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The Bang Bang Theories

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It’s Amazon Prime Day and that means I’ve just contributed yet again to Bezo’s Billions, because while I would like to not be a part of this cyclone of money he swirls himself in, The Deals are just too compelling.

I ordered MASCARA delivered to my doorstep for $3.34 AND it was on a YOU SHOULD REALLY OWN THIS STUFF list of the 50 Best Things on Amazon.

Yes, I am their target market.  If it’s on a list and I can read all about how wonderful it is, well, consider it sold.

The summary of Things We Needed on Prime Day include, but are not limited to:

1/ Mascara

2/ Eyelash Growth Serum (I’ve used it before, it’s amazing and a fraction of the cost of the super expensive brands)

3/ A pore-sucker-outter at-home microdermabrasion kit

I see a trend here, which probably comes from my studying my face too closely for too many hours in the Crying Mirror, which I’ve actually recently dropped and shattered, and now I see myself in a hundred tiny reflections.

Luckily, I can hone in on one shattered section at a time and commence with tweezing, squeezing, and scrutinizing. I would like my faithful reader to take up a GoFundMe so I can afford a new mirror because I’m going to be FIFTY FOUR next month and really should not be viewing myself in shattered pieces. It leads to the compulsion to purchase new face creams touted on someone’s must-have list.

I could afford a new Crying Mirror, but it offends me to pay another $80 for one simply because I was careless and knocked this off the counter. I need to spend that money instead on three-dollar mascaras and a contraption to clean the filthy pores I see in the Crying Mirror.  I’d like a new one for free, with my government handout stimulus check, dear mr. president or jeff bezos, whomever gets this message and responds first.

Outside of Beauty Must-Haves, I’ve been waiting all summer for Prime Day to snap up my next adventure in Outdoorsy-ness.

It will also be my first adventure in Outdoorsy-ness in quite some time, possibly all year.

I’ve been keeping a long-eyelashed eye on inflatable kayaks, and just yesterday I saw the one I want drop from $300+ down to $100!!!

Yet I didn’t snap it up, because it wasn’t Prime Day, and so an even lower price was just a few short hours away.

Except this morning my damn kayak was $178.  I think it was a misprice leading up to Prime Day and I thought it was an appetizer price, but it was the main course price and just like that I was out of a meal a.k.a. my kayak dreams, because once I saw it for $100 there’s no way I’m paying $178.

I kept an eye on it throughout the day and it finally dropped to $106 delivered and that was close enough and now I just CHECKED IT AGAIN and it’s $100 EVEN and now I’m $6 mad about it.

This opens up a whole new shopping requirement as now I’ll need a life vest and probably some other practical supplies and for garth’s sake, I just wanna be a little outdoorsy, why is it so cumbersome!!!

Let’s hope this kayak lives up to my dreams, which realistically looks like me doing this:

Only with super-long eyelashes and glowy pores.

My Mister determined now was the time to peel off a hunny from the pile and invest in a home security system, and today was the good deal, so that’s coming to our home soon, so keep out, Burglers. We will have EYES on you.

Our conversation:

My Mister: “So, where should we install the cameras? One in the living room, so if you hear a noise you can just check it and see if anyone’s in there?”

Trixie: “Um, no. I don’t want a spy camera on me in the living room. What if I’m sitting around on the couch by myself, and one thing leads to another with myself, I don’t need that on camera.”

My Mister:  ~ blankly stares at me ~

My Mister: “So what if we just aimed it down the hallway? Do you have … um… moments with yourself in the hallway??”

Trixie: “Don’t be ridiculous.”

My Mister: “I think this whole conversation is ridiculous.”

Trixie: “It IS ridiculous because it’s not like that actually HAPPENS*, but I don’t want a camera pointed in the living room just in case it SHOULD. I want to leave my options open.”


So bottom line, I don’t want a camera facing INSIDE the house, that feels super-spy-ie and unnecessary, the cameras need to be on the outside entrances. I am far too naked far too much around here and no one needs that on camera.

