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The Bang Bang Theories

Fancy

Reader, I’m falling behind on prattling off about the nonsense of my life to you! I know, I know, your days just aren’t complete without my telling you the exciting goings on around Chez Bang Bang.

~hang on while I go refill my water glass. I just scarfed down tacos from The Bell for a very late and unsatisfactory dinner and have a hard shell stuck in my esophagus and also I need to hydrate, because I went to the GYM again, mo’fo’s, so BAM! and yes, I think the gym gets me all cocky and talking smack and callin’ my beloved Reader a mo’fo – blame the wild endorphins, Reader. And the doritos los taco.~

Okay, I’m back, whistle is wet and we’re here to tell stories. Or a story. Don’t get your expectations up, this isn’t going to be good, it’s only going to be a two minute distraction. I promise you nothing more than that, Reader.

So what’s up with me and all the gyming? And have I really been going?? Well, good question, Reader, good question.  See, how I make this feel like we’re participating in a conversation? You’re welcome.  As we discussed, I started making those dern Agreements with myself and sticking to my own word so as not to disappoint me. It’s been a rather useful tool for getting some stuff done. Not exciting and thrilling stuff, but I have reduced some cluttery spots and also have been keeping up a somewhat steady 3 or 4 times/week at the gym.  Small steps at a time, which I’m proud to announce I’m taking on my own two feet that have zero open wounds on them at the time of this writing!

I know, I know – I’m still a youngster to be dealing with this sort of nonsense. Yet here I am.

At my doctors appointment last week I accidentally blurted out, “I LOVE YOU!!” as I was leaving, and then I said something like along the lines of, ‘You know, for taking care of me,” but at today’s visit he was noticeably more friendly and showed me a picture of him when he was 17 from his iPhone – not naked, or of himself masturbating, which I’m learning is a thing you dirty guys like to do, yet no one has ever done that in front of me, and I feel a little jilted and also grateful – but anyway my dr and I chatted about what he did over the weekend, and plans for the holiday and he was cracking jokes and smiles, which is out of the ordinary.  He’s always caring, don’t get me wrong – which is frankly why I love him, he’s just so tender and knows how to care for broken things – but rarely is he this chatty. When I asked if I was all healed up, he looked up at me and held his fingers to his lips and said, “shush….we don’t want to scare it.”

This is meandering all over the place, but the point of that story is, as of right now – healed. Three rounds of cipro. I have been extra diligent about taking double does of probiotics, and let me tell you that involved a bit of orchestration. I had to take the probiotics at least an hour after the antibiotic, and while I had some food in my stomach to make sure some of probiotics had something to attach to and travel into my guts where it belongs, and anyway, short story longer, I was always looking at the clock to take a dose of some damn thing. And also having really great poops from all those probiotics. Just so you know. And now you can’t unknow. But the point of that sentence is, if you’re having trouble pooping, you should really try Arbonne Digestion Plus and you will be very happy with your poops.

We all want happy poops.

As for my big birthday wishes, I aimed for the stars and requested a healed foot – and a cleaned garage – for my two big birthday wishes. I already have happy poops, or I would have asked for that, too. I know, Reader. I know. Me and my princessy wishes. I’m high maintenance with my pie-in-the-sky dreamin’. I’m just like the Kardashians.

So yeah. The birthday is at the end of this week. I’ve so far made our really well on lunch treats and good company and even a little giftie which was totally unnecessary but appreciated. And now one of my big wishes has been delivered. I’m not going to hold my breath on the garage sitch. But maybe just maybe if I make an agreement with myself, I can make that wish come true, too.

 

Matters of the Heart

I have a Tan Line, Reader.  Proof of such is below.

I don’t really get “tanned” – I’m the frecklie-face with red-headed undertones beneath my naturally ~ ahem ~ blond hair.

I spent time in the sun on vacation sans sunblock, which can be a risky decision for me, and I know all about sunscreen and skin cancer and the hazards of Mother Nature, but I also know that some sun is good for you and metabolizes your Vitamin D and it raises the serotonin levels which is probably why I’m just so fucking happy sitting in the sun on a big ship in middle of the ocean with treats and drinks and people addressing my every whim.

