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The Bang Bang Theories

Livin’ La Vida Loca

You guys, it’s Friday night and I’m sitting home thinking about all the Things I Need To Do tonight instead of getting up off mah ass and doing those things.

I don’t wanna do Things. I wanna sit here and type nonsense and tell you about my day and find the funny (or try to) and wonder why the hell my neck hurts on the left side for the past week or so, and also wonder out loud to you just why exactly my armpits have been on the BO-ie side this week.

Yeah, you read that correctly. My armpits have been shoo-wheee this week and I’ve had to shower both in the morning and before bed because who wants to lie around in their own smelly armpits? Well if you do, go right ahead, very little no judging from this girl.

Let’s get one thing straight whilst we’re talking about the stench I’ve worked up in my armpits: It’s not from doing anything hard-labor-like, unless by “hard labor” we mean hard sleeping. Because in addition to my stinky armie pitties, I’ve been tared. That’s being so tired you can’t even say both syllables, you’re just tared. To the point of twelve hours of sleep feels like the right amount and anything less is just a nap.

My Mister speculated that perhaps my armpits stink because as of Monday I was put on a new super-duper doozy antibiotic for my motherfucking foot thing that won’t heal up because it apparently has some other infection now and I’m sick of pussyfooting around it by calling it gentle words, and it’s officially a motherfucking foot thing. Enough already. Heal.  Heel. except it’s not on my heel, that would be too appropriate, but I’ve said it anyway so there.

His theory is that these super duper antibiotics are so strong they are pushing everything out of my body, including the stink from my armpits. Is that how antibiotics even work?? Can they push stink out??

I had no better explanation than that, so I said, “Sure, that might be it.”

This week I’ve mostly been coming home and putting on my jammies and then I’ll watch some tv in the living room so I don’t feel like a complete lazyass, but then move to the bedroom around 9 where I get to some serious resting.

That’s about how this evening has gone down so far.

I did get up because Food was needed, and so we ordered pizza because that is the perfect Friday-Night-I’m-Too-Tared-But-Hafta-Clean-Because-Company-Tomorrow-And-Also-My-Motherfucking-Foot-Hurts-Tonight-AND-I-Have-A-Little-Armpit-B.O.-AGAIN meal (Hey Pizza Hut, don’t try to steal this as your new slogan) and I strolled out of the bedroom in my leopard robe because you’d never know it’s August, there’s such a chill on the night air. I needed to robe up.

My Mister saw me lumbering sauntering down the hall in this and asked who invited Hugh Hefner for dinner.

My smelly armpits invited him, that’s who. 

So now you have yet another glimpse into the magic that goes on around here at Chez Bang Bang. It’s as if Taylor Swift and I are leading the exact same life.

Good Lawd, Reader – TWO SECONDS AGO Kitty Purry came and curled up against the crook of my arm like a furry dolly baby kitty, but then proceeded to almost throw up on me, but moved over in the nick of time to some mail that was on the table, which is also a medical bill I need to pay and should I now send in the check with the puked on statement?? I think yes.  Because we keep it real around here. And just like T-Swift, I’ll be all “Look What You Made Me Do” as our newest release.  On the paperwork.

Because that’s where that goes. Apparently.


Something or Nothing

The Dog Days of Summer are upon us, Reader, and are in fact winding down faster than I would like. Eleven days left and we’re on to September already, which is Fall, and then the season of Oh My God, Why Don’t I Move to Florida.

But before all that, we’re still holding on tightly to the days that we have, and not looking forward, nor backward. Just now.  Focus on Now.

Well, I guess I lied because this post is about looking back a little bit.  This past week – as my FB friendies know – we had one of our most precious visits from my family in Delaware, who brought me the sweetest baby to visit.

Our babe is now 1.5 years old, and he is the friendliest, smiliest baby we could have ever hoped to have in our family.

But he is also exhausting. Oh. My. Word. Reader. He plum tuckers this old auntie out.

One beautiful summer evening, we took BabyBinnie* to his very first amusement park, for kiddies. With a little guidance from his Grampa HandyDan, he was shown how to hang on tight and enjoy the ride.

A little bit of a life lesson in there for all of us.

In addition to tuckering his ol’ auntie out, the baby also tuckered the cats out. All that constant high-alert status, and the running away from baby grabs.  They went into Hard Sleep Mode after we were a baby-free zone.

