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The Bang Bang Theories

You Get What You Get

Well, hello there, long lost friendie! We are totally spending far too much time apart.

Have you ever just been bone-weary tired, Reader?  I mean, the deep kinda tired, that seeps right into your middles?  That’s the tired I have been lately.

Maybe it’s all the extra walking I’m getting, but seriously probably not that. Exercise is supposed to release some endorphins and make you all hopped up. Instead for me, opposite.

And I’m mostly mad about all the steps. Just the other day my friendie asked me how all the walking was going. While we were finishing up a pitcher of margaritas and eating cheesy Mexican food.

Friendie: “So how are you feeling with all that exercise you’ve been doing?”

Trixie: “Mostly, I’m fucking annoyed by it! I march around the neighborhood pissed off about it. I have to take three goddamn walks – and not quick ones – to reach this re-damn-diculous goal I voluntarily put upon myself. I have to spend two fucking hours a day WALKING – which is time I’d much rather spending TV-ING – to reach these step goals.”

Friendie: “You’re such an inspiration.”

However! I recently dug out this cycling thing I purchased when I had more money than sense, and I’ve set it up in front of the tv and I can now PEDAL my way to my goals while I’m watching 90-Day Fiance, so BOOM! Take that, step goals! It’s my new secret weapon.

Now, it’s still annoying. But a lot less annoying than realizing I need to go walk around the block in the fucking dark OR ELSE.*

*there is no actual “or else” – just the pressure I put upon myself. 

So at this point you may be thinking

1/ “Gee, I liked it better when she wasn’t writing grouchy, complainy shit.”


2/ ” Surely by now Trixie has to be reaping these exercise benefits! and has toned up and trimmed down with all those miles she’s put under the rubber.”

To which I respond

1/ you get what you get

2/ 93.8 miles. 243k+ steps. Since April 1st.  Same exact fat. Which I’m sure has exactly nothing to do with a pitcher of margaritas and cheesy Mexican food. That’s not how calories work.*

*’it’s exactly how calories work. 

Thank you for joining me on my TED Talk. Stay tuned for the next inspirational message that focuses on why I’m unhappy that my house is always dirty, yet I don’t want to spend any time actually cleaning my house.




Remain Seated Until The Ride Has Come a Complete & Final Stop.

Because I have a million other, more important things nothing better to do with my time at the moment, Reader, while I was out on Day 3 walk of The Million Step March, I stopped and picked up some fallen pinecones.

And then instead of mopping my filthy floors tonight, it was way more fun to start crafting them into pinecone flower art.

Because Pinterest is the Devil’s Playground and has far too many things to distract a person from those dirty floors.

This is the vision, however I only found teensy weensy small sizes, and one pinecone style only so I guess I need to keep my eyes peeled for more variety.

And then actually make this happen one day.

As for the actual walking, let’s just say I have CRUSHED IT, Reader. Well on my way towards the 1,000,000 steps goal, surprising myself with how many steps I’ve actually been able to cram into my day, despite my bad feet and knees and guess what else I’ve recently realized is wrong with me? Bowed legs, Reader. I see myself in mirrors and while I haven’t been crazy about how I’ve looked, I chalked it up to not being … my optimum weight. I figured it was the fat keeping my legs from sticking straight together.

Nope. I decided to look into it a little more and discovered that it’s basically osteoarthritis coupled with lack of hip flexibility compounded by zero exercise and exacerbated by being a Fatty McButterpants.

So all those things have caused me to look re-fucking-diculous in and out of my pants.

While I waited for my pinecone glue to dry, I did some additional searching on Pinterest and Youtube and have found a good half dozen exercises to do to help strengthen the parts of me that are weak and loosen the parts that are uptight all I have to say is if it isn’t one motherfucking thing, it’s something else, Reader, and I mean, COME ON, Life, can’t we just agree at this point that I’ve had my fill of shit sandwiches to eat already? Now I have to contend with not-just-fat-but-bowed-legs-too.

