent, Not Broken

Broken promises, Reader. That’s all I am able to give you at the moment.  Oh, it’s not for lack of stories. Those, I have pee-lenty. I just have not made the time to blab them down here for you. Because I really haven’t had many minutes to spare when I’m not bushed.

In fact, I have so few minutes to spare I shouldn’t even be sitting here right this very moment at 12:20 a.m. I should be finishing packing – I have a work trip to Chicago in a very few short hours.

But I just wanted to say hi. I”m thinking of you, Reader. I know you’re sometimes thinking of me. Don’t give up on us, baby.  With a little luck – and a little time – we can make this whole damn thing work out.

Now go watch Starsky & Hutch reruns until I get back.

Trixie Bang Bang Fun Fact: Back in her childhood, she’d play Starsky & Hutch with her cousin we’ll call Dawn (because that is her name) and she’d insist on being Starsky because she wasn’t into blond guys, she had a penchant for the more swarthy fellas. Then one time, riding her bike all reckless through the woods on a high-speed chase, “Starsky” fell of her bike and sprained her ankle and cried.



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