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The Bang Bang Theories

Insult to Injury

I’ve been sick for the past week, Reader. Not deathbed sort of sick, or even the kind of sick I should complain about because lemme tell you, my friends and family have been dealing with Real Sicks this year, so this is basically nothing.


Here’s how things really work. Someone is always going to have it better than you. Or worse than you*. Whatever they have doesn’t make YOUR thing any less or more. Your Thing is still what’s going on, and if it’s fantastic compared to your everyday life, shout about it! If it’s a few notches down from your norm, it’s okay to be complainy and whiney about that, too. There’s room for all of it. At least that’s what I’ve learned in my lifetime.

Now, you may be thinking, “How the hell has she learned anything, all she does is vacation!” and you’d be partly right. But Reader. I’ve learned.  I’ve Done My Time.

UnFun Fact about Trixie Bang Bang: When she was young, she was in a car accident that tried to kill her. It didn’t, thank goodness or what else would you be doing right this very second (probably something super productive, but hey, I just laid down some truth so let’s not be rude – Friendies, remember?). Anyway, I spent months in the hospital, including an entire month in ICU, so the good news is I can exactly pinpoint the cause of most of my arthritis.

One thing that I learned while in the hospital: There’s a lot lot lot of people who had it worse than I did. That’s where I also learned that it didn’t make my thing any less of a bitch for me.  I remember going to PT one day and my PT therapist – who was foxy and I loved a little – told me “don’t complain today, that young lady over there ~pointed at twenty-ish girl~ just lost her foot to cancer and she’s really struggling.”

That was bad, there is no doubt about it. But that’s when I cried. And blubbered something like, “yeah, that’s awful, but my shit is awful, too, just different awful,  and I’m the one dealing with my shit so only I know what a bitch it all is and if I want to hate it, I get that right to hate it and complain about it, too.”

I don’t know if that’s the right answer, Reader. I don’t know. I mean, every where you look nowadays you can find something worse that whatever you’re dealing with.  But I guess I believe that doesn’t make your situation less whatever it is for you. We all have different strengths of steel inside of us, and some bend easier than others. What one of us would fluff off as no big dip in the day, some one else might just need to have a pajama day – or two – over it. Your shit can be shitty, despite the very real fact that someone has it way worse.

When I was getting divorced, I remember my lawyer – who I also really like – saying something to the effect that, ‘You’re my “fun” client. I don’t have to worry about you. You have health care and money to take care of yourself. I have clients that can’t feed their kids so I’m buying them groceries every week.”

Did that make my broken parts less broken??

I mean, sure, it could have been a worse situation – I could take care of myself – but I still cried a lot and was broken for a while. A long while, if we’re being honest. At that time, however, I choose to pull myself out of it by painting my entire house and exercising whenever I was falling too deep down the pity-party rabbit hole. And my house looked great, and I got somewhat skinny, and so the outside was looking shiny, but inside? Cracks. Time, tenacity and several lovers puttied them up, but they were there for a good long time. My world was upside down. It needed a bit for me to figure out how to right it.

An ex-friend once remarked, “Are you still not over this?? He’s a jerk and you’re better off without him! It’s been almost a year already!”  To which I replied, “Nope, not yet. It hasn’t even been a year yet!” The point is, he wasn’t always a jerk, and those were the parts I needed to grieve, and while to an outsider it’s “almost a year!” to the person going through it, it’s not even been a year.

So anyway, this is going all over the place and has sort of a more serious tone than what was originally intended, but I think that’s just because sometimes truths aren’t aways haha funny, until you point out the funny parts yourself.

I think it’s my, “If you can’t be a good inspiration, be a horrible warning,” mentality, and I’m often someone’s horrible warning. I’m good with that, because it’s my public service and therefore I should be knighted by the Queen and then canonized like Mother Theresa. Only I want to be canonized while I’m alive so I can actually enjoy the accolades. That shit after you’re dead? Save it, Sister.

The original intent of this rambling ride is that I’ve been cough-and-cold sick all week. Complete with a heavy dose of fatigue. Which normally wouldn’t even be a footnote, except I was in Miami, the United States Zika Capital of the World, and something bit my leg and then I got sick, so probably Zika. Because I’m an online doctor.

And then on Thursday night, right after I was finally starting to have an energy boost and feeling a tich more Bang Bang-y, I felt something ouchy on my foot and when I looked down there was a red lump.

Naturally, as a doctor, I diagnosed this as a spider bite, because there was a single web in my car that very morning and we all know what a web means. They don’t just crop up without a source, do they, Reader. No, they do not. So my assumption was there was a mean and bitey spidey in my vehicle and attacked my pedal-to-the-metal foot while driving.

