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The Bang Bang Theories

Falling For It

The ravine is full of song this morning.

We Fell Back an hour last night, and I do enjoy it on the morning side of things; however, i may as well just leave my pajamas on today as it’ll be dark by 4 p.m. and it’s the season of All-Day Pajamas because the whole country just goes to bed five hours after they get up.

This is not a directed ramble. It’s more of a, “well, I’m up and it’s not noon yet, let’s chitty-chat.”

My coffee and I have been in an “it’s complicated” relationship lately.  You know I’ve been struggling with my pumpkin spice coffee creamer, and I did add another to the mix – International Delight – and it was fine. Fine. The same fine as the Starbucks brand. So I think it’s not you, it’s me, Coffee Creamer.

I mostly have uneasy feelings about my coffee creamer needs because I switched to the dark side and just drank it black for so long and now I’m sucked right back in to sugary creamy coffee, and that would be FINE if it met the needs of my mouth. So I may just have to switch back to black.

Last night while shopping for Cat Needs, I succumbed to the allure of some Harry & David seasonal flavored coffee. I ALMOST bought the pumpkin spice flavor, but then told myself, “no. just no with all the pumpkin spice things.” If the coffee creamer can’t deliver on it’s own, I’m abandoning that quest. So I bought a maple pecan flavor, which sounds nice and Fall-ish, and it, too, is Fine. Is my mouth singing like the birds in the ravine? No.

These are back-to-back posts about coffee and I guess it’s revealing the story about what’s important to me. That life-giving magic bean.

Because my nephew has been staying at my home for the past couple months, and he’s kinda bossy about desserts and also sort of told me, “You don’t eat much at meals, but you eat too much baked goods and that’s why you’re fat,” only it wasn’t said quite like that but it’s the gist of it, I set out to prove a point and deemed October “No Bake October.” And I didn’t purchase cookies and cakes per my usual “fill up the house with yummy things.”

Now. Let’s tell the truth here, Me.

Did I purchase not one but two pies at Sam’s Club? Yes.

Did we purchase and eat an ice cream cake for nephew’s bday? Yes.

Did I eat some dessert at book club? Yes.

Did I go to the bakery at the end of October and purchase a cream horn and a teensy-tiny-pre-birthday-month cake? Yes.

This was the skinny-downed month of no baked goods.

Stop judging me, Reader!

I did not make things – as much as I wanted to bake. I did not buy Oreos, as much as they tried to tantalize me with new flavors. I did not eat the frosting off of that kinda meh bakery cake. I shared the pies at a neighborhood event.

And guess how much skinnier I was by the end of the month?

Two pounds, or eight sticks of butter.

Which quite frankly, doesn’t actually sound like it was worth the sacrifice to my mouth.

Not to mention, we rarely eat out any more – I have to Mom it up around here and have dinners kinda planned out since it’s not just me and My Mister who can fend for himself.

So. Two pounds seems frankly very rude.

I am exactly like a Dr. Now patient who sits there explaining away their two-pound weight loss with, “But I followed the diet! The scale must be wrong! I don’t know how this can possibly be!” and he’d tell me, “The scale doesn’t lie. People do!” and fuck you for judging me, Dr. Now! Sacrifices were made!

It’s a little disappointing, but I’m going to kinda try to keep the mojo rolling at least until Birthday Cake, because maybe I can wean my sweet tooth off a bit.  I have been paying some kind of attention to my overall well being, by ADDING things to my day vs. all the subtracting.

I try to start my morning with a quarter of a cup of beet juice. Most mornings this is my before-coffee thing. It’s supposed to be good for stuff like energy and opening your blood vessels and shit like that. I don’t know that it’s helping, but it doesn’t seem to be hurting and I like beets and can swig down a third of cup.

I’ve also mingled that beet juice with tart cherry juice sometimes, just for added kapow.

I eat a shit-ton of fiber. I’m fiber-focused, and my neighbors mentioned I’ve lost weight and I very lady-like tell them, “I’ve just been pooping a lot.”

I have, kind of when I think about it, added a turmeric tea to my afternoon beverage consumption.

Taking my medication on a regular, daily basis vs. doing it as when I think about it, and sometimes days go by when I forget. This goes down with my beet juice now. I read my friend’s book, Chronic, and she actually says right in there that if you need to take medication, taking it daily and as a scheduled thing is the kindest thing you can do for yourself, and she’s right.

