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The Bang Bang Theories

Lessons in Life

I don’t even know where to begin, Reader.

I don’t know if we start the story where we are today or go backwards to the beginning, or just start in the middle.

All that I do know for sure is that I don’t know anything for sure. I cannot predict a damn thing.

Had you told me at the beginning of 2019 that I’d pack up my convertible and be living in Florida, I would have sworn you were on too much of that crack. But that’s exactly what ended up happening, and while I had NO IDEA how it was going to work, what I’ve learned is that each day you just do the things you can to keep moving forward and you get to a point where you look back and see the small things you did and how it piled up into some kind of a life.

I’ve learned that writing down a plan helps turn that plan into a reality. I sirrioulsy do not know why writing it down is so important vs. saying it in your head. But somehow it works out better.

I’ve learned that if I say “Yes” a lot more than saying “No,” oftentimes I’m pleasantly surprised by what comes of it.

I’ve learned I can make new friends, and meet new people who are genuinely just good-hearted and their always-present smile and laughter is the real deal.

I’ve learned I really really needed more sunshine and blue skies and bright smiles in my past year to give myself a mental reset that I’m so desperately holding onto as we stroll into 2020.

I’ve learned that sometimes I really do need to just shut. the. fuck. up.

I’ve learned that I have a whole depth of creativity inside me and what I really want to do is hold classes where people get to make fun things.

I’ve learned that things don’t have to be forever, that “for now” is quite all right.

I’ve learned that no matter how much I say I’m going to write more!, that actually writing more is the only way to write more.

I’ve learned that I can make new habits if I just get out of my own way and do the things I say I want to do.

I’ve learned that Florida isn’t where I’m ready to live just yet, Reader.

It was time to go home.  To my badly behaved cats, and my annoys-the-piss-outta-me-sometimes boyfriend, and my always-something-to-clean house, and grey skies and cold weather and let’s not even discuss the snow yet because I’ve so far successfully avoided it – but it’s coming, as sure as I know anything, it’s coming – and the potholes and the whole damn thing that’s Cleveland.

All of that is my life, and it was time to come home.

My always-reliable boyfriend flew down to Florida to help get me get here. I’m terrified of driving in West-by-God Virginia.

So he came down to help get me home.

I’ve learned that it may not be for good, because I have no idea what the future holds.

But it’s for now.

And while I miss so many things about my time in Florida – my new friends! the pool! the blue skies and no jackets required! – I’m lucky that I had this experience, and got to try out a different life, and can make plans for that life on a more permanent basis one day – but right now, this minute, I’m back where I need to be.


No, Florida. Thank you for having me.

Low Places

I just don’t know, Reader.

I mean, anything.

My Cantankerous Older Friend keeps telling me I need to “make a plan.”

While I don’t disagree with the effects of plan-making, I also don’t know what sort of a plan I need to make.

I woke up this morning back in my Minute House in Florida, and the sunlight was streaming in through my window and streaming across the bed, and I could see the bluest of skies outside and it was glorious and made me want to toss off my covers and jump out of bed and GREET THE DAY, which is exactly what I did, but not until 10 a.m.

I’ve been back in Florida for four days now, and I haven’t slept soundly in over a week, so when the sleeps was welcoming me this morning I said Yes to the Dress, wherein the dress in this case was my pillow.

I don’t know why I don’t sleep well sometimes. Well, actually, I do know why. I have a lot of the Worries that toss and turn me, and run around like they own my brain and it’s frankly unwelcomed advances and maybe they’ve listened to Bill Cosby’s methods and they just drug me and have their way with me until the wee hours of the morning, when I’m finally able to sleep out of sheer exhaustion.

Let me just go on the record as saying, it is hard to think creatively at all when I’m sleep deprived. I muddled through the week, and matters were not made better when I agreed to spend the night at My Cantankerous Friend’s house on Thursday.

We had a girl’s night out planned, and she lives a hop-skip-and-a-jump to my workplace, and spending the night vs. a 40 minute drive home and then back at it a few short hours later, well, it just made good sense to spend the night, plus it was a girl’s night so extra bonus points.

The night was fun enough, but the daybed had a hard bar in the center, which of course hit me right at my tweaked-out hip area and so there was a lot of discomforts going on. And it was low to the floor, and when I awoke at 2 a.m. for my clockwork pee, the bed was so low, and my knees were so not participating in their job of bending, and I didn’t know how I was going to get up. I literally – LITERALLY – spent a good five minutes trying to work my way around, first on my back and then flopping onto my stomach and trying to push myself up, but I could not gain any purchase on anything to hoist myself either front or back, and finally just gave up and figured that this daybed was just where I lived now.

