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The Bang Bang Theories

Slow on the Take

Apparently I can’t take a hint, or even an overt.

A STACK* of Danger/Recall reminders has been consistently mailed to Chez Bang Bang for my oldish-but-goodish car, and I never seemed to get around to fixing the situation.

*this is just the latest round that had piled up, believe you me, they have been consistent and frequent, unlike my trips to the gym, stop judging me, Reader! 

A couple of days ago I realized:

1/ it was a foolish to be warned much like Will Robinson and not heed said warnings

2/  i have pee-lenty of time to get this sitch addressed

3/ for Garth’s sake, just take care of it already, Me!

So the car has been scheduled for her recall repair.  Because you only have to tell me dozens and dozens of times for me to get the message.


Two Bits.

Me, muttering to myself yesterday morning while getting dressed: “Well, I’ve failed.”

My Mister: “Failed at what??”

Trixie Bang Bang: “Leggings.”

This was the Me in my mind, when I purchased said leggings:

It was far far far from Reality Me.

Reality Me had a sagging crotch and accentuated lumps, particularly around the knee area, and then I was mad because remember how I’ve been making the squat challenge my bitch?? Didn’t that sort of effort* earn the right to wear Fall Leggings??

*well, “effort” may or may not be continuous, but it happens occasionally, Reader, and gol’dern it, occasional squats should count for something. Otherwise it’s just rude, quite frankly.

They’re going to start hanging Not Wanted posters of me at TJ Maxx, for all the returning that’s been happening lately. 

Yes, the effort that was spent taking that picture far far far exceeds the payoff. But where do I have to go today, Reader? Other than to TJ Maxx, to return a pair of maybe-would-fit-a-cat leggings.

Yesterday at TJ Maxx I returned an Epilady contraption. I purchased it in an effort to get super-smooth in all my areas because – I know this is going to come as a surprise – I’m leaving on a jet plane soonish, and areas will be exposed to sunlight and those areas should be smooth. So when I saw the $8 Epilady that promised to “remove hairs at the root!,” Well, I put that right into my buggy because doesn’t that sound like a fun night at home!?! Just ripping out my hairs AT THE ROOT!  Good and fun times, come over Reader, for parlor games.

I tried it on a variety* of areas, Reader, and it did nothing.


I did inform the cashier it had been tested and deemed a hunka junk, and hopefully she heeded that warning of “it’s been tested” to throw it in the trash herself and then give herself a Silkwood Shower on her hands.

I noticed her scrutinizing it for hairs. She wouldn’t find any, because it didn’t work.  Nothing on my body was ripped out at the roots, unfortunately.

In Other News of Things I Didn’t Buy But Wondered About, they had this on the rack at the Maxx:


I looked it over intently for a while because – maybe, possibly,  because I’m now a lady* of a certain age** – I couldn’t fathom a scenario when I would need an emergency shave without water, sink or shower available.

*as always, “lady” is used in the loosest sense of the word. me being the same “lady” who returned a hair-ripper outter that was tested on my Bourdain areas (parts unknown). 

**not in my twenties, when I may or may not have used the “unshaven legs” theory for deterring myself from unscheduled sexing around town, but then maybe I wanted to change my mind after several hours at the bar and a little flirting and then I would do it anyway, except now with super-prickly legs. like we all did, Reader, so shush your superiority act. 

Except maybe on Survivor? Or Naked and Afraid? But if you only get one important item to bring, would this be my choice over, say, a lighter??

l don’t know, Reader.

Should I have bought those shave-anywhere-razors? Let’s chat about the possible scenarios where these would be handy. Your turn, as I’m already out of ideas other than roughing-it reality t.v. shows.


Planting The Seeds

Ya’ll, I decided it was only fair* to post actual pictures of the actual haul from my actual farm.

*fair to whom, no one exactly knows, since no one was questioning fairness

I started the arduous task of de-decking yesterday afternoon, as we had a bright and sunshine-y day here at Chez Bang Bang.