Hm, maybe that also has something to do with my happiness sitting out there.

As if by magic, snackies show up in my room. 

So lotsa reasons to be happy out there.

But then all too soon it’s back to reality, and the only thing I have to remind me is a little bit of a tan and some future garage sale items, as My Mister calls my vacation purchases. I normally try really hard to keep my vacation purchases on the low end, because there is literally NOTHING I need from any of the places we visit, and also when I’m home I’m constantly thinking about working on the Magic of Tidying Up my life, which is anti-cluttering.  Notice I said “constantly thinking about” vs. actually doing. I’m low on the doing, but high on the thinking. In a lot of areas of my life, Reader, not just this one, in case you were wondering.

Anyway, I did make a few small purchases to also remind me of Places I’ve Gone long after my light tan line fades. This little handcrafted leather purse was among one of my purchases.

Now, I don’t need another purse – its one thing I have plenty of – yet the man walked by me on the beach in Costa Maya and I started looking at them and after he spent about 30 minutes and showed  me 50 purses that he was wearing like a pack-mule, MM informed me, “Pick one that you want, you WILL be buying one after making the poor guy go through all this.”

Yeah he really did earn that $30 or whatever it cost, plus it is truly hand-made pretty cute to boot. Time will tell if I ever actually get any use out of it, but hey – I left a few bucks on a rather poor island so I consider shopping there as part of my philanthropic work.

Since I’m a do-goody-gooder, I also left a few bucks behind with the silversmiths. 

There’s a long long long – way too long to be worth the payoff to you, Reader – story behind this ring. The cliffsnotes version is, two years ago when Joanne and I were on this very island, I walked by one of the jewelry shitshops and a ring with this green opal turned my head right around and it was coming home with me.

Except. One look led to another, and then another, and then the next thing you know, Joanne and I had a whole buncha jewelry we were ready to check out and then their stupid Costa-Mayan credit card machine didn’t work. So the guy herded us down to one of his other shops to see if the machine would work there.

It didn’t.

At this point, Joanne and I are getting a little concerned because we needed to get back on the ship. He kept assuring us we had plenty of time, and after several more long-minuted attempts to get our bling rung up, the final failed attempt happened and we had to leave, with the man following us back to the cruise ship – or at least attempting to – because we had cash in the room.

Except we didn’t have any time. Zero. To the point that the cruise ship had a golf cart waiting for us at the end of the pier and whisked our asses onto the ship, and then the captain made an announcement that they could finally get ready to sail because Joanne and Trixie – yes, he called us out over the loudspeaker BY NAME – were finally back on the ship. Without jewelry, so talk about a whole lotta wasted efforts.

And then after that, the captain called us out over the loud speaker at ever stop, reminding, “Joanne & Trixie, all aboard time is 4:30!”   Even better was when we were invited to a meet & greet with the captain & crew and I opted to nap so Joanne went alone and the captain was sure happy to meet her in person. He actually did have a good sense of humor about it all, actually. Luckily for us.

Over the next two years, I’d look at all of our travel stops for something similar, and could never find it. Seemed to be something specific to that area. So I was more than excited when this past cruise stopped right back at the scene of the incident and I was a woman with a mission.

I knew right where to go.

And there they were, several trays of styles with the green opal I had my heart set on. I wanted that rustic silver setting, nothing fancy, more casual.

Once I found it of course I wasn’t leaving Costa Maya without it.  The good news was, the ring was twenty bucks cheaper than what I was quoted two years earlier. It wasn’t exactly the same style, but the essence was the same. I got such a good deal I also picked up a silver bracelet and a pretty chain, and a $10 pair of silver earrings just because I wanted to offer more with my philanthropy.

I’m a giver. And a bad story ender, because it’s the end – or the beginning, I’m not really sure how it work – of Daylight Savings, and it’s 8:00 p.m. and I’m exhausted because it’s pitch dark outside and I want to jump into my pajamas and into bed. Which is what is happening in the next ten minutes or less, and means I have no brain thoughts to put into a happy ending for you.