I had resigned myself to this being just where I lived now. Trapped in a low daybed.

Her cat came in and licked my chin for a while, and then that must have bolstered my courage to try again, and do I did, and somehow channeling the strength of Jaime Sommers, I managed to hoist up and go pee.

And this, Reader, is basically how my life is going right now.

I somehow bolster the strength, hoist up and keep trying again.

I don’t know what I’m going to do from one day to the next. Am I going back to Dreary Cleveland?? The happy parts of Dreary Cleveland are my peoples, my house and my comforts, which does a lot to offset the drearies.

But then Florida!

Delivers an absolutely stunning Florida day, and why the hell would I go back to grey skies?? I ran errands today with a smile just spread across my face, sipping water and feeling like there was NOTHING I couldn’t accomplish in life. Unless a low daybed is involved, and then my accomplishments are in question.

Reader. I spent this morning reading and writing in a mindfulness journal today, and shopping at the Goodwill for some items for My Cantankerous Friend – she repurposes old yucky things into beautiful new things, so I went scouting for those things to put in a birthday bag of goods for her for next week (which was super successful and cheap-o!) – and I felt really positive and basically in love with life today.

I don’t know where this story –  or my life – is going. I just know that it was a good day, and I keep trying. I hope the same goes for you, Reader.

The Other “C” Word

I stopped off at McDonald’s on the way to the gym tonight, Reader, and that’s why I now have eleventy-thousand cats.

What’s that, you say?

You heard me.

Let’s break down what went into that whole sentence.

First, in the interest of LOSING WEIGHT, I decided it just makes good sense to stop and get something from McDonald’s after work, when I’m heading directly to the gym.

I know, who am I?  It’s like you don’t even know me anymore. I don’t know me, either, but apparently I’ve become the Girl Who Goes To the Gym After Work AND ON HER BIRTHDAY.  Because I totally went to the gym my entire birthday weekend and did a lot lot lot of things, and by the way, does anyone else’s mulva* hurt from exercise bike riding?? That dern seat really wedges up on my left side and I fear it’s bruised. Ladies, do not even tell me if you’ve never experienced that and you’re going to try to blame it on my having an extra fat mulva area. That is the rudest of rudes, so keep it to yourself, and p.s., most of you have never even seen my mulva so you’re not allowed to base your facts on one ouchy stationary bike seat.

Geez, trying to keep you on track, Reader, is almost impossible.

It makes sense to stop and get a small something from McDonalds because then I can burn off all those calories right away, instead of coming home and trying to whip up dinner at 9 or 9:30 at night, which is about the time I get home if I go to the gym after work.

So now you see how stopping at McDonalds on the way to the gym is all part of my master weight loss plan. I should really write a diet and exercise book, and if I do I will address the ouchy mulva situation and also figure out how to keep my butt crack from hurting on that damn bike, too. Whole separate issue, stop sidetracking me.

Now we’re up to the part where I now am the mama to eleventy-thousand cats.

On the turn-in to the McDonald’s, which is also the entrance to the big Walmart, there is a little street that goes to no where, which is kinda common in Florida because it’s built by wack-a-doos down here, apparently.

Well, on that turn in, I noticed some random cats sitting around on the little street to nowhere and I pondered, “Hm, I wonder where they live, there’s no houses around here.”

And then I went AHA! FEREL CAT COLONY!

Florida has a lot of those, too.

And THEN I thought, “Oh, fuck-a-duck, now what are you going to do, you know they’re probably pretty dern hungry.”

My first thought is always to feed things.

So I bought them some chicken McNuggets and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and Good Lawd, where they happy to see me once they realized I came bearing gifts.

There was somewhere in the cat neighborhood of eight to twelve of them, and that white one appeared to really want to trust The Girl With McNuggets, but couldn’t, which is a good thing they all skittered when I got too close because I don’t think my landlord or Kitty Purry would be too into my bringing home ten or eleven additional house guests, no matter how flea-bitten soft and furry they were.

And that’s why I will be driving around with a 40 lb. bag of cat food in my car. Because it takes a village – or one compassionate cat lady – to feed a colony of felines.

