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The Bang Bang Theories

Little Drummer Girl

Every now and then I wax nostalgic, Reader.  Well, I’m not sure “nostalgic” is the right term, but something is getting waxed and it isn’t my floors. Ba-dum-dump-chsh!

That’s the sound of my drum set, in case you couldn’t figure that out, Reader. I don’t wanna stress you this early in the morning with hard-to-make-out typing….stop judging! I know it’s not EARLY morning, it’s already closer to noon than “early morning” but in our pretend world where I play the drums, it’s also very early morning. So early, I fed the squirrels breakfast outside today to help them start the day off right.

I actually DID feed the squirrels a breakfast of vanilla wafer cookies, peanut M&M’s and some actual nuts from My Misters nut mix from Costco. Because I saw a really cute thing on Facebook or the news – somewhere where I get all life’s important updates – where a family was leaving out snacks on their porch for random hobos walking by, and then they got upset when all their chocolates were gone  – the very chocolates they were leaving out for someone to take! – and so they sleuthed it and discovered it was a squirrel coming up for a Hershey’s with Almonds nugget and then they were MAD and put a lid on the candy, which is frankly RUDE because they had a BASKET OF SNACKS on their PORCH for someone to take! So they are basically very discriminatory and probably voted for Trump. Ba-dum-dump-chsh!

See what I did there, I made a non-political story political! and also Trump hates nature, which he’s proven over and over again, so troof.

But anyway, back to the squirrel story – the part where they tried to shut the squirrel out of the snack jar wasn’t the cute part of the story – that’s actually the VERY MEAN part of the story – but the part of the story where the squirrel wanted a daily chocolate was cute to me, and now I want to have a Daily Squirrel that comes for a snack that I leave on the porch.

So I started with cookies, candies and nuts. But p.s., some of my boy cats are out there lurking around and so the squirrel is going to have to wait to get his snackie, or he will end up a snackie.  I would be worried for the safety of the squirrel, however my cats aren’t exactly the fleetest of feet, their girth slows them down, plus they have very limited tree climbing skillz. They can make it knee-high up the trunk at best. The squirrel clearly has the advantage.

Speaking of girthy cats, due to my unexpected plumbing event yesterday, when the plumbing guy was on his way out he saw Nosey wobbling down to the basement and couldn’t help from exclaiming, “Wow! That is one fat cat!” and then Nosey was fat-shamed and his mama didn’t defend him.

He’s going to need therapy. And also his mama (aka, ME) needs to bathe him now, because the plumber wasn’t wrong at all, Nosey is my 600-lb-life cat version,  and I’ve been having to wash his back for him because he just can’t reach it any longer and it was not feeling like good cat hair. It was feeling the opposite of nice, and also dirty and gritty.  He hates it when I tend to him with warm cloth baths and brushing, but like a good Mama Cat, I do it anyway.

Poor Nosey. But he’s finally starting to look & feel a little bit better.

Sheew, that was a long way to get a story started, but nothing compared to the recap of a movie I watched the other evening, that I relayed ad nauseam to MM last night while I was making a rustic pear tart for our after-supper dessert, wherein by the end of the story he was dizzy and parched and he wasn’t even the one doing all that talking.

PS, during the creating of the rustic pear tart, My Mister leaned on the counter and looked at me and said, ‘Oh, by the way, something you should probably know, the next time you think about buying or making anything with pears, know that I HATE pears. I HATE pear everything. Just so you know.”

The 12-year relationship reveal came AS I WAS MAKING A HOMEMADE PEAR TART.

PPS – My Mister went to check on it as it was cooking, and quickly proclaimed this was the worst looking dessert item he’d ever seen. Funnily enough, I had said when I put it together, “I think this is going to leak out,” and he – being the amazing chef that he is – proclaimed, ‘It’s not going to leak!” I gave him the ‘u crazy’ look because I KNEW it would but by the time it was on the baking sheet it couldn’t be moved.

PPPS, once the tart came out of the oven, My Pear-Hating-Mister was the first to pull out the carton of cool whip and shove a great big slice of this into his tart-hole and proclaimed it delish. Because it was. So he needed to eat his words, along with that slice of rustic pear tart.

Well, Reader. Here we are at 889 & counting words, and I just read an article that said posts shouldn’t be more than 500 words. So I guess this is where I leave you? And you don’t get to hear what nostalgia was getting waxed. Sorry. I don’t make the blogging rules. Well, I guess I do in fact make them for this’chere nonsense, but I can feel you getting weary, and the nostalgia story is too good to start when you’re already tired. At least it’s good in my head. Maybe it’ll be less good when it makes it to here.

