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The Bang Bang Theories

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.

 

 

 

I Can’t Quit Us

Lawdy, Reader! I was beginning to think I’ve quit us here.

Rest easy. I’ve just been on an unintentional hiatus. My words of nonsense are still here for you. I can hear your sighs of relief all the way over here, where I sit naked on my back deck in the middle of the city, cocooned by the possibly inaccurate thought that no one can see me. I mean, how else am I supposed to get my Vitamin D, Reader? You can’t do that with clothes on. That sun needs to PENETRATE into your bones to keep you healthy. I’m health-conscious in a way that lets me make excuses for being naked in public-ish.

If I had a knock-out body I would never wear clothes. I know that’s a vision you now can’t unsee in your mind’s eye. Vision it with the body of J Lo in your mind, and you’ll feel better about that.

But back to where I’ve been, when I’m not sitting nakey on the deck.

I’ve been on a hiatus not just with you, Reader, but with myself as well. I pulled open my journal that I stuffed into a dresser drawer who knows how long ago, and apparently I had some lofty 21-day challenge goals.

This happened so long ago, I don’t even remember when I got this brilliant idea to give myself a 21-day challenge, but obviously I stopped right after laying out the plan.

I also paid for an online class in May and haven’t started Class 1 yet. I just sidetracked myself, and went over to check when the class expires, and I have until July 3rd to take 12 classes.  Feels do-able.

Right after I have some breakfast. At noon-thirty.

This girl was just rustling around down below my deck. I fed her a Honeycrisp.  Now she’ll go eat my few flowers.

Then I looked to my right, and this little fucker was giving me The Eye, looking for his peanut butter sandwich.

So I got up and made him one. Because wildlife is the boss of me.

And this is probably why I haven’t been here for you, Reader, in a good long month.  Because I’m literally getting sidetracked by a squirrel, and then I go off chasing on an entirely ‘nother path.

Now Reader, I know you didn’t come here for this bullshit non-post. I completely understand and will be issuing refunds at the door.

However. This little writing was needed to get myself back in the groove of writing something. Consider this a test for myself, to see if i still know how to put words together.

This evening I will tell you the real story of what’s going on at Chez Bang Bang. I’ll be drinking some peach moscato and letting the words flow off my fingertips, like cheap, slightly sweet wine.

Lower your expectations. It’s still not that exciting.

But hey. I never promised you a rose garden. In fact, I would never promise that because I hate gardening.

Sweet T & Sunshine

Dear Summertime,

I’ve been waiting for you.

Long days and blue skies.

Warm breezes that carry the scent of fragrant wildflowers.

Everything green, everything colorful.

Lazy outdoor reading and luscious patio nights.

I’m glad you’ve arrived. Please stay awhile.

Love,

Sweet T

And So the Story Goes…

Because I’m an idiot adventurous and have awful brilliant ideas, during my first time in Haiti it made very good sense to purchase a set of authentic, handmade-by-a-mystical-grandma voodoo dollies.

Having never researched the potent magic, spell power or ceremonial instructions of voodoo, I dished over a few cheap bucks and brought my his-and-her Voodoo dollies home to America.

My intent was never for ill powers. In fact, I dubbed these dollies The Trixie and Her Mister dollies, and displayed them on a souvy shelf in the living room, and would make them kiss and cast spells on “us” for awesome travel, good fortune and mystical blessings.

I also am taking this opportunity to note that the Trixie dolly is a larger dolly than the Mister dolly, and it basically is an accurate representation of how I overshadow all of his life. I’d like to tell myself that this is for his best interest because all of my ideas and thoughts are better then his and he must defer to my will; however, he was never really a strong proponent of vacation souvies, and he certainly doesn’t buy into any witchcrafterie hocus-pocus garbliegookie.

So the dollies came home, and they sat on a shelf, and I wished them/us great happenings, and great travels flowed to us, and money was abundant, and then we bought a house and moved.

And the magical dollies got shoved in a box and ended up hidden for years and years buried beneath the rubble that came with moving.

And then Trixie lost her big paying job due to restructuring her and a lot of others right out of work.

They still travelled, and sometimes good things happened. But there was also some strife, and it would cross Trixie’s mind that maybe she needed to invest some time in finding those dollies because they were being smothered somewhere without any air and that’s how she started to feel, too.

Life was smothering her, on and off for years and years.

There was strife and struggles and it was hard to be Trixie sometimes.

But then, as is wont to happen, the tides were starting to turn a bit and things were going okay enough.

It was during Times of Corona, when Trixie was in the basement moving some crap around and selling a bunch of junk online when she noticed a box that was labeled “Living Room Shelf,” and she had her ah-ha! that this must be where her missing items were hiding in plain sight all these years.

Lo and behold, the voodoo dollies where right there on the top. Trixie scooped them up, and brought them outside to her deck so they could blow off the stink of being cooped up in a box and get some fresh air before moving them into the living room of Chez Bang Bang. She waited expectantly for all good things to flow her way once more.