*mulva. because Seinfeld: 

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I just learned that I’ve been using the word “irreverent” incorrectly FOR YEARS now to describe my bloggy and wow, shame on me for just now looking up the actual definition. I still think it’s a good word, but I’d like it to mean “nothing important whatsoever” instead of insulty and disrespectful. I think I thought it meant something a little more like irrelevant, only MORE than irrelevant, like, it has a purpose, just a silly one. Irrevalent. My blog is irrevalent.

Someone with wikipedia skills, get on there and add that new word for me.

So at the risk of sounding all righteous, just so you know and to rub it in a little, I have been kicking my own A-dash-dash at the gym since Saturday, and only didn’t go tonight because I got mah hairs did and they look too damn extra to get all disheveled without  s – e – x  being involved to do the disheveling. That is the only good reason to mess up salon hair, and I’m not having any of that down here. And that’s my story and I’m sticking to it (but really it’s true, it just sounds more dangerously exciting if I lead you on).

In other things I’ve thought about today, Reader, well, these are completely irrevalent, but here we go:

1/ I really do not enjoy cartoon movies. The Mermaid live action thing is playing on the telly right now, because I felt pressured to turn it on because everyone is doing it, duh, and I don’t want to be a square. However. I just don’t get it, nor do I want to get it. And plus, they showed the live action parts and there were BALD MEN gyrating near the stage, and it was weird and get a life, Old Men.

2/ I have realized lately I don’t really like spaghetti any more. I still like lasagna, but I’m not keen on spaghetti or ravioli or those types of things with sauce.  I made myself some quick cheese ravioli with a jarred alfredo sauce for an easy dinner and it was just meh.

3/ I have also realized lately that I do still like desserts, and would like to choose to just have dessert for dinner but society says that’s wrong, and they are the real squares.

4/ Daylight Savings Fall Back still sucks in Florida, except at least it’s WARM and dark instead of cold-AF and dark like it is back at home.

5/ Do you know what AF means? If not, you’re the real square, Reader, and while I don’t want to call you names, my fingers made me.

6/ I saw myself in full frontal naked last night at the gym, when I was getting mah clothes off to get into the red light district, aka the shakey machine, and I stood and just looked at myself for a full minute and wondered what in the hell has happened here.

7/ People on the radio were going on and on about Rosario Dawson’s “perfect” vagina from some nudie movie she was in, and curiosity got the cat, wherein I am the cat, and I had to google that thing. Turns out, it is quite nice looking and now I’ve got some hangups about my own situation that I’ve never had before.  I mean, it’s hard enough being me, see point number six.  I don’t need crotchal insecurities thrown into the mix, yet here we are.

I think we can end on that note.

The Blame Game

It’s the end of Daylight Savings, and while Morning Me is   sUpPeR   hApPy   (see, I intentionally made those words dance when you read them) about that, Evening Me is going to be less dance-y.

Let’s just face facts. I’m not a morning person, unless we’re talking about the morning that starts around 10 a.m.

So here it is, only 10:30 a.m., and I’ve been up long enough to make breakfast, have two cupsa coffee, wrote a little in my planner, texted people, watched Valerie Bertenelli make some mulled wine and sausage for lunch with her friends on t.v., made the bed, and here we are. All that has been accomplished, thanks, Time Change!

Except tonight won’t be as fun.

I have to just ask, why are so many celebrities getting cooking shows? I mean, what are they offering that’s different from each other? How is Valerie different from Trisha Yearwood? I get the Pioneer Woman, it’s pretty easy recipes that even a cowboy loves, and her setting is more interesting.  I complain, and yet I am interested in making that sausage dish Valerie whipped up this morning. So scratch all that complaining, I guess it’s just fine and p.s., no one on the Food Network is asking my opinion anyway.

Back to me, and my Extra Hour Sunday.

You may be asking why I have a blog, and who cares what I’m doing anyway, the same way I just asked about that cooking network. Well, the simple answer is, I have a blog because I take the minutes to write up the nonsense in my brain, and so there. I sometimes take the minutes. Not that regularly, although I have a November Goal of doing better, so you’re welcome.

I am a Girl With Goals. Conflicted with the part of me that likes to Nap A Lot and also now that I’m in Florida, Lounge in the Pool A Lot.

Yesterday I made the pondered-for-a-week decision to re-join Planet Fitness.