Time will tell.

We’ll try again laters, baby.

983 words…now 985…drat. Consider this double the fun of the “ideal” post size. You’re welcome.


Bossa Nova

Saturday morning is bringing it like a Boss today, Reader.

I’m talking the kinda assholie boss that makes you hate your job and your life and small babies and flowers and sunsets and long walks on the beach. This Boss sucks so hard you begin running a mental tick on your finances to see if you’ve got enough to make the Great Escape to your secluded island where you live off of coconuts and salty air.

That’s the Boss that Saturday is bringing me today.

I jumped outta bed at the break of dawn, meaning 10:00 a.m. at Chez Bang Bang, and as is my wont sometimes on the weekends, I made a cuppa coffee and started assembling dinner. I sometimes enjoy that process as soon as I get up. It’s quiet and I’m undisturbed and enjoy the creating process.

This morning I was working on assembling a meatloaf, because I had all the ingredients and figured I would give it a try in my Instant Pot Wife.  So that’s ready to go for this evening, because supposedly it takes twenty minutes til done. Potatoes layer the bottom of the pot, they’ll be ready for a quick mash. Throw in some sort of vegetable and voilà, dinner.

While working on that, I put a sheet pan of bacon in the oven to cook, for quick & easy BLT’s for breakfast.

And filled and ran the dishwasher. Because, Accomplishing Things.


I went to put my Instant Pot Wife meal in the fridge for later cooking, and noticed something red and gooey all over the bottoms of the beers on the top shelf. So I unloaded that and began the task of cleaning that sticky mess.

I still have no idea what the red and gooey explosion could have been.  But I did find a package of ground meet that had fallen behind the beer bottles and has gone undetected for who knows how long, and the only saving grace in that the top of the fridge gets super cold and partially freezes things because of the stupid design of the side-by-side.  So that got tossed.

Next as I started to clean the glass shelving in the sink, I noticed the disposer was backing up. I knew it was going to be a whole buncha No Bueno going on, but I held out hope it would all just magically go down the drain.

It did not.

Potato peels and water started pouring out of the cabinet.

Now I’ve got a plumber friend coming at 2:00 to assess the damage.

Next, My Mister inquired as to what was smoking in the oven, thinking that it just went on the fritz and was billowing out smoke.

Um, nope, no fritzing of the oven. Just the breakfast bacon.

Twenty minutes on 400 is too long to cook bacon. Apparently.

MM is dealing with some sort of Karaoke Drama today in addition to all this, which is giving him another set of problems.

This isn’t how I anticipated the day shaking out. We rarely anticipate a day filled with problems, though, do we Reader? We are optimists, and spring forth usually thinking that things will go according to the plans set in our brains.

My plan was coffee, writing nonsense to you about a whole ‘nother entirely better story, more coffee, some bacon, some light cleaning, maybe some shopping, and later some dinner and working on some of my personal growth things that I’ve been reading to make me a better Trixie Bang Bang.

I think that personal growth shit must be working, because all these problems? Rolling right off my back. Minor inconveniences. I’m still coffee-ing. I’m still writing a story. I’m still cleaning. I’ll still be shopping, just probably for a new garbage disposer instead of new clothes. And this is providing me with real-life experience is dealing with the unplanned unfun little quirks of life.

It’s all about the adjustment, Reader. Adjust your sails when the wind blows the other way. Maybe you’ll end up on that island beach anyway.


Remember that time, not all too long ago, when I mentioned why I will never be able to retire, unless partially used beauty products suddenly become worth a bajillion dollars? And that I have spent probably the equivalent of the cost of a beach house – a beach house in a really poor country, filled with sunken foundations and hardships – but a beach house, nonetheless – in lipsticks and skin creams and magic elixirs?

Well, lest you think I was filled with hyperbole, I am here to prove to you that absolutely everything written here is in fact the troof and nuttin’ but the troof with no exaggerations whatsoever, except for the parts that I make up and exaggerate. Just so we’re clear.

I “won” a purse at the casino recently, Reader. I know, right?  Like, a FREE leather-ish handbag, mine-all-mine for FREE, not counting that kazaillions of dollars I’ve pumped into those damn Quick Hits machines.  Not counting that, it was completely FREE.