Since there’s stirrings of a rumor of frost I determined it was now or never to pluck my k-kup sized tomatoes from their stalks and pitched all of the plants from the porch into the ravine, hoping some deer enjoy the tomato stalks, or maybe, just maybe they will re-root themselves into the ground on the hillside and take hold and multiply and I’ll have natural born tomatoes next year with zero effort on my part.

Because in my mind I’d like to believe that’s how gardening works.

Back in my olden days, when I was Mrs., I was told a tale by that Bad Mr that while he was growing up wild asparagus grew alongside the road and the family would just stop and pick it whenever they had a hankering. Just right there, on the roadside, cropping up.

That was the story I was thinking about when the tomato plants were wung into the ravine. Next year we will have creekside tomatoes just springing up from Mother Earth, there for the picking, with no deer or anything else coming along to eat them before I get to them. I imagine an entire hillside of free-range tomatoes growing.

Come live with me in my fantasy world, Reader. It’s fun here. Except we have a little insomnia, which is why we’re up at this ungodly hour. Which for most of you is just the normal hour of being up, you with your showoffy jobs and whatnot, but lawdy does it feel young in the day to me.

Farmer Bang Bang: The Finale

Remember that time back in the beginning of summer – which seems so so so so long ago already – when I embarked on the tilling of the soils and the farming of the land?  Except maybe instead of tilling and hoeing, I was just throwing potting soil into a planter and stuffing in a couple of tomato plants, but we don’t need to get caught up in those minor details, amiright, Reader? Right.

My farm was thriving when I had it in the front of the house. The deer were greatly enjoying the buffet I had planted for them. So I had to move my farm to my back deck, where there was still sunshine and it was easily watered, but the deer were thwarted from consuming my hard work.

But my farm refused to thrive. The plants looked stringy, and they would flower, but then the flowers would just wither up and not become a tomato. It was making me mad at my farm.

Then I had kump’ney in July, and my kump’ney recommended some fertilizer and some stakes to tie ’em up.  I thought fertilizer was hokum, and not really good for much, so I hadn’t bothered.

But I heeded her advice and I spent additional dollars on my farm, and then the rains came in and they started to flourish!

The fertilizer was working!

They were big and bushy and green and there were tiny tomatoes and I could almost taste them on my sammiches and fried up green in my skillet.


They stalled out at about the size of a golf ball.

The summer moved on. My golf ball tomatoes just …. stayed.  Then some of them began to rot from the bottom.

I’d twist the pots to catch the sun differently, water water water. Still golf balls.

The September came. And I still had enjoyed only one golf-ball sized tomato from my farm.

I persisted. And they started getting larger. And the hint of yellow color began seeping under their skin.

I was going to finally reap what I’d sown, Reader, and lawdy, was I ready for those homegrown ripe tomatoes! Lightly salted sliced ripe tomatoes on buttered toast is one of my all-time favorite breakfast/lunch treats during the summer months, and I was ready for it.

My Harvest was finally ready and it was time to gather!


DJ was supervising the bounty.  And also probably sniffing to see if they were strawberries, which are his favorite thing ever to roll around in. 

He sniffed the harvest and walked on by, disappointed.

So now you’re thinking, “My, oh, my, that Trixie sure does know how to grow a potted farm!” And you’re looking at my bowl of goodness with envy.

The rest of the story may or may not be true.

Perhaps Trixie never actually harvested more than the one golf-ball sized tomato from her farm.

Perhaps Trixie had to buy a package of tomatoes from Costco if she wanted to enjoy toast and tomatoes.

Perhaps the softball sized tomatoes are still just in the planted pots thinking about maybe turning a warmer shade of green before the first frost settles in and she hasn’t enjoyed any of the fruits of her labors, unless those labors were shopping and opening the plastic on the giant container of tomatoes she purchased for $6.

Perhaps, as her summer kump’ney recently suggested, “Maybe you should just pick them while they’re green and put them in a paper bag and they’ll ripen eventually,” Trixie might try this.

And lastly, perhaps next summer Trixie will once again spend $20.94 and yield one golf-ball sized tomato because while she is many adjectives, she is not a quitter. Even when Costco rubs her nose right in it.