And this month, for November’s addition, we are doing squats every day and have incorporated (so far) a pretty thorough bed-time stretching routine.

So yeah. Two pounds. Maybe it’s the coffee creamer I’m not even fully enjoying.

Life is hard. I mean, first-world-problems hard here.

That’s what’s doing over here on the back deck at Chez Bang Bang.  Thank the time change for this; I had morning time to write as I was up and at ’em earlier than my weekend usual. And there you were, bad-mouthing the clock. You didn’t know the treasure it would deliver for you today.

 

 

What’s On My Lips

I’m mad at me, Reader, because I let social media convince me that my enjoyment of pumpkin spice everything was for basic bitchez and so for the past few years I’ve told myself I must be wrong if all of the world thinks pumpkin spice is so yesterday’s flavor and denied it for myself as a Fall Favorite.

Because obvi it’s overrated. I mean, last year I drove by and saw a quicky oil change place offering pumpkin spice oil changes just go get in on the action, and that’s when I really knew it had to be over.

And then this year I said to myself EFF ALL THAT, the first time I ever enjoyed a Starbucks Pumpkin Spiced Latte, I heard the herald of angels and stardust fell from the sky. I HEART PUMPKIN SPICE and if that’s BASIC then BRING ME ALL THE BASIC, BITCHEZ. Right into my mouth, thank you.

And on the first day of Summer Is Over, I promptly went to the store to put some Pumpkin Spice coffee creamer in my buggy.

Except I was in for a little bit of a shock.

Starbucks Pumpkin Spice creamer? Was priced at $5.99.

What. In. The. What.

THANKS, BIDEN* and PUTIN* for making delicious coffee creamer unaffordable!

*We sarcastically sneer “THANKS BIDEN and/or PUTIN” whenever we’re annoyed with inflation because 1. he probably is to blame and 2. we’re mocking the Trumpety-trumpers who you know are shouting that every. single. time and 3. i’ll still take $6 coffee creamer over one more day of trump as president because i hate to hear any of the jumbled bullshit that comes out of his mouth, pussy-grabbing a-hole. 

So I couldn’t do it, Reader.

I couldn’t buy $6 coffee creamer, especially considering that I mostly drink my coffee like I like my men, weak and lukewarm, I mean like Idris Idelba or however you spell his name. The version of him in that movie The Mountain Between Us version. I drink my coffee like that usually.

But since Idris isn’t here to serve me coffee in bed and it’s Fall in the North, I’ll gladly embrace Pumpkin Spice creamer, and how bad can the not-offensively-priced Aldi version be, anyway? Because I’m not shelling out six large for the Starbucks brand. Nope. Not ever. I have standards. And that crosses them.

Reader. No bueno is how bad it can be. There’s very little of the pumpkin or the spice flavoring in their $3.49 version.

So when My Mister made a trip to the other store I broke down and asked if he could get me the $6 Starbucks version so I could make the most of my Fall mornings.

Except that store didn’t carry it, so he called and asked if I’d like the $5 Dunkin’ Donuts version and I eagerly said yes to the dress.

And then THAT version was neither spice nor pumpkin-ie enough to honor Fall with my mouth and I was still let down, and now I’m up to $8.50 in sub-par coffee creamers when I wouldn’t just buy the $6 creamer from the beginning and also I’m a financial wizard like that.

But now I’m committed, so the next time I went out, my heart cringed just a little but I put that $5.99 Starbucks coffee creamer in my basket and this is now why it looks like I need a Pumpkin Spice intervention when you open my fridge and my how far I’ve fallen from my mornings of hot and black unfettered coffee because now I want all the creamers again, next stop Almond Joy.

I had so successfully weaned myself off of sugary flavored coffees, but now I’m back, and also out of fiscal responsibility I’ve got to drink this $14.50 worth of creamers.

Did the Starbucks live up to the hype and the price? Well, yes and no. It is a far superior flavor compared with the other two. But no, I do not hear angels trumpets nor does glitter fall from the sky. In fact, I added just a little shake of pumpkin pie spice to it this morning to jooje it up a little bit more and probably I need to work on inventing my own version next, which should only cost me $542 in trial-and-error ingredients, so it just makes good financial sense.

My door is open should you need help with budget planning. You can pay me in coffee creamers.