***Okay, in total disclosure, this post was started over the weekend, and it’s not funny or even a good pulled together bit about some nonsense in my world, although it has cute enough pictures. I had hoped to do a little rewriting of this to make it a story worthy of your two minutes.  I didn’t.  It’s not. But it’s too late now because you’re already at the end. Sometimes I just don’t have enough energy to muster to push my own wagon.***

*BabyBinnie is his baby nickname, I can’t not talk babytalk to him and about him because he’s a baby.  The cutest baby in the whole entire universe. Ever. In the history of ever. Because I said so and now it’s here in writing.

Not So Silent T

Summertime is still hanging on by the skin of it’s teeth, Reader – and I’m hanging on to it just as tight. For a number of very important reasons, I am willing the days to pass slowly.  The boys are also hanging on tightly to beautiful summer evenings.

Speaking of “important” – you’re about to learn one more of Trixie Bang Bang’s Pet Peeves.

Has anyone else noticed the trend of the younger generation in pronouncing the word “important” as “impor’ent” – are they teaching the Silent T in school nowadays, Reader? I mean, I guess if we can have silent other letters, why not the T, but it seems rude to the T, and does this mean my name is now “Rixie Bang Bang”?? I guess the T is no more impor’ent then the K in as in words such as knee, etc., but yet I still give the Silent T a thumbs down. Or is that a Humbs down? Do you see how not pronouncing the T in the word important is just confusing the system, Reader? If you are guilty of this practice, stop it right now before there is even more chaos in the world.  We already have Rump in office. Don’t make life even more difficult. Enunciate. Do it for us old, crotchety folks.

Since we’re on the topic of letters, let’s have a candid chat about this cute guy, see below.

That was him being cute and stretchy and relaxed in bed Friday morning when I should have been heading to the Card Mines, yet I found this impor’ent enough to pause and take a cute photo because comeon. Look at that paw.

You know what part of him wasn’t so cute?

Him, the other night when I noticed his walking on the counter and backing up and peeing right on a brand new bag of peaches I had brought in from the grocery store.

Yes he was lightly tapped on the ass and called bad kitty spanked and gruffly yelled at. Did it do any good, though? Of course not, Reader. Of course not. He thought he was just doing his job, putting the “pee” in peaches.

You may find it surprising that it was even questioned if we ate them anyway. While we may have reached some lows around Chez Bang Bang at times, we haven’t limboed so low that we’re eating cat pee food. Yet, Reader. Yet. I don’t want to appear that I have special powers to predict the future.

In other news from Chez Bang Bang, if you’re wondering about my dern tootsie, I still have a wound that is taking it’s sweet time in healing. I’m still under my foot doctors care, and am cleaning and dressing it daily, and hoping it will just finally knock it off and get back to it’s original bad state instead of extra bad.

So there’s the foot update.

In even more other news, tonight is Clean the Filthy House night, because my invite fingers got away from me and I’m having a hamburger extravaganza tomorrow afternoon. I love having company. I hate cleaning like a banshee. I think I’m alone in having to clean so hard, and I just frankly cannot understand why. When I do wonder, the finger often points in the direction of my seven three cats.

It felt really weird to type “seven” and not “eight.”  We miss Girlie and just picked up her ashes a few nights ago.

My friend just “inherited” three cats this weekend. Her friendie died and there was no place for her kitty cats to go, except the shelter and my friendie said no to that. She isn’t looking to go to a permanent status of crazy cat lady in the blink of an eye, so Reader, if you or if you know anyone with a kind heart who would help take in a middle-aged cat, it would count as your good deed for the next several years, and we would even gift you with your very own Have a Good Enough Day(TM) coffee mug.  You read that right, Reader. You could have a lap warmer and a coffee holder all for FREE. Contact me to find out how simple this little transfer can be!! 

Alrightie, I have a filthy house clamoring for my attention. I would love to neglect it, but a small toddler is the star of my company tomorrow and I can’t have him eating furballs off the floor. His mama would probably frown on that.

Do me one favor, Reader – wish for molasses-slow days with me. And take in a kitty cat. That’s not too much to ask among friends, now is it.

Miss Labeled.