As Real As It May Seem

Last night I protected my friendie’s vagina from a very aggressive poltergeist.

You are probably now thinking just how boring your own Saturday night is by comparison.

Before you come down too hard on yourself for failing on the weekend, know that all that poltergeist-ing and vagina protecting was really just in a very vivid dream, which also makes me think I’d better lay off the two-beers + Benedryl at night.

However.  I do want the credit for protecting my friendie’s virtue EVEN IN MY SLEEP, because I’m that good of a friend.

I was NOT going to let some poltergeist cast a spell on her, rendering her in a sleeping-beauty kinda sleep and THEN try to see what she has going on under her wears. I grabbed up a wedding dress hoop/slip thing and shimmied her into it because obviously that is the ONLY way to protect a girls virtue from a phantom.  

The poltergeist sat there very dejected at his defeat.

I woke up feeling very noble and virtuous and also like the best friend ever because I took on a poltergeist and won. Because I care about the unsullying of vaginas. Unless you want your vagina sullied. We’re a no-judgement zone, remember, Reader.

Let’s just say that yes, this is a real and active friendie I have. It may have been YOU, Reader. You’re very lucky to have me, in case I haven’t told you that recently.

No one cares more about keeping your vagina safe from a poltergeist like I do. You’re welcome.

domo arigato look what i-bota

Good Morning, Reader! Or Good Some Other Time, if you’re not up and at ’em like ol’ Trixie Bang Bang seems to be lately, at the crack-of-oh-my-Garth-it’s-early!

For some reason I’ve been an Early Riser, which I know, I know, goes totally against who I am as a human being. But yet here I sit.

I’ve already Accomplished Things Today, and am highly considering throwing on my pants and going to the gym by 9 a.m. I think this is exactly like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and I’ve been snatched by something not me.

I’ve been running back and forth to my office and have even decided that today is the day to put everything in it’s place up there.  No more messing around.


You know what else isn’t messing around, Reader?

Wine. That’s what.

I drink …. ahem … on occasion. I mean not really as much as I may get credit for, actually. I’m not a huge drinker, especially at home, save for the few rumsy’s and cokesy’s that help me power through cleaning or inspire* my creativity.

*inspire is open to interpretation

But then I was at Target, which was a surprise in itself – wait, that’s wrong as I’m tying it! I was at WALMART, which is more like it because I’m unemployed! – sheesh, Me, that was only a few days ago and I had it that confused for even a second?? I’m starting to get a little worried that I’m losing brain cells at an alarming rate due to thinking inertia.

Anyhow, I hee-hawed around the wine department, thinking I’d like a little sumpin’ in the fridgie, and spotted the Bota Box of wine, which is equivalent to FOUR bottles of wine, by the way, in case you’re counting, Reader.

While I was in the haw part of the heeing and hawing, a very confused-looking guy said, “You seem to know a little about wine, can you tell me which ones have the screw top? We don’t have a corkscrew.”

Long story longer, I couldn’t really tell which had a screw top, but I think Barefoot brand does, but then it looked like everything else all foiled up so I couldn’t say with certainty. Here’s the longer part of the story: His girlfriend had sent him for a bottle of Reisling, and he wanted a giant bottle to “get her drunk, hee hee haw haw hee hee” – he literally said, “I want to get her drunk” and then laughed like he was joking but we both know, Reader, it was not a joke. But hey, I’m not here to judge motives? I was there to help him find the right wine to get the job done.

Since he knew nothing about wine, I told him if she wanted Reisling because of the sweetness, not all Reisling’s are created equally and that sweetness can’t be guaranteed. He ended up calling her and we Facetimed together, because why now, we’re in the middle of the wine aisle at Walnuts, so we became friends.

I could hear a couple of kids screeching around in the background.

We decided the safest bet for her was a moscato, since it’s guaranteed sweet, and the guy was super happy as it was a giant bottle under $12 and I stuck a corkscrew in his hand as an aside, and told him to be a Boyscout from now on and always be prepared.