Since I got home late from the Card Mines tonight, and wanted to feel like I could check something off the “accomplished” side of the to-do list, I figured I’d make tonight the night to switch over from my honest-to-God-real Prada, into this non-name brand shoulder bag because it’s nice and roomy and it’s my Major Award, and gol’dern it, I’m going to use it.

I know, you’re probably wondering why I have to set “change over purse” as a to-do item, and that’s probably because you’re a man and don’t realize the time-consuming task of switching purses, or else you do carry a purse, but are much more organized than Trixie Bang Bang.

Because that girl? Carries around a lot of should-be-garbage in her handbag. Receipts and papers and scraps of notes and no less than half a dozen reminder cards from her footsie doctor as well as her chipped-tooth-fixer dentist, and also? A Taylor-Swift-worthy amount of lipsticks.

Just. In. My. Purse.

$100-ish dollars worth of lipsticks right there in that photo. And that’s not counting the three or four in my desk at work, and the horde in the bathroom.

Reader. I need a lipstick-intervention.  Please everyone, start writing me notes about how much I mean to you, and why I need to quit the lipsticks, and then come over and read them to me and we can drink wine together. Really I’m just looking for a reason for you to come over and drink wine with me, but hearing nice things about me would also be nice. And maybe just maybe you could give me ten good reasons why I don’t need so much stick on my lips. Number one being “maybe you can buy a beach house someday instead.”


p.s. – If you thought Sophie would be shaming me with her whispers of “waste” I can guar.an.tee you she would be pursed-lip disapproving of all this beauty nonsense.



Sometimes it’s the seemingly insignificant things that make you realize how much your upbringing has shaped your perceptions. I like to think I’m an Independent Thinking Trixie Bang Bang, but something small will occur and I’ll have my mother’s or my grandmother’s values whispering in my ear, shaping my thinking.

This isn’t a bad thing, Reader. It’s just a thing.

A lot of the time I hear my grandmother talking about all The Waste. We waste so much.  Time. Leftovers. Money.  I hear her every time i hesitate to throw out the stuffing that has been in a container in the fridge since Thanksgiving. I cleaned the fridge today, wiping out all the leftovers, but left them sitting on the counter rather than tossing them.

My Mister went to empty the trash bag and asked what’s up with all the stuff on the counter.

Me, hesitating…well, it’s from Thanksgiving….do you think the hambone is still good to make soup??

MM: “NO!!”

Me: “Well….do you think I should toss some of it outside, for Taco the Raccoon and the deer and the birds?”

MM: “NO! You’re going to attract coyote’s, who will not find lunchmeat one day and will instead eat Gussy.”

Me: “You’re right, I know you’re right….can you throw it all out in the trash for me then?”

I couldn’t. I just. couldn’t. do. it.

My grandmother Sophie was right there in my ear, shaming me for all that waste. She would have had bean soup made the day after Thanksgiving, using up all that good hambone.

Tonight I decided to make red velvet cupcakes, because I like the process and the smell of baking, and the eating of said baking. I know I can’t just eat two dozen cupcakes, and my co-workers aren’t that receptive to baked goods, but I’ll take some to work anyway. Because I enjoy the process.

While making the batter, I heard my mother in my ear.  I used the full three eggs the directions called for, and that is indulgently wasteful and not necessary. Growing up we never made a cake with three eggs. We used two eggs only, as my mother said, “two will work just fine.”

And you know what? It did.

In fact, I’m not sure how adding that extra egg even improves the cake , but that could be because it’s been so long since I’ve only used two.

Great, and thanks, Me. I’ve just created a project where I have to have a bake-off with myself. A batch of cakes with two eggs and one using the decadent three, and then a blind taste-off.

I’m going to need tasters, Reader. Because now we have to know if that third egg really makes a difference, or if it’s just the egg company’s way to get us to consume more, those rotten egg pushers.

In an interesting twist, eggs are now so damn inexpensive from Walmart it doesn’t even make fiscal sense to scrimp on the additional egg. It’s 26cents/dozen nowadays.  You can cook willy-nilly with 26cent/dozen eggs.

But I still hear the whisper in my ear, Reader, when I’m adding that indulgent third egg.  And tossing out leftovers. And letting the milk spoil and the hambone go to waste.

Seriously, though. I think I need to do a bake-off/taste-off. I need to get to the bottom of the necessity of that third egg. Come over, Reader. Let’s test cakes. It’ll be the most fun test you’ve ever taken. Pinky swearsies.


Drunk & (Dis)Orderly

Hello, my name is Trixie Bang Bang and I have a problem.