Did you know I have Fibromyalgia, Reader? Well, I didn’t know I had it, either, until I went to the hospital in October for the mean and rude spider bite on my tootsie. Even then, I didn’t know I had fibromyalgia. It wasn’t until about a month after I’d been home and I was sorting through all my paperwork and saw the words “fibromyalgia” on my paperwork as a diagnosis.

<——- p.s. – this is my view right now and it makes me oh, so so so happy to enjoy my porch. This is the most I’ve enjoyed my porch since I moved here. I did not think I would enjoy having an umbrella on my table, as I thought I liked the sun, but hey guess what? That sun would get really effing hot and I couldn’t enjoy my deck for very long. Now? Me love it long time.

But back to my ailments. You didn’t come here to hear about happiness and pretty porches did you, Reader? Well, you probably did, but you’re getting more of complainy-pants me.

I read through the symptoms of fibromyalgia and quite frankly had always thought that was just a made-up condition for people who liked to bitch & complain, not exercise or clean, and sleep a lot, which I guess is the very definition of me, so yep, fibromyalgia.  Apparently there’s a MEDICAL REASON for my lack of motivation, concentration, stiff-leggedness, incessant napping, and anxious feelings when I look around the house and see all the things I haven’t cleaned. Now don’t you feel rude judging me, Reader? Well, you should. I have a condition with “algia” in the name. It’s very important.

So anyway, as a result of my fibromyalgia, I take a daily dose of Cymbalta, because in addition to keeping me less wack-a-doo, it is supposed to repath my nerves to my brain and make everything feel less ouchy. That’s the definition I got from the doctor, in exactly those words.

Now, the reason I’m boring entertaining you with my medical history here is because it’s germane to the rest of the story, as our friend Paul Harvey would say.

I’ve got another Thing, Reader. I guess at 50, shit just pops up outta seemingly nowhere. And now that I’m Officially Diabetic, it seems everything is a Thing, which frankly makes me extra-sweary and cry-ie and causes even more fibromyalgia anxiety and tension headaches and did I mention tears, lotsa lotsa tears?

I bought cute new summer footwear. Well, “cute” according to what’s also comfortable on my dern feet, which is very limiting. And I wore them the first time a couple of weeks ago and they seemed to be not quite as comfy as I had hoped, so I gave them a time out and then tried them again. And that was a bad decision, because by the time I got home from work on Wednesday eve,  I had barely enough time to kick them off and change into really comfy kicks before we headed to the movies to see Atomic Blonde, which was kick. ass.  And made me want to strut around in high heels and dye my naturally-blond hair even more blond and punch people in the throat.  Go see it, is what I’m saying.

By Thursday, a day spent in those uncomfy shoes had created a concerning area on my spider-bitey foot, which is also my same foot with 18-year-old-me car accident trauma, so what I’m saying is, there’s a host of probs down there and I’m hyper sensitive to it.

By noon on Thursday it was throbbing, not to mention hurty to walky so I went to the ladies room to give it a proper examination.

That was where I almost lost my shit, Reader. Good thing I was in the ladies room. Ba-dum-dah.

I got on the horn and called my spider-bitey foot doctor surgeon and begged him to fit me in that very day, as the next available time was next week as he was going out of town. He’s the nicest doctor a girl could ever have touching her foot, but how dare he vacation when I may need him at any given moment.

He fit me in immediately when they heard my distress, and I skidded outta work in a hurry.

I was in tears by the time I got there. I just knew it was going to be something dire, because of my history of everything always being a Thing.

Long story longer, Reader, yes, it was a Thing, possibly made worse more quickly by my newly diagnosed diabetic condition, which just having to say that made me cry harder because I don’t want to be That Person With All The Things Wrong and it was an ulcerated thing, which even sounds ugly and he numbed it and poked it and cleaned it and wanted to take x-rays but hey guess what, I’m uninsured until Tuesday and I’m operating on out-of-pocket-which-are-really-shallow-pockets-at-the-moment so I asked how important to the situation where they – are they a “need to have” or a “nice to have.”

He agreed they could wait until next week, I don’t know if he agreed because he just didn’t want me to cry harder or because it can really wait, but we’re waiting. And this is the Universe’s way of fucking with me since I posted about judging Go Fund Me’s, and now I need my own but instead I just have a Go Fuck Me, in the form of a big charge on a credit card once again, the good old-fashioned American Way.