Because I have to diversity my fitness goals, which currently only includes this:

So I did it, and then I wondered why I felt the need to do it. I obvi WANT something more than where I’m at with myself. I think about exercising a lot, in fact, so much that I’ve dubbed myself as an exceptional exer-thinker.

I exerthink a lot.

If I exercised half as much as I think I should be exercising, that would be an amazing fitness goal, and there, I just made a goal for myself.

So yesterday, after getting my check engine light looked at again, and the new scary sound my car is making looked into and fixed – thanks, Muffler Man and your team who cut out the rusted parts and welded in some new parts for $40 cheapo dollars – and got an oil change, and pondered the allure of the McRib sandwich, I drove right over to Planet Fitness and signed up and then Did Some Things for 1.5-ish hours, that time including 10 minutes in the shakey machine that I love, and 10 minutes on the hydromassage bed.  Suffice it to say I strutted outta there like I was a badass athlete who just completed her first marathon.  I was exceptionally proud of myself, considering I still hadn’t closed my “calories burned” ring on my Apple Watch, but I refuse to let my own watch be the boss of me. Screw you, Watch!

Today I’m pondering jumping in the pool, checking out the city of Sanford, starting my book that I plan to write but haven’t yet  – in addition to being an exerthinker, I am a ponderwriter, where I just really ponder writing on a daily basis – and then perhaps maybe this evening when it’s dark out anyway, heading back to the gym.

Because I’m still the exact same fat as I was when I came down to Florida four months ago.

Fun Fact you may not know about me unless your name is Kenny, I excel at blaming others for things. For ten years now I’ve blamed Kenny for being the reason I outweigh my cat by about a hundred pounds….sshhh….just go with it, Reader.

But all these years, I blamed him for our amount of eating out.  Movie theater popcorn. Watching movies instead of going to the gym. My not being able to get up in the morning and work out because we went to bed too late. My being distracted from working out in the evenings with dinner and movie plans or bar and wing plans or anything other than working out plans. Blame, Blame, Blameity Blame Game.

I re-homed my could-be-smaller ass to Florida. Where I’m in total control of what I buy, where I eat, what I do in the mornings and evenings. How much or how little I work out.

And when I went back home in September, not one person was shockingly surprised at how thin I had gotten. The scale wasn’t impressed, either. In fact, it registered the SAME EXACT WEIGHT as before I had left, which on one had, at least it wasn’t more, but all that swimming around had no bearing on my physical body. I make that distinction because Lawdy, has it been good for me mentally.

Kenny, on the other hand, has dropped 30 lbs since I’ve been gone.

He was on the “eat cucumbers and bagels with cream cheese only” diet and it worked. So there, all you anti-carbists.

He doesn’t cook. I think he’s turned on the stove one time. When I was home in September there wasn’t a single stitch of groceries in the fridge except for something smelly and rotting in the vegetable bin, and a bag of black, watery potatoes in the pantry.  I got to clean that up, because I’m a lucky girl.

Me, on the other hand, well, I cook myself little meals, and grocery shop, and pack my lunch almost every single day for work. I drink water and coffee and maybe just a tich too much wine, but remember, Reader, we are a NO JUDGING ZONE, unless we both agree to judge something together.  Wine is basically how I’ve been getting in my fruits, and it’s supposed to be heart healthy, or at least I think I read that somewhere one time.

So what we’ve learned here is:

1/ I’m actually the reason Kenny was fat.

2/ Wine is a fruit.

3/ Falling back an hour hasn’t made me accomplish anything more today other than having a third cuppa coffee.

4/ I should probably have a cooking show, teaching everyone how to cook in a teensy big-as-a-minute kitchen. Except we couldn’t fit a camera crew in here.

5/ When Walmart hides the scales from you, even after you’ve circled the store three times in search of one to help with your grand-plans for being less you, but they put these FRONT AND CENTER …

… well, Walmart is really to blame for my being fat.

6/ Yes, I bought them.


Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Day

Reader. Listen to me now and hear me later.

Florida, while delivering beautiful sunshiney days, is also a House of Horrors.

You guys, we almost had a Strike 3 Incident this week.

Almost, because while the incident itself was startling, the actual culprit was not.

I’ve been livin’ down here in ol’ Floor-eed-ah for a whole lot longer than I would have guessed, had we been guessing back in January of this year.  I wouldn’t have guessed a southern wind was blowing me south, yet here I sit, comin’ up on putting in five months. I know, I know – I’m as surprised as you are.

