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The Bang Bang Theories

The Longest Shortest Month

Hi, Reader, Hi.

I’ve been s*i*c*k  for a gol’dern week already.

Not “deathbed sick,” just a cough that won’t quit, and is so severe I think I expelled my uterus. And probably other internal body parts got all discombobulated and probably aren’t where they’re supposed to be any longer, either.

Food tastes blecky. That’s a combo of blah and yucky.  Right at this very moment I’m trying to eat an English Muffin w/ a little slice of chicken on it to get some protein in my bod, but it’s too blecky. The muffin with a small swimming pool of butter is just okay.

Despite all that blecky feeling going on around Chez Bang Bang, I’m still trying to rally into some form of productivity around here. My friendie was over and she was helping me get some shiz organized and I have to say, seeing my shiz through HER eyes have made me realize I’m not krazee – we have far far far too much shizzz around here.  We have a million little things.

This friendie also twisted my arm and pulled my hair, FORCING me to sign up for a flea market/craft sale thingamajig this past Saturday. I had one day to figger out what the what was going to make it onto my eight feet of retail space.  We pulled together a bunch of greeting card products and paper goods that were – no jokie – 20 years old. The napkins were for New Year 2000! So I must have picked them up in 1999?? This friendie told me I was forbidden from bringing any of those napkins back into the house, so I forced them on gave them away to every person who walked by.

But JUST NOW I wished I had kept those year 2000 napkins and had a party using them, just to confuse everyone. We always miss it when it’s gone, Reader.

Friendie also pointed out I have more greeting cards than I could ever send in a lifetime, so a whole buncha very spensive $10 cards went at 4/$1.  Keep in mind, Reader, my years at the Card Mines are the reason for this accumulation. Cards came to me easily and freely.

Do I feel lighter now after selling some stuff?


I still have a buncha stuff I’ll never use.

Do I feel richer?


I made about $14 after all was said and done. And I spent that on potato chips and Lawson’s chip dip, because feed a cough chip dip is an old wive’s cure.

Do I feel inspired to keep getting rid of stuff?

Yes. But jeez. There’s just so much.

I posted a buncha crap valuable items on The Facebook and sold $75 worth of stuff in a matter of minutes. Some of it to my friends, which I would really just like to have an open house and have everyone I know stop in and pick out what they want to save me a whole buncha posting effort.

Did I learn a lesson that I need to stop shlepping shit to flea markets and just post it online?

Yes. Yes I did.

Today my goal is to clean and take photos of a giant box of stuff and then sit back and watch the Bennys roll in.

And here you’ve been thinking I’ve been sitting around doing nothing except neglecting you, Dear Reader.  I’ve been neglecting Me, actually, to the point that I had to get out of bed at three a.m. the other night to shave my hairy-AF legs because they were prickling me THROUGH my pajamas.

So that’s the state of affairs at Chez Bang Bang.

I’m sick. But recovering-ish.

My legs are smooth. Smoother. For a moment.

Closets are cleaning out. Slowly slowly.  But it’s gotta start somewhere.

It’s all gotta start somewhere.


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The Breakup

Reeeee-der!  This is a difficult post to share with you.  This has been on my mind for a while now, and I’ve been wrassling* with it.

*yes, that’s right. that’s how my family pronounced “wrestling” – and I also blame them for Youth Me not knowing the proper pronunciation of the word “tiger” as my mom pronounced it “tagger,” as in, “Let’s go to Giant Tagger and do a little shopping.”  I mean, WTF, Parents.  I’m not blaming you, but I am *blaming* you.  A little. You can’t send a kid off to grade school where she might have to wrassle taggers and then get teased because she doesn’t know the word wrestle or tiger.  And she’s maybe nine years old or something.  And also probably why I struggle to pronounce the words warrior or entrepreneur.  Two words I just slide over should I have to actually use them in a conversation. I don’t know why I’m putting the blame for those two words back on my upbringing, but there’s probably a very good reason for it somewhere.

That was a serious left turn from the conversation we were having, Reader.  Let’s get back on track. We have some sirrious* bidnizz* to chat about and get it right there and out in the opened so we’re not harboring secrets.