In the meantime, I’m back to doing wound care, which I’m getting rather good at, and also luckily I still have my $300 salve from the spider bite era, which I very carefully preserved in the proper temperate conditions and even more importantly was able to easily locate. And I’m on a three-x-day antibiotic.

Which is why this whole rambling ride even started.

Since Thursday I’ve been an anxiety-laden mess. Crying to the point of headache, fearing there is something even worse going on down there and because I denied the x-ray it’s all going to lead to amputations because that’s not a far-off reach at all, it’s the perfectly logical next step. I wish I were making this up, but it’s been that dramatic. Hey, who wants to be my roomy?? I’m a real treat to live with!

And then yesterday I went to take my 3x daily dose of of antibiotic and my 1x dose of Cymbalta and I noticed the striking similarity between the two:

Which caused me to pause just a moment and tap my nose and utter a long, drawn-out, “hmmmm.” Is it possible that my Chicken Little The Sky Is Falling demeanor could have in fact been because I was taking 3x the Cymbalta and 1x the antibiotic?

I did a quick pill count and perhaps I’ve mistaken it a time or two – perhaps. I blame the fibromyalgia for my brain fog.  I mean, it does seem that if you have a condition that causes brain fog, they should make the pills for it REALLY stand out and not look like anything else, amiright, Reader? I mean, what about a triangle shape and a bright lime color? They’re now just fucking with us.

My footsy seems to be less radiating red today. I feel less like killing myself today (I wish that were an exaggeration, but unfortunately, it’s too close to the truth to be happy about it). I think things seem to be balancing out. At least for the moment.

I’ll take it by the moment.  And carefully read my labels.

In Season

This is my view right now, which I am throughly enjoying:

A little evening writing. I was worried the mosquitos would be severe, but so far only one or two little annoyers. Worth putting up with to hear my little creek and the night sounds.

I’m so happy on my little deck, that rail with the lights really transformed the place.  I’ll be sad when it’s time to put it all away. Speaking of which, this tree a couple houses down from mine seems to think it’s already autumn:

I mean, comeon now, Tree. I feel almost certain it was green at one point this year, so I can’t quite believe it’s dead. I’m no horticulturist, but I’d think it would have zero leaves on it if it were dead, right? I need a tree expert to weigh in on the situation. Mr. M? Ask your brother. This is the most important thing he needs to work on right now. Why is the tree on my street prematurely seasoning??

Mostly I’m glad that this tree isn’t in my front yard or I’d be beside myself. I don’t keep up on every thing around Chez Bang Bang – on, no sirrree, not by a long shot – however, I get very picky about certain aspects of house and yard, and a deadish tree in the front would drive me nuts.  The other night, while working on my office space (going on two years now, stop judging me, Reader – I’m a slow-and-steady-wins-the-race-if-I-don’t-die-first turtle) I was fucking around with the window in the dormer and noticed the upper portion has a gigantic crack in it. It’s not shattered or anything like that, but there’s a crack and it’s been haunting the back of my brain ever since I discovered it. I don’t even know how the hell it could have happened – there’s nothing near it, inside or out. Maybe a bird – like a hawk-sized hard-headed bird flew into it. Wouldn’t be the first time Nature has fucked with my glass.  A deer crashed into my sliding door in the basement and shattered it a couple of years ago.

So yeah. That’s it for a quiet Tuesday night in the neighborhood, Reader. Hope you’re enjoying some of these short-lived summer nights.



Last month my auntie was a docent on a home days tour of a historic city in our area.  First, let me note that all those hours I’ve spent watching Sex & The City have been educational, and I should receive credit for the time I’ve put in to that show. I would be a Ph.D if they counted those hours. I had never heard of the job/word “docent” until Charlotte became one on Sex & The City.  And thanks to my dedicated studying of that show, I didn’t have to act like an uneducated dum-dum in front of my worldly auntie when she told me she was going to be a docent for historical homes tour day,  instead I got to be all nonchalant with an “oh, that’s cool” attitude.

Continuing education hours of Sex & The city pays off is what I’m saying, Reader, even if they don’t give me a cap & a gown.

The most exciting part for me with my auntie docent-doeing was that I got to join her on her pre-tour, where she learned all about the house and got her script. So I got to nibby-nose around the house, which was like being on a real-life episode of something on HGTV.