So that’s what’s doing at Chez Bang Bang lately, Reader. I’m going to be doing all sorts of work to loosen up these tight hips, which My Mister will probably appreciate, and strengthen up the calves and do some other crap the Internets said to do and maybe, just maybe, I can stop looking so ridiculous. If it doesn’t help, I’ll take my solace in the seated position creating pinecone art, and no one will be able to see my bendy-outty legs from this position.

It’s always good to have a back up plan, Reader.



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Jokes On Me. Probably.

I realize that this is going to seem like an April Fools Jokie, but believe you me, Reader, it is not.

I’ve made A Plan and Set Goals and have Written Them On Paper, and we both know it doesn’t get more formalized than that: I am committing to healthier eating, and … I’m afraid to type this next part …. logging a million steps by the end of June.

That, Reader, frightens me to even type that number out loud.

My job calls for me to sit. A lot. And also? I like to sit. A lot. And nap. A lot. And watch t.v. A lot.

So I have a lot of A Lots working against this goal.

And for the past several days I’ve had a pain in my back/hip/side area for no reason whatsoever, other than it says it’s time to ouchie me, and so it has.

Today I did a test walk to to see how much ground I’d cover with a planned walk, and I only racked up 8,376 steps today, and that is about 5,000 more steps than my normal stepping day, so to say I’ve got an uphill battle to walk is not an understatement.

I’ve got to Work At This to put in 11,000 steps a day to hit this goal.

I did consider – and typed it and erased it and typed it and erased it – only committing to a half a million steps – that seems more achievable – but I decided to make it super uncomfortable for myself and just go for the million. I am going to have to take 2 walks a day, even in bad weather and I’m supposed to start in the morning and it’s also supposed to bring a snowstorm just to totally fuck with my plans and measure my commitment. Let me tell you, Mother Nature – I’m easily swayed to stay in bed.  So try not to be an asshole.

That’s all I’m asking.  For the days not be an asshole. By the time July rolls around I will have walked half my ass off. Maybe.

I’ve read that we overestimate what we can get done in a day, but underestimate what we can get done in a year. So I keep setting goals for myself – and even if I fail I may get a little closer to where I want to be. I’m just trying.  To make this year different. To try to be healthier. Happier. Bendier. And take little steps towards something different.

What about you, Reader? Are you making any new quarterly goals for yourself?


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When I was in 7th or 8th grade, there were a of couple guy teachers who palled around together. They were the “cool” teachers, who thought they were hipsters who related to the kids, while teaching us a bunch of stuff I frankly can’t remember any longer. I can’t even rightly remember classes they taught. Social studies? Science. Who knows.

One day during lunch, in the cafeteria that was also our gymnasium and also where we held our school sock-hop awkward social soirees, one of the Cool Teachers walked by me as I was eating an apple and stopped and said in his very loud teacher voice, “LOOK at that HUGE BITE MARK in your apple! That’s a HUGE chomp!” And then, after all eyes at the cafeteria table were upon me and my huge-mouthed-bite-marked apple, he cackled at his cleverness and sauntered away.

Reader. Now sometimes – in the interest of storytelling – I’m known to possibly not tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me Garth, or I may engage in a bit of fanciful hyperbole.

But listen to me now and hear me later: THIS IS NOT ONE OF THOSE TIMES.

*he may not have used the word “chomp.” Whatever. It was SOMETHING VERY SIMILAR. And it was forty damn years ago. 

Now, two parts of this story are important. One, pointed out above. It was FORTY DAMN YEARS AGO.

Two. What kinda teacher makes a statement like that to a 7th-ish grade, impressionable, awkward, insecure, bad-teethed, freckled, be-speckled girl who thought she was fat and now her mouth is called into question?

An asshole, that’s who, Reader.

Or maybe just someone who wasn’t “woke” all them years ago, back in 1979 or 1980.

I mean, we thought we were cutting edge and hip with our Sony Walkmans blaring out My Sharona. But really, we didn’t have all sorts of technology to educate us to when our behavior was assholie.

Now, again with Point One. It was FORTY DAMN YEARS AGO.