And there you have it. Shit We Couldn’t Live Without Today, and also, don’t be afraid to sit on our Porn Couch, Company! Believe me, the cats are about the only thing getting any action on it, and that’s in the form of sleep. Mostly.




My Legacy When I’m Gone

I know you believe my life is one hip parade after another, and you’re right, Reader.

Also, I just had to ask AG (Almighty Google) if it’s “hip parade” or “hit parade” because to my mind’s ear (and now I’m thinking about ears in my head, not on my head) hip parade sounds correct and also like what I was going for here. So I’m sticking with hip parade. My mind’s mind said it was okay to use whichever I like.

My mind’s mind is a little jumpy-all-around tonight and I’m not even sure why, except I’m here trying to bang one out for you ~bada bing!~ in five minutes or less so I can get thy ass to bed. It’s a worky-day tomorrow and I require a lot lot lot of beauty sleep.

Back to my Sunday hip parade.

I spent the greater part of the day cleaning the grout in my foyer and giving all my seventybillion cat litter boxes a thorough revamp.

My six three cats generate a lot of stinky fucking stinks and believe you me, it is a daily battle.

Today’s battle was fought in the foyer. Ex.Cite.Ment abounds here at Chez Bang Bang.

But what we came here tonight was to share with you some of Tipsy Bang Bangs TIPS, get it Reader?? Tipsy? Because I have lots of tips and also sometimes I write this while I’m drunky.

Not tonight, though. Tonight I’m hopped up on a careful blend of cinnamon cheerios mixed with fiber one, because we live it up around here. At least with our carefully calculated fiber intake. Mess with my insides in August, 2020, and I’mma double down with fiber intake and new apple cider vinegar gummies, too, we’re not afraid of you (sssshhhh….yes we are, a little bit at least because 2020 is a complete ruthless asshole but we can’t let it think it has the upper hand).

So back to that grout. Sunday Funday.  The Tipsy to cleaning up that grout? Toilet bowl cleaner and a long-handled scrub-brush, Reader.

I present to you my before & after photo journey.

Before: My very dirty cracks.

After:  My white and bright crevices.

Now I’m not sure you can fully experience the awwww factor here, but My Mister and I both stood with our arms wrapped around each other’s waists while we just quietly appreciated the foyer floor.

We. Are. Rockstars. And party like ’em.

At my funeral you’ll all be standing around lamenting the shame of ol’ Trixie never having had the time to get her book written….but you can take comfort in the knowledge she had super clean grout.

So that’ how our Sunday went down here. Throw in scrubbing out six litter pans (also using toilet bowl cleaner, why had I never thought of that before??) and it was quite the day. I hope yours can live up to the bar we’ve set.

Stay tuned, I have another Tipsy Bang Bang tip for you later, but it’s a Tipsy Bang Bang, Beauty Blogger edition. It’ll be worth it or maybe not.



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This is Me Trying.

So here we go.

I have been spending the past few weeks listening to positive messaging about realigning my vibration to JOY, abundance and attracting all of those things I desire that are just out there floating around in this great big world waiting for me to get the shit out of my own way and finally claim what it is I want and the Universe will open up it’s great doors and just dump it right on my head. Or in my lap. It’s getting dumped on me, once I am open to defining what I want, practicing JOY until it’s just my nature, and then attracting it right to me.

All of this manifesting happens first thing in the morning, before the day has had a chance to sour me. I drink my coffee and listen to a variety of manifesting youtubes, primarily Abraham Hicks, but not limited to, in the event you want to follow my lead on a brand new journey of JOY and are clamoring to know what the what I’m doing. I’m not even sure myself most of the time, Reader, but this particular time I do know.

I emphasize the JOY because this is truly what all the messages center around. For those who know me IRL, you may be thinking, “what the heck is ol’ Trixie blabbing about, she’s chock full o’ nuts joy all the time, smiling and being just annoyingly polly-annaing some of the times.

And I am. Mostly.

But sometimes I’m a whole buncha fuck-you-you-fucking-fucks.

With a whole buncha idiot-racist-bigoted-ignorant-dum-dum-dum-fake-christians-this-fucking-fuck-of-a-president-what-the-fuck-do-you-mean-you-support-him-my-god-enough-already-put-your-fucking-mask-on-there-goes-womens-rights-what-the-fuck-is-going-on-in-your-brain fuckery thrown in.