*so apparently we’re going to have a post with a lot of sound-it-out words in it.  I don’t know why, Reader. It just is.

Are you ready for the big secret reveal??

Grab a chair. This might be a sit-down revelation.



I had to say it really fast like that to get the words out there in public.

Now, before you pish-posh that statement, let’s go over some facts.

Fact #1) Recently, I’ve THROWN OUT CAKE. Perfectly good cake that was sitting on the counter, minding it’s own business. Got thrown out. Because I just wasn’t enjoying it anymore.

Fact #2) I’ve made three cakes recently. THREE.  And I haven’t liked any of them.  I varied the flavors, to see if that were the problem. I’ve Mixed. It. Up! Butter pecan with a cream-cheese filling, a dark chocolate with an awful* frosting for My Artist’s b-day, and yesterday a strawberry “piecake” hodgepodge concoction that had me mixing in a can of berry pie filling to try to “fun it up” and while My Mister loved it, I felt it was meh.

It looks good enough, but nope.

So with those two facts in play, I fear I have lost my love for cake.

*that awful frosting wasn’t to blame for my not enjoying the cake. The cake itself was meh.

Where do we go from here, Reader?? Do I continue to test cakes in the name of Research?? I have thought that perhaps I didn’t like any of the three cakes I made because of the brand I used – they were all Betty Crocker – maybe I need to try Duncan Hines? Or a homemade from scratch cake?  And then maybe a small bakery cake before I come to a possibly rash conclusion? I mean, if this is in fact a truth, this whole blog premise needs to be revamped. How can we be Partly CLOWDER with a CHANCE OF CAKE if I eliminate all chances of cake??

Now that we’ve talked it out, Reader, it appears more work needs to be done in order to reach a definitive conclusion on Trixie’s Tastebuds vs. Cake.

Stop in. We’ll test cakes together.



Run Between the Raindrops

Reader, we are NOT EVEN going to talk about this weather we’re having, because we’re all having some form of it and I’m not here to tell you about something you already know and hate.

Unless what you already know and hate is the fact that I had the fortunate opportunity to travel ONCE AGAIN to another tropical destination. Then yes, I’m going to tell you a smidgen about what you already know and hate.

Most of the days were this pretty:

Because we were in a Tropical Paradise, that’s why.

But then SOME of the days were like this:

All splashy and churny with CLOUDS and even some rain drops.

I managed to make due, despite the one day I (and several other folks) got sick with a stomach virus and threw up all of my insides and spent one whole afternoon and evening lying in bed watching every single episode of North Woods Law, and now I feel like I intimately know the Game Wardens of New Hampshire and Maine and #1/ one of them should be my next husband* and #2/ people are crazy** and #3/ a lot of the times I felt that the wardens were really just picking on people*** and #4/ I know everything there is to know about what makes a lobster trap illegal****.

*I’ll take this one, please:

…..and yes, I know, I know…I have a “type” and it unfortunately often involves polyester uniforms and short hair. The part…er, I mean heart…wants what the part…er heart…wants.

**she is one of the ka-ray-zeeee train people living up there in the North Woods, who “rescued” an injured squirrel and then had a meltdown that she didn’t get to keep it and the cutie officers had to convince her to release her squirrel back to the wild.

***one of the episodes had one of the wardens checking in on a camper, who wasn’t doing anything at all illegal, and was just hanging out in her tent, and they spent an inordinate amount of time making sure she wasn’t being kidnapped by merely asking her, “Are you being held against your will?” and then they didn’t even look INSIDE the tent. They left when she insisted she was just camping with her dog.

****Lastly, it’s illegal to use zip ties to secure your lobster traps. So don’t do it, a-holes lobster catchers, or your traps will be pulled right on up out of the water and TAGGED and you will get a firm talking to.

Man alive, I should really be a North Woods Game Warden, with as much as I learned from one afternoon being sick. Because that’s how being qualified works, right? Watch t.v., think you know it all, start issuing citations.


Okay, I guess I won’t be gettin deputized. Sheesh.