They say admitting it is the first step to recovery, right, Reader?

Well, the cows have come home to roost*, and there is no more denying my obsessive buying behavior.

My bathroom has a narrow closet. I mean, it’s super-duper awkward and I have to turn my body kinda sideways when I need to reach in and get stuff out of there.

When we first moved in I was all angels-singing-trumpets-trumpeting-glitter-falling-from-the-sky STORAGE! SPACE! I just knew this would be a place for everything and everything in it’s place.

Fast forward three or four years later – I don’t know exactly how long I’ve lived here, somewhere in this range – and my closets have become a giant cluster of fuckery with stuff mashed and crowded and piled. The exact opposite of how I dream of KonMari’ing my life. Very little in these closets spark joy. I mean, how can Gas-X and Pepto tablets and Theraflu “spark joy” – except possibly Theraflu, because when I’m sick, that does make me me more joyful to get a steaming cup.

I kept buying different plastic shelves and baskets, thinking that was the key to organizing this mess.

All it ended up doing was costing me money and excess containers and I was still left with Jenga-style pile of stuff – I’d have to delicately pull out what I needed at the risk of it all toppling down.

This whole mess was finally brought to a head this weekend, ironically because of yet another purchase. I had read about a new cleaner, Clorox Medical Hydrogen Peroxide, and ordered it up from Amazon. My shipment finally arrived on Friday. I was excited to start spraying every possible surface down in the house, killing all the germs that may have decided to take up residence.

Now, a few folks have said, “Just use Lysol, it’s a lot cheaper and does the same thing,” and “Good ol’ Clorox is a lot cheaper and does the same thing,” however, it’s NOT the same thing. This is hydrogen peroxide based and kills Norovirus, which while I don’t think I have that lying around on the counters, who knows what germs, in addition to fog, come in on little cat feet.  And this doesn’t have the strong bleachy smell of Clorox, nor does it discolor fabrics ala bleach.

So I got to work on a Friday night. I had thought about going for drinks – again – and instead opened a bottle of Apothic Red and unloaded my bathroom closet.

I needed a lot lot lot of drinks of that wine once I saw the mountain I was facing.

At one point I just sat down and looked at it all, not knowing where to begin.  Then I realized if I didn’t know what to do with it now, I’m sure not going to know what to do with it later so just do SOMETHING, Me.

I started tossing stuff that was god-only-knows-how-old, half used products that I have too much of, created a basket of travel-sizes of stuff to donate to a place that needs this stuff, and then sifted and purged and carefully reorganized back into three buckets: Hair/Products, Medicine, Cleaning.

I had a GIANT bag of stuff that became trash, also known as Why I’ll Never Be Able to Retire, Because I Bought a Million Lotions and Shampoos and Lipsticks and Mascaras.

The good news is, I discovered a brand new bottle of conditioner that is exactly like the one I had just purchased at TJ Maxx that afternoon. So my obsessive behavior is consistent, Reader. And now I have to make one more return to TJ Maxx, because I’m not keeping a $17 bottle of conditioner when I already have one that will last six months. I can blow that $17 on something else. Or, put it back in my bank account and keep it there, said Responsible Me.

And that’s how I spent Black Friday, Reader. Cleaning and drinking. It’s exciting times at Chez Bang Bang. Don’t envy my glamorous lifestyle of the rich (in cleaners and products) & (not at all) famous.

*p.s., why would cows come home to roost?? I mean, where did they go in the first place, that they are now coming home, and I think they are trying to steal the chicken’s thunder by roosting. Or the roosters thunder. Something.  

Thumps In the Night

That last post left us hanging on to all’s well that ends well on Tuesday night. I’ve now officially become a soap opera writer, complete with a cliff hanger! And also I’m the main character so I am now living out my life’s dream of BEING a soap opera actress.  That’s no jokie right there, that is my official dream job. Great hair, perfect make-up, hotsy lovahs, intrigue and evil twins that you take down. And then when bad things happen you can wake up and it may have all just been a dream.

Except real life isn’t quite like that part. Actually, my real life isn’t anything like those parts, except for sometimes I have nice hair.  And you know, the hotsy lovah (I feel pressured to say that).

If you recall from Part 1, I had big plans for getting a snoot full to kick off Thanksgiving Weekend, and it was the prime motivator for me to step up my cleaning on Tuesday.

