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The Bang Bang Theories

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.

 

 

Party Down Below

I joined the goddamn gym and I get up in the mornings now – SOMETIMES BEFORE THE MOON HAS GONE TO BED – and take my half-asleep ass to the gym and work out BEFORE work and now I don’t even know who I am anymore because obviously I’ve been body-snatched as this voluntary behavior goes completely against the night-owl-lazy-girl current.

I should be there RIGHT NOW, as a matter-of-fact, but I’ve decided I need to write some words here before a blogger search party goes out for me, and also I’ve had a request from my one millions of  reader(s) to tell her what’s going on in my head so here we are! Blame Thank her for this mess.

Today is the day I need to start de-assembling my delightful deck, and also the day where I ask myself yet again why I live in a state where so much of the snow flies for so long. In super-exciting news, I could REALLY live anywhere … just pack up my crap and head in any direction.

Because guess what, Reader??

I FINALLY GOT A PERMANENT FUCKING JOB AND IT’S REMOTE ALL THE DAMN TIME.

Exactly the way I’ve been manifesting that for myself every single day, launching up my rockets of desire and I actually drew a third-grade worthy photo of myself in said rocket, surrounded by dollar signs and the word “BONUSES” scribbled on it, and guess what came next, Reader?

I got a permanent fucking job with lots of dollar signs, AND BONUSES!!

Not to mention work I already know (it’s my contract job turned perm), a GREAT boss (literally those words were on my manifested list), REMOTE WORK, and I’ve established relationships and have almost a new work BFF. I mean, I think she is my new remote work BFF.  I proclaimed it to her one day, in my way of just stating, “Hey, we’re going to be friends whether you want to or not because I like you so just get used to the idea!” and it just worked and now we’re friendies.

It was really this news that prompted my decision to just join the gym and get up and do some stuff in the morning. One evening, I made a joke to the neighbor that I was on my way to the gym, when really I was going to the store for cake, and then on the way to the store I told myself, “Self, what if this isn’t a joke, and you just join the gym and go work out tonight instead?” and then that’s what I did. And then I went back the next day.  And I’ve kept getting up and going. Except for today, where I’m talking to you instead, Reader.

Now, getting a job didn’t inspire me to join the gym.

But working remotely for permanent did.

I’m using what would have been getting really ready for work and commuting time to gym it up. Then I come home and get good-enough-for-virtual-meetings ready for work. Which involves hair/makeup/jewelry/nice shirt, the same pair of shorts every single day and flip-flops on the bottom.

It’s the 2021 Mullet. Biz on top, party down below.

Did I mention I joined a gym and work out in the morning before work now? Yes, I’m going to be insufferably gloaty about it for forever a while at least.  Don’t feel too jealous of me yet, Reader. I’m still exactly the same fat as I was before I started working out. My fat just won’t quit me. It loves me long time. As I do you, Reader.

 

we danced until the night became a brand new day

Well, that went fast.  The summer, that is.

It’s Labor Day and I did exactly zero laboring.

I had a bizzzy bizzzy weekend and I woke up emotionally tired.

I’m an introverted extrovert.

We had overnight company, fun-fun-fun friend visiting, festival going and fair food eating.

So I took today off and and read a book and napped on the porch and talked to just about no one.

I ate tacos and watched deer and didn’t clean any parts of the house.

And I’m not mad about the way I spent my day.

It’s good to know your limits and when – and what – you need to fill up your tank.

How about you, Reader?

Are you a quiet re-charger who just needs to disconnect?

Or do you get energy from activities and people – like My Mister…he cannot get enough people-ing and socializing. He went back to the fair and his friends and more music and socializing today, and now he’s at his home-away-from-home casino-ing, where he talks to more people and oh my good god I couldn’t even IMAGINE saying yes to any parts of his day today.

He’s been on a movie set in a non-speaking extra role, and came home HOARSE after his first two days. He SAYS it’s because of the air conditioning, but we all know it’s because he talks to every single person all of the fifteen hours he’s there.

My Mister and I are on complete opposite ends of how much interaction we need with other people, and sometimes that works really well, like when he leaves the house for the entire day and I have total quiet and it’s just me-me-me.

In the mornings, I’m happy when I have a couple hours before he gets up. He turns on music and news and just so much noise, before his first cuppa coffee.

Getting into his car, it’s non-stop music, at just two ticks louder than I find comfortable to listen to. I’m literally the grouchy old lady who wants the music turned down.

He, on the other hand, gets depressed if he’s in the house all day by himself. He would consider that an entirely wasted day.

People are weird, is the point of this.  I’m weird. He’s weird. It just depends upon your point of view.