Back to what I’m good it, which is not, by the way, writing stories while I’m on vacation. I always THINK I’ll have pee-lenty of time to tell you Things, Reader, but then I never pulled my iPad out of it’s bag. It just sat there, unloved and quiet.

I did witness many pretty landscapes, and saw may pretty sunsets, and frolicked around in many pretty turquoise waters and I even said YES to parasailing, because what if this is my last go-round at Turks & Caicos? I mean, it could be, prices are going up, things change, and I was not going to parasail but went along for the ride when my Roomy was going, because why miss a boating experience. Except then I was on there and thought, “If not now, when??” and said YES to the dress and got strapped into the harness and was floating up in the sky.

I wasn’t exactly afraid of doing it, it was more of, “Eh, should I spend $75 when I’m most likely going to be unemployed again soon because I hate my boss with every fiber of my being?”  – that was the question on my mind, not, “Should I do it, what if something goes wrong and I die??”

I decided to just go for it and it did not disappoint:

And then the trip was over, and I had to go back to work and then I was fired from my job by 9:15 a.m. Monday morning.

Yes, I knew it was coming. No, it didn’t have anything to do with my taking vacation. That was negotiated on the front end.

Yes, it’s a bunch of bullshit on their end and they know it, which is why I’m getting a healthy amount of severance and backpay because they have not paid me the correct salary since I started, which I bitchily kindly brought to their attention.

Yes, my boss hated me as much as I hated him. Maybe. My hatred runs pretty deeply, so it’s hard to say if it’s equal. But since he couldn’t even be present in the room with me when I was getting canned via a conference call, I’d say it’s pretty clear he despised his hiring decision.

Monday afternoon I had an interview, and was offered a new job last night.  I had to turn it down, the pay wasn’t enough to even make my mortgage payment, but the good news is I can get a new damn job when I want one, and the next time I’m going to listen to my insides and when they are screaming NO, I’m going to heed that warning. I knew this boss was not a good fit with me, yet I squashed my inner voice, but it did a few good things. #1/ it paid to get Toby’s cat weiner fixed up back in December, and #2/ it bought me some additional unemployment weeks and #3/ gave me 100% clarity on what I will not tolerate in a workplace.  ~hint: a jerk asshole boss who puts every single person on edge~

So that’s that. Here we sit again, in 2019, the first trip of the year under my belt and freshly unemployed.  I’ve got this, though, Reader. I’m rather excellent with unexpected changes.

And now I’m going to figure out the next chapter to the story.

Whistle Blower

“Show us your titties, Trixie Bang Bang!”

Reader. I think you mean “Kitties.” Amiright??

Because I’ve been a negligent poster of cute cat pictures lately.

Here’s Purry, sitting in the only possible place there is to sit this fine Sunday morning.

She started up the soundtrack from A Star is Born and just sat there enjoying it while I cooked bacon and eggs this morning, and yelled at My Mister to turn his gol’dern music down, and get off my lawn, too.

He informed me that it was the cat’s selection coming from MY computer, so sit and spin on that, Trixie.

We were going to go out for breakfast today, as part of a Weekend Treat. But then I remembered I had a package of bacon in the fridge, and thought I could save us twenty large – wherein large = single dollar bills at Chez Bang Bang – by just cooking our own breakfast like showoffy homemakers.

So I did, complete with eggs and english muffins, and it was good enough, except it was a pretty cheapo package of bacon and we think maybe it was poisonous because neither one of us had a good feeling in our insides after eating it.

It crossed my mind that maybe I should make my own suet block for the birds with the leftover lard, but My Mister just told me N. O. because he doesn’t want to kill our wildlife.

p.s., who the eff has taken over my brain that I think I’m actually going to make suet?  

Toby got his 30-day wiener check-up yesterday, and seems to be in fine working order, thank Garth. While he and I were out driving across town, I stopped in at Discount Drug Mart to pick up stamps, and you know what? That store really DOES save you the run-around!  I ended up buying a $1.49 bag of wild bird seed, which is why the idea of creating my own suet block cluttered up my brain, as if I don’t have enough undone projects to think about.