For the most part I haven’t cried nearly as much as one would have thought.  Change is hard, but I guess changing to a swimming pool and a lot of beautiful days is helpful on drying up tears.

I have, however, been a whole lot more scared by wildlife than I would have ever guessed.

The big-as-my-head wolf spider under my desk, than ran right up my wall, and how that didn’t have me heading to zee hills is surprising to me.

We’ve had the scorpion in my room incident.

I’ve had a variety of worms and daily snails. Now, before you’re all, “Pishaw, a snail!”  Let’s review the evidence:

They are big and snail-y.  And yet I just go on about my day, as if I haven’t just encountered this face-to-face in the early morning before I’ve even had one whole cuppa coffee. Life a wild life badass.

Then, we’ve had these cute armadillos that have held up traffic while crossing the road:

At my workplace, I’ve been mildly concerned when I was in the lunch room making my coffee and could hear some critter running laps around the drop ceiling.

And then stuff began to drop outta the drop ceiling:

And still I stayed, and didn’t count that as a Florida Strike.

I even PARTICIPATED in standing nearby while two of the office gals set up a trap to get out the critter and rehome it to the scary as fuck great outdoors.

Someone had to be the documentarian, from a safe and assured distance.

I can with 100000% certainty assure you that I would NOT be the girl removing the ceiling tile to set up a trap.

I was even afraid of the trap itself, quite frankly, because it was very snappy sounding when it was triggered.

I supplied the peanut butter on bread idea as a very successful lure, which worked about an hour after the trap was set.

Again, I participated in see what was caught, while the Office Trappers took it down and drove it away and released this cute, yet destructive, girl.

Yes, the squirrel is a girl. We still have her kids living in the ceiling, and have been unsuccessful in getting them out. But that’s neither here nor there, eventually they will depart the premises.

So you see, all that. I’ve encountered ALL THAT in five short months, and I’m not even talking about the palmetto bugs and whatnot because i’m all casual about that, mostly.  Ahem.


I have taken note, from various sources including my friendie SC who lives in Australia now, where all these Florida scary things are just her Australian scary thing’s snacks, mentioned “I check the toilet before I sit down” and I have been, too, only maybe not consistently.

Until after my scorpion incident, and I figured it had to get up in this room somehow, and maybe it came in from my toilet.

So I look before I leap, shall we say.

This past week while at the House of Horrors work, I went to the bathroom to dispose of my two cups of coffee.

I preened into the toilet as I was getting near, and saw something JUMPING up outta the water at me.

Once again, I let out another bloodcurdling scream professional call to action with a demurely stated “Hey, co-workers, there appears to be something alive in the toilet.”

Luckily, we hired Trapper Jackie (from photo above) in September, and she sits nearby and came to check out the situation for me.

I will just go on the record as stating that my screams barely get noticed at work any longer. No one was even coming to see what was happening, I just heard some quiet inquiries of, “Spider?” while every one continued on their day, which is really concerning, because a Bad Guy could be hiding in there taking a machete to my head and no one would come running because apparently I’ve become the Girl Who Screams Wolf Spider.  I’m just saying, when someone very professionally screams, the polite thing to do is to come and save the northern girl find out why.

Trapper Jackie discovered it was a pretty good sized frog jumping around in the toilet, so really, not a scary critter, except it could have JUMPED UP IN MY P-HOLE or my B-HOLE had I sat down without looking. I’m going on record as stating that if I am ever on a toilet and feel a thwamp on either of the holes – the P or the B – it is ALL THE STRIKES, and I don’t care what sort of critter is doing the thwamping.

Trapper Jackie went to slap on a pair of latex gloves to retrieve the froggy, but by the time she got back it had gone out the way it came in, and lets just say I was nervous AF to pee for the rest of the day, but like a trooper, I carried on and didn’t even count this as a Florida Strike.

Later in the same week a turtle was discovered living right outside our doorway, and I jumped up to go see it, because no one is afraid of seeing a turtle, even I can outrun a TURTLE for crying out loud (at least I confidently tell myself I can), and it was pretty cute and not that little at all.

One of the girls picked it up and started coming towards me with it, and I saw that little mouth opening and closing like it wanted to snap onto something like, oh, my fingers, and I yelled, “DON’T COME AT ME WITH THAT!!!” while scampering away to safety.

And Trapper Jackie just shook her head and muttered, “I just don’t know how you even get along in life.”