For me? I’m clearly in the turn down that gol’darn music and let me enjoy my peace and quiet camp. And stay off my damn lawn while we’re at it. Unless you’re deer. Or a raccoon. Or a squirrel. Basically anything I only have to feed, but not talk to is welcomed.

 

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The Other Magic Weeds

I’ve been not at all hard at work around Chez Bang Bang lately, which is why you haven’t heard from me in a super-duper-too-long while, Reader.

Honestly*, I don’t know where the weeks have gone.

*prononce this with a hard “h” as in ha because that’s how I now say it after watching a hundred thousand hours of Yara talking on 90-Day Fiancé.

I’d like to say I’ve been leading the most exciting summer life, but really I’ve just been doing the normal shit around Chez Bang Bang.

Like kayaking. Because I own a boat, Reader.

And so what if maybe I only took my boat out once so far. We’ve had a lot of rainy dayze weekends and so that’s why.

This is a LIVE VIEW of my deck two seconds ago, and that’s why I’m not out on the water today. Because being IN the water is less fun that being ON the water, unless IN the water means in a pool, or in a tropical ocean. Then, fun.

This? Less fun.

We’ve just had a lot lot lot of the rains on the weekend.  Or super too-hot days and I’m over this scraggly weather already and just want a whole patch of 75-and-sunnies, please and thank you, Weather.

I finally – FINALLY! – went and harvested my wild grown medicine plant this past Friday night!

And I had it all washed and then I read the recipe again and I have to dry out all the water from the leaves to make my potion, and so I spread these Magic Weeds out on towels on the table on Saturday to air-dry in the sun.

Then we went to a luau poolside party and it poured the rain yesterday before we got home, and all my Magic Weeds were re-wetted.

Not one to be deterred and just give up and watch a marathon of Married at First Sights*, I gathered them up and spread them out on baking sheets and they are heating low and slow in the oven at the moment.

*I absolutely was deterred and watched six back-to-back hours of Married at First Sight last night, and now I have bedsores** from laying around so much, and could use my special Magic Weed salve which ironically I do not have because I laid around watching tv. The very definition of a conundrum. 

**not really, but I could, and that’s the point.

Once my Magic Weeds dry out, I plan on making magic salve and also some brandy-infused tincture to get us through the sickly winter months.

If you haven’t heard of the Magic Weeds – and no, these are not the kind ya smoke – well, you should really educate yourself on them and then also stop fertiizing your lawns and killing them off. My neighbors I’m sure wish I would fertilize this visual mess of a lawn they’re looking at, but all I see is Magic Medicine when I look at my lawn.

I harvest from it on a regular basis. Pimple breakout? Grab some Magic Weeds! Cat scratched my face? Grab some Magic Weeds! Mosquito / bug bite? Grab some Magic Weeds!

So that’s what I’ll be doing today. Making salves. Tinctures if I have enough/get another crop harvest.  Because Trixie Bang Bang is nothing if she’s not multi-faceted. She also sometimes refers to herself in the third person.

If you’d like a salve, drop me a comment and I’ll maybe be sure to save you a jar. Natural, organic and small-batch made by Trixie Bang Bang, Medicine Woman.  I mean, literally with those credentials I could charge hundreds of dollars. But for you, Reader? Free. Because we love each other.

 

 

 

Right in the P-Hole

What you see here, Reader, is evidence of my belief not to believe in labels.

Sometimes.

Situationally. You know, when there’s not a lot of risk at stake – we’re not going to go around ripping labels off of mattresses and pillows and just la-la-la wait and see what happens! No sirree. We’re not crazy like that over at Chez Bang Bang.

But sometimes – sometimes – I go rogue and throw caution to the wind, all laissez faire with my attitude. Because I’m a casual hipster.*

*READER! I was just going to make a funny haha little jokie and type “middle-aged suburban cat lady” and as I was typing “middle-aged” I realized – shocking and also hurtfully – that NO ONE WOULD CLASSIFY ME AS MIDDLE-AGED any longer, as NO ONE would expect me to live to 108 AND WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ABOUT, LIFE!!!

It’s super jolting when you realize – like I did JUST NOW – that I’m well past middle-aged and here I am talking about shirking labels and I’m mad about my own label.

These are the holes we dig ourselves into, Reader, when we start thinking too much.

Speaking of unsavory holes ~ we have now segued into unsavory hole territory, but don’t fret, we will circle back ’round to labels ~ this unsavory hole has appeared in my flower bed right by my front porch, in the area where Taco the Blind Raccoon would swing by for her meals.  I say “would” because we haven’t seen our old blind girl in a couple of weeks now, and I’m hoping she pops by soon.

