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The Bang Bang Theories

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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We Made It.

If you’re here reading this, we’ve made it.

We didn’t get out of 2021 unscathed.  We’ve lost loved ones.  We’ve lost our sense of self at times. Our compassion. Our humor.

But! Personally, I’ve also been very fortunate in 2021. A great job. Solid friendships. Paid off some offensive bills. I had the good fortune to travel to the Caribbean before the world imploded again with Covid variants. I’ve had enough of everything I’ve needed. Maybe not everything I’ve wanted, but certainly all I’ve needed. My six three cats have all made it into 2022 with us, and my old girl is going to make it to 20 this year. I’ve improved some of my cooking skills. My cooking style can be summed up in 3 words: Hit or Miss. Some things are great, others are meh.

My friend Kelly is an amazing cook and is unknowingly inspiring me. Everything she makes is the most delicious thing.  So one of my goals for 2022 is to try one new recipe a month. When I accomplish this, I will have added 12 new things to my cooking repertoire. Because I easily get into a cooking rut and go back to the same three things:  tacos, pot roast, chicken soup. Although to be honest, I could eat tacos a solid three days a week and not be mad about it. Kelly tries new recipes and if they are a hit, she prints the recipes and keeps them in a binder and then they are always at her fingertips and I’m going to do that, too, because it’s a solid idea.

My brother gifted me with a cooking mag subscription and at first I really didn’t think I would read through it. However, the first issue arrived and I read it from cover to cover. It was chock full of stories and the “why” behind cooking methods that normally I would discount as unnecessary fluff.  Except with the “why” explained, I can get behind the extra steps and maybe just maybe we will enjoy home cooking more around Chez Bang Bang.

We are doing Other Things around these parts, and this is not even what I intended to say to you on this fresh page of the New Year.  But it’s late, I’m full of cake and a crown pork roast and I’ve just said enough for the moment.  So you know. Until tomorrow.

And cheers to a year of More. More of all the best things.

 

 

Into a Moment of Time

I’m not even going to talk about how long it’s been since we’ve been together here, Reader. Not. Even. Gonna. Mention. It.

Nope.

No mentioning.

Let’s just pretend we chatted yesterday.

My computer was at the doctors. It had a Mac Attack of some sort and needed the specialist. Luckily I know The Doctor.

    Sidebar:

I’m going to describe exactly what is happening to you right now so you can feel like you’re here with me at Chez Bang Bang.

I’m drinking alone and I am not even going to let you make me feel judged about it, because this red is so damn delicious and also so what. Drinking home alone became the new going out to bars and drinking with strangers. Thanks again, Covid. But really, thanks, because I’m now considered part of the damn solution ~raises fist in solidarity with the cats~  when I stay home on Friday night and drink wine in my pajamas and not a nerdy dork who doesn’t have a friend or a date.

This will come as a surprise, but I’m listening to T. Swizzie, the SAME. SONG. ON. REPEAT. and I’m feeling young and first love-y and bluesy like a girl who’s over her old lover but also not really over it or we won’t be feeling all the feels and singing into our wine glass and making the cat be our reluctant dance partner**.

**cat scratches are love tattoos. 

    End Sidebar.

Anyway… I’m just trying to get back into seeing stories everywhere I look and sharing them with you.  I know I say that. A lot. But!  I recently received one of the best surprises from my most generously-loving-towards-me-and-I’m-not-even-sure-why-or-that-I-deserve-it cousins, a book that has told me that I OWE IT TO MYSELF and THE ENTIRE WORLD to practice writing every single day and I had my AhHa! moment. This is where I practice telling stories.

Sometimes the sentences really struggle to find their way to my fingers.

Sometimes the stories write themselves.

Almost all the time I don’t exactly know what we’re going to talk about. I consider my rambling ways part of my charm. Don’t try to make it a negative, Reader. I’ve been following all of the Be Best gurus out there and I’m high-fiving myself (and then I’m immediately annoyed that the mirror has a giant man-hand print on it that I NOW have to clean off), body-positiving myself and working on good habits and also want to practice in order to do a headstand as part of my 2022 goals.

I’ve never before ever in my life done a headstand.  Ever; not eight-years-old-and-bones-are-probably-still-soft me; not fifteen-and-bendy-year-old-teen-me,

And so just now I’ve bowed to Almighty Google to ask a question on headstand vs. handstand and listen to me now and hear me later, Reader: I will never attempt a headstand.

To quote on the cons of a headstand: if you somehow manage to fall out of the inversion, you’re risking a very serious injury.

Every single indicator points to I WILL FALL OUT OF THE INVERSION, should I ever make it into the inversion.

So scratch that off the list, Awful Dumb 2022 Goal.

Don’t fret, Reader. I still have a laundry list of equally hard-to-achieve but probably won’t paralyze me goals on my To Goal list.

I started to list them in numerical order; however no one actually gives a shit about my goals except me and that’s not even all the time. And also I don’t need you feeling badly about yourself for only maybe having a goal of to try all the new Oreo flavors, and dammit, why didn’t I put that on MY list??

I typed that like that was a bad goal. Apologies, Nabisco. It’s a solid goal and supports the Vegans.

That’s where we are going to leave things tonight, Reader. I’ve moved on to T-Swifftee’s Evermore and now I’m closing out Folklore and I need to go and braid my hair and weep.

*title of post may or may not be a lyric from a song by TWIZZLE. I’m dropping my own easter eggs or something here. 