I’m not sure myself, to be quite honest. At least not in the Wild South.

Usually Afraid, Often Naked

A few things have happened here at my Floridian Minute House, Reader.

First, I killed a scorpion in my room a couple of nights ago. Now, I wasn’t even sure it was worthy of a story about it, but then my friend Choo indicated otherwise, and I rethought it.

So let’s go over that sentence again. With a tich more consideration.

I – me, Trixie Bang Bang, she who is afraid of almost every insect that surprises her and most certainly will scream the good scream over something potentially bitey and poisonous

Killed – yes, sorry Pro-Bug-Lifers, and while I have recently attended the Buddha temple here in Florida where all creatures are valued, blah blah, I value stingy bugs that AREN’T captured in my living room – which happens to also be my bedroom – because Trump said something just like that and we all want to model ourselves after him, amiright (of course not), but anyway, yes, KILLED.

So. Much. Thought. was put into the shoe selection that would Do The Deed, Reader. So. Much.

Let’s set the scene a little more vividly, so you can put yourself right here with me and the scorpion.

I came in that evening after being somewhere – maybe my friend Pat’s for dinner – so I got home a little late, around 9-ish.  Already a long day.

I went to the bathroom (12 steps), brushed my teeth, took off my clothes, came through to the kitchen (6 steps) and fed Kitty Purry, and filled up her water dish, and then went to the living room to scoop her box (3 steps), did the scooping, went back to the kitchen to wash my hands (3 steps), came back towards the living room (6 steps) and stopped dead. in. my. tracks.

Wait – what?? – rubs eyes — what IS that in the middle of the floor??  Lint? Cat hair??

No. Nope. No.

You know what it is, Me.

That is not the actual one in my room, but it is its twinsie.

Fling open my door (yes, still naked) and yell/hiss outside “CHRISTIE!!” – because this surely seems like a job for the landlord.

Christie’s not outside.

Decide to throw my little run-around dress on over my head and regroup (12 steps back to the bathroom). Afraid this scorpion will have moved but clothes won the debate because I’ll be braver with clothes on, I think, and if this thing gets away from me, I will DEF be heading outside and no one needs to see all this, Naked and Afraid.  I literally watch that show endlessly, and now I am starring in it myself, because life truly does imitate art and I need to watch shows instead where people find bags of money in the middle of their rooms.

This is where the shoe debate starts happening in my head. I can step on it with my flip-flopped foot, but that seems too risky. What if I miss, I may get thrown off balance, and it could run UP MY LEG instead and there’s just too much of my body in too-close proximity to the scorpion.

Girl needs a HEAVY shoe for this job.

Without a lot of TREADS, a.k.a. escape routes.

I picked up several shoes and debated the weight. One of my heavier sandals had more thread than I was happy about, but I liked the firmness of the footbed – it wouldn’t be floppsy and go all wayward on me.

I needed a back up plan, too.

Luckily, I have recently purchased a $15 Bissell stick vacuum thing-a-mah-jig, and I got it all in position and plugged in for easy suction power once the deed was done.


I grabbed that shoe and killed that fucker.

Like a boss hero in my own horror story.

Sorry Not Sorry, Dangerous Thing. Don’t come uninvited into my room, is the moral of this story. You can go and live your life however you see fit, stinging shit and pinching things with those claws. But do it in your own space. Not mine.

This is where the shoe sat for a while, calming down after its hard work.

Now, I wish this was where the story ended. With me being proud of outweighing a poor bug by 100 lbs shut it, Reader, and going about my life.


I still haven’t emptied the tank on that tiny little vacuum. Don’t worry, it’s sealed tight and had he survived, he couldn’t escape the plastic chamber.

I check under my comforter, sheet and between all over even the unused parts of my bed every. single. night.

I squish my pillows before lying my head on them. Check INSIDE all my clothes and shoes. Shake out all my towels. Look in the shower not once, but twice. Keep the toilet lid down.

Basically I’m still afraid.

But I’m getting braver.  At least I think so.

I picked up my notebook at work and a “palmetto bug,” which is a fancy fucking cockroach with a southern drawl, ran out of the pages and I flung my book across the room while letting out a girly shriek like the sophisticated professional that I am.

So there’s that.

Florida is a scary m-effer.  So much so, that I haven’t even mentioned the time I found a WORM the size of a standard U.S. male’s penis in the POOL.  It looked kinda like this, only bigger, and darker brown.