Those have been a lot of the refrains that ramble through my head through a lot of parts of the day.

Mostly this is because of the news and social media, not improved at all by being mostly still sequestered at Chez Bang Bang with a bunch of wild animals, indoors and out. I’m lacking a lot of interaction with people who bring me JOY and activities that bring me JOY.  Like movies, and concerts, and theater, and travel. The things we are all missing more than half a year into Times of Corona, with truly no end in sight.

So a few weeks ago I just decided to change my vibration and give this morning “meditation” a bit of a go.

And it felt stupid and dumb and oh my God, I’m Stuart Smalley every morning now. If you don’t know Stuart, 1/ we probably can’t be friends anymore and 2/ go. google.

Then. A few weeks in, I started to feel the shift.

Making myself smile for 15 minutes in the morning while I looked up and appreciated the beauty of nature while I sipped my coffee made me more smiley with genuine feelings of appreciation throughout the day.

Even when shit went wrong during the day, which it still does and all the damn time. I have been able to *usually* not get mired down in it, or snap out of it more quickly than before, and reframe the language in my head with more positive words.

When my beloved little leaky 10-year old convertible got sopping wet from heavy rain and I didn’t realize it and it grew mold inside like it was it’s job?

That night? Well, instead of the words that were going through my mind of despair, why-me’s-what-next-haven’t-I-suffered-enough (in my first world problems way), well, I just wiped it off, went to meet my friendie and told myself, “I am so lucky this has an easy solution, I can fix this situation tomorrow because it’s Saturday. Just don’t breathe in right now.” And it’s a good thing I had a mask already, so see there how sometimes life just gives you what you need.

And then that’s what I did. I spent 5 hours the next beautiful Saturday morning scrubbing every last inch with a toothbrush and white distilled vinegar, and I wasn’t even too pissed off about it. It was a thing that happened. And then I fixed it. Mostly. It’s still a work in progress, because why wouldn’t it be, but mostly it’s good and now my car has a really fresh smell of fair-food-french-fries-with-vinegar. That’s what I’m telling myself. My Mister claims it smells like A1 steak sauce in there. It’s a Volkswagen marinade.

I’m only giving that example as to one way my morning meditations have helped. It’s working. A least a bit.

We’re not skipping through life, every day is not blue bonnets and rainbows, but mostly I’m feeling more JOY even when shit is still shit. I’m more smiley. Less doomsday. Things will work out, they generally do. Not always, sometimes the worst happens, but I get to control my attitude about it.

I also get to control the influences I surround myself with, and bring more of the JOYFUL ones towards me, and push away all the bullshit I don’t want crowding my world.

And that’s how I got to the first swatch of cleaning up my social media. If you don’t bring me JOY, if I don’t really know you, if I’ve realized I don’t like knowing you, if I think you’re morally bankrupt and I’d never like to know you again, if we met randomly and somehow we’re now “friends,” if we are probably never going to actually get together IRL again, what are we doing here – well, those were the first, second, third and fourth passes I made cleaning up what I surround myself with. It’s called your Friends list. Not “People Who You Kinda Now Think Are Gross, People Who Annoy You, People You Wanna Punch in the Throat, People You Met Once, People You Would Never Have a Drinkie With” list. So I started to clean it, just like my car, with a little toothbrush and some distilled vinegar to scrub off the dark spots first.

It felt scary, and I was nervous to take such a drastic-in-my-mind-only step. The grip of social media is ridiculous, and real. I didn’t want to hurt people’s feelings. And then I got right-minded. No one’s feelings are going to be hurt by me and social media. Not now, not ever. I don’t have that kind of power. Then, it started to feel good. It felt freeing. That’s when I went deeper with my cleaning.

