It’s Hole-y Sunday

Do you know what is the deepest kinda love, Reader?

Well, down here in FL, I have LEARNED, Baby.

I’ve also learned that it is very difficult to be focused on accomplishing things – like writing little nonsense stories for you here, Reader, when confronted with the tough decision to laptop or pool.

Yes, I just verbed those two nouns.

This morning I was all set up with the intent to CREATE, per my cuppa coffee, and then I started to bead up with a little sweat on my brow and then made the decision to abandon laptop in favor of pool.

I came back to it just now, for you, Darlings, and so that’s where we stand right now. However, I’m beginning to bead again, and it’s sunny and not a single solitary sole is in there, because Dreams do come true and I have always wished for a giant pool all to myself that requires no maintenance or expense from me and poof, there it is.

I took this photo one second ago, just to prove my point that I’m not a slacker of writing by choice – it’s just that pool and the sun leaves me very little choice but to float around in it.

Anyway, I started to tell you how I’ve discovered what the deepest kind of love is, Reader, so let’s get back to that so we can get on with our pool day.

If you’re somewhere where it’s Good Garth, SNOWING already, I would hate me, too.  If it’s any consolation, the water is nippy and I experience a brief chill when I first get in there.  So it’s not all sunshine and daydreams. But it is a lot of that.

About a month ago, I came home from working and my landlord Christie greeted me in the driveway.

“Hey, what’s your last name??”

Um, Bang Bang?

“I have a package for you! It came addressed to a Ms. Bang Bang, and without a first name I figured it was yours, but wasn’t sure since you’re living here but who cares about last names anyway.”

I live here in her house and I STILL don’t know her last name. I guess it’s a need to know basis, and I don’t need to know.

I took my Mystery Package into my Minute House and excitedly opened it up. And questioned myself, have I been drinking so much wine at night I’m not remembering midnight ordering of stuff?

Luckily, that wasn’t the case.

Instead I opened up a package and thought I’d gotten a sweet surprise from Grace and Frankie, 

If you haven’t binged on Grace and Frankie (Netflix), you probably should put that on your Winter Agenda.

While my package looked sort of similar to Vybrant, and it DID have something to do with keeping my p-hole happy, it wasn’t as first suspected.

My very thoughtful and concerned friendie The Hoff sent me my very first weapon!

No one has ever shown that much concern for the for the safety of my p-hole, my b-hole and my c-hole (cake-hole) from unwelcome intruders!

No one is sticking anything anywhere without an invitation, Reader!  Because I will shock the shit out of your own b-hole.

Let me just go on the Trixie Bang Bang record as stating that showing concern for the safety for all of my holes is LOVE.

I’m also going to go on the record and state that this post started two hours ago, but then I got sidetracked by that sunshiny pool again, and took another dip. With a Honey Jack & Coke Zero, because I guess living in Florida is like being on vacation every weekend. At least with this resort I’m calling home.

Now, lest you think the only b-hole that is being worried about down here in Florida is mine, let me assure you it is not. It’s not all fun and games, is what I’m saying.

My Girl Purry has maybe a backed up b-hole right now. I’ve been monitoring her poops closely and a lot more food is going in than what is coming out.

And she’s meowing that mournful heart-tugging and also scary sounding meow of a cat with a pain.

I’m trying some prairie medicine* first, before I up and race her to a $300 vet bill. Yesterday I started her on a little Miralax mixed in with her food, in the hopes that it softens up whatever is clogged.

*where we try some homestead fixin’ instead of mortgage-payment vet bills

There was about a 2-inch poop in the box yesterday evening, so the pipes are working. Just maybe not as easily as we’d both like.

I don’t want my Girl to have a backed exhaust.

I want her to be enjoying her stay as Sophia to my Blanche while we’re living in Florida.

I’m not really even sure that I’m Blanche. I haven’t taken on many – or any – lovahs. So maybe I’m more Dorothy at this point, just sarcastic and a little bitter.

So the point of this story, Reader, is that nothing shows love quite like the love of when you’re worried about the safety and efficiency of someone’s exit ramp.

I’m fixated on what’s coming out of Purry’s. The Hoff is ensuring nothing is going into mine that isn’t invited. Which, by the way, is nothing, Reader, in case you were wondering. Nothing is invited up into my b-hole. At this point. I don’t want to slam the door on possibilities, but as of right now, you will get tazed.

I’ve got my purple weapon and I’m not afraid to use it.

As an addition to that purchase, The Hoffy also sent me a keychain whistleblower loud-ass alarm. So far I’ve managed to scare the pee out of myself when I’ve accidentally pressed it while juggling a lot of packages getting in and out of my car.

I’ve also scared the wild turkeys that roam the property here.

So mission accomplished.

And please send up a prayer to St. Francis, the patron saint of animals, that Purry’s b-hole does it job, and soon.  I’ve been chanting my prayers this morning while I’ve floated around in the pool: “Dear St. Francis. Please make Kitty Purry poop a lot and with ease. But hopefully not diarrhea on my white comforter. Amen.”

I’ve also been massaging her tummy, just to help get things moving down there for her. Because I love her and want her to poop.

She’s on the 3-day Prairie Medicine plan. If there’s no bigger poops in the box by Tuesday, she’s going to have a little treat at the vet, which I’ve already scouted out down here, and she’ll be getting something up her pipe that she won’t be happy about.