Stop back. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

*this may be chock-full of typos, and I’m too bushed to care to read through it. Make it make sense in your own mind, Reader. You can do that much for me. It’s Birthday Month, in case you hadn’t heard the news.  I’m an old lady. I get to excuse a lot of my bad behavior away from here on out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who’s That Girl

A funny thing happened on the way to the gym tonight.

I actually went to the fucking gym.

Surprised myself even.  It’s the damn Agreements I’ve been making with myself. I agreed last night that I would stop in at Planet Fitness after work and do something, and then even though my body was crying out for pajamas and the telly, my mind said, “You made an agreement, a-hole, stop trying to wriggle out of your own damn decision,” and then I yelled at myself for calling me an a-hole because frankly that’s uncalled for.

In the end, the mind won out over the wants of the body, and then of course once I got there things in the body felt better, too, as I in my mind know they will.

I did some stuff. I rode the bike. I did some machines. I stretched around. Then I flounced out and headed for home at 7:15, which is one of the downfalls of stopping after work, now it’s quarter til nine at night and dinner is still cooking.

I’m making chicken soup because while I was on vacation, Winter arrived back home and now it’s damn cold and oh, guess what, I didn’t wear a jacket to work because much like my daddy’s irrational rationale who wouldn’t turn the heat on until November, I won’t put on a jacket until then. It’s a stubborn rule that makes zero sense, and lemme tell you, I was c-o-l-d on the way into & outta work, and then colder still after hitting the air with a little gym sweat on my skin.

When I’m sick next week, don’t blame the cruise, I washy-washy’ed my hands pee-lenty. It’s the Rule of the Coat that will do me in.

In other news, the cats have been rather misbehaved lately. We won’t go into all the details of their bad behaviors, because why, let’s just say that so far I’m counting it as an actual BLESSING that Kitty Purry hasn’t peed ON ME at night. Yet. I have kept her mashed down and nestled in my arms throughout the night to deter the thought that could flit across her cat-pee-brain.  But the bad behavior news is, if she WERE to pee on me, it wouldn’t be their collective worst behavior.

They are lucky, so so lucky they get to live here and I’m weak in the face of their cute faces.

Speaking of cute faces, there’s DJ putting the “sound” in sound asleep as he’s lying atop the soundbar, smack dab in front of the tv, but with an 80″ tv, it’s not much of an inconvenience. Except why here, DJ? Why not, he says, and then flips me the finger if he had fingers that is, in my imaginary conversation with him.

On that note, it’s dinner time, almost.  I’m going to think about which agreements I want to craft with myself for tomorrow because I have to put a lot of thought into them; apparently, I take me seriously at times.

From the Waist Up

What a difference a day makes, huh, Reader.  Rhetorical, hence the not-a-question.

One minute I’m looking at this view from my very schmancy-fancy suite.

The next thing ya know I’m staring at wet leaves and a sad dinner.

In case you haven’t heard my insufferable boasting via Facebook pictures, I floated around the Caribbean in a very schmancy room with a separate bedroom, walk-in closet, double sinks, and a bathtub I could swim a lap in. 

The balcony was so large, in a wrappy-aroundie kinda way, that I counted it as a workout walking from one end to the other.

At night:

There were TWO sets of sliding doors – one set from the bedroom, one set from the living room.

Of course, I count just about any type of movement as a workout. Because every step counts, Reader. My Fitbit that I don’t wear ever says so.

The balcony – I keep wanting to write “MY balcony” but it’s not mine at all, and in fact has someone else’s fancy ass sitting on it as of yesterday – had sides with different views it was so wrappy-aroundie big.

One side offered a table, two seats, a viewfinder thingy that I was too short to properly see out of and for the first two days I thought it was broken because all I could see was darkness. Then it was pointed out to me that I was looking up into the sky and not at a particular thing.

Back when I was officially 5’3, I could have probably seen just fine out of it. But the doctor’s office now insists I’m 5’1, which is re-fucking-diculous, because you’re going to tell me that I’ve shrunk 2″ at the age of 50?? If I live to 80 I’ll be 3’5, basing that on the fact that the shrinking must happen at an accelerated rate with age because I was ALWAYS 5’3 until recently.