Now? I’m seeing new things and new people in my newsfeed. Things I like more.  I’m not clicking on political stuff because I don’t want more of that showing up in my feed – I need to change my algorithm. Believe me, it’s difficult to not Like or Share something I believe, too. But no one cares that much. The people who view my shit have their minds made up, and nothing I post is going to sway them one way or another. Not one fact, not one question, not one piece of valid information.  No one cares about my cute-cute-cute pictures of my kittehs, either, but that’s too bad, go clean up your own list and unfriend me, you’re a barbarian if you don’t want this in your newsfeed:

Yes, he put himself to bed like that yesterday. He adorably burrowed under the blanket pile and that’s why he got to shit on me and suffered no repercussions other than being spoken to very sternly.

That’s where we are right now, Reader. Focused on JOY. And changing our algorithm to bring more of what we like and desire into our worlds. Life is unpredictably short. So do what you can to make it deep, joyful and meaningful.

**I was out this evening and when I came home, that cute cute kitteh pictured above jumped on the table in my foyer and proceeded to pee on the floor, then when I hastily tossed him out the front door to finish his pee train, he pooped on the outdoor rug, then my other bad bad kitty peed in the foyer, because why not this is where we go now, and I think I saw a million-legger in the laundry room when I was getting the mop, and I’m going to just ignore and pretend I didn’t see it so I can actually sleep tonight, and let me just say THANK GOD I’VE BEEN MEDITATING OR I WOULD MURDER THINGS. Shew. See. Balanced and JOYFUL. 


Moviestar Life

The other morning, DJ (my favorite kitty….ssshhh… don’t tell the others) crawled out from under the covers where he’d been sleeping so cutely all night long…

…and he climbed on top of my uncovered body, squatted down… and shit on my stomach.

Yes, Reader. Let that story soak in. Take a moment.

My Good-Morning-How-Do-You-Do began with a nice big pile of shit directly on my post-surgery-still-has-healing-wounds semi-naked belly.

The weight of him climbing on top of me was just beginning to awaken me, and I looked at him ready for more snuggling and then, as I was scratching is face, the smell wafted. I asked him if he was farting on me….

No. He was not.

And that’s when the screaming began.


Kenny, rolling over, “Huh, what, what’s going on?”


Because not only was I shat upon, but I couldn’t get up because then the shat would fall off of me and I’d have an even bigger and more disgusting mess to clean up, if you can believe that’s even possible.

I officially deserve some sort of an award for Remaining Still in the Face of a Crisis.

Kenny, slowly lumbering to his feet, still half asleep, started the long walk towards the kitchen for the paper towels.

Me: “Are you going all the way to the kitchen??? GET THE PAPER TOWELS FROM THE LAUNDRY ROOM FOR FUCKS SAKE!!” which is directly across from the bedroom.

Twenty bajillion hours later, paper towels arrived and I cleaned myself off, stripped off my pajamas, and jumped into the bath and took a Silkwood shower.

So that was Wednesday, Reader.

Luckily, just last Sunday I began a morning meditation of positivity and channeling your vibration to attract joy and abundance.  Apparently it’s working because I did receive an unexpected abundance.

I’d like to say the week got better after this, but it did not. It has been a true exercise in affirming joy and positivity and gratitude every. single. morning.  It is keeping me challenged.

DJ and I were not on speaking terms for several days.

Last night he came back to the scene of the crime.

He told me he was sleepwalking and in that hypnogogic state of hallucination when The Incident occurred. His words, Reader.

I accepted his explanation and his super soft tummy as his penance.

Forgiveness, Reader. It was just the Universe giving me a lesson in forgiveness, using a literal analogy that sometimes the thing you love the most will just shit all over you, but you have to learn forgiveness if you want to have love’s abundance.

*the last part, well, I’m just trying to make a good story here so I feel better about literally getting shit on before 8:00 a.m. in the morning. Not that any time is a good time for getting shit on, but if I was picking an awful time, the first worst time would be in the middle of the night, when you’re in a super-deep sleep and may not even know you’ve been shit on and roll around in it, and the second worst time to get shit on would be right as you’re waking up to greet the day. So now you know, if you’re asked to rank the worst to best times to get shit on. You’ll be prepared to answer.