 

Field of Dreams

I wish the facts of life 1. included Blair, Tootie and Jo over here at Chez Bang Bang because wouldn’t that be the most fun with us roller-skating around and please stop in anytime, George Clooney, and also I’ve often felt like Mrs. Garrett in the workplace, imparting a bunch of wildish kids with my sage wisdoms, and 2. that the facts of life were that I’ve been off doing Super Fun Things and that’s why I’m not here with you.

But the facts facts are, I’m just tired of being on screen all. the. time.  Every workplace event is online, and books I’m reading are on my phone, and tv I’m watching is on a giant screen and then I just don’t want to sauce up the computer for a story, although believe you me, I do have Things To Tell.

So let’s just do a medium recap of what’s what around here.

First, I went to the art museum for the first time ever here in OH, and that’s a shame that I’ve never been here before.

But here’s a little insight into some of my neurosis:

I’m oft times hesitant to drive in areas where the cool things reside. I don’t like driving in unknown areas, or making left turns that don’t have a safe-and-secure red-light-stop-green-light-go-even-better-if-you-get-a-pointing-turn-arrow to tell you exactly when to step on the gas. And I hate round-abouts and will find any way to avoid a round-about and almost didn’t take a job once because I had to navigate a round-about every single day I went to work. Except then I got good at that one, but not all round-abouts are the same so I’m not good at all of them, just this one.

So yeah. Moving to Florida worked for me only because it is a super-easy state to traverse. Straight shots to just about anywhere, and you can hop on the A1A and that’s even the scenic route that gets you where you need to go.

I got acquainted with the art museum because my brave driver friendie drove and then we looked at all the non-screen things and it was glorious.

Also, I’ve decided I’m going to paint a replica of this:

Second, in Things That I’ve Been Doing When I’m Not Here:

I hosted a champagne brunch in September with a handful of girls and I just frankly love entertaining and it was a classy reason for Day Drinking, which I also love. Champs for brekky = yes.

It was a good opportunity to connect with some girls I don’t have the opportunity to see all the time, and eat good food and cheers to us and isn’t what what’s important in life?

I’m grateful I have my nephew’s Youthful Legs here as he does a lot lot lot of the up-and-down-stairs-carrying-things for me.

Yesterday, same nephew motivated me to go for a walk in the woods, and holy-mother-of-fuck my hips and legs hurt. I’m talking two-Aleve-and-a-half-a-gummy hurt.

I was showered and lying down by 7 p.m. and then I was wide awake at 3 a.m. and I almost got up but that was crazy talk so I talked myself into re-sleeping.

And then I’ll blame the half a gummy, because when I woke up this morning I didn’t know if my dream was a real thing that had happened and I had to point-by-point do a life vs. dream replay to understand if I really went to a sorority house last weekend with a neighbor and took a bunch of Italian purses to sell on eBay.

I did not, in case you were wondering. I didn’t visit any sorority house with a neighbor nor take still-with-the-tags Italian purses. But lemme tell you, it was vivid and I can see how tricky the mind can be.

I’ve been reading through a book called The Body Keeps the Score, and it’s insightful and probably also why I don’t like driving in tricky areas – my tricky mind is keeping a lot of scores, mostly around almost killing myself in a car accident back in the times when I myself had youthful legs. See, I just therapied myself right here.

But back to my walk in the woods and why everything on my lower body was ouchy. We did walk a mountain bike trail and it was a lot of ups and downs and all I know for sure is, I’m not getting better, Reader, I’m getting older.

As we are all aware, Meta has super mind-reading powers and all I’ve been getting lately are ads for stretching and also a new place opened not too far from where I live and it offers some sort of people-stretching-you classes and it sounds delicious and I may treat myself to that soon.

Is it too late to be more bendy?? Is it, Reader?

I don’t know.

I guess the only way to know of sure is to make a plan and start. Beginning is Now. Brooke Shields has some business motivation thing called Beginning is Now and I like the sentiment.

So maybe that’s the plan today. Begin.

Right after I copy-cat paint a Monet.

Between The Sheets

Anyone who knows me knows me, knows that My Mister and I … sometimes, very politely … may not see eye-to-eye on things, at times, Reader, not all the times. A lot of the times, though, not just a small amount of the times. Many of the times, maybe. Maybe.