I was so put-off by the 5’1 diagnosis that I insisted on a re-heighting, making them measure me three times.  I’m STILL not convinced, because they write the number down and then go consult with some conversion chart and then pronounce me 5’1.

Now, I don’t have a problem with 5’1. I have a problem with shrinking 2″.  I guess I could settle this debate at home by marking my wall and measuring myself, however that seems like a bit more work than I’m interested in investing, except maybe now that I’ve typed it out loud I may get that done today after all. I’m all about making agreements with myself since I delved into reading my latest be-a-better-me book The Well Life while I was sitting on another section of my the, sheesh, Reader I know it’s not MINE, stop yelling at me! balcony.

I sat out there and got some sun and read all about making agreements with myself, and forgiving myself as well as other a-holes who have traipsed in and out of my life, and maybe some of it is sinking in because man alive did I get a lot of my “agreements” accomplished in the first night since I’ve been home. Agreements are different from goals, because you tell yourself why you’ll be happier with accomplishing whatever it is, instead of just checking something off a list. For me, it seems to be a bit more motivating.

Except I’m still having a struggle with Being a Nice Human.  I literally have a shirt that says BE A NICE HUMAN as a reminder to myself and others. 

It’s not as easy as the big block letters would lead you to believe. Just this morning I told someone to Fuck Off via the interwebs.  Because they were being an a-hole towards me, and the next thing you know I’m typing fuck you and MYOB.

Serenity Now. 

So basically I’m an ongoing work in progress and a contradiction.

But back to this mack daddy balcony.  There was a little quiet nook on one side that overlooked the water.

The other side wrapped to the interior / back of the ship, where we could enjoy the theater shows at night whilst in my pajamas….

….or watch people rock climb from the comfort of my pajamas while shoving small caramel cheesecakes in my cakehole. 

The take-away is, I like to sit around in my pajamas. A lot. Probably because they are the only thing that’s comfy after all the small cakes. And the not-so-small cakes:

Yes, that actually was the dessert plank at our dinner table one night.

Yes, I tried all of them.  Because see photo above.

This was my THE balcony at night, by the way.

One day I walked out on the balcony to hang up my bathing suit so it could dry off, and I traipsed out in only my pajama top, sans bottoms.

This conversation resulted:

Him: “you know, people can SEE you out there!”

Me: “yeah, but I’m only naked from the pussy down.”

So basically pussy-down naked is invisible.

In case you didn’t know.

And now you know. You’re welcome.

Still.

I sometimes need to stop the cacophony of thoughts that swirl ’round in my head and just be still for a moment and remind myself to look around without thinking a million things that have nothing to do with what’s right in front of me.

When I practice this, I can feel a noticeable shift in where I am. It’s fleeting, however, and I can’t make it last for more than a moment or two. Thoughts just want to wander on to the next thing, despite the really great thing right in front of you.

This is my view right now.   It’s one of my very favorite things, to look out onto beautiful ocean waters.  Last night I stood on our balcony for a moment and tried to breathe in the night a little, reminding myself that I am lucky.

Lucky to be here. On this ship. In this room. Surrounded by water – big water.  Yet room service is a click away.  With people I love and care about.

While I’ve been gone doing this, my family back home was saying goodbye to Our Girl HB, who died last week at the age of 24 from a chronic horrible-awful-we-hate-it-so-hard illness. I didn’t spend a lot of time in HB’s life – life got in the way. But this girl. Man, she was something special. She radiated brightness from within, and you wanted to know her and claim her as yours. I don’t say much about other people’s business on here, as that’s their stories to tell so we won’t get into a lot of detail, Reader. But my part of the story is, we lost a shiny star from our family this past week. It’s made my family that I love so much, and myself, sad and cry-ie.  I’ve felt badly that my trip collided with the celebration of her life, but I’m trying to stand still in my brain and really be grateful.

For what we had.

For what I have.

For in this moment is everything.

 

Fetish

It was clean-out-the-fridge day recently.  I don’t mean the weekly toss & wipe, I mean the kinda cleaning when you take everything off the shelves and scrub ’em down and find three tupperware containers of bacon grease and taco sauces stuck to the glass and your obsessions you didn’t even know you had come to light.

Like this.

Apparently I have a “thing” for lotsa lotsa jellies.