Grapes of Wrath

I’ve spent a considerable amount of time during the ‘Tine of 2020 on my deck this season, Reader. Coupled with my five-minute yoga moves which force me to look up and stare off into space during a lot of the moves, I’ve seen some things.

Maybe not as many things as my neighbors have possibly seen, because let’s recap: sometimes I yoga without clothes on out here. It’s just quite freeing and also I have a possibly false perception that I am invisible out here.

What I’ve noticed lately, and became my Mission, was that my trees are filled with a canopy of grapes.

I became determined to find a way to sample what could possibly be the best wild grapes in the entire universe, growing right here at Chez Bang Bang.

Yes, I believed they could be that good.

Optimism, Reader.

I went to the garage and grabbed my long-handled grabby-pully-cutty tool and got to work harvesting.

Except. I was just a teensy weensy tich too short to reach the vine without standing on a ladder.

And I’m not standing on a ladder, on my deck, which is a whole story up off the ground, because I can see the makings of Disaster as clearly as I could see those grapes.

My balance isn’t ideal on an ideal day.  Couple that with my still-ouchy-from-surgery stomach and a great big pain in my right side when I reach and bend that I’ve had since surgery, and there was no way I was climbing a ladder with a grabby-pully-cutty tool in hand, then trying to reach up to the sky with no hands on the ladder. Not even the allure of the possibility of the best grapes in the universe could sway me into making that bad decision.

So I did what any industrious person would do, and I called for the person who’s taller than me to come out and assist.

My Mister was less than thrilled by this endeavor.

My Mister: “I don’t think you should be trying to eat those grapes! What if they’re poisonous, like mushrooms?!”

Trixie: “That is crazy talk. There are not categories of poisonous grapes. Now reach up there with the grabby-pully-cutty tool and bring that vine down to me.”

The vine was a bit more difficult to grab and pull down. Let’s just suffice it to say a lot lot lot of swearing happened.

And then My Mister got super flustrated (yes, flustered and frustrated, it’s a word I just made up), and his face turned red and he wanted to throw the grabby-pully-cutty tool at me but didn’t, and declared, “This is FUCKING STUPID and YOU’RE STUPID for wanting to try those poisonous grapes!”

Except he didn’t actually say “You’re stupid,” but I could feel the thoughts swirling in his brain.

So I grabbed the grabby-pully-cutty tool, and because My Mister had managed to somehow get the vine a little closer, I was able to reach it and snip off a bunch and into my hands. And no, I don’t have a photo of my victory, and I’m disappointed in me that in my excitement I neglected to photo proof the evidence.

The grapes were smaller than the size of a dime, but perfectly purple and ripe. I plopped one into my mouth, much to My Mister’s disgust.

MM: “Aren’t you going to wash them?”

Trixie: “They’ve been hanging in the sky, what could possibly be on them that needs washed off??”

MM: “Pollution?”

I was undeterred, because I’m an adventurer. I should have my own adventurous eating show.  Things I’m willing to put in my mouth without washing them. It wouldn’t be the first thing if you know what I mean, Reader. I’m not sure that you do, because I’m not even sure myself, but it sounds slightly scandalous and adventurous.

Upon tasting the wild grapes, I was disheartened to learn they are not, in fact, the best grapes in the universe, and are mostly comprised of seeds. The seeds were more than the grape meat.

Overall the taste wasn’t offensive, and I even convinced my Doubting Mister to adventure-taste with me and he tried an unwashed grape himself.

But because of the heavy seeding, I have concluded they are not worth My Mister’s fury in trying to harvest them. They shall be left to the birds and the squirrels and not stomped into wine or jelly for myself. And my weekend just got a little more freed up, which is why I had time to blabble (yes, blabble, babble + blather, it’s another official word I just made up) on here. You can thank bad grapes for this, which would probably be the first time you’ve ever thanked bad grapes for anything. If it’s not the first time you’ve ever thanked bad grapes, please leave a comment and share the details of that story because I’d really like to hear.



Not As Planned

Because I’m not a young chippie any longer, I had a whole VIT (very important thing) I was going to chat to you about today, and now I sit here with my cuppa coffee and fingers ready, and for the life of me, cannot remember what in carnation that VIT is.  And yes, I just ended a sentence with the word “is” but I’m flouting grammar rules today.