By the time I’d worked a jam-packed day on Wednesday, came home and started to prep for meal planning by sautéing and chopping and blending and mashing. That led to more cleaning and washing and wiping and rinsing. By the time the “party” hour rolled around, I was bushed and gave up the dream of being part of the drunken foray at the local watering hole and my bed was calling my name.

Because I’m fiddyone now. It’s a love-hate relationship I’m now having with myself. I seek the potential fun of going out, but I want to do it in my pajamas and from the comfort of my bed.

So my big plans became a nice shower, bed and the endless loop of Planes, Trains & Automobiles on the telly.

At around 12:30 a.m. or thereabouts, MM turned the sound down on the telly and poked me and said,  “Did you hear that?”

TBB, having done all this the night before replied, “Yep. Cats.”

About ten minutes or so later, MM paused the telly again and inquired, “Do you hear THAT?? Look out your window, do you see anything?” As the sound was now coming from the garage side of the house, nearest to me.

I turned my head and looked out my bedroom window, which provides a direct line of sight to the shed:

First I noticed a light reflecting off the bedroom window and knew something was up. Then I saw a BAD GUY standing right there, with the shed door opened up.

I moved like the greased-lightening version of me – which as Joanne has seen once before when we were at an airport and the danger-everyone-evacuate message came on and I was out the door and down the steps before Joanne knew what was happening – this me-version can move, baby – I jumped up from bed, grabbed my phone and whisper-said, “Um, no joke! We ARE being robbed!! There’s a bad guy right outside the window!!”

MM grabbed the gun, I grabbed the phone and called 911 for the second time in as many days.

Bad Guys, take note: We will not hesitate to put the ‘Bang Bang’ in your ass should you decide to come in uninvited.

Now, I know how 911 actually works, at least I think I do, based on all the Forensic Files I’ve studied. But it FEELS like they are wasting a whole lotta time asking a bajillion questions. I went and waited by the front door, to be on the lookout in case the bad guy ran around to the front of the house and to be on the lookout for the good guys arrival.

The 911 caller was asking me if the bad guy was still there, and I couldn’t answer definitively. I couldn’t see him, but he could have been in the dark shadows or in the shed by that time.

An SUV pulled up and I thought maybe it was a get-away car, but then the back door opened and they released the kraken, in the form of a GIANT German Shepard who took off like hells fire down the side yard and rounded the back. The cop was right behind him.

Then we heard A LOT of shouting and growling and rawring and shouts to “GET DOWN or the dog will chew you up!”

I was hoping for some dog-chewing, quite frankly.

Apparently the bad guy was “out of it,” either on drugs or drunk, and didn’t have the forethought to run away, and instead was hiding between the shed and the house.

He was no match for the kraken.

More cops came and swarmed Chez Bang Bang shortly thereafter. And in fact it was several of the same faces from the night before and I actually looked at one, raised a fist in the air and proclaimed that the crazy cat lady has been vindicated!

A few things we found out:

1)There had just been an attempted break-in on a street directly across from our house on the other side of the ravine. The bad guy threw something through a window and tried to get in, but the homeowner thwarted that attempt.

The theory is, it’s the same bad guy, who then jumped down the ravine – a move that would absolutely put me in traction for the rest of my life, because it’s steep as fuck and also includes a lot of pointy and ouchy concrete slabs – and arrived in our backyard.

2) While the bad guy was being handcuffed and taken down the yard, I couldn’t stop myself from yelling out at him, “YOU’RE A BAD PERSON!” I know, those are some strong words right there, but maybe just maybe they will be the push he needs to turn his life around. Because you know, shame.

3) Apparently the bad guy had some choice feelings he expressed, too, along the lines of he hopes all of our families die – the police, us, everyone.

4) My Mister & I are not against a little police roughing-up and I felt this guy should have at the very least been pushed down in the street to skin a knee or something. Apparently the police are “against” this type of behavior in today’s day & age. But I miss the good old days and the stories I used to hear while married to my expoliceman husband, which while not necessarily on this side of legal, may have provided a few ass whoppings that their mama’s didn’t.

5) I know that’s an unpopular opinion with the liberals, of which I mostly am, and I’m not saying he should be killed for his actions, but sometimes a good ass kickin’ is just the right thing to do when you catch a bad guy in the act of being the bad guy.  Of course, I grew up in an age when you could spank a kid. I’m PRO spankings. Under many circumstances. Ahem.

6) One of the same policeman was also the one who we agreed about the three cats. He cracked wise and said something along the lines of only seeing three cats again.