While at the Discount Drug Mart, I also bought a keychain of Mace, because it was in the checkout counter impulse purchase section, and I picked it up. And then I put it back, thinking to myself, “Trixie BB, don’t spend ten unplanned dollars when all you needed were stamps!” But THEN I thought, “Well, this is just great, should I actually NEED this I’ll be super pissed off that I didn’t spend ten cheap bucks to SAVE MY LIFE and/or VAGINA and/or B-HOLE from unwelcomed intruders!”

So I put the Mace with my birdseed and stamps purchase, and when I got home I opened my mace and discovered it’s not MACE at all, just a product from the Mace brand,  and instead it’s a super-loud whistle and panic button, which it’s a good thing I tested it before I was in a precarious situation and NO POISON flooded into my would-be-attackers eyeballs, blinding them and allowing me to scamper away while they writhed in pain and humiliation.

I was disappointed in my ten dollar purchase, but now I realize why this was only ten bucks, and maybe a loud piercing whistle will do the trick in protecting my b-hole. It did the trick in scaring all the cats into skidding out as they ran down to the basement.   That was worth about three of the ten bucks, watching that happen.

The packaging made me laugh, which is worth about four bucks, because it actually stated to keep away from irresponsible adults, which maybe that means people that blow potential-hearing-loss whistles indoors when they’re not being attacked, and scaring all the cats in the entire neighborhood.  Hm.

That’s what’s been going on around here as of late, Reader. I’m justifying impulse purchases and thinking about tackling some of my never-ending projects while recovering from partial hearing loss brought to me by my own hand and lips and breath.  Tell me about a dumb purchase you made that ended up saving your b-hole. Make me feel better about my purchase, and also I’d really love to hear any and all of those stories.


Their Turn to Attack

Today I was almost killed by a meatball, Reader.

Well, not a lone meatball. It was a gang of them.

“Tell me more, Trixie!” I can hear your chants clamoring for details, Reader.

It all started with an overpacked freezer. 

I don’t know HOW I have such a stuffed freezer, yet nothing to cook.  I don’t understand it either.

Sometimes things show up in the freezer from when the cat uncle stays and watches them, like that Marie Callender Salisbury steak thing.

Other times it’s just things I buy that hang around too long, like the talenti raspberry gelato. Why hasn’t that been eaten already? It’s delicious. But there it sits, months after it was purchased. I don’t know why.

Then there’s the Mystery Meals I pack away in there, leftovers boxed and bagged up from pretty good dinners that were just too much, and we’ll save ’em for another day, then never get around to actually eating them, or I give them to My Artist to discover what’s in the box.

The other day I took him his favorite spaghetti sauce, and it turned out to be a frozen bag of mediocre chili.

He was severely disappointed on the defrost.

Today I went to shove in a couple-ah containers of the Most Delicious Meatahballz, which I made for Christmas Day and there were only about one jillion of them so I boxed some up to go to My Artist, and My HandyDan, and My Own Mouf at a later date.  I planned on freezing them since I’m not sure when I’ll actually get to the delivery.

And that’s where Trouble began.  Those meatahballz, they wanted to fight.

As I slid the first container onto it’s precarious top-shelf perch, and then wedged the second container next to it, the first container slid right out of the freezer and landed with a splat on the floor.

Now, the meatahballz remained contained, so it wasn’t a meatahballz loss; however, the container split open on the sides and spilled out delicious meatahballz sauce all over the floor and bottom of the freezer.

With some loud expletives calm and deep breaths, I got busy with the task of cleaning up sauce from all the places.

And that’s when the second container of meatahballz decided to attack.

That big container slid right off it’s shelf and hit me right on my bent-over-and-cleaning head, plumb near knocking me out.

After the stars stopped swirling around my head, I repacked both containers and gently – ever so gently – nudged them into a secure space in the freezer.

Now we wait to see who they attack next.



Tilt My Head for New Perspective

The highlight of my day so far, Reader, has been getting my license renewed at the DMV* today, Reader.

Let that sink in.

The best part of my day.

Was being #70 when they were on #60.

At the license renewal place.

Where every. single. person.

Dreads going.

I sort of skipped in and happily grabbed my number, because it was an escape from Alcatraz*, at least for an hour, and I saw the sunshine.