Even Jane Doe looks perplexed.  She came and enjoyed the green grapes from Trixie’s Cafe this morning. Lil’ Fatty Squirrel wasn’t out there but he has a peanut butter and toasted coconut flakes roll-up waiting for him upon his arrival for breakfast. He must like to sleep in on the weekends.

While making that roll-up I realized how delicious it looked and gave it a taste test. I officially make the critters better meals than I make for myself. Last night’s dinner for myself was frosted mini wheat with blueberries, which was delicious, while Taco had a bowl of taco meat, fried corn and a few leftover fried green tomatoes, with a Reeses Cup thrown on top for a little something sweet.  That girl loves her sweets.

*in full meal disclosure, the taco meat was because I cleaned out the freezer, and the fried corn was from some yucky roadside stand corn I purchased recently that was thick and mealy tasting and didn’t get better cut off the cob and fried up with butter and peppers. It was originally intended for me, but it was not calorie-worthy. Even with a glob of butter.

I have an Event to attend today so I guess I’d better just let this sit right here until the VIT comes back to me. I’ve gotta make myself a little breakfast and shower up all my parts.

Stay tuned. There may (or may not) be a better story to tell later. This is just my placeholder story to keep my fingers in practice. I don’t feel guilty about wasting your time, because you’d be wasting it anyway getting mad at me someone on Facebook. Consider this your 1-minute reprieve. You’re welcome.

The Weight of Things

Do you have any idea how much you sound like an alcoholic when you’re trying to convince a team of people that you’re not a heavy drinker?

You sound like a lot of an alcoholic, Reader.

Through good luck* and good grace*, I ended up smack-dab where I didn’t want to be this year, which was right in the hospital with an Unexpected Thing That Sucked, and one of the two main causes of The Thing That Sucked is heavy drinking. The other thing is a shitty gallbladder, which we didn’t determine I had, so all signs were pointing to how much of a tippler I am.

*the very opposite of both

ER Doctor: “So, would you say you’re a heavy drinker?”

Trixie, writhing around in pain before the morphine had a chance to kick in: “No! I mean, no, I don’t think so, what is considered a heavy drinker….I have some cocktails. but mostly not that often, usually…In fact, my cousin and I just decided that we were going to have Dry August and stop drinking for the entire month!”

ER Doctor: “So……you drink enough to abolish drinking?”

Trixie: “No! I mean, we did it to lose weight, because I joined Weight Watchers but then I unjoined that and bought the Lose It app, and I mean, I’ve had a couple drinks anyway because I didn’t want to not have any drinks in August, but mostly no drinks! and not because I’m a heavy drinker, but for weight loss!”

ER Doctor: “When was the last time you had a drink?”

Trixie, doing the math: “Um, maybe Thursday? Or Saturday? Saturday. I had a rum runner or a pain killer or something, but just one, and before that it was one vodka+cran at a bonfire, but I didn’t even drink the whole entire thing, and that’s like two in a week during Times of Corona, so not even anything if you’re doing Corona Math.”

Trixie, continuing on: “I mean, I bought a case of wine in July and I’ve barely even had any of it, because I’m home alone a lot of the time and the only one who drinks wine in the house so if I open a bottle, I drink the whole thing myself, so I still have most of it left!”

ER Doctor: “Well, your liver has really high enzymes.”

Trixie: “Man that STINKS! I’m always trying to give my liver a rest! It don’t even take all the medications I’m prescribed because I think she should get a rest from all that processing.”

Trixie: “I’ve even switched up my morning beverage routine to incorporate a glass of lemon water before I even have a cuppa coffee just to really clean up my insides and get ’em going for the day! I love my insides!”

ER Doctor: “So what about recreational drugs? Do you take any drugs?”

Trixie, doing some self reflection: I must present myself like a really sketchy character to the world. I just had my hair done last night, so I’m not even looking terribly trashy. What the hell is going on here.

I absolutely felt like the Trixie Doth Protest Too Much, and also just stop talking, Me.