There are thirteen or so in that photo, including a teensy tin of blackberry jam from Cracker Barrel, but that is one jelly that is far too yummy to toss in the trash when you’re lucky enough to get an extra.

I have orange marmalade from Harvey’s in Florida that is at least 2 years old. Unopened. And I don’t even like marmalade.  And apple, and blueberry and moscato flavored and peach and red raspberry and low sugar and extra sugar and apple butter which isn’t even really jelly at all but poses as such.

Come over. We can jam together.

 

One Direction

Hi Reader, Happy Weekend. Unless you’re reading this on not a weekend, then Happy That Day.

I haven’t been here much, because I’ve been trying to expand my creativity by painting awful pictures. Because I’m a badass, and refuse to  not paint just because I’m not a good painter. But that leaves me having to make a Sophie’s Choice, of painting, reading, writing or doing shit I should be doing, like laundry, cleaning, bill paying, etc. So not really like a Sophie’s Choice at all, more like a Trixie’s Choices, which are plenty, not life or death, and usually chosen not wisely at all.

I keep working on my dern sea scape, but the youtube I’m watching goes really fast, faster than I paint, and then I’m rewatching parts, and using too much paint and I don’t know how the tutorial teacher keeps such a small amount of paint on her palette thing.  She makes a little go a looong way, which is the opposite of what I do. Maybe I’ll get to the point of adding in some waves and blurring up my beach line later today or tomorrow.

Maybe.

In other news, Fall is looking pretty at Chez Bang Bang.

Speaking of Fall, Thursday at work I did exactly that.  My shoe seems to be acting like an asshole, and wasn’t “lifting” with my foot. I can wear about three pair of shoes only, my pickings are slim because i’m still healing that gol’dern-mother’fuckin’ blister spot and can’t wear anything that will put pressure against it so I’m wearing slide-on shoes. Well that damn shoe slid underneath my foot and tripped me right on up.

Luckily it was late on the way out of the building and there wasn’t an entire audience to witness my tumble. Three girls came running up and then shared their own stories of falling, which somehow was supposed to help me. Basically I just wanted to get in my car and cry and look at my boo-boo, which consisted of a big lump on my knee and a bloody elbow.

So basically, I’m now the person who takes a wicked spill. I am one birthday away from needing a Life Alert.

And oh, yeah, I chipped my tooth on something a week or so ago, and am now up to $3k in dental expense repair work, which luckily will be done right before I head out for vacation next week. Stay away, Burglers, because of course I have a cat sitter here ALL THE TIME, so don’t try to steal my stuff. Unless you’d like to take one of the peeing cats, then have at it.

Speaking of a peeing cat, we changed the sheets the other night because I wanted a nice clean wrinkle-free sleeping experience, and Kitty Purry came right over to my side of the freshly made bed and peed on it.  Because apparently that’s where that goes. So we did a full strip down once again, including comforter, and changed the bed within a matter of two minutes.

Yes, Kitty Purry still gets to live here. No, we didn’t kill her.  I mean, what are we supposed to do, actually. Everyone has an opinion that they’d kick her outside, etc. but I don’t think killing a cat is the answer. Apparently her needs were not being met in some fashion. I really wish she’d learn to leave a little note somewhere, though, instead of her peeing on the bed calling card. On MY side of the bed – let me clarify that point. She only ever pees on me directly, or on my side of the bed. I’m the lucky one.

So that is about it.

I fell.

The cat peed on the bed.

I’m an awful painter.

And some other things happened, too, but we’re not going to get into all that here. Let’s just say it was a week of turbulence but we are going to move forward, hopefully not falling too hard along the way, and trying to badass the hell out of life, because really that IS the only choice.

Keep moving.

Get up when you fall.

Cry a little bit.

But keep moving forward.

Brown-Chicken-Brown-Cow

Happy Saturday, Reader – it’s almost Cocktober, which is why the girls and I celebrated with a few dancing tushes last night. Yes, yes, save your words if you’re all offended. I’m not here to please you. We’ve already established that. If I were, you’d get way more content and of much better quality.

Instead you get things like ‘Cocktober” which will now be stuck in your mind for the next 31 days.