It was a good hypothesis.

And had nothing to do with the probable Zika that had me laid up earlier in the week.

But we couldn’t see any bite marks.  And it wasn’t itchy, it was ouchy. And red. and swollen. So I turned to Almighty Facebook, and many friendies chimed in with HOLY SHITS and OMGs and that looks AWFUL and GET THEE TO THE DR. STAT’s.

After a painful night that included a serious of histrionics to the extent that I had to use my foot icepack on my head – I’d hysteric’ed  myself right into a headache, so good job, Me – I needed to go to Urgent Care Saturday morning-ish. Right after I located my health care card.

I know what you’re thinking, as my good friendie Eunice so innocently  inquired, “Um, isn’t that in your wallet??”

Reader. ~slowly shakes head~

That would be far too simple.

I like to do things the hard way. ~bah-dum-bump~

To-date, my filing system has been “throw everything in a big deep basket and shove it in a drawer.”

It was a project to sort this out and try to locate my first-of-the-year healthcare info. filingI didn’t find it.

I did find my expired 2015 Obamacare health care info though.

And I also found some pictures of Me-at-Eighteen, the 1985-Obligatory-Olan-Mills graduation prints, and I realized that I was a trendsetter.

I INVENTED the Trump hair-don’t. img_1305


I rocked the shit outta that style in 1985, and also didn’t know about nude-colored bras.

That right there was my Best Look, Reader.  The look I wanted to memorialize with professional photos. And I had some chin acne that wasn’t covered up by 1985 coverall make-up, because Sephora wasn’t invented yet.

I was a normal B-cup in the boobie region, and not supporting the now-giant bajongas that I have acquired, along with a much rounder overall me. Thanks, Cake.

I finally found my healthcare docs, which I had created an electronic folder for on my computer, printed off what I needed and went to the Urgent Care.

After getting weighed, where it was discovered I weighed 3 lbs. less than at home, a weight loss that was later rewarded with a blueberry fritter the size of my head, the doctor concluded it wasn’t an infection because of no entry point, and due to the pain and the redness and the swelling, his best guess was Gouty Arthritis.

I’ve known about Gout, Reader. My dad would get an occasional flare-up. It’s an old-man disease, commonly acquired from eating peanuts, shellfish, drinking too much beers, and waaaay too much fatty meats. Also known as Rich Man’s Disease, due to the accessibility of rich and fatty foods.

After an online review of what to eat/not eat, the good news is that cake is a low purine food, and therefore does not need to be eliminated from my diet. Nor does coffee. I do need to pass up organ meats (liver, tongue and sweetbreads). Whew, that’s going to be a tough one. I had a daily menu of tongue and organs, with a side of fava beans all planned out.

So let’s recap some things we’ve learned:

#1/ I potentially have what is most commonly a rich ol’ man’s disease

#2/ I’m neither rich, nor an old man

#3/ Gout is even an ugly word to say

#4/ Thanks for more arthritis,  32-year-old car accident

#5/ Cake products are in fact NOT a contributor to Gout.

#6/ My diet does not consist of much on the foods-not-to-eat list, with the exception of the occasional shrimp cocktail or alcoholic beverage so what the heck Gout.

#7/ I’ve been prescribed a steroid pack, was taught howto wrap my incredibly inflamed footsie in an ace bandage to reduce swelling, and given a sexy foot boot thing to wear to keep things from jostling into me.

#8/ My natural hair color is blond. Go with me on this, Reader.

#9/ Make-up, much like Trixie’s “look” has improved since 1985. That’s what she tells herself, anyway.

#10/ We are all Steel Magnolia’s, Reader. We just have different tensiles.

Here’s how my Fred Flintstone foot is looking this morning, which is usually better than it is by the end of the day due to the fact I had it resting on a Princess-and-the-Pea sized pillow stack all night and the swelling and redness aren’t as bad.


This was after wearing my flip-flop to the kitchen to get a cuppa coffee and sit down to share this rambling story with you. You’re welcome.

So yeah. I may have Gouty Arthritis. We’ll know in 3 days if the steroids help or don’t help.

Just one more sexy part of being Trixie Bang Bang, Reader. It’s a whole cornucopia of delights underneath this foxy exterior.


*At least, God, I hope so, because who is the very bottom of the spectrum of “worse”? What does that even  look like?? I hope we never find out, Reader.

**I think we can both agree that the person with the Best Life would be T. Swift, who’s biggest hardship is having a naked mannequin look-alike in a music video and having to speak to Kanye. 

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