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The Bang Bang Theories

Bada Bing

I just got home from spending a wonderfully long week with a friendie in upstate New York and I have so many exciting things to tell you about, Reader!  But in the meantime, I’m going to make this a shortie because I’m busy doing Responsible Things, a.k.a., preparing for the Real World again as I have a couple of interviews tomorrow and Friday and I’ve gotta prepare myself to be more dazzling than my norm.

Also, my house smells catty, and I’ve got to get that wrangled.

But I wanted to gloat share this one story with you, which made such an impression on me that I actually told it to My Mister TWICE, much to his dismay delight and then he questioned if maybe I was getting a tich of dementia or just becoming Trixie-Two-Times, which would be my mafia name* if I were in fact “made.” I haven’t been made, in case you were wondering, but one time for about a year I was an actual maid at a hotel, so probably the same thing. I had to clean up someone else’s mess.

*you are probably incorrectly and frankly insultingly assuming Trixie Bang Bang is my alter-ego-stripper form, but you’re wrong. and maybe i’m not exactly insulted, for that matter, that you think this bod would have actually been part of a stripper pole ever. but it hasn’t been, mostly due to my lack of bendy-ness vs. some righteous morals; however, TBB is actually my POKER playing name, because my poker face leaves ’em all dead on the table, or something like that which was said whilst drinking and gambling. ya know what, just go with whatever story suits the narrative better: stripper, gambler, drinker, potato, potahtoh.   

Back to the story. While I was super-duper busy floating around in the pool at the Oasis, we spent a day hosting a little cookout, complete with a few kids jumping around with us in the pool. Jody had actually set up a really nifty American Ninja Warrior Pint-Size Edition in her yard and I had course responsibilities in the pool, wherein I had to hold a jumping pad thing for the kids.

One Little, who is six, quite boldly asked me, “Hey, how old are you??”

“OLD!,” I replied. “Fiddy-ONE!”

“Wow!!” the Little responded with awe. “I thought you were TWENTY!!”

With that sentence she became my new favorite six year old, and probably my new favorite person in the whole entire universe. Also, six year olds are the smartest people on the planet.

She may or may not know that twenty is younger than fifty-one. That’s just minutiae, Reader. I look twenty. So let it be written, because it was said by a six year old.

Should I ever find myself as Trixie Two-Times, Mafia Edition, I will do just fine in witness protection because I look 31-years-YOUNGER than my age.

If you need me, I’ll be the one looking twenty over here in the corner.


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