You’re welcome.

I’m not above ogling, and in fact I rather enjoy it, and also I feel like it’s part of my humanitarian relief efforts, because these guys need jobs, too, and they are providing something towards relieving humans.
I’m pretty sure that’s how charity works.

We had VIP tix, because that’s how The Hoff rolls when she does something. Which is reason #32 why we get along so well. She’s part of my Golden Girls Squad, which is a group of us who figure we’ll for sure outlive the guys and will need to rely on each other in a nice “flat house” with no stairs, and help each other out to the lanai.

The Hoff somehow got it in her head that she was NOT going to be Dorothy, but she’ so absolutely Dorothy with her no-nonsense sarcasm, so I’m not sure who else she thinks she is, and frankly I’d be happy to be the Dorothy except I’m also the more slutty one out of the troupe so I’m obviously Blanche. We told her she can be Sophia then, because she’s a little cantankerous at times. So those are your picks, Hoff. Don’t hate the player, hate the Which Golden Girl Are You game.

Speaking of the players, this one happened to be Blanche’s Pick.

Going to a Chippendale’s show made me realize a few things last night.

1/ My best sex years are probably behind me. I know, I know. That’s not how Blanche would think! But let’s face facts. I USED to be able to be flipped over and turned around and pulled up and pushed down and all that fun stuff. Now? My knees just aren’t going to participate in all those shenanigans. They’re just not. It’s a whole lot more like, “don’t try anything fancy, just get the job done” around here. I KNOW, now you can’t unknow that, but it’s TRUE and I’ll all about speaking the truth(ish)!!

2/ No matter how cute and thrust-y they were, I seriously had this thought while looking at them: My brain: “They must spend an awful lot of hours in the gym to look like that. You know they’re not doing a fucking thing to help out around the house.”

3/ And the other thought in my brain said this: “As cute as he is, and as flippy and twirly and pumpy as he looks, I’m sure at some point he’d end up disappointing me.”

Now, Reader. That is a rather sad commentary on my view on guys. Apparently, I invented, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Now, I know you’re probably all wondering (not one of you is actually wondering this, I’m sure, but you’re going to know my answer anyway), if they did the trick of getting me all worked up and then a whole bunch of this happened later that night:

I’m sure a member of the household would like to say it did. But when it was suggested, Grouchy Old Lady Blanche said, “Let me just live with my fantasy for one night. I can’t risk being disappointed.”

And instead My Mister got me a glass of Alka Seltzer because my Peach Bellini’s gave me indigestion, and he was too full from the all-you-can-eat clambake we had after the show anyway and we are saving my disappointment enjoyment for another evening.

And now you know just another glimmer of the magic that happens if you get to live with me, Reader. Who’s sorry now. Besides My Mister.

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Formal Wear

You guys, my littlest wandering kitten has been missing for 5 days now.  I hadn’t mentioned it because my thoughts are if I don’t type it out loud, it’s not really happening.  Because that’s how the energy of the Universe works.

I’ve been practicing “visioning” wherein I close my eyes and focus really super duper hard on “seeing” him standing on the front stoop waiting to be let inside.

We’ve driven to the streets behind the ravine, calling “kitty kitty” and hoping to avoid seeing tufted mashed black fur on the road.

I know he should be a dedicated “indoor only” cat. I’ve always ever only had indoor-only cats. But his heart wants what his heart wants, and it involves chasing and running and being nosy outdoors.

It’s a risk agreement we’ve entered into, and just keep hoping for the best.

Two nights ago I even insisted My Mister take the little garden St. Francis statue and sit him up straight against a tree while I said some sort of  novena – is a novena even the right right religious word? – well, regardless if it is or isn’t, I was novena-ing to the high heavens and willing Gussy to come back home where he belongs.

Finally, last night I made the decision to turn the front porch light off. Yes, until all the kids are back inside, I leave the front porch light on as their lighthouse beacon. I know it only comforts me, but since I pay the electric bill I don’t have to ask for permission to indulge myself.

I clicked off the light, heavily signed and declared I think this time is it, he’s not coming home.

And then sometime in the middle of the night I got up out of bed and went and turned the light back on. Because mama’s boy isn’t home, and dammit the light is staying on.