The good news was they deduced it was just a shitty gallbladder causing all my problems inside, and even though my gallbladder itself wasn’t acting up, we decided to get rid of that damn thing anyway, and I asked how much it weighed because I wanted at least a 1 lb. weight loss from the whole ordeal.

Priorities, Reader.



Ready or Not

Where in the world did we leave off, Reader??

It’s been so long, Trixie The Reluctant Blogger can’t even remember how to tell a story.

I just painted my nails and now they are smeared. Impatient.

It’s officially 2020: The Year that Nothing Happened And Everything Happened.

Spent leaves have fallen on my summer deck, a reminder that I am not ready for Fall. At all.

I am not ready for crisp air, long sleeves, apple pies and fuzzy blankets. Not yet…not yet.

I want to hold just a little more tightly to hot sunny days and cloudless blue Ohio skies, thirsty grass, juicy peaches, and too-warm breezes, please just a little longer.

I am not ready. Patience.

I want gentler days, more lazy porch naps, listening to the cacophony of summer from my back deck.

Ready or not, August is coming to a close. I am going to remind myself to be gentler, kinder, softer, slower, lazier, and grateful. It’s one way I can hold on to what I want more of, until I’m ready for the next brisk season.






Mostly, no.

I don’t know about you, Reader, but I have not been spending the bulk of my time doing things to get me closer to where I’d like to be in life. I kinda blame social media instead of myself, because I’m taking my cues from the president and Take No Responsibility for Anything, Ever, and Just Say I’m Doing a Terrific Job.

Except mostly there comes a time when you have to truly look at yourself and decide if you are doing a terrific job – at least normal humans do – or should.

So I took some looks at myself, oftentimes naked and in my full-length reflective glass patio door, and determined that I need to take steps today to get me where I want to be tomorrow. And then I joined WW, even though it super-fucking-annoys me that it’s renamed WW, much like “Dunkin'” renaming itself. I don’t approve of renaming things for no good reason. It’s just dumb. We are already a shorthand society.

I’m only a recently-rejoined WW member and I’ve only sometimes stayed within my points, but much like My 600-lb. Life participants, I still hoped for stellar results on the scale this morning, and was disappointed it was 2 pounds. Dr. Now would tell me I should easily be able to lose 5 lbs a week if I would just stick to the plan.

The other evening I watched an episode of My 600-lbs and lemmee just tell you – I feel their struggle. I do not know HOW they go from eating 40,000 calories a day to 1,200. A girl’s hungry and only wants to eat so many eggs in a day.

I also noted during that episode that a lot of their exercising looks very similar in form to mine. Mostly flailing your arms around and going for a short-ish walk.

I’m not sure exactly how I’ve gotten to this particular point in life at the moment. I’m talking holistically, not just in regards to weight.

I’m dissatisfied with what I’ve created for myself. I am capable of more. I need to spend my time more wisely. I enjoy sitting here and letting thoughts spill from my head to my hands and into the universe. Yet I don’t afford enough time to it, and instead I spend far too much time checking out how other people are spending their time.

So basically, I’ve decided on a 30-day detox. Because 30 days are going to go by anyway, and I’ve already used the whole “it’s a pandemic, don’t pressure me to do stuff, World!” long enough, and I want to do more things today that move me towards where and who I want to be tomorrow.

Don’t Forget To Tip Your Waitress

Chez Bang Bang has officially become an unofficial wildlife preserve and I am unofficially Trixie Dolittle, which is also appropriate as it describes exactly how I like to spend my weekend – doing little, which is also why I, the Reluctant Gardener, STILL haven’t planted my babies that I carefully and lovingly nurtured from the seeds from Flavor Bomb tomatoes all the way back in the early days of The Q*.

*you know The Q. The Big ‘Tine of 2020. When we all stayed home, saved up some money because there was nothing to spend it on, forgot how to wear bras and often times underwears, discovered we hate wearing makeup, bonded a little too tightly with our cat and may just actually have started to believe we are a mother/daughter duo and have been practicing a song and dance routine, suffered from a little depression/anxiety and now takes a pill for that, ate every baked good this side of the Mason-Dixon line, and made Netflix our new boyfriend by spending many nights on the couch or in bed together.