And that still-awkward, less impressionable, fairly secure, still freckled, fixed-teethed, laser-corrected eyes, now actually fat girl? Still remembers that random comment and can’t help but notice her giant-mouthed bite marks into foods and it’s been taking up space in the back of her thoughts like, “Of course I’ll never be a dainty small girl, I take GIANT bites!” and, “Yes, I’m destined to always be a fat, big mouthed girl because I haveah HUGE mouth that EATS ALL THE FOOD in TWO CHOMPS!”

Literally those thoughts were always just back there in my brain.

Several years ago I went to a new dentist and he repeatedly mentioned it was hard to get to my teeth because I have a SMALL MOUTH!

And I laughed and said, “Yeah, well, tell Mr. Pooper* that!” Except I didn’t say that outloud, but I did think it.

*not his real name, but rhymes with, and so there, haha, I will mock YOU to my dozen fans, Mr. Pooper, like a 12-year old school kid. 

Now, Reader.  They say awareness is the first step to working through your bullshit. I think that’s the exact quote printed on a piece of whitewashed wood that you can buy at TJ Maxx Homegoods for $12.99 and hang on your wall.

So in my last eight months of really working on my mental happiness, I’ve made it my mission to finally release the power of those randomly thrown words and get over some dumbass comment made to 7th grade me by someone who sauntered off and never gave it another thought.

I started taking control of this comment by making it a point to take GIANT bites out of everything.

And then I’d look at whatever it was that I giantly bit into and would study that mark and congratulate myself on having such a big fucking mouth.

And after a few times practicing this exercise, the laughs started to follow.

And then after a little more time, I began to truly feel the absolute absurdity of this situation, that I had dragged that random comment around with me for ALL THE REST OF MY YEARS SO FAR.

And after a little more time, I started to take absolute GLEE in the size of my giant bite marks left behind in all the foods.

One day My Mister watched me open my mouth as wide as possible and cram every last crumb of a whole cupcake right into my cake hole.

He thought it was just another ladylike maneuver on my part.

He was unaware he was witnessing therapy in motion.

I share this story completely realizing that there are so many many truly awful things that happen to kids, and being laughed at by a “cool” teacher for the size of my chomp is certainly probably only a 7 out of 10 on the Awful Things Scale.

Yes, Reader. A solid 7. It’s my made up scale so you can’t dispute me and win.

But in all serious-ish ness, I have been doing some thinking into how randomly tossed comments – even those made by me, I have no doubt – can really latch into someone’s insecurities and take hold and spend years in their brains doing damage that the random comment tosser has no idea that it even hit the mark, let alone landed and took up residence.

I absolutely don’t have any good advice here. If you’ve made it through any years in life interacting with people, there’s probably a 100% chance you’ve tossed someone a comment that still bugs the fuck out of them, and there’s also probably a 100% chance that some bullshit comment is stuck in your head from someone else.

I guess at the end of the day, it’s Peoples fault that we can’t just always say the nicest things to each other. I have no problem whatsoever and every single day telling DJ how he’s the best and cutest and softest cat in the entire world. And he TOOK A SHIT ON ME and still doesn’t get a harsh word in his direction. There has GOT to be a lesson in here, somewhere.

If you find the lesson, let me know.

If someone has made a random comment that now floats in your insecurities, maybe spend a moment thinking about and making up your own therapy to congratulate yourself for being that way in the first place. If it doesn’t work, try cramming an entire cupcake in your mouth just for fun.

Really, every single day, we alone are responsible for the thoughts we allow ourselves to dwell upon. Why let someone else tell you what to believe about yourself?

I’ll tell you why. Because it’s hard not to, after the words have left the mouth and hang out there in the air and swoop into your ears, which directly funnel into your brain.

Except you can retrain your brain not to believe the lies you’ve been told about yourself. If YOU don’t think you’re awesome, why would anyone else?

For me, I’m going to take large chomps out of everything until I’m damn good and ready not to, which may be never, and keep trying to work on being more thoughtful with my own words.  I know My Mister will appreciate this effort because in full disclosure, I’ve said some rather shitty words to him over the years, lashing out at him I’m sure due to my own dissatisfaction with those seasons of my life.

It’s taken a hundred years* to learn that he is who he is. Just as I am who I am. He can’t change me as much as I can’t change him.