And that’s how I managed to keep a four-bottles-worth of wine box in my own cart, because I was worn out from choosing her wine instead. This shouldn’t pose a problem, except see how it sits right next to my water container? And when I’d normally reach in to get some water, now I have super-easy options, and one even has a little pour spout so I don’t even have to lug anything OUT of the fridge?

Guess which option I’ve been choosing more often, Reader?

You’ll never guess.

If you guessed the wine option, you would be correct, Reader. If you did guess correctly, leave me a comment with your address and you’ll get a surprise prize in the mail. Because remember how I mentioned I’m going to clean out my office? That shitz gotta go somewhere.

The Force Is With You

I did a whole buncha wife-ing on Monday, Reader, and it was good. Good for someone, the verdict is still out on who exactly. Maybe me, which sucks when you have to be your own wife because it’s more fun when a wife is doing the wife-ing FOR you.

Today’s Wife did a lotta cooking. And she even mopped her floors, so BAM!

I was going to post pictures of all the foods I made, but no one cares what’s cookin’ at Chez Bang Bang, unless that someone is eating the food. So you’ve been saved from a buncha food photos.

In other happenings, I’m sitting here ready for my 1:00 appointment, only to have checked my calendar and discovered it’s actually at 2:30. For once I’m ready early, Reader, except that I’m not dressed yet. I’m on the deck in my brassiere and undies. No, I’m not worried about the neighbors, unless they do happen to catch a glimpse and take up a petition that I always remain fully dressed when outdoors as I’m scaring the wildlife.

I’ve got a lot of little irons in the fire, but the worst part about not having a time table each day is that things very easily can get shoveled to tomorrow. But! I’m making my all-trusty to-do list, which is usually pretty great at keeping me on track. So far I’ve crossed off three things I’ve been meaning to do, but none of those things are painting a picture, which is what I really want to do.

I just felt something walking on my naked back, and lemme just say, Reader, I do not care for that feeling one bit. So whatever you are, get off my back!

My mantra today is What Steps Am I Going to Take Today To Climb The Mountain?? I read this today and found it very inspirational and I started my list and checked some things off, and feel all positive and action-y. But I also read another thing about mountains, and it’s a lot less motivating, because:

So you know, yin/yang.

The yinning and the yanging are why it’s so hard to accomplish things. And also, did you know that in yin/yang, the female is the negative/dark influence?? I just read about that, because I’m a researcher, Reader, and at first I was pursed-lip perturbed that the female is the negative/dark force and then as I sat here I thought, “Damn straight we are, so watch. the fuck. out.”



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In On the Joke

Trixie Bang Bang is grabbing onto the last days of nice-ish weather. The weather feels a little bit on the brisk side, but it’s clear and I’m fortunate to be able to spend a little more time porching.

Eventually TBB has to go back to work.


She …er … I … have a THING I’m working on, and it may be just enough to patch us through over here at Chez Bang Bang, and leave me with the free time I love so damn hard.

As we both know, Reader, I’m not getting any younger, and in fact I’ve apparently scadaddled ahead rather quickly and went right to my Senior Moments, not to be confused with my Señor moments, when I’m just a very nice gentleman who sips tequila and eats guacamole

Señor Moment Me


On Tuesday night My Mister and I decided on a spur-of-the-moment to go see a movie. I hopped* in the shower**, dried the front of my hair, slathered on my Arbonne-look-young-long-time moisturizer, put on actual PANTS instead of those of the yoga variety, but decided to skip harnessing my bajongas into place as I was still mildly damp from the shower and didn’t want to wrestle with a brassiere. I was doubled up in a shirt with a sweater over it because Fall is nipping at our heels, so I didn’t need to apologize to the world for my boobs on the loose.

*my old broken knees version of hopping, which plays out more like a very careful grasping of the wall and gently hoisting one leg at a time into the shower area

**yes, it was EVENING before I decided to shower, stop judging me, the trick is that I’ve been MOSTLY showered during funemployment!