This post has quickly become long, run-on sentences and we’re just going to let it ride itself out. You can’t squash creativity once it gets rolling, Reader.

During all this stay-the-eff-home time, I opened a little restaurant called Trixie’s Cafe.

And my customers started pouring in.

Jane Doe stopped in to check out the menu, and she now swings by almost daily. She likes to come for the fruit, doesn’t care for the vegetables.

And yes, that’s my beloved indoor house-cat sitting in the middle of the street, like he owns that shit. It’s all about attitude, Reader. Believe you’re bigger and badder than you are, and you can stop traffic.  At least on a quiet no-one-drives-down-it-unless-they-live-here street.

Another customer, Lil’ Fatty (that’s his rapper name, he’s in the music industry and is trying to knock Alvin and The Chipmunks off the Billboard Chatter list), Lil’ Fatty is fond of peanut butter or sunflower seed spread sammy’s, cut into easy-to-handle quarters.  He’s mostly around for breakfast, he likes to eat his biggest meal of the day early on. He can be a little demanding and the other day the chef had nothing handy so she served him a samoa cookie, and he did seem to be a fan of coconut goodness.

And of course, there’s Taco, the blind outdoor kitty raccoon. Taco is who prompted me to actually open Trixie’s Cafe, she believed in me and our mission (to keep her well-fed on a daily basis so she stays out of everyone’s trash cans).

I was a little irked one day last week; the chef at Trixie’s Cafe (me) took a hiatus from cooking and Taco hadn’t been showing up on a regular schedule so we got a little lax in serving. And then later one evening, My Mister found her in a trash can we left outside of the garage after a cookout, and I was a little furious at the situation. Not at our girl Taco; I was mad at these lazy restaurant owners (me and My Mister) who’s negligence forced this sweet girl to scavange around like an animal, trying to find something in a damn trash can.  We quickly opened the kitchen and took her a proper meal.

She has a really tough time seeing and just yesterday she walked into the post of my bottom deck. And that’s why I try to serve her up something hot, so she can find it using her exceptional sniffer.

Yesterday’s menu offered up a Handheld Omelette – ribeye and chicken omelette served up in a hotdog bun.

The irony of it was the chef was too lazy to cook for herself and had a bowl of frosted mini wheat for dinner.

The chef has taken some very creative liberties with the menu, and actually crafted a brand new sandwich item that she named You Want This in Your Mouth sandwich.

It came to her in a rush, the way most great things do – the idea just flowed through with a ranging energy. And also, Taco was sniffing around outside so the chef was trying to quickly cobble something together with what was easily at hand before she wandered off.

The You Want This in Your Mouth consisted of a slice of Costco’s most delicious cinnamon bread.

If you haven’ tried this, Reader, I insist you do. Your life – and your weight – will be changed forever. If you don’t have a Costco membership, stop in to Trixie’s Cafe. We will serve you up two piping-hot slices with Kerrygold butter – which is truly the butter your tastebuds deserve – and a cuppa joe of your choice.

Back to the sandwich. So we started with a slice of cinnamon streusel, untoasted because there was no time. Haste is sometimes the mother of invention, is how the saying goes I’m making up right now.

From there, I slathered on a thin layer of peanut butter for a good does of healthy fat and protein, to keep her energy up and her coat shiny.

It seemed kinda plain, and I had a corner of leftover cheesecake in the refrigerator so I took that out and spread that over the peanut butter.

After folding over the bread into a half-sandwich, the waitress (also me) went to serve it to Taco, but along the way took another hard look at this sandwich and decided, “This looks amazing, and I need to take a bite!”

Two great tastes – peanut butter and cheesecake – would they taste great together with a cinnamon base?

I had to know. 

And that’s how Trixie officially ate raccoon food and also invented a new sandwich – which DID taste amazing – and aptly named it You Need This is Your Mouth.

Stop over for a bite sometime, Reader. I just ordered a case of wine, so even if you don’t like the cooking, we can get drunk together. And that’s the cornerstone of a great cafe.


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