I noticed this unsavory hole a couple ah days ago, and I know exactly who the culprit is: a groundhog who’s also made a home under my shed.

I’ve done a little research to try to determine exactly how assholie groundhogs can be, because as I live up against the ravine, I expect there will be mucho animals traipsing about the yard and yes, several of them frequently dine at Trixie’s Cafe, and yes, I realize Trixie has created some of her own problems. However, she’s also going to try to find her own solutions.

I had My Mister fill the hole back in and hoped that would deter the critter.

It did not, and in fact he laughed and laughed right in our face and then flung that dirt even further and went in even deeper.

Reader. I can’t have this burrow here. He has plenty of backyard ravine to go dig around in.

Thanks so Almighty Google, I discovered there are several products you can buy that you fill in their holes with, and also cover it with some heavy steel net stuff and it should work to relocate their asses.

I also read a possibly easier solution, and as Trixie is a tich on the lazier solution side, she wanted to try this first.

This solution says that groundhogs and other diggy-want-to-live-in-a-hole critters can be deterred by the smell of urine, and it recommended putting some clumps of cat pee in the hole and then covering it up.

It got me to thinking ~~ taps nose with index finger in a pondering move ~ if I only knew where I could find some cat pee……

Aha!! Luckily, Trixie’s six three bad cats PEE A LOT and sometimes it’s even in their litter boxes, where she could scoop it right up, freshly made to order!

Yesterday I scooped out some pee clumps and poured them down the hole, covering it back up all unsuspecting like, for this groundhog to get an unpleasant cat pee surprise, much like I do. Hey, if you want to live at Chez Bang Bang, you’ve got to deal with the unexpected cat pee. I don’t make the rules. The six three asshole cats do.

Eager to see if my cat pee trap worked as a deterrent, I jumped outta bed at the crack of 10:30 and much to my delight I saw this:

There was an initial flinging of the dirt, but then it stopped almost as soon as it began.

I wouldn’t be nearly as annoyed if this groundhog dirt digger was working WITH me. I’ve been mostly thinking with just a little bit of doing about putting in a flagstone patio on this side of the porch.

As you can see, we have left off in the digging phase of the project, because my yard is filled with hard-as-fuck-to-dig-up rocks.

If that groundhog was a true friend of the family, he’d be digging his holes on this side of the porch, and then he might actually get a treat from Trixie’s Cafe.

Instead he’s getting a pee-clump surprise shoved right into his dirt hole house.

Let that be a lesson for you, Reader. If you’re not here to work WITH us, we will shove unpleasant smelly things right in your hole.

Wait, I don’t think that’s the message I’m trying to send.

What I meant to say is,  “Your help is greatly appreciated and oftentimes rewarded with a sandwich.”

If this pee hole continues to act as a groundhog deterrent, I am going to market this stuff in little baggies and make my fortune and travel to space. Or the beach. Probably the beach. Natural, organic outdoor diggy-pesk repellent will be the marketing strategy.  Stop over. Don’t mind the smell. It’s nature at work.

Now, back to the original intent of this post, which rambled this train completely off it’s track.

Nevermind. I’ve already said too much. We may or may not get back to that flower at a later date. Believe me, you’ll be fine with or without this knowledge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Floatsome*

It’s so blazin’ hot out this glorious 4th of July weekend, you’d think it would be the perfect time for me to be out on my boat.

I’ll let that sink in and allow a moment for your waves of envy to wash over you.

Because Trixie Bang Bang is now officially a registered watercraft owner.

We are planning a christening event soon, complete with naming ceremony.  Just as soon as I purchase life vests. I’ve been recalcitrant for no good reason, and then my friend Denise just recently put it in the light of, “better vested up than drowned,” and she is very correct.

I’m not a strong swimmer. I can dog paddle my head above water to the edge of a pool, but don’t believe I’d do well in the open waters.

So life vests will either be purchased today and we’ll take the boat out for a test spin or I’ll order them from Almighty Amazon, and then have the rest of the summer to get out on the lake. It’s going to go one of those ways, Reader, and at this point on 90-degree day after the 4th of July, i’m just unsure which direction it’s going to take.

She’s a roomy 2-seater, complete with air pump and aluminum paddles.

Explorer series.

So yeah. Me and my watercraft plan to hit the local lakes, sometime before the summer season ends.

I did discover that my boat has weight restrictions, which is frankly quite rude and now I’m being judged by a rubber raft.

I’ve got room in there for 1 more ass. Let me know if you’re the ass that want’s to join me. As long as you’re under 200 lbs. Hope may float, but kayaks have limits.

*yes, that title is a play on words. Keep up with me, Reader.

 

 

 

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