It was very exciting. The house is very old, and had some very interesting history, including an ex-Cleveland Brownie lived there. But of course what totally captured my attention was this, outside:

When I pulled in the long and winding drive, I did a double-take and then lol’d.

If anyone would care to make me a wooden man peeing I certainly wouldn’t say no. I would put it right up somewhere off of my ravine, probably along my treeline so all the neighborhood could be annoyed enjoy it.  And then one day it could be part of a docent tour.

And that’s what happens when you take an educated-by-Sex-&-The-City girl on your docenting with you. She enjoys the history, sure – but mostly the wooden man peeing.

Frowny Upside Downy

I’ve been a Grouchy Gus this entire weekend so to counter my own worst enemy (me) I’m posting things that I like.

It’s a short list, don’t get too comfy.

But the first thing that made me smile out loud today was this mug:

And at the low low low low price of $2.99, it came home with me.

I’ll be enjoying my morning coffee out of it tomorrow. It may go to work with me and be my Official Work Mug, although my work offers a drawer of mugs for our convenience, and then they even wash ’em for us so it pays to not bring your own mug, but they don’t make me smile like como se llama does.

When I came home today from getting my llama mug, Gussy made me smile as he was lounging on the bistro chair, like a little guest waiting for his tea.

That’s not the official home of that little bistro set, although it’s been there all summer so far. It was handed over from My Mister’s mama, and was in the garage, and then I needed to move it out of the garage and it just sort of ended up there. The neighbor across the street commented that she liked it there so I haven’t been in a real rush this summer to re-home it someplace else in the yard.

Gus seems to enjoy it. Who am I to argue with him. No one, that’s who.

On my way to work one day this past week, I had to stop while this little family made it’s way across the street at their leisurely pace.

I was happy to wait.

It would be remiss of me to not include a picture of the Best Cat Napper in the Entire World, which is his official title. I mean. That face. Those curled in paws.

How can a girl remain crabby with all that cuteness going on? She can’t. She won’t. Grouchy Bang Bang must end with the setting of the sun. There are kittens that need smooched and gol’dern it, she’s going to do it. And it’s hard to be frowny when you’re kissing cats.

Let’s make it a great week.  And if we can’t achieve great, let’s go for Good Enough.  Have a good enough week, Reader.


Soured, No Sweets

You guys. Today I’m just a little…. edgy…disappointed…maybe a tich on the grouchy side. For no good reason, sometimes the mood just settles and now it’s become my job today to shake it off and lift the fog and have a good enough day (no advertising here, just a simple little trademark-in-progress statement!)

I did have a harrowing nightmare last night, one that had me muttering in my sleep to the point My Mister awakened me to relieve me from my thrashing around and mumbling distress. I’m a very vivid dreamer, and a good dream remember-er, which can also be a fault when it’s bad dreams and they hang around. It was a haunting dream – where there were bad spirits in an old home and I opened a bathroom door and it was trying to suck me in to it’s bad spirit world and in my dream I was trying to grab a hand and screaming “help me……..”  from being sucked in to the bad spirit world.

So maybe that’s part of it. And while I’m feeling edgy I may as well drag you down with me, because misery loves company, right? Hey, Reader, I never promised you a rose garden.  Here’s what’s on my mind lately.

#1/  Back at the end of May I squeezed in a doctors appointment before I started my new old job and had a full tune up. Remember, this is when I was deemed officially morbidly obese? Well, as a result of treating my body like a dumpster for the past oh, say ten years, I was treated to a diagnosis of Type 2, and now I can’t love cake anymore. I mean, I can still love cake, I just have to love it from afar and not with my mouth. Which frankly is hurtful and rude towards cake.

I debated to share my medical information with all dozen of you, but I usually operate in a world of transparency so why stop now. It’s not a super-high Type 2 situation, but it’s enough that I’m on a pill and really watching what I’m now shoving in my cake hole.

Which leads me to the next thing I’m annoyed with.

#2/ For about three weeks now, I’ve been strictly monitoring what I shove in my cake hole. Ever since we came back from our Bermuda cruise, as a matter of fact. I’m attacking this Type 2 head-on, like it’s my job. And I lost seven pounds, which is a drop in the deep bucket, however it’s also 28 sticks of butter!! And when I have a visual of 28 sticks of butter, it is much more motivating than seven crappy pounds.