So off we go, where we decided to see the movie Silence, which was good enough, by the way, on Cheap Movie Night (Tuesdays), and since the movie was cheap and My Mister’s was free (thanks, Costco Moviepass subscription, as I only get three a month now, but he still gets unlimited. I did not buy though Costco, I bought through their Moviepass website, damn me) it was decided we’d have a popcorn and diet soda treatsie.


This is where my night took a turn.

The bill rang up to about $2.50 less than I normally pay.

Me, excitedly asking the counter girl:

“Why is this so cheap tonight? Is there a special? Did I earn a reward from my Cinemark app???”

Countergirl: just looks at me.

Me, still pushing it: “Well, that’s a good price, hm, I’m surprised it’s not $11.75! What a deal!”

Countergirl: “Um, well, it’s the senior discount price.”

Me, still not actually getting it, gives the girl a conspiratorial wink: “This old age really pays off!”


Long, steady wink, to let her know I’m in on the shenanigans.

My Mister and I grab our plunder and saunter away, proud of the scamming of the system.

And then.

I realized it wasn’t a scamming-of-the-system conspiracy between the Young Countergirl and myself.

We were not in cahoots.

She was all of sixteen.

I hadn’t even been asked if I qualified for the senior discount.

It was just assumed.

“Of course this woman is a senior discount getter,” Young Countergirl must have said in her own brain.

Prodding My Mister, “Do you think she thought I was really a senior citizen??”

MM: “Well, I think the discounts start at 50.”

TBB: “No. No they don’t.”

MM: “Just go with it, you saved over two bucks, and from here on out you’re a senior citizen.”



I took a picture of myself on the way home, to do a little senior citizen analysis.


I mean, not too wrinklie. But yes, Girl could use a little smoothing-of-the-complexion concealer, perhaps.

And the next day I made an appointment at my Fancy Salon to get a good and youthful looking haircut, to begin the process of whipping my head back into shape.

I’m not going down without a fight, Old Age.

I mean, unless you kick me in one of my arthritic-the-likes-the-doctor-has-never-seen-in-a-person-my-age bad knees. Then I’ll go down pretty quick and easy.


Rummin’ Down A Dream

Hi-Howdy, Reader! It’s Saturday night, or so they tell me, and I’m sittin’ here in a quiet-ish house and want to tell you stories.

Except the stories aren’t on the tips of my fingers, and haven’t been for a while, and so I decided to lube them up with a lil’ bit of see below:

For you, Reader, I’m breaking my Health Kick*, which has included NO ALCOHOL** for a almost an entire week now – well, it would have been 8 nights since I got back into town and decided I needed a 30-day clean out of mah insides.

*”health kick” being used in a very loose sense, because yesterday included wedding cake, which also became breakfast with coffee this morning, because wedding cake doesn’t come along just any ol’ day, so you have to strike while it’s around.

but I have been eating mostly better, and cooking at home, and enjoying my power-house Arbonne shakes for breakfast/lunch AND – hold on now – going to the gym this week!!

**mostly no alcohol, except for last night when I needed three vodka/lemonades during a wedding we DJ’d, which is also where the wedding cake came from, so basically MARRIAGE is to blame for all of my downfalls. that should not be any surprise for me, yet here i sit, surprised. damn marriage sticks it to me again.

Anyway, that breakfast cake tasted better than it looks, and was quite worth being between my lips.

As a matter of fact, this rum and coke-sy I’m sipping right now is also quite worth being between my lips rights now, it’s that damn delicious.

Notice above how I didn’t belabor the point of how I am better than you went to the gym four out of five days this week, and the time I didn’t go, I went for a really sweaty walk in my neighborhood AND I’ve engaged my quads in a 30-day squat challenge?? Because I’m not an insufferable gloater, Reader.

Except maybe I am, because did I mention my working out and my squatting and my almost giving up alcohols this past week??