*no hyperbole here in this blog, no sirree.

As an aside, I JUST GOT OFF THE PHONE with My Mister and the conversation went down with him trying to tell me what to do, my telling him to stop bossing me, and then my telling him I’m just now writing a blog talking about how I’m trying to use nicer words towards him so DON’T MAKE IT FUCKING HARD FOR ME TO BE NICE TO YOU.

So I think the lesson here that I couldn’t see before, Reader, is to #1/ take responsibility for yourself to not act like an asshole, and #2/ because it makes it harder for people to speak to you the way they speak love words to their pets and finally, #3/ cram as much in your mouth at a time as you want. I’m not here to judge you. Mostly.

There’s probably a point #4 here along the lines of you’re responsible for what you think of you, do some homework to change the negative talks in your brain, figure out a way to release the power someone’s random comment has over you, blah blah. If you’re the asshole commenter, try not to be. If you are the commentee, positive talk yourself until that’s the track on repeat in your mind. Something like that. Take from this what suits you. Or nothing at all. I’m not here to boss you. At least not right now.


Nothing Much

Hello, Reader, and Good Morning-ish!

I’ve been continuing to practice my morning mantras and meditations, despite the cold and snow. Because I’m a warrior.*

*Not really at all like a warrior. I wrap myself in a blanket for about twenty-five minutes drinking hot coffee. 

I enjoy sitting outside, even with the cold. The cacophony of the birds, a splash of that elusive Cleveland sunshine and a deep appreciation for my pretty pretty neighborhood helps to ground me a bit, at least for a little while.

We haven’t seen our girl Taco the Outdoor Kitty in two weeks now, and I’m getting a little worried she may never show up again.

I keep setting out snacks for her, but so far I’ve only seen the Feral Black Kitty coming around for a bite to eat. He normally runs off, far and fast, as the slightest movement from people, but the other night it was so cold and he must have been pretty hungry. I spotted him outside and opened up a container of canned chicken for him, and he only stepped away and waited in the driveway for me to fill his dish before coming back to gobble it up.

So now I have a Feral Black Kitty I’ve assumed responsibility for, so he needs a proper name. I have just named him Will Feral.

Weather’s predicting we’re in for a shitshow of a snowstorm starting tonight. I’ve got to fill my bird feeder and ensure Will Feral has a stocked dish. I had a little house for him outdoors, but I think that felt too risky for him to use – stranger danger and all that.

In full disclosure, I started this post on Sunday, but didn’t have any more to say so I held off on posting. I thought maybe something else would pop into my head, but it’s already Monday and nothing more has popped into my head.

We’re going to just leave it here.  Sometimes that’s the best we can do.


Takes The Cake

My friend celebrated a birthday at the beginning of the month. No, you don’t need to know how old he is (sssshhhhh….he’s officially an old man but don’t tell him that! also, I know he reads this so haha).

A few years ago he and I went out for lunch and while we were sitting at lunch, I asked him when his birthday was.

His nonchalant and also smug response?  “Today.”

I mean, who does that, Reader?? Who wouldn’t say, when you’re making lunch plans, “that date sounds great, it’s also my birthday!” to give someone a heads-up to at least get a card.

Someone who gets a pay back some day, that’s who, Reader.

Since his birthday happens to fall on Groundhog Day, I haven’t forgotten it since, which says a lot because basically I have a super tough time planning in advance for birthdays. My intentions are always better than my execution. With a lot of things, frankly. Take today, for example. I had big plans to have a lot of tidying done around here because I’m having a couple of friendies over for dinner tomorrow, yet here I sit with not one finger lifted yet, and at the rate I’m finishing up the wine that was opened, it’s going to be a surprise to myself what I actually accomplish tonight. Again, intentions exceed execution.

Fast forward to his birthday this year.


My car had a flat tire so I set My Mister off on a caking for this birthday – he had errands to run on that Friday and I was busy working –  and I was picking the birthday boy up for lunch the following day.

My Mister was given good direction by Trixie the Cake Expert of what to get from one of my favorite local bakeries.

  • Chocolate.
  • Not too feminine in decoration.