It was already drowned.

I debated what to do about that, and then just calmly got out of the pool, went and got my $1 Grabber Tool and was able to grab it up and fling it out of my oasis. 

Except I pinched my grabber tool too hard and cut it in half, and then I had the luxury of disposing of two pieces of hairy leggy worm with guts oozing out, so yeah, life is good in Florida, Ya’ll. Come on down.

*the US standard penis size is not something I determined, Reader, despite my years of extensive and exhausting research in this field of study.  It’s a fact from Google and the Internet is never wrong. 

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I’m Just Missing the Uniform

With the amount of guilt I feel all. the. time. Reader, you’d think I was raised as a Catholic.

I wasn’t, but I’ve got the Good Guilt from some influence.

When I’m swimming around in the pool all weekend, I’m feeling guilty for not writing – either a book, a story, a screenplay, an idea down – whatever, I feel guilty about it.

I feel guilty when I’m sitting here writing and letting a perfectly good sunshiny pool go to waste. Despite the fact that I’ve been floating around in it on and off all weekend.

When I get home from work too late, I feel guilty for leaving Purry alone for so long. Except she’s a cat, and is perfectly fine, and oh, p.s., she was alone a lot in Ohio when I was working, too. But I still feel badly because I’m all she has here, and that has obligations attached.

I feel badly if I miss commenting on an event that I see on Facebook. Mostly birthdays, but people who are sick, or obits. I’m never quite sure what to say on FB for an obit. I mean, “sorry” just doesn’t feel strong enough on FB, so then I do the worse thing, which is to say nothing. This is no reflection on YOU, Reader – if you’re a good messenger, keep on it and I’m jealous, I just am sometimes lame about it.

Last night while at the Walmart – which, I have to mention has a STREET named after it in Deland, complete with its very own Wal*Mart street sign! and I cannot even believe I was Responsible and didn’t photograph that while I was driving just to show you! – I decided it was a perfectly good time to resolve some of that “sorry I missed your birthday on Facebook!” guilt and instead I’ve decided to swoop you up in a giant net of confetti and powered sugar and wishes and bought me you a cake!

It’s a cake for US, Reader, but only I get to eat it. Unless you come to Deland right now, then you can share in your celebration.

So yes, I am assuaging my guilt over perhaps having missed the opportunity to tell you Happy B-day on Facebook, Reader, by buying – and eating – a cake.

All because I heart you, Reader. Truly. Don’t let my lack of Facebook sentiments have you thinking otherwise.

I’m thinking of you while I eat it right now.

And it’s the thought that counts.

Shew-ie, I’m feeling lighter because the weight of that guilt is lifting!

One thing I’m coming quick to realize in the FL vs OH scoreboard tally is that while it may not seem excessively warm inside, it takes just a moment for frosting to slide right off a cake.

Everything needs refrigerated.

Happy September Birthdays, and also probably July and August Birthdays, too, and I will probably miss yours in October, so let’s just consider this an all encompassing cake or I will be forced to buy another next month to celebrate you, and while I’m not opposed to that, this cake really wasn’t all that great, but if I’m forced to eat it again, I will. Because I love you that much.

Happy B-Days. Now stop guilting me.

I’m still left with the need to figure out how to express my very sincere condolences over losses on FB. I wonder if there’s a sympathy cake I can eat for that.

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In the Bag

Today I ate a bag of farts for lunch.

It was a sad lunch. Some days that happens. I throw whatever I have handy in my lunch bag. Today it happened to be an asian salad kit I had purchased over the weekend, consisting primarily of chopped up cabbage.

The salad must have been fermenting away in its plastic bag.

It wasn’t just my opinion that it was a bag of farts. My sitting-near-me co-workers were a lot less than thrilled by that opened bag of salad. One girl wrapped up the bag quickly and the other girl crinkled her nose and politely said, “That stinks.”

I know you’re wondering what I ate instead.

Because no one would just plow ahead and eat a bag of farts.

You’d be wrong, Reader. My lunch options were limited, so I ate that bag of farts.

I cautioned my co-worker, who shares an office space with me, that she’d better start saying some prayers to whatever jesus she prays to that the old cabbage doesn’t make it’s second appearance anytime soon, because it would be farts squared at that point.

Luckily for her, I’m a lady*.

*not at all. as is evidenced by the number of times this post contains the word farts.


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.

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