Although I’ve just refreshed my squat challenge calendar and I think I’m about 20 squats per day behind because I think I’ve been sticking at 30 and oh, p.s., that’s hard. I only plan on getting to the 100-squats-per-day, not 250, because get a life, Squat Challenge Designers. So basically I figure my squats are like this:

Week 1 – start with 20, get to 30 – check

Week 2 – move from 30 to 50, increments of 5 each day or whatever feels good

Week 3 – move from 50 to 75, increments of 5 per day or whatever feels good

Week 4 – move from 75 to 100, pat yourself on your newly uplifted butt area and gloat about it to everyone you know.

Tonight, right after I’m done with my rum*** I’ll get my 30 or 35 in for the night. Except I may have done them this morning, but I can’t rightly recall – because I believe in checking it off in my head and not on paper and it’s not entirely a failsafe method, also thanks rum.

***all the on-line squat challenges are missing the whole “add rum at the end of each week” to their little system, which is where they’ve failed us all, and why working out is tough to stick to, and frankly I need to write this whole method down and market it, complete with ratio of rum to coke for optimum drinkage and people will ENJOY working out more and the whole world will be happier.

See, I told you a little rum would get a story outta me. I never promised a good one, but ya know. We’re just getting back into the swing of things.

I’ve got a floor that needs mopping, also made more fun with the addition of rum on my lips. And then a little Netflix & Chill, which does not mean having sex with myself or anyone else, but more likely means Forensic Files & Sleep, because my damn Netflix plays hard to get and works sporadically, like an asshole. Not literally “sporadically like an asshole,” unless your asshole doesn’t work well all the time and takes a lot of coaxing, then it would be literally accurate to say my Netflix works like an asshole, instead of just an adjective to describe the frustrating fuckery it delivers from time-to-time.

Rum apparently makes me sweary, too.

What’s new with you, Reader?? Let me know if you need any exercise tips, because I’m almost a guru with four hard days at the gym under my belt and a 30-squat repetition underway.

**p.s., did anyone get my title?? anyone? damn, Rum, you make me clever.

**if you didn’t get it, you’re going to get kicked out of the Tom Petty fan club. Yes, petty, I know, but those are the rules. I don’t make the rules,* I just enforce ’em.

*i actually do make the rules.

**which is why I’m using these little star annotations *** however the hell I see fit tonight.

~~Trixie Bang-Bang makes the rules. 

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That Time I Caught Snorkel Lip

Reeeeee.Deeerrrrrr. Hi there, and welcome back, Me!

When I haven’t been here with you, I’ve been busy acquiring and suffering from Snorkel Lip.

Yes, it’s a thing. A very real and very scabby thing, evidenced here*.

*also evidenced here is my face on freckle overload. it makes me still shake my head with a laugh when I think about this one time I met a guy for a date and he took one look at me and said, “I’m not into freckles,” threw back his drink, and quickly left. One would think he would have SEEN said freckles in online dating pictures but apparently he was focused on my giant (not naked, but freckle-free in case you were wondering) boobs. 

A few nights ago I noticed a hard spot under my lip and for realz I thought I was catching the mother of all herpes simplexes or complexes that affect your upper lip and not your Downstairs Lips, as I was sure that big hard part under the surface was going to ERUPT and look extra sexy at any moment and make all the muchachos want to bésame mucho. I thought I may have gotten whatever epizoodie was happening below the surface of my face from sucking on a dirty snorkel in Meh-heee-co.

But instead it was just the perfect storm of salt water, blazing sun and muchos muchos muchos like maybe fifteen but who’s counting margaritas on the rocks with more salt, and did I mention blazing sun? And also add a whole buncha extra salt from the beachside homemade tortilla-eating:

As all that salt and sand and sun was happening, I spent several hours with a snorkel crammed between those salty hot lips doing a lot of this:

Because there were fish that needed to be seen and I was determined to do my part, even if it meant sacrificing my lip in the process.

Luckily, this didn’t become a permanent reminder of a time I sucked on a dirty snorkel and instead just became a giant scabby zone of chapped-ness that will probably clear up at some point this week, with the help of a lot of shea butter and cat smooching.

We hope so anyway. At least I hope so. I’m not so sure about the cats.

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