That was basically it. I mean, what else is there to say.

So he found a really good cake.

Do you remember that time where I mentioned I’m doing intermittent fasting?

It’s important to remember that right now.

Because it was Friday night and I was in bed, waiting for My Mister to come home from his job.

And I started thinking about that cake, sitting out there all alone in the kitchen.

Feeling unloved.

And I was hungry, because it was well into my fasting hours. I mean, technically it was only four hours into my 16-hour fasting hours, so barely past dinner, but ssshhhhh….Trixie knew there was cake, so close and yet so far away.

She got up to take a look at it. Arguing with herself that she could always just pick up another one on the way out to pick up the birthday boy. And also, he kinda deserves it if she eats a piece in advance anyway, due to the birthday lunch trickery he pulled on her that one time.

It made total sense.

Trixie stood over that cake for a good minute, her fork poised. Knowing once the first fork went in, we were committed to it at that point.

Guess what happened next, Reader?

“Trixie realized this is not the way to intermittent fast, nor is it acceptable to eat a cake you purchased for your friend! and so Trixie put the fork back in the drawer and went back to bed.”

Or another scenario possibly unfolded.

“Trixie stood over that cake, then began singing softly, “Happy birthdayyyy to you…..happpyyy birthdayyyyyy to youuuuuuuu” as she forked into that cake and shoveled a bite right into her cakehole.”

Need we say more? A picture’s worth all the words or something like that, Reader.

My Mister came home as I was eating this very delicious birthday cake.

Him, asking as he came in the front door and could see the light on in the kitchen, “What are you doing up??”

TrixieBB: “Something I should be ashamed about.”

Once he rounded the corner and assessed the cake damages, he decided to fork into it, too, and we both enjoyed Choo’s birthday cake, a day early.

Well, not just both of us. Kitty Purry had some frosting, too.

I considered bringing a half-eaten cake to the birthday boy.  My Mister told me that was even more unacceptable than eating his cake in the first place.

The following day, on the way out to see him, I picked up another cake.

They didn’t have any chocolate, they had strawberry, which was fine, but I assured the birthday boy that the cake we enjoyed the night before was far better. Just so he knows, I bought him a really good cake.

And this is really how I like to enjoy other people’s birthdays, Reader. Eating their cakes. And then eating their replacement cakes with them. And then taking the remainder of the cake home because the birthday boy is dieting. It was the birthday cakes that kept on giving. To me, Reader. Happy Your Birthday to me. 







In the back of my closet hangs a scratchy old polyester striped v-neck shirt.

I pay it little attention, but I’m aware it’s there when I lean in to get dressed for the day.

The other evening I was pulling out clothes for the donation bin, as we all do at the onset of a new year – time to clean the clutter.

Reaching in deep to get to the stuff I rarely wear, my hands brushed against it and I decided to pull it out of the closet and slipped it on, feeling soft and nostalgic and a little bit lonely.

It was my grandmother’s shirt. One I must have seen her wear hundreds of times – enough to make me want to keep it – but I can barely vision her in it now.

It didn’t look like this on her. My image of her was as hearty Czech woman, but she was tinier than I am now, because I remember this shirt – all her shirts – were much looser fitting on her.

I wore this scratchy shirt around that evening, drinking a little wine, and tidying up while listening to music and just letting myself feel the missing.

I miss the family that belonged to me.

I miss my mom.

I miss my grandmother.

I have only a handful of things of my grandmother’s – due to the way things happened when she died, I wasn’t the first one to get to go in and collect mementos. They were picked through by others before me. But I did get two precious things: this shirt, and her coffee cup, which sits in my cabinet and My Mister has been given stern warning he’s not allowed to use it.

Sitting at her kitchen table while she would ask me, “Dolly Girl, how about some tea or coffee?” And she’d put her kettle on the stove and we’d wait for the whistle.

If we were having tea, she’d make it with warm milk and sugar, and if we were having coffee, we had instant Taster’s Choice, also with milk and sugar and it was always always the perfect blend of both.