7) The police informed we live in a very liberal city and the bad guy will probably never get any time from his crime. So Baretta is wrong, because you can do the crime and not have to do the time.

8) I may get called to testify, which would be totally exciting for me. I’d have to practice not blurting out things like, “You’re a BAD PERSON!”

9) The cops seemed to think this incident was unrelated to the Tuesday incident, but apparently the bad guy mumbled something about being in the neighborhood the night before. Now, I have no idea why he would offer that up, but that’s what we were told. I told the cops I didn’t think they were unrelated at all, because that’s some strong coincidence.

10) Probably the most disappointed person in this whole story was the Bad Guy, because he broke into Chez Bang Bang’s shed, which only houses a lot of boxes filled with disappointment. In fact, our shed is so full of crap no one wants that we don’t even have a lock on it. Why encourage a bad guy to bust the door, which will end up just costing me money.  I mean, if he were looking for normal garden-type tools he could use as weapons to break windows and ladders to climb into said windows, he was sorely disappointed. We have boxes of shit to sell on Ebay, old cables and DJ equipment that probably doesn’t work, and black widow spiders.

No one won in this story, except for me, a little, because I got that second chance to show the police that #1/ noises are sometimes not the cats and #2/ I DO, in fact, keep a tidy house (sometimes) that doesn’t smell like crazy cat lady lives here.

During the light of morning, my three cats and I took a stroll around to the back of the house to check for any other damage. Toby decided to leave a surprise for any other potential bad guys who mill around between the house and the shed. 

Because that’s where that goes, Creepers.

Night Moves

I watch a lot lot lot of Forensic Files, Reader. We’ve had this one-sided discussion before, so by now this shouldn’t come as news, in case you’re new here, then it’s a first revelation. But yeah, a lot of that show goes on in my house. And it keeps me jumpy and edgy and on high-alert after the midnight witching hour.

So two nights ago I was doing a little late-night cleaning because it was two days before Turkey and I had plans to get snockered on Wednesday night. It takes the allure of a hard drunk to get me to clean early, apparently. It was during the late-night cleaning spurt – the spurt in which I discovered the toaster had met an untimely demise – when I heard a kerfuffle that sounded like it was something near the doorway, or basement. I was in the kitchen with water running, scrub-scrub-scrubbing the sink and things, and I thought My Mister was just coming home from his DJing early. After a few moments My Mister hadn’t poked his head around into the kitchen and I went on Forensic Files High Alert.

I left the kitchen water running and went to the front door, to see if his car was in the drive.

It wasn’t.

Luckily I had taken my phone with me and called him, and told him the very specific, “Hey, I heard noises.” And then I debated to call 911, because probably nothing, except for that one Forensic Files time it might actually BE Something and then I’m having to think of ways to leave evidence pointing to the bad guy all over my crime-ridden home as I’m being bludgeoned to death.

I don’t want to be that statistic.

So I called 911, and four police showed up rather quickly, and I was a little embarrassed because I was CLEANING the house, and it wasn’t showroom ready yet and it smelled like cats because I hadn’t made my way to the litter box room yet, and while I debated cleaning the litter boxes while waiting for them to show up, it would have been a tricky maneuver with the giant butcher knife I was holding in one hand, and my phone in the other. I had to really weigh whether I wanted to be judged as a bad housekeeper, or possibly murdered.  I’m focused on exactly the right things.

The good news was, usually I drink a bottle of wine while cleaning because it makes cleaning a whole lot more tolerable, and it’s exactly the reason I’m not a house cleaner for a living, as I’d be too drunk by the end of a four-hour clean to leave the house and they’d find me passed out in one of their freshly made beds. This night I wasn’t drinking – or relaxing – in any other manner, I was fueled only by a glass of ice cold water and plain ol’ gumption.

After the police went all around the house, inside and out, they stayed and chatted for a few.  They were quite impressed with the collection of shit in the Man Cave, and then asked me if possibly it was a ghost because I was insistent I had heard what sounded like heavy footsteps. I  know the cats are loud and cause crashing noises, but it was the heavy footsteps noise that I was hung up on.

I still don’t know why I heard heavy footsteps.

During the chit-chattering, this transpired:

PoliceMan: “So, how many cats do you have?” as he’s looking around the kitchen & living room.

TrixieBangBang: “ummm..Three.”

PoliceMan: “THREE?? I’m counting 4 right now!”

TBB: “Nope, it’s only three, two of them just look alike, so it’s like you’re seeing double.”  And then I’m pretty sure they were checking around for uncorked bottles of wine.