And when we don’t see eye-to-eye, well, we also may not approach those differences in the same manner either. Because we are two very different peoples, Reader, and NOT the SAME Peoples, and yes, I know that’s not the right plural but I like it because I’ve been drinking thinking with a glass of something maybe in my hand or maybe not, who’s asking?

When I tend to see things with a different eye, I may – at times – it may or may not have been said – I may just get a little sweary and loud about it, and let’s just call it Airing My Grievances So There Is No Miscommunication About What I Find Annoying AF.  Because I’m a truth speaker, Reader.

My Mister, on the other hand, is a MASTER at Passive-Aggressing against me. A MASTER. A MASTERPASSAGRESSOR. He will do things he knows I h. a. t. e. just to kinda stick it to me when I don’t even know what I could have done to annoy him, other than try to make him a BETTER MAN with a BETTER LIFE. But still, he may PA against me for no good reason at all if you ask me.

So the other night when I went to bed, I noticed a GIANT PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE SIZED FOOT PRINT on my pillowcase. The very same pillowcase on which I lay my pretty little head.

What in the literal EFFF is happening here, Reader?

Me, to My Mister, later that night because he was not home at the time I found the offending shoe print on my pillowcase: “Did you passive aggress against me because I MAKE YOU A BETTER HUMAN by insisting you sleep with a pillowcase on your pillow??”

Yes, I know, there’s quite a bit to unpack there.

My Mister and I have had bed wars since the beginning of time over my insistence he sleep with a pillow case on his pillow like a civilized human being because he does not LIKE pillowcases, but that is stupid and we are adults and you will sleep with a pillowcase on your pillow or YOU WILL GET OUT AND SLEEP SOMEWHERE ELSE I may have very bossily quietly said over and over at one time.

He mostly resists the pillowcase because he flops around so much in his sleep that somehow he jams his pillow into the wrought-iron design of the headboard and it gets stuck there and then he’s yanking his pillow out of the clutches of the headboard VERY NOISILY AND AGGRESSIVELY at 3 a.m. to make sure I know about it. Yes, that’s a true scenario that just happened a few nights ago. Don’t sleep on your pillow like a dick, was my response. Use your pillow accurately.

So anyway. I noticed the giant clod-hopper footprint on my pillow case and immediately accused politely inquired with My Mister, all the while insisting he take off his shoe so I could perform a Forensic-File-worthy tread match up.

My Mister: “So let me get this straight: You think I could lift my leg all the way up on the bed to stomp on your pillowcase to stick it to you for some reason?”

Trixie: “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t think you could lift your leg all the way up on the bed and stomp on my pillow. I think you may have thrown my pillow onto the ground, stomped on it, and then put it back up on the bed.”

My Mister: “Well that at least makes more sense.”

Does that make sense to you, Reader? That we are adults living together for a gazillion years, and it’s not out of scope for one of us to think the other has intentionally stomped on the other’s pillow??

Trixie: “So. Did you stomp your giant clodhopper onto my pillowcase?”

My Mister: “No, of course I wouldn’t intentionally step on your pillow!”

Trixie: “So. Unintentionally, was my pillow knocked on the floor and you stomped on it with your giant filthy foot?”

My Mister insisted no. I was not convinced. At all.

Until the next morning when my fresh pillowcase had MORE tell-tale stomp marks on it!

What. In. The. Fuck. Was. Happening.

And then, Reader. And then.

Like the good detective that I am from watching thousands of hours of crime shows, I realized there was one thing different going on in my bed. And that different thing was my new black satin eye mask I had recently purchased because I can’t get into my REM if there’s the weensy bit of light in the room, and so I go through eye masks on the regular.

The Maxx didn’t have my normal preference in eye mask, with the little eye socket dimples, but this new one is surprisingly comfortable.

And maybe perhaps it was the thing actually aggressing against me.

So I pulled it off and lined it up to the mark on my pillowcase and ding-ding-ding we have a match, Reader, and the very item I paid $12 for is actually my filthy pillowcase maker.

The good news is, I am not being aggressed against by My Mister in bed. Ahem.

The bad news is, it wasn’t out of scope to think he perhaps was intentionally stomping on my pillow. Or even unintentionally just stepping on it should it have fallen to the floor, and I’m frankly not sure which scenario is the worse scenario.