This morning, there was no miracle return of my prodigal son.  See, I know religious things, Reader – don’t think I’m an outright heathen! I know returning son stories and have a St. Francis statue (right next to my Buddah, we’re all-inclusive around here – well, maybe not all, but we’re a lot of inclusive around here) and I’m saying novenas.

You’d think with all that going on, our boy would surely show up.

Well, you’d be RIGHT, Reader!! My Mister was chatting up the neighbors tonight and mentioned to the group that we’re still looking for Gussy.

The newest neighbor in the hood blanched when he mentioned we haven’t seen him since last Thursday. He stuttered, “Uh..wha??”

Long story longer, apparently he thought the feral cat who hangs out sometimes suddenly became nice and catch-able and he hauled him to the APL and turned him in.

MM high-tailed it to the APL and then called me. He just wasn’t 100% sure “Tuxedo” was our little black cat. I told him to let me Facetime the cat, I’d be able tell from a few of his distinctions, including a tuft of hair missing between his shoulder blades from his flea application (check!), how the hair is a slightly different color down by his tail (check!!), and then I told him to let me see his pants, because I’m quite familiar with his sparse-haired tummy (check!!!).

Much like an online dating profile, his photos and his write up doesn’t quite showcase his cuteness.  Luckily for us.

He started purring LOUDLY when Kenny picked him up, and his disposition is a bit on the fed-up side, which is good and probably kept him from getting re-homed.

The neighbor at least kindly pre-paid for an adoption fee for him when he dropped him off, so we don’t have to pay to get our kitty back.  However, it was past adoption hours tonight so he’s sitting for one more night in his jail.

There’s a few lessons that can be learned from this story.

1/ Novenas and praying to false statues must work

2/ If you know your neighbor has a cat, maybe check with them before taking the suddenly-friendly feral cat named “Tuxedo” to the APL

3/ I’m a little annoyed that this particular neighbor didn’t say something when he’s had to have heard me calling for Gussy, night after night

4/ Will i ever be able to politely wave to these neighbors again??

5/ I know there are way way way worse pet neighbors than mine – some even shoot your damn dog with a bb gun (yes, that’s a true thing that happened to my cousin)

6/ We, as his mama and daddy, are responsible for him not staying in the house, but I don’t like being his Ariel Castro – if he wants some fresh air and sunshine, what right do I have to deny his freedom

7/ I know he’s a cat, and I have every right to deny his freedom

8/ I still can’t deny his freedom

9/ I think he’ll be getting a microchip shortly

10/ The good news is, he’s all caught up on his shots now

11/ What kinda idiot thinks his markings are that of a “tuxedo”??? I mean. Good. Lord.

12/ He’s now listed as “pending adoption” by the people who own him, which is just a crazy game that we have to formally adopt him

13/ As they say, alls well that ends well.

I think I’ll leave the light on just for one more night, to let The Universe know he belongs back home and we’re waiting.

 

 

A Little More, Please.

You guys, I think I’m finally learning important stuff!

Remember last time we were here, and I was trying to force myself out of a bad mood by “relaxing” a.k.a., sitting down on my deck to create a really hasty painting because damnit, I was going to accomplish something, whether I enjoyed myself or not!?

Well, I certainly wasn’t happy with what I had created and was scrapping that one up for a loss.

But the paints sat on the porch all week.

And sometimes after work I’d go out there and sit and look at my untalented work.

And then I started to think, “Well, hm, what if I just paint white paint over the parts I really hate, and see what happens next.”

So I’d mix some colors, and pick up my brush and start to dap at the canvas.

Slowly I started to not hate my painting. I started to enjoy watching a few touches here or there transform it just a little. Slowly. Slowly. Take your time and enjoy the process.  Little changes began to add up. And I started to relax into the process and have a new appreciation for the outcome.

Is it going to win any awards? No it is not.

I’ve been evolving it.  And just adding some touches here and there, and it takes a super long time for oils to dry (do they ever even dry??) and then maybe tomorrow I’ll try something else.

But the lesson learned is, that now, with a little patience and persistence, I’m starting to like what I’m creating.  And I’m enjoying the experience.