 

 

 

 

Suggested Reading

Let’s have a little gib-gabby sesh, Reader.  It’s been a long time and you need to know what I’m up to because All The Things and none of them are super important.

Cooking. 

I’ve been winter cooking.  And lemme just get this right out there: I do not really make good meals most of the time.  Some of the meals some of the time are good.  But usually? A big pile of nope.

Last weekend I spent my hard-earned time and money making a county-home’s worth of stuffed cabbages, and imma not sure exactly where the recipe went awry, but it was HEAVY on the black pepper and also on the garlic. And I followed the recipe and also didn’t even use as much as it called for, but something. Something, Reader, happened.

I’ve officially declared these to be my Last Attempt to Make Stuffed Cabbage, because this was two strikes for me with them and now I’m breaking up with it.

Tonight’s dinner is also questionable.  Butternut squash ravioli (yes, thank you Aldi), but then my attempt at a brown-butter-sage sauce?

Well.

Firstly, I didn’t have sage so I figured thyme would add the “savory.” And then I threw in some mushrooms, and instead of spinach (as the recipe required suggested), well, I figured I’d use up my button mushrooms and zucchini. Because it’s in the vegetable category.  And then I tossed in some pine nuts and walnuts for good heart health, and I recently found a good bottle of brandy so I splashed in a dash, and then what’s ravioli without cheese, so I gave the Parm can a good shake, and then lastly to complement the fall flavors of the ravioli, I figured some pumpkin pie spice might … spice it up… and now here we are.  Moderately okay, but is it worth dirtying a pan and also the calories? Probably not.

And that’s why I should buy a meal subscription kit, because my friendie Eunnie has made a bajillion recipes from one of these things and they all look good and also the shopping is done for you. Mostly.  I need to rethink my strategy.

Also, Foodnetwork, I can open up my availability if this has enticed you into offering me a cooking show.

Reading.

When I’m not mindless scrolling the social networks, I’ve been reading a few things and what I’ve been digging right now is get your sh*t together and I’ve been implementing some of the sh*t she tells ya to do and it’s working. A little. I’ve got a giant-a$$ to-do list All. The. Damn. Time and Every. Single. Day and some of the things have been getting checked off the list.

Except for right now, where I should be vacuuming, but here I am FOR YOU, Reader, so you can check off your own to-do of Read Some Nonsense and you’re welcome for me helping you attain your goals.

I’ve also read To Shake The Sleeping Self while I was on my most fabulous 10-delicious-days-at-the-beach vacation, and it was … good. Not life-changing for me, other than I realized what I don’t want (which is just as important as it points you to what you do want), which is spending a year and a half riding a bicycle in horrible conditions and I will instead just skip right to taking the magic mushrooms that grow in cow shit and have the big revelations about life. It seems safer and also I’m fifty-five damn years old this month and have the knees of a 90-year old so that amount of bike riding is out of the question so don’t even ask me.

Sniffing.

My Apple watch band sometimes smells like cat pee, and I know this seems quite possible because I have six three really badly-behaved cats so yeah, sure, why not.

Except my watch is only ever on my wrist, or in the closed-door bathroom charging.

It’s as if my wrist sweat somehow chemically reacts and emits a cat-pee smell, and I don’t need this in my life.

It stinks RIGHT NOW, so I keep sniffing my wrist and it’s just a weird quirk I don’t need to officially adopt because as I’ve mentioned I’m already fifty-five damn years old this month and while I like to pretend I’m still a young and cool hipster, there have been a few instances as of late that have made me realize the world views me as beginning-stage ELDERLY.  Boy scouts have to officially offer me their arm to help me cross the street, which frankly sounds wonderful because you know, the 90-year-old knees.

So. Anyone else have an Apple watch wherein the velcro band sometimes smells like pee? Raise your hands please, and assure me I’m not alone. But don’t wave them around because we don’t need to fan that smell.

Speaking of cat pee.

I mean, now that I you brought it up.

Poor. Old. Girl. Elderly Kitty Purry. I’m woooorrrrrrrried about her, Reader.

She has been PEEING in her own cat bed, and then sleeping in it. I pick her up and she has a faint  smell of old-lady-cat-pee, and then I have to give her a cat bath with my make-up removing wipes and wash her bed. All. the. time. Like, every. day. In fact, they are in the washing machine right now.

The other night she didn’t pee in her cat bed, but instead walked over to her bed pillow – which is behind my pillow on the bed – and peed almost directly on my head, but actually on her own pillow and what the fuck is going on and you wonder why I haven’t been here? These are the things, Reader. These are the things.

I can’t spank her or even be harsh against her. She’s teensy weensy, clocking in at around six pounds and also she’s 19 years old and we don’t spank the elderly.

So I send up a message of gratitude that I have a monster washing machine five steps from my bedroom and wash all the things and then I kiss her and tell her it’s all going to be okay. She has truly taught me unconditional love. Don’t mistake that as not being frustrated as fuck with it, but you know. Life, lemons, pies, margaritas, and all that.

My work does offer pet insurance at a discount, so I looked into that for her because more than likely her cat dementia is going to kick in even harder, but guess how much it costs for pet insurance on a 19-year-old cat?

Almost as much as it costs to insure a 55-year old woman.

So i’ll just keep sniffing. And washing. And hoping. And praying I don’t get my actual head peed on in the middle of the night because dear lawd, please no thank you.

Every day I mention out loud but mostly to an empty room that Taylor Swift and I are living identical lives and I’m absolutely sure I’m right.

 

 

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