Lastly, both My Mister and I both realize that his lifting his leg all the way up onto the mattress is a pipe dream of his long-ago youth, and there’s no way either of us believe he could execute that move.

And there you have it. Just a little insight into more of my dysfunctional relationship, my propensity to immediately cast blame, the drama of insisting we sleep with appropriate bedding, and what goes on behind closed doors at Chez Bang Bang. I know. You’re jealous. Not Sorry.

What We Know Right Now

This photo says a lot about who I am as a person. This is the collection that has gathered on the shelf in my bathroom after a summer of travels.

  1. 1. Imma girl who wants to be in the sun, but am also afraid of the sun.
  2. 2. The degree to which Imma ‘fraid of the sun varies by location, as noted by the chosen protection level.
  3. 3. These were purchased in different hot AF locations, and let’s be honest, I can’t remember shit these days – but apparently imma girl who is Brand Loyal without knowingly being brand loyal.
  4. 4. It’s cute that I choose the “sport” brand. Every. Single Time. Like Imma going to be sporting out there in the sun. I mean, I am sporting, if sporting consists of getting onto a floating hammock, or reading a book. Then imma girl who’s super sporty in the sun.
  5. 5. Imma girl who hasn’t fully put away all her vacation supplies this summer, which frankly is a little lazy and I’m not going to deny that.

A Tale of Two Kitties

I’m a cocky, proud, insufferably gloaty mother right now, Reader, and I have been sitting with my feelings for the past few weeks.

My heart has been swollen with pride over two of my six three cats. I’m no math wizard, yet even I know that’s more than HALF of my cats, Reader, that have swelled up my ego.

While My Mister and I were on our vacation trippy in June and my Houseboy* was doing the job of his title of house-ing, which also means keeping the Bad Cat Smells under control, we received a front-porch gift bagged in grocery-store plastic.

*i’m living like lifestyles of the rich and famous, with a live-in house-helper now who’s also part of my family and believe you me, it’s made me even bossier and a lot less walk-up-the-stairsy-er as I can now bellow, “hey! take this upstairs for me!” or “hey! bring that downstairs for me!” 

Apparently, two of my three cats are charmers.  And they’ve charmed a little girl named Caitlin who lives several blocks over and takes walks with her mama down my street.

Caitlin won a gift card from school for good grades, and determined my cats have provided so much pleasure during her walks, she was going to spend part of her winnings on food and toys for them.

She wrote, “even if they are yours and not strays, thank you for taking care of the cats,”

and, “seeing all these cats on my walk makes me happy, even if they are not friendly,” 

and a special addendum at the end, “your black and calico cats are so cute!” heart emoji.

And now I love Caitlin and am so proud of two of my three cats, I want a bumper sticker for the back of my car that says, “Four of my three cats may be assholes, but two of them are neighborhood delights, so suck it, Dog Lovers!”

 

This note and treats have been sitting in my mind for a few weeks now, with my not adequately being sure I could tell the cute feels this RACK* has give me, and I’m sure this hasn’t done Caitlin and her mama justice with how stinkin’ adorable this move is, but i’m just trying to get my writing fingers back to working and all the words aren’t flowing like wine just yet.

*RACK = Random Act of Cat Kindness, and yes, I just made that up, consider this my trademark

Speaking of wine* I ordered a case of wine and it arrived yesterday and now there is no good reason that the words shouldn’t be flowing like wine. Or because of wine.

*see how I segued from cats to wine talk?? That’s a skill right there, Reader. 

But back to Caitlin, her mama, and my Good & Friendly Cats: Yay for all of them! 

****Lastly. Yes, four of my three cats go outdoors. No, I never thought I’d allow that either. No, it doesn’t mean that I love them less than you love your indoor-only cats. Yes, I’m aware of the predator risks. No, I can’t stop them from bulldozing me out of the way when I open the door. Yes, we live on a low-traffic street. Yes, they stick around the house mostly. Yes, they eat mice and moles and Gussy is a chipmunker. No, I don’t like that part of their cat behavior. Yes, Gussy has brought not one, but two live chipmunks into the house. Yes, I screamed and My Mister rescued and released one of the live chipmunks. Yes, the first time it happened and I heard a “squeak” and told My Mister, “there’s something in the house that doesn’t live in the house!” and he thought I was kra, and that maybe it was the smoke detector meeping.  No, it wasn’t the smoke detector meeping. Yes, My Mister discovered the remains and now he has another life skill. Yes, he now listens to me when I scream that, “there’s a noise in the house that shouldn’t be in the house!”  No, don’t @me with a bunch of your thoughts on indoor-only-you’re-a-bad-mama cat thoughts, i’ll ignore them so don’t waste your time. Gussy has informed me that the heart wants what the heart wants, and they wanna be indoor-outdoor cats.