I’m not even sure what kinda logic that is right there, other than Jedi Mindtrickery.

PoliceMan: “Seriously, I count four. How many are there?”

TBB: “For the sake of potential city rules, can we just officially stick with three?”

PoliceMan: “Three it is.”

So it’s three official cats at Chez Bang Bang, Reader. And I fell in love a little last night at the indulgence.

Later, as they were leaving, Gussy took the open door opportunity to flee like a felon in the night.

OtherPoliceMan: “Oh no, one of the cats ran out!!”

PoliceMan: “It’s okay, she has more.”

The police left, and I was left with shame over my dirty floors and cat litter boxes, a racing heart and the thought that I need to stop watching so much Forensic Files and being so jumpy and over-reactive-y.

The good news was that the burst of adrenaline motored me through a whole buncha housework, leaving me with nothing but mopping floors before my sloppy drunken plans for Wednesday night.

The bad news was, My Mister came home sometime that night and I never heard a peep. I mean, I don’t think I lifted an eyelid to even note his appearance. I would have slept right through any potential 3 a.m. bludgeoning.

All’s well that ends well, right? But that’s not the end of the story….


Toasted Times Trois.

MotherofFuck, Reader. No, no…not YOU! You’re not the target of my angsty swearing. At least not yet.  Things can turn on a dime around here, in case you didn’t know.

I’ve started my Deep Clean of All Things in the Kitchen, because that makes sense at almost eleven o’clock at night two days before Thanksgiving.  I just thought it would be nice to wipe down all the cabinets, give the glass-top stove a thorough scrubbing with my special cleaner and magic scrubber pad, and that turned into well, do the microwave, too! And then the refrigerator looks bad and I may as well do all the small appliances and that’s when I discovered this:

Now, to an untrained eye, it may be difficult to decipher what that could possibly be on the top of my third-this-year toaster.

But to my very unfortunately trained eye, Reader, the crusty crackled yellow-tinted “grease” on top of the toaster can only be one thing.  Because there’s NO REASON there would be GREASE on top of the toaster, now would there be, Reader.

No. No there would not be a reason for that.

However.  ~~deep breath, Me, simmer down naw~~

I’m like Inspector Piss-leau.  

And now the toaster resides in the trash container, awaiting pick up tomorrow from the collectors of garage of what used to be usable toasters, before Trixie Bang Bang’s Asshole Cat(s) decided that a toaster is a jolly-good fun thing to back up against and take a piss.

Because that’s where that goes. And Trixie B isn’t allowed to have toast.

Which is really unfortunate because I just bought high-fiber bread at Trader Joe’s after work tonight and was totes looking forward to having a slice in the morning, as part of my I Think I’ll Try Megan Kelly’s Diet because why not have something new to struggle against. I mean, I like toast. This diet sounds perfect.

Except I can’t have toast because asshole cat(s).

I’m beginning to think I can never have a toaster again while this crew resides with me.

Did you catch the point that this is now officially a HABIT and it’s my third toaster this year that has met the same demise?

I mean, other than killing them drugging them medicating them with vet supervision, they win. I had a $40 scat-mat. They pissed on it and it stopped working. I have all the Jackson Galaxy “stop being an asshole” drops for them. I don’t even know which one it IS, to focus on correcting the a-hole-y-ness in a one-on-one environment (aka, making that cat live in the garage, unless it’s DJ and then he’ll go into therapy).

So there we are. Well, here I am. Toasterless. Again.

It’s like marriages. After a few replacements, it’s time to just give up on the whole damn idea.


Sump’in’s Cookin’

Because it’s November in the Northeast, it’s doing a whole buncha this outdoors today:

We were even treated to a little bit of snowy slush.

Which is no surprise to any of us, so no complaining allowed.

When I went to take a picture of the deck the kittens ran outside and were very unpleasantly surprised.  DJ slid on the leaves on the deck and then was frightened to walk to come back inside. He’s like his mama like that – we don’t like slipping on surfaces. This is why I outfit my tootsies in Yaktrax throughout the winter. I’m fiddy-one. I can’t risk breaking a hip. And we all know that it takes nothing on a surface to make me fall and scrape my knees and elbows.

So with all that going on outdoors, it puts me in a “make the house a home” cooking mood. My childhood Winter Sundays were filled with the smells of good things cooking on the stove. All. The. Time. Soups and chili and spaghetti and meatloafs and pot roasts.