I’ve had more salads. And passed up breads. And have climbed more stairs in the past month than I have in the past ten years. And got onto my pilates reformer machine and did some stuff. And been downright hungry, Reader. Not starving – that’s a term I eradicated from my vocabulary as it is complete hyperbole compared to little children in Africa – but I’ve had pangs and growls.

And then this morning I was three pounds heavier than I was last week. I mean, W. T. F!

#3/ As a result of Type 2 and weight loss efforts, I made the drastic switch and gave up my much beloved flavored coffee creamer.  Reader. I have struggled with this in the past.  But now it became more of a necessity, as I do not want to switch to sugar free versions of things because I’m not a fan of artificial sweetners. I do use half-n-half, as opposed to 2% milk, because comeon, but it’s certainly not my delicious Almond Joy. I miss you, flavored creamer, but have adjusted to the half-n-half for the most part. It still has sugar – I was surprised, all milk does! – but every little cutback counts. You’d think this concession would at least equate to a pound of weight loss per week, because of the sheer sacrifice alone, but nope. Just one more reason to be mad and want to kick the scale.

#4/ My new department has played a cruel trick on me starting at the beginning of this month. As a way to keep things peppy, they have deemed Fridays in July as “Cake Fridays” and someone is bringing in a new and delicious-looking giant cake every Friday.  The first week was cassata. The second was yellow with fudge frosting. This past Friday was homemade chocolate on chocolate.  I have walked by it week after week. I have said, “No thank you,” when they have walked to my cube and asked if I’d like a slice. Let me repeat: I have said NO THANK YOU. The girl who has never met a piece of cake she didn’t like is saying NO THANK YOU to cake, and then she turns around in her chair and drinks her non-almond-joyed cuppa coffee and whimpers a little in the corner of her cube. You’d think that saying NO THANK YOU to CAKE would net a 1 lb weight loss per week, from the sheer effort of saying those words! You’d be wrong.

#5/ My poor dead Girlie cat is ready to be picked up from the vet’s office. The month I have had to deal with Type 2 and a dead cat. Those two reasons alone allow me to be a little cranky, Reader.

#6/ Facebook. I mean, I get it. We can all post whatever we want on there. and I love keeping up with what my peeps are doing, if the best we can do is from afar. I feel like I can at least check in with folks who I may not see very often. And no, it’s not replacing those visits, or phone calls – they just didn’t happen in the past. If I called everyone on my FB page that I comment / send a message to, it would be a full-time job. No one has time for that.

But. There are also so many Go Fund Me requests,  I can’t even. I find myself ignoring those in need because everyone seems to be in need. Not necessarily my friends directly, but shared stories, etc – it can show up in my newsfeed from all over.  And then I feel bad because I judge some of the need requests, and also I can’t afford to even send $10 to every one or I’ll be broke, and when did we start asking everyone to pay our bills for us?? I am still sitting on my own medical bills from the awful spider, as I had a $5000 deductible and worked for a start-up and now I have new Type 2 bills adding to the stack, and it wouldn’t even cross my mind to ask anyone to send me $10.

I know, this is super sour sounding, it is. I don’t like to not help people in need. But maybe I’m not as generous as I like to think I am. Maybe I’m really a stingy asshole. I don’t know. I guess I can afford to get the occasional manicure, I should be sending that money to someone I don’t know. I am fortunate to have had jobs that have paid well enough, even if some times were leaner than others. And I am fortunate that I haven’t had a bigger crisis, except I was unemployed with a big-ass mortgage and skrimpy unemployment and guess what, I racked up some credit debt and also took out of my retirement to pay my own bills, which snowballed into penalties and owing the IRS a shit ton of money that I paid myself, a little at a time, the old fashioned way. I’m just being honest. I don’t want to pay for everyones needs, especially those who have jobs already which probably pay better than mine does. Those requests are the ones that I judge. I basically run a cat rescue, which let me tell you does not come cheaply, just on the monthly food and litter and flea-medications fees alone. Add in a dead-cat-anyway emergency room visit at 1 a.m. and an unexpected hunk outta my paycheck is gone in a flash.