Purry is enjoying the catnip while the Good & Bad Boys are outside:

The end of one cute cat story.

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I Didn’t Know It Was a Thing

Hi, Reader. I just learned about Hot Girl Summer.

Apparently, it’s the Summer I’m Supposed To Be Having.  Well, the summer we’re ALL* supposed to be having. It’s A THING.  A whole thing.

*ALL = girls only. No boys allowed. Unless we want ’em as part of our Hot Girl Summer. 

So what is Hot Girl Summer, exactly? Well, firstly, I didn’t think I qualified as I thought it was only for HOT girls, and not the girls who just get it in flashes. Nay nay, Reader. Hot Girl Summer means we’re going to have a summer full of fun.

Now, I didn’t know about Hot Girl Summer because #1, I’m a nerd who does not like hip-hoppy music that Megan the Stallion signs about, #2, if Tay Swizzle sang about it, I’d know ALL ABOUT IT AND QUICK, but she is busy making me feel all the sads with her moody Evermore music and so #3, my friendie had to drop it all on me casual like in convo, that she was having a Hot Girl Summer and I was like, “Whhaaatt??” and figured it was something just for her because she’s a Hot Girl.

She brought me up to speed and I realized it’s MID JULY and I’m not having a Hot Girl Summer and I need to get damn busy quick!  Every day I look towards my Vision Board that I created in January, and I have accomplished zero point zero of the things on that board, including “pontoon boat drifting” and “starry sky gazing” and WTF have I been doing, Reader??

Not living the Hot Girl Summer life, that’s what I’ve been doing.

Now, some could argue that I DID take an 8-day cruise in June.

And then I jumped back on a plane and spent the 4th of July in Vegas.

But.  There’s always a Big But, Reader.

I have a pool in my garage that’s buried beneath the rubble some where and is not set up in my yard for day floating.

My drinks-on-the-deck-evenings haven’t materialized. Probably because I’ve been busy not being in this state, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s still a thing not happening.

I haven’t found a Summer Drink yet.

I haven’t lazily drifted on one pontoon boat, gotten my still-in-the-box telescope set up for starry gazing, haven’t been HERE for us, Reader, nor have I spent time at one single fair or festival, had a bonfire, or made a s’more, or even planted one dang flower because I wasn’t home enough to plant and water so my deck is NAKED and not in the “I’m naked on the deck” kinda way.

You may be sitting there reading this and telling me in your head to shut the fuck up, Trixie, re-read the part about a cruise to Aruba and then a trip to Vegas and you have the audacity to complain you’re not having a Hot Girl Summer?? Except Hot Girl Summer needs to be happening HERE at Chez Bang Bang, that’s what I’m talking about, Reader. It’s easy for Hot Girl Summer to happen elsewhere. It’s making it happen HERE that’s my focus. So that every. single. day. has something to cheer about. That’s my Hot Girl Summer goal.

Let’s do this.

Holy Saturday

Yesterday while driving, My Mister noted aloud that the side of the street was dotted with signs for a local Russian church offering Drive Thru Hot Dumplings.

And then he didn’t turn on his signal to immediately turn into that church driveway advertising Drive Thru Hot Dumplings.

I mean, Reader.

I stared at him incredulously, as he kept driving straight. As we got to the next stoplight, I advised him that his life was currently being held in the balance of the next decision he made.

Keep driving straight or turn the fuck around. What’s it going to be, Boy*? (sung to the tune of Meatloaf’s Dashboard Light).

My Mister: “You can’t really want to try those dumplings, DO YOU??”

As if he was going to try to shame me or something.

Um, it takes a waaaay bigger event than a request for Hot Dumplings to shame me. Come on. I stand on my deck naked. In the city. Pretending I’m invisible.

Trixie: “You can’t actually think you’re going to announce CHURCH MADE drive-thru HOT DUMPLINGS and that we’re NOT going to turn right into that lot and get some. What part of your brain thinks that’s an option? Do you even KNOW me??”