*Alcatraz, because my work building’s neighborhood is in a sketchy part of town so there is a fence surrounding the joint with barbed wire all across the top. I don’t know if that’s to keep us in or keep people out, quite frankly.

And also, Kenny and I disagree on whether it’s the DMV or the BMV, I keep calling it the DMV; he disagrees.

We also disagreed on how to spell the word “blond” as I had it without the “e” because that is one unnecessary “e,” and he said it has the “e” so he asked Almighty Google and apparently the Feminine version is with the “e” and the Masculine version is without but I vote for my Gender Neutral version and I’m not sure what that is exactly, but spelling just got a lot more difficult at the DMV.

While at the DMV, I realized that I left my driving glasses in my car door, which had me fretting about the eye exam. The last time I took it, I only passed it due to a little bit of grace. I can see, Reader. I just can’t see-see.

This conversation happened when I was told to go to the eye test machine and look inside:

Me: “Um, are there letters and numbers, or just numbers?”

Her: “Do you see letters??”

Kenny: Picks up my purse, prepares to leave.

Me: “Well, I’m only asking because the first thing could either be an 8 or a B.”

Her: “Only numbers.”

So then I passed, but let me tell you I wasn’t sure I was going to so I just talked really fast to confuse her a little.

It must have worked.

I got a new picture, and because I wasn’t planning on getting it renewed today I had no time to panic prep, and maybe that’s the solution to my pictures for me because it turned out okay enough and didn’t involve a whole lot of effort. Or maybe I’m just a natural beauty. Ahem.

I also found out in this new fangled world we’re living in, there are now two kindz of licenses you can have: one federal ID or just a regular old boring driver’s license. To get the Fed ID you need all sorts of extra papers, and I do have to say I was pleased as punch when Kenny was able to locate my social security card, passport and two bills with my name and address. The bills part was the most difficult as I toss that crap out almost immediately, and get most of it online.

Now I’m all fancy with my federal ID, or will be in thirty days or less, and that was the best part of my day. So far, anyway. I’m planning on redeeming it just a little by heading up to see some friendies at the bowling alley, because everyone knows all the magic happens at the bowling alley. At least some good laughs should happen there. And a drink. And maybe a piece of chicken or something. 

Oh, p.s., I think I actually licked an envelope yesterday that had been cat peed on.  So there was that. Hashtag LivingMyBestLife.

p.p.s. that last sentence probably should have been it’s own blog, but I mean, what else is there really to say about that.  I licked it. It tasted like pee. I was sad. Someone’s getting that card in the mail anyway. Merry Christmas.


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I sat down this morning – technically, before NOON is morning, Reader, so stop with all the judgy stuff – to entertain you with some trivial very important words, and then Kenny got up and sat down at the table and started drinking some coffee and just needling me – which he has been doing for the entire weekend – and then I got mad, and yelling happened, and the cats meowed very loudly in protest and then I LOST all the words I wanted to tell you here today because I’m stewing in being mad at him for his incessant need to antagonize me – as if I don’t have enough problems lately, by the way, which I do and are many and some super-big and annoying on their own – and finally it ended with my yelling at him to JUST. SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. AND STOP. TALKING TO ME. and he DID, Thank Garth, but now I’m still TOO MAD to write a post and now you know why this is all you’re getting, the worlds longest run-on-sentence and BLAME KENNY because he is an a-hole.


I’m Making Me Merriman.

Reader, I just asked my fighting cat if he wanted to get “banquished” for not being nice to his siblings.

Sometimes I think I’m relatively smart because I read books and stuff, but then things like “banquished” come out of my mouth, all out-loud and into the world, to a cat no less, and I rethink my high esteem.

I believe I meant banished or vanquished to the other room, by himself, all alone, to think about his behavior. But banquished came out, with all sorts of authority in the statement.

It may be the red, but I don’t think banquished is a word, but I sort of like it if it means I would get sent to a banquet.

Please, Reader, banquish me. I’m hungry and wouldn’t mind a little alone time with a nice meal and perhaps a cocktail.

Unless maybe banquish really is a word already and I’m assigning my own definition?  But even if it is a word, I’m assigning my own definition of being sent to a banquet.