Today I cooked.  Sausage-stuffed peppers in a homemade sauce. I mean, really homemade. I had some tomatoes that needed used up and so I boiled them, and peeled the skins and made my own sauce.

It seems to have turned out pretty good, although I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with it. Peppers and sausage isn’t exactly My Mister’s thang, yet here I am with a pot of it. I like it, but not a whole giant potful. Some lucky Reader may be getting a Meals on Wheels drop off this week.

My Instant Pot Wife and I also made the best chicken soup I think we’ve ever concocted. It was dinner.

And then I was petering out on the cooking extravaganza but still whipped up some chocolate chip cookie dough because they are most-requested during the holidays so I’m trying to get a head start and freezing them as I go.

Now you know what we had for supper. You can rest easy in that knowledge now.


*p.s. – I had started this much earlier in the day and had a plan in my head for something more interesting than what the hell I cooked, but I don’t know what happened to that thought. So then I was going to just delete this whole thing, but then that would be a waste of just my minutes, and now with my leaving this story up, it’s a waste of both of our minutes which feels more like how sharing works. You’re welcome.

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Fiddy One.

So like the lucky ones, I had another birthday this past week. Fiddy One. As much as I may write a whole lotta hoopla about my day of birthing, in actuality I low-key it.

I worked.

I had lunch with my friendie.

I got many cards.

And a few cute little gifties, which were totally unexpected, unnecessary, but appreciated. This cute manikin cat to help me draw cats was one of my gifties. Because I commented to My Pencil that if I had an ounce of drawing talent, I would sit around and draw cats all day.

Speaking of my lack of artistic talent, I heard on Howard Stern last week that you can tell the grade a person stopped believing/evolving in their talent because that’s how they still draw/paint/whatever today. I kind of remember the exact time I stopped drawing as a kid. I was young, like six or something like that.  I didn’t know how to draw and make things look ‘good’ so I just sort of stopped and stuck with my rudimentary house with chimney and smoke curl and really bad flower, which I still draw the same way today.

I’ve got the talent of a six year old. My paintings reflect that. Ah well. Like i said in a prior post, some of you unlucky fucks are going to one day inherit those so jokes on you.

But back to celebrating me.  I also received this super cute foxy mug from my co-worker that says, “What the Fox” on the outside, which is maybe a hint for a work-appropriate way of being sweary vs. being actual sweary.

I went for drinks with some other friendies. It did not live up to my expectations because they have these kinda glasses at the bar and I was clear to my waiter I wanted a tiki cup and instead I got the plainest of plain glass, and had to steal My Mister’s umbrella outta his drink to even make my drinkie look slightly fun. 

I don’t think a request of a tiki mug at a tiki bar is that outlandish.  The drinks were strong, not quite as “vacation-ie” as I had hoped. I like my tiki vacation drinks to taste like liquid marijuana.

Maybe I am high maintenance after all. I have a lotta strong feelings about my cocktail, obvi.

My Mister and I tried out a new joint for dinner. It was good. Good enough. They specialized in chicken and whiskey. Our new chicken standard is Gus’s in Memphis, and this was equally good, just good/different.

Type 2 (me) enjoyed an indulgence in many treats. Lemon tart was one of them, and it was really great and I count it as a fruit because lemon.

I granted myself treats allowed on my birthday only.  Except I also had date nut cake, which is a fan favorite, and I enjoyed that on into Saturday as well. 

There was also a chocolate caking, so basically I think I covered the major birthday flavors except for white cake, but I had decided to move on from my love of white cake and replaced it with the date nut. Because I am constantly evolving, Reader.

A few friendies have suggested that I whopped it up for my birthday like the party animal. If that party consists of sleeping in bed and the animal is my cats, then yes, I am a party animal. Because on Friday after dinner and a drink we had thought of going to the neighborhood bar and instead we went to bed and watched My 600 lb. Life until I fell asleep before 10 p.m.

And then slept in the next morning til 10 a.m., so yep, partying.

In my pajamas.

Saturday night was much of the same. Had a fleeting thought of going to see a country band at my local dive bar, but that didn’t start until the ungodful hour of 9 p.m., and by that time I was back in my pajamas and in bed for the night.

I may or may not have had something to relax me, which also made me hungry and so I was eating cold shrimp & grits leftovers while standing in front of the open refrigerator. And that’s how we celebrate a fiddy-one birthday weekend around Chez Bang Bang.

Cheers, Me, to another year.


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