It also galls me a bit when I know that the people setting up the accounts are pro-Trumpers. And anti-Obama-he’s-a-socialist crusaders, but if everyone on my friends list chips in $20, we can raise the funds. It makes me question how many of those folks walk past the homeless person on the street without putting a dollar in the cup, or they guy who stands at the top of the exit ramp with a God Bless sign, hoping that while you’re stopped at the red light you don’t fiddle with the radio in an attempt to ignore him. At least those folks are working for it, in some respect. Go Fund Me has become the modern age tin cup – with a lot more lucrative results – where you don’t even have to go out into the heat and ask people to hand you money. Maybe I’m a Republican now.

Reader, I get it. I sound like an asshole. Possibly I am an asshole, and not the generous Liberal Libby I sometimes think I am. Let’s blame the lack of sugar in my diet for making me sour vs. sweet. It’s the only explanation I can offer.


Just Peachy

I have tendencies to impulse purchase, Reader. I try hard to curb them, because I also aspire to KonMari the eff out of my life, and like to tout that there are no physical things I even need in my world, I have enough of everything.


I still seem to manage to buy things. Take for instance Prime Day.  If I don’t need anything, why was every day since last Wednesday Christmas Day at Chez Bang Bang??

I don’t have an answer for you, either.

What I do have are several Alexa’s, an Echo, a Sonicare toothbrush, a new cat litter box, another aromatherapy diffuser, and the most-needed item, a Cordaroy’s bean bag chair that converts into a full sized bed. Because who doesn’t need that, Reader?? It was on Shark Tank. It must be good.

So that’s unfurling in the upstairs bedroom, just in case at some point in our lives we need more sleeping space than the guest bedroom can provide. Like a boy scout, I like to be prepared.

Which is why it seemed only natural that when I was stopping in to Whole Foods for lunch several months ago (when I was at my old job) the trees at the front of the entrance stopped me in my tracks.  Fruit Trees?? For $19.99? Of course I need an orchard!  And after careful selection I decided I needed to grow my own peaches because I love peaches and won’t it be great to go out and pick my own peaches and make cobblers and jams, like a homesteader.

My tree had several small fruits on it when I purchased it. I kept it on my deck so I could monitor my harvest, and keep it watered and away from the ravenous deer that eat all my foliage and flowers in the yard.

Except something happened and all of the small peach buds fell off, except for one.

My Mister negatively predicted it would never amount to a real peach because the tree was too little.

Oh, he of little faith.

I watered and tended and fretted over the bugs that seemed to be eating my leaves.

And I grew a peach!

It had a tentative spot on the top, something was trying to get at it but I wanted to give it more incubation time.

This morning during my watering and nurturing session I noticed something – probably a bird – had decided to taste-test my dern peach. MINE, Bird, not yours.

So it was time to harvest.  One side was picture-peachy-perfect.

I cut out the birdie bite – only cutting myself twice with those Wusthof knives which are intent on taking a digit from me – and sliced it up in a bowl and enjoyed it on my patio this morning.

And that’s what a $20 peach looks like, and it was juicy and ripe, made only sweeter by the fact that I grew this peach myself. I think I’m now officially considered a farmer, Reader. Farmer Bang Bang. Peach Grower. Cat Wrangler. Living the untidy dream.

*p.s., several Alexa’s are for gifting occasions. I’m not just a selfish shopper. I’m also a giver. Except of my lone peach, which I shared with no one. Except that bird.

No One Will Believe It

I’ve been told by a very good friend of mine – “very good” in the sense she’s part of my Wolf Pack good – well, she’s a very honest wolf. Crushingly honest at times. Most times. She’s just not one to sugar coat things is what I’m saying. So when she tells you something, it’s the troof – or at the very least, her true feelings version of the troof.

When I was considering embarking on the Mary Kay skincare and make-up pushing business two years ago during my Funemployment era,  she informed me quite matter-of-factly,  “You don’t have a face that can sell make-up.”

You don’t have a face that can sell make up.

Was told right to that very face that can’t sell makeup.

Let that sink in.

However. Never one to heed someone’s unsolicited advice, I went ahead and figured, “I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT THIS FACE CAN DO!!” and proceeded to order a thousand plus dollars of Mary Kay products that I was going to sell the hell out of.  While I was unemployed. Smarty Cookie, that’s me.

And while it quite possibly was my face that couldn’t sell Mary Kay, I know for a fact that my brain was more of the stopper because I just am not up to going to house parties and pushing stuff on people even if I think it’s good stuff. It’s not my jam.