Except all the good things that had been going her way started to unravel.

She started to really not like her job because of bad management.

And then she got unexpectedly sick and ended up in the hospital for eight damn days, needing surgery – surgery to which the trauma doctor told her, “I’ve never worked on such a complicated abdomen before, I guess we’ll see how it goes when we get in there.”

Reader. You never want to be the person who stymies an expert trauma doctor at an expert trauma hospital.

She cried as they were wheeling her into surgery, to the point the anesthesiologist gave her a little something extra beforehand to calm her shit down.

And of course the Corona was going on during all this time.

So when she got home, she took those dollies and set them back out on the deck, letting the rain showers and the elements beat the bad out of those dollies.

They stayed there all winter, through the rain and the sleet and the snow.

And then a super heavy snow fell and knocked a giant limb outta the tree and it crashed through her metal railing on the deck, trying to destroy Trixie’s happy outdoor space.

Trixie knew these dollies had to go, but didn’t know how to get rid of them.

Her friendie googled “ways to get rid of bad voodoo dollies” yet came up empty handed.

But!

Trixie had been busy working hard at manifesting. Every day, focused intent on GOOD THINGS and POSITIVE VIBES, manifesting, manifesting, manifesting and launching her Rockets of Desire.  Finding the nicer thoughts when things weren’t going right, turning negatives into positives.

The dollies and their bad juju were no match.

Out of the blue, Trixie landed a dream job. She won an unexpected little jackpot at the casino. Money flowed right to her and continues to do so. She spent her time with happier, positive friendships, set boundaries that made her more content, said yes to new things that piqued her interest, racked up check marks on the “good karma deeds” side of the equation with zero expectations other than it felt good to do them.

Spring finally arrived at Trixie’s place, flush with new beginnings and possibilities,  and she started the clean up work on the deck. Easily repaired the broken railing, restrung her lights. And the voodoo dollies sat on the table, quietly watching it all.  She talked to them and told them, “it’s time to stop being assholes, you are GOOD VIBE dollies and I will destroy you if you try to act otherwise.”

One day, Trixie had had enough of looking at them.

She picked them up and turned to Her Mister and said, “Well, I think it’s time to destroy these things. Should we burn them, and be done, once and for all?”

Her Mister’s head swiveled towards her, shocked look on his face and he quietly whispered matter-of-factly, “They won’t like that.”

Trixie, perplexed now, as Her Mister doesn’t believe in such tomfoolery: “Are you serious? Because we should just be done with this, don’t you think?”

Her Mister, still in hushed voice asked, “Are YOU willing to risk BURNING DOLLY US ALIVE?”

The answer to that is no.

No, I am not willing to risk that, Reader.

So if you happen to come over to hang out and notice these hanging out on the deck, well…now you know The Rest of the Story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Bushwhacked

Since it’s April in OH, when I haven’t been too bushed to do stuff, I’ve been working on my bushes.

For a girl (yes, ME, Reader – I’m a young, nubile girl – keep your “she’s an old lady” thoughts to yourself because a/ that’s wrong already because I’m not a lady and b/ remember to be NICE to me, I’m all you’ve got on this bloggy) … let’s continue.

For a girl who really despises yard work, I’ve been busy doing yard work for the past few weeks. I still have leaves to rake up from last fall! This yard, Reader. Let’s just say that it’s a lot to manage for a girl* (see above) who dislikes this part of her life.

Girl Trixie even has an awesome Yard Guy, and she paid for this luxury even when she couldn’t easily afford it, because as she stated, “I’d rather give up hair cuts, getting my nails done, and dining out if I can have someone else mow and trim the yard.” That’s a lot of sacrifices, and I happily made them. Of course, during Times of Corona, it’s wasn’t exactly a trick to stay home and avoid all things entertainment.

My Mister – also known as The Great Indoorsman – feels the same about yard word, which is no surprise to anyone who knows the G.I.

So we have a Yard Guy, yet there’s still a lot of yard to manage. There are two super long flower beds that are fuck-alotta work.

Now, what I’m about to tell you next is going to have you all kindza jealous over Trixie’s Glamorous Life. I spent Friday evening after work digging up bushes and replanting them in various parts of this super-rocky yard. And I wasn’t even drunk. It was a fully-considered decision.

What I’ve learned: Don’t dig up bushes on a slanted yard with a giant hill in close proximity wearing slip-on sneakers.

I almost – almost – dug in, slipped outta my shoe, fell backward and tumbled down that hill.

As I’ve told My Mister, should I fall the ravine behind our house while doing yard work, please put on my tombstone, “She died doing what she hated.”

This is my second close call. The other recent time I was affixing a bungee cord to a tree that’s drooped over, trying to sister it to a neighboring tree to get it to stand upright.

It’s a precarious life I lead over here at Chez Bang Bang, Reader. Don’t let the glitz and glamour throw you.  With great yards comes great responsibility.

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