Reader. Who have I been in a relationship with for the past bazillion years?? How is this even a discussion we were having??

He made the right decision for his life and soon we were shoveling Hot Dumplings right into our dumpling-hole.

Listen to me now and hear me later, Reader.

These dumplings? If the $16 we spent went right into Putin’s pocket? Baby Jesus would forgive us. Because oh-my-garth, were these worth it.

And this is how we spent part of our weekend at church. Because we are holy and reverent. And tithed right to Russia or something, in the name of dumplings. Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

Whose Standards?

It’s Mother’s Day, so my friendie and I wished each other a Happy Tight Vagina Day, because neither of us have used that hole as an exit. P-LENT-Y of entrance, but no exit.

Welcome back, Me!

I know, with that kind of an opener, maybe you’re wishing I had stayed MIA a bit longer.

Too bad, baby! I’m back! But who knows for how long or if we’re going to go on another unplanned extended hiatus.

I don’t know why I haven’t been here. It’s my form of public journaling, which kinda makes me an exhibitionist, except with words instead of nakey pictures and for that, Reader, you’re welcome.

I did spend a moment today looking at my freshly showered and still naked self in my full length mirror and I deemed myself just fucking fine.  Because I am fine, no matter what this body looks like. Makes no matter. I’m fucking fine. Because I’m more than any dumb scar or fat blob or bowlegged-ness or freckles or wayward hairs.

So yeah. I’m sitting over at Chez Bang Bang and feeling pretty cocky about myself on this Mother’s Day 2022.

My Mister and I have been racking our brains to find a good enough reason to buy a whole Dairy Queen cake and eat it, and today was that occasion. Since we plan on eating the entire cake between the two of us – no share-sies – we of course had it personalized with a very special message to us:

“Fattie” happens to be whomever is eating this cake.

The poor teen at DQ didn’t even want to write our message on the post-it, she insisted I do it.  She said, ‘I can’t even write that down, are you sure??”

Yep, Youngster. We’re sure. Because we don’t give any fucks and it made us laugh the whole way home AND while we cut two giant wedges to shove down our cakeholes.

She came back with it and said, “I had them use pink icing to make the message .. prettier.”

And guess what? We DID ENJOY that cake. Just like the message directed.

So here’s your blog. Enjoy, Fattie!

Maybe I’ll be back sooner rather than later. I know, I know – you can only hope.

 

Exciting Times Are Ahead!

I’m a Blamer, Reader. You may know this or you may just be learning this about me.

Of course it’s not my fault that I haven’t made time to tell you All The Things that are going on at Chez Bang Bang. I write the stories in my head as they’re happening. But then it must be My Mister’s fault for being SO NOISY that I can never ever sit down and just think and actually tell you some stories.

Or I have too much LAUNDRY.

Then there’s the DUSTING and the THINGS that need ORGANIZED and MyGod have you seen my bedroom??

And don’t forget that my six three CATS are keep me constantly cleaning up spills that eject from inside their bodies.

Who can a girl* write with even one of those things happening, much less all of those things all the time.

*still throwing around the word girl like I’m 16 and not pregnant. No plans on stopping.

Regardless of the very valid reasons or who’s fault it is exactly, we’re here now despite my best start-stop-start efforts.

*since I started this post, I’ve cleaned the track of my sliding glass doors with a scrub brush, cleaned and cut up a pineapple to roast with cinnamon from a recipe of my new book purchase, Vegan, at Times, re-heated leftover cashew chicken, picking out the chicken to make it sort of at-timesy a little bit vegetarianish to go along with the mojo of my day and will probably leave the chair two more times after typing these reasons for distraction. So you see, everyone and every thing else is to blame for my not typing up the stories that circle ’round in my brain.

This is just to get me back in the seat. Come back later, we’ll talk about how I’m now willingly involved in a throuple that back in the olden times we used to just call a good ol’ fashioned threesome, how else I’m spending countless hours on the computer, and have grand plans to start a section called Cringe, wherein we will unpack the details of old pictures I’ve found of me, and maybe I should rethink naming this series to “I put the Me in AwesoME.” Because the hairstyles alone, Reader. The hairstyles are enough reason to come back to me.

*also, the name of this post? those exciting times are AHEAD. Not necessarily right here. I just clickbaited you. Sorry not sorry.

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