So the point is, I have an office filled with Mary Kay that very shortly I plan to unload for a song, Reader, so if that is your jam, stay tuned and I’ll hook you up with very good products at a fraction of the cost.

But that’s not the point of the story, in fact – not at all. The point of this story is, my face has been insulted right to it’s FACE, and so it really should have come as no surprise to me when on my last cruise vacation to Bermuda I received yet another insult about my face right to my face.

Royal Caribbean now has a thing during the sign-in process where you can upload a photo of yourself for your profile. They have parameters, such as no background distractions, nothing obsuring your face – those type of rules. So I uploaded a photo. The very photo that is posted here, in the “About Trixie Bang Bang” section of this blog.

It’s a good photo. I had several days of unwashed hair so it was nice and flat. I have just enough lip lift to not look bitchy, with direct eye contact as if I’m saying, “Hi Reader, I’m glad you’re here!” And of course the black and white hides a lot of facial distractions.  As a good photo does.

I uploaded it thinking they’d never use it to recognize me on the ship, but in case I turned up missing on the ship and they were flashing photos of me on the news this is the face I’d want them to flash and hold vigils around town with. It would look good with a lot of vigil candlelight glow.

We get to the ship and start the onboarding process and normally they take a new photo of you but the woman told me, “Nope, you’re good, we don’t need a new photo of you.”

So there I am, sailing on through and feeling smug that should I go overboard I’ve got a good photo for the television.

Then we get to the boarding of the ship. And I hand over my seapass card for them to scan- which they do for all comings and goings on the ship – and the man sees my pretty photo come up and stops me.

And points to the photo and while looking at me and says, “This is YOU??”

Me, slightly taken aback, replies somewhat indigently, “Yes, that’s me!”

With a slow shake of his head while looking right at me and pointing at the photo he says,  “No one will believe this is you. No one.”

I semi-shouted,  “I’m standing right here! You’re insulting me RIGHT TO MY FACE!”  And then my supportive friendies laughed and laughed and we all walked onto the ship, thinking that would be the last of it, except for them rubbing it in from time to time.

We thought wrong.

At our first stop in Bermuda, when getting off the ship, where once again I had to scan my seapass card, a different person there stopped me before I could get off the ship and said, “No. We need a new photo. No one will believe this is you.”

No one. Will believe. Your face is your face.

And they made me stand there and get a new photo, which was the most godawfully bad picture in the history of pictures, I think it was an up angle with a lot of neck and chin and nostrils and then I thought screw you, Cruise Ship People! And flounced off the ship and onto the beaches of Bermuda where my face that can’t sell make up or get recognized if its a photo that doesn’t look like it’s gone three rounds with a boxing kangaroo soothed it’s ego in the chilly waters that sweep the pink sand beaches.

I mean, I get it. Tropical weathers and humidity are not my friends. They frizz up my hair and red up my face. Apparently to the point where I’m unrecognizable. 

So there you have it, Face. You can’t sell make-up. And Real You is unrecognizable from black & white you.

It’s a tough crowd, this world, Reader.

It’s making me question my natural beauty!

I’m wearing face masks to bed:

And eye bag correctors: 

Basically, the point is, sometimes you take a good picture. Sometimes you don’t. If you’re boarding a cruise ship, use the worst version of yourself. It’s the only way you’ll be recognized. Apparently.

And oh, by the way, Reader. All that Mary Kay makeup and skin care? The blow-out sale is coming. Prove my Wolf Pack wrong, and buy some from me. Prove I do have a face that can sell make up so I can stuff a great big bag of “suck it” in her face.

*now that’s a twist on selling shit I never entertained before – the pity/revenge sales push!

**you really don’t have to buy anything from me. unless you use some of that stuff and want a good deal.

***you can leave a comment and tell me I’m pretty to try and rebuild my ego a bit. i’m not opposed to lies. i get plenty of truths. help to balance them out, Reader.

****another woman who was disembarking in front of me to Bermuda also was questioned about her photo. She was an African American woman, and the only reason I mention that is so you can put in your head the amount of sass that accompanied her response, “It’s called lipstick! I was wearing lipstick in that photo!!” and sassed herself right off the ship without having to get a new photo taken. I need to learn some black woman sass if I’m going to take this face around. Apparently.




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