The following conversation took place yesterday on the way to the mall, where I was headed to buy my very first grown-up set of cookware.
One would think that with a couple of marriages under my belt I, at some point, would have owned nice pots & pans, but you’d be wrong, Reader. My first brief marriage netted me very little other than a nice picture of my parents and some general mistrust. Not enough mistrust, apparently, because see marriage two.
Marriage two netted me even less, since we eloped to Vegas, and the only thing I really have left of that is a set of 20-year old Corelle dinnerware that just won’t break no matter how badly I’d like to have a reason to get rid of it and a heaping dose of “never again.” And the sad collection of mish-mash cookware that I’ve been using for those same twenty-plus years.
Part of my sad set began burning everything on the bottom of the pot and I was getting the reputation of Bad Cook, and I don’t need any more reputations, Reader. I recently threw it right in the garbage rather than try to scour out the shame of bad cooking one more time.
That left me with a couple of fry pans with hooped-up middles, to which all the food in the pan would fall to the edges, and a second pot that I’m sure has been leaching cancers into my boobies because of the scratched up Teflon bottom.
So for the sake of my boobies and my reputation, it was time to own the fact that I’m not going to have an occasion to create a fancy gift registry any time soon, wherein YOU could be buying my fancy cookware for me, Reader, and instead I saved myself.
I considered creating a Go Fund Me page*, because that seems to be what everyone does nowadays. It’s apparently the polite way to be a panhandler, without the shame associated with asking other people for their money to fund your wants and needs. It’s sort of magical, and I wish I had thought of it when I needed gutters to wick away excessive moisture from Chez Bang Bang, but I did that the old fashioned way and bought them myself on a credit card. Silly Trixie.
I have bigger dreams, though, and I’m going to save my Go Fund Me ask for a backyard makeover, I believe, and ask everyone I know and complete strangers to donate for a pool and a hot tub because I suffer from arthritis, so I need both for medical reasons, not just so I have some place to float around while I swig Jack & Cokes and generate more freckles. Feel free to send me twenties whenever you wish, Reader, and I will happily stash them in my Arthritis Fun. d.
But that’s not the point of this. I can’t keep me on track some days, Reader. But maybe that is the point of this, because the whole question I pondered with My Mister was sort of driven from my aching knees, both of which were really acting like assholes yesterday and made me say “ouchie” a few times, so send your checks to Chez Bang Bang stat. They still hurt today, by the way, if that hastens your check sending at all.
Okay, Reader, I’ve jump tracked enough already. Sheesh.
So the conversation started like this:
TrixieBB: “Now, I fully expect you to say NO and in fact it’s your job to say NO, but I need to put the question out there anyway, it’s my way of working through the feasibility of the scenario.”
TBB: “But I didn’t pose the question yet.”
MM: “Let’s skip the rhetoric and get right to the answer. NO.”
TBB: “That’s not how this works. You’re going to entertain my question and act attentive and give me some valid rationale for the NO.”
Reader, that’s the polite way of recounting what actually was said, I’m sure some fuck-yous were in there, too. That’s our love language.
TBB: “I’ve been thinking about joining that new gym, I heard they have a pool and a sauna and a jacuzzi, and I think that would be good for me to go swim around. I’m told they open early and I could go before work.”
MM: well, he couldn’t get any words out because of the laughing.
TBB: “Stop the fuck laughing! I think if there was a pool dangling on the stick I could get up in the morning and go!”
MM: – in between guffaws – “I’ll tell you what. Just get up in the morning for a week first.”
TBB: “Oh, good idea, so you’re saying to just get up in the morning for a week and go to the gym I already belong to and see how that works out first, before spending $30/month on another gym.”
MM: “Nope. I’m saying to just get up early for a week first before even considering joining the gym with the pool.”
TBB: “Oh, right, so what you’re saying is to get up for a week at home, and go do my pilates machine that I had to buy that’s been sitting unused for a year now upstairs, see how that goes before I join another gym. Good thinking.”
MM: “Nope. I’m saying to JUST GET UP EARLY for a week. Don’t even try to do anything more than that, other than getting up earlier than you do now. See how Morning Girl likes that.”
TBB: “This isn’t very supportive of my trying to establish better healthy habits for the new year, and maybe Morning Girl can change her lazy lazy ways!”
MM: “No? Well, I have one word for you: Trampoline.”
Yep, he played the Trampoline Card.
Wondering what the Trampoline Card is, huh.
It was the blizzard of 2014.
I came home one evening and INSISTED, complete with a stomp and a fit, that we drive in the blizzard to the nearest Dicks store so I could buy a personal trampoline, known today by the hoity workout society as “rebounder” so I could get in shape. It was the only thing preventing me from not achieving optimum cardiovascular health, and it would be a way to have fun while getting in shape.
We trudged out through the sleet and cold, and were the only folks at Dicks that night except for the poor schulb who had to wait on us. I laid out sixty large for a rebounder – all without a Go Fund Me – and brought my trampoline home.
- Screwed on the legs.
- Took about two hops.
- Lost balance.
- Narrowly missed falling into tv.
- Reallocated rebounder to basement.
- Haven’t been on it since.
It made me wobbly, Reader!
I could have killed myself!!
It’s basically a legalized death-trap disguised as heathy habits!!!
So yeah. I couldn’t say for certain that the early-morning swim idea would fair better than the Trampoline, so I have not pursued the notion further.
I think a good place to start is to see if Morning Girl actually can get out of bed an hour earlier than normal.
Which is a good place to start, because as part of my 2016 resolutions, I’m going to use the month of February as a blogging challenge to myself (because it’s the shortest month, Reader, and I’m aiming low for better chances of success), to share something here every damn day, whether you like it or not, because my creative brain is rusty.
In case you couldn’t tell.
This story was like pulling teeth. And not just so you can’t identify the body.*
*That last sentence doesn’t really make sense, but I’m leaving it in here anyway, because the last thing I watched on tv last night was a Forensic Files where the man killed his baby mama, skinned her and chopped up her body in the bathtub and pulled out all of her teeth by the roots so the remains couldn’t be identified before he casually threw her skull into a pond. Then the skull was caught on some fishing line by two kids trying to catch fish, and the only way it was identified as the missing gal was because the guy removed all of her teeth except for two wisdom teeth which hadn’t come down from the gumline yet. So they were able to extract her DNA from the root and nab the bad guy. The moral of this story is that what you don’t see will get ya sometimes. And don’t chop someone up because you will get caught. Probably.
**Send your Fund Trixie Bang Bang’s Pool & Spa checks to TBB @ chez bang bang. I may create levels of funding, where if you contribute enough you can come and spa with me and Jack Daniels. Naked. Depending upon the size of the donation. And the amount of Jack Daniels. Trust me, you’ll need it.