What else I know is this: Someone I know is going to inherit all the arts I create when I die and then think to themselves, “Oh fuck me, this is awful but if I throw it out I’m going to feel like an asshole because my dead aunt/friend/daughter/cousin/sister/lovah painted this with her own two hands and bequeathed it to me and now I have to put this somewhere in my house!”  And then my job here is officially done, because it’s one last HA! I’ve gotten to play on someone because that’s the way death works, or at least the way I’m going to do it. I will make you regret getting named in my will.

I’m also excited for the part of this story, where if you’ve paid any attention whatsoever to Trixie Bang Bang and her penchant for naps, you may have noticed I’ve said that sometimes in the evenings I’d sit on the deck and dap at my painting. Because I’m NOT NAPPING, Reader – I’m dapping!!! A YUUUUGE shift has happened in my bod for the past couple of weeks, and I can attribute it all to starting a 30-day Detox thing-a-mah-jig using Arbonne products as my main supplier for good things in mah bod.

This is in no way a sales pitch. I’m not good with pitching products. You either want stuff or you don’t, and my telling you I like it has little effect. I’m happy keeping all the effects to myself, quite frankly.

Here’s what I do know:

I’m not tired for the next day before I’ve even gone to bed the night before.

I’m not in need of my pre-bedtime nap as soon as I rush home from work.

I’m not exhausted during the day.

I don’t want to crawl under my desk and Costanza at 2 p.m. 

I have – no shit – been getting up BEFORE NOON on the weekends. VOLUNTARILY!! I mean, waaaay before noon!! Some days before 9 a.m. which I had always considered crazy talk.

I mean, comeon’ Reader. I heart sleep like I heart soft kittens and chocolate cake. A lot lot lot of hearts.

And lately, I have felt like my sleep fuel tank has been running plum full’up after a normal night of sleep.

I’m sitting here on Sunday at 5 p.m. and am absolutely flabbergasted at how much day I still have left, and how much I’ve already packed in.

Now, I haven’t gotten all my to-do’s ticked off the list, but guess what?? There’s still time to do them!!

So yeah. Arbonne for the win with this one, and it’s not even a struggle. Now, I do my own version, which is probably why I’ve only lost 4 lbs., but I still like a meal. I mostly stick with their protein shakes during the work day, then have something for dinner. I drink several glasses of their detox tea a day because it’s delish. And I swig down in two gulps some digestive health stuff that smells like cat pee, but is supposed to do me a world of good so I just go with it. Let’s face facts, I’ve swallowed several unpleasant tastes in my lifetime. Ahem. You just don’t get to fiddy without trying stuff, is what I’m saying. Curiosity alone is a motivator to test things out.

The weekend has been filled with beautiful weather, and also a strong scent of the unavoidable changing of the seasons. A leaf blew in and landed next to my masterpiece, reminding me that our days outdoors are limited and to soak them up while we can.

Purry gave me quite a scare this week. It seemed as if her days were limited. She stopped eating, probably lost a whole pound or two and at her teensy size, that is significant.

We waited to take her to the vet, to see if she’d bounce back, and by the time I’d declared it was time to take her in, she started eating and drinking more.

Her little trick worked well for getting her very own strategically placed crystal bowls of water with ice cubes all around her hangouts.

She became whisper-thin in just a few short days, but here she is actually enjoying a nap on the deck while mama paints/writes/creates/frets about life. 

She seems to be out of the woods. Now I just need to get her fattened back up a little.  Purry could have used a few extra protective layer of pounds on her, and now I’m heeding this warning and thinking about a dessert in my future tonight.

In the meantime, I’m going to go and get a few more things checked off my to-do list, including a quick whore’s bath for my car. On Friday one of the other tasks I swore I would complete before the sun went down on the weekend would be planting my hydrangea, which looked like it was a lost cause and then it surprised the eff out of me when I noticed fresh greenery sprouting. It’s not done with me yet, Reader, so I need to give it a helping hand. Off to find my shovel.

Sometimes, like a bad painting, a sick cat, or a brown plant – hope springs eternal.

Here’s hoping for a little bit more of that in all our worlds.

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