I don’t know, Reader. I shouldn’t drink and type. The cat ignored me, too.

p.s. READER! I’m cracking myself up over here, compete with authentic LOLs! You should really be here! I just typed up the caption for this, thinking I was all creative, but then I’m not quite tipsy enough to not spot-check myself and realized it’s NOT, in fact, MERRIMAN-WEBSTER dictionary, but the Merriam-Webster, and that’s a lot not what I thought. Maybe I am in fact the Merriman Dictionary. My olden married last name was Merrifield, so maybe it rubbed in.



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It’s All in the Game

Because work is so worky, I’m JUST NOW sitting down and stuffing food in my face in the name of lunch/dinner, Reader. And it’s 9:03 p.m.

Feel the sorries for me.

I’m eating salami right out of the bag, wrapped in a torn off piece of muenster cheese, which is actually quite tasty, although would be better with a glass of red because then we’d feel fancy, except because my day hasn’t punished me enough already, I’m punishing me even more and making me drink a tall glass of water before I’m allowed to have the red.

Because I’ve only peed about twice in the entire whole damn day, because I was even too busy to drink.

How in the holy-heck can I be that busy, Reader??  It’s not even the busy time so I’m super not looking forward to January when it really ramps up.

Please hold your thoughts for a moment or two, I’m going to guzzle down this water and switch to wine with my last slice of cheese and salami.

~hold moment one~

~hold moment two~

Okay, I’m back and now ready to rock and roll, coochi-coo.

My dinner was getting the sniff of approval. 

Yes, he may or may not have licked my cheese.

Yes, I am eating it anyway.

In other news, my other kitteh is home with his $1,424 wiener.

I really hope he extra enjoys it every time he licks it. He needs to get my money’s worth out of it.

After work today I went on a vision quest to find a pill-popper thing-a-mah-jig to launch the twice-a-day cat pills down his gullet.

Well, a vision quest may be an overstatement, however I am seeking my life’s direction and maybe there was a chance I could have found it at Target. I didn’t; however I did find Pine scented Meyer’s cleaner, which is an absolute DE-LIGHT to sniff, and not at all pine-sol-y and artificial.  I cleaned all the kitchen counters just so I could get some good sniffs in, and I’m not done yet, Reader, as I think I’m going to clean some things around the bedroom so I can enjoy it in my sleeps.  Or else I’ll be too tipsy from all the wine and skip that for tonight.

Speaking of vision quest, does anyone remember that 1985 movie by that name? That movie pops through my mind on occasion, which is also where Madonna had her Crazy For You song debut, and also I was an impressionable young girl and learned the importance of keeping nice undies in case a guy wanted to sniff them.

Yes, that’s an actual thing from the movie.

Yes, one time my first ex-husband was caught sniffing my undies. So the lesson paid off, because they were nice. Not nice enough to keep him from being an ex-husband, but hey, I did my part with nice undies.

This, Reader, is going no where except every where, all over the place and all at once.  I sat down to tell you something – who knows what by now – and here we are talking about my dinner and twenty-year-old-me undies getting a sniffing, and not by the same sniffers because that would be REALLY weird, although now that I think about it, while I don’t have any proof, that cheese-sniffing cat probably has walked by and sniffed my undies at some point.  While they were on the floor, Reader, not on my person, because that would be creepy and we’re a lot of things around here, but we’re not that creepy.

Speaking of undies, one time several years ago, Kenny had an acquaintance who wanted to buy my worn and unwashed panties. He was willing to pay upwards of twenty bucks a pair, depending upon how gamey they were – the more gamey, the more $$, naturally. He requested the big, bloomer-ie type of under pants. Believe it or not, we actually TURNED DOWN that offer, and holy smokes, just think of the extra vacations and cat wiener repairs I could have paid for with gamey underwear money.

Missed opportunities, Reader.

If that opportunity decides to come a-knocking at Chez Bang Bang’s door again, I’m going to throw open that door and greet Opportunity with a whole laundry basket full of gamey, big panties.

Knock with caution if you decide to come visit, Reader.  Don’t sound like Opportunity, or you may get something you’re not expecting.

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