I’d listen to her stories of the olden days, or her complaints about the cost of beans, drinking them up along with the beverage. Sometimes, if it were an occasion and her sister Anna was visiting there would be boisterous stories the two of them would tell, along with my mom, and sometimes their friend Jules was also there and, Oh! how I loved being twelve and thirteen and fourteen years old and drinking milk tea and listening to those stories about playing “house” in a chicken coup, or my grandpa letting my mom unwrap all her Christmas gifts one year while my grandma was cooking down at the County Home, and then wrapping them back up so my grandma wouldn’t know.

I feel a little broken inside sometimes, with these women of my family gone, now 25 years for my mom and 11 for my grandmother.

When I go out to my childhood home, it’s just hard to reckon that this house – this house – is the one that grew a family of five, and put home-cooked meals on the table, where I exercised on that living room floor to Susan Powter screaming at me to Stop The Insanity, or lay in bed with my mom in the evenings watching “our stories” on a little 15-inch tv. The home where they hosted card games with their friends, and thousands of stuffed cabbages were made, and tomatoes were canned all summer long, and clam bakes were had every fall and summers were spent reading books on the front porch glider, wiling away the days.

It’s just so empty of all that life now. The atmosphere is missing.

I didn’t know why I took this scratchy old polyester shirt when I was eventually allowed to walk through the house and see if there was anything I’d like to have. I didn’t know why I took it, yet it’s hung in the back of my closet now for 11 years as if some part of me knew that one day I’d need to slip into some sort of physical connection.

I’d like to say I felt some magical, ethereal comfort when I slipped it on, but really I didn’t. There was no lingering scent of my grandmother attached, nothing special that would strike anyone else as a reason to keep this at all, and for anyone not knowing why it’s there, they would seriously question my fashion choices. But it was a touchstone for me – a physical reminder that sometimes you need to reach all the way back 35+ years and remember – who and where you came from, the strength and the brashness and the imperfectness and the lovingness of the women that built me.

My friend wrote a piece on grief at the beginning of the month that has stayed with me. In it she expressed the holes – the ones that remain after our loved ones leave us, are theirs and will always belong to them; but they do not remain entirely empty when we pay attention. It’s then, when we still our minds, we can hear them… see them….connect again.

I hung that scratchy old polyester shirt back in my closet, back where it belongs. With me, close enough to reach in and wrap myself in when I need a touchstone to help me pay attention and make those places inside me a little less empty.

Positive Vibe-ing

Gooooood Morning, Reader! I’m hoping this post finds you feeling just ducky today, which I’m not even sure that that means. How do we even know how ducks feel?

Regardless, here we are, hoping you are feeling excited and inspired today!

You can see right here, from this opening, that my outdoor-cold-AF meditation morning routine DOES, in fact, pay off.

Being as it’s Saturday morn and I have the luxury of time, I sat outside drinking up the few beams of sunshine along with my coffee, breathing in the brisk air and getting my mind right for the day listening to not one, but two morning messages.

I’m going go be honest, I still feel like a nutzo when I’m out there repeating my Stuart Smalley mantras. This morning I found myself kinda half-whispering at first, and then I threw my fuckitz to the wind and started saying them like I mean them because number one, not another single person is out there hanging around because it’s cold. That’s enough reason, there is no number two.

Cake showed up at my door one morning this week, as if I had mantra-ed it right into existence, and maybe I did, because the heart wants what the heart wants, and so does the mouth.

I know that I willed this into my life because the very weekend before this cake magically appeared I put out into the vortex, “I really want to make and eat a Ding Dong Cake,” and then I went to the grocery store and bought all the ingredients.

Except I didn’t make and eat a Ding Dong Cake that weekend, because I was lamenting to My Mister that I’ve gained 6 lbs. since I started dieting in January. His reply?

My Mister: “I have three words to explain why. Ding Dong Cake.”

And he literally Ding Dong Cake Shamed me, so I didn’t make one.

But then! My rockets of desire were already launched into the Vortex, and one showed up at my doorstep:

Yes, that’s officially a single-serving size piece that was eaten right out of the pan, so quickly I didn’t even get a photo of it before it was chomped into. I know you’re reading that without judgement, because we’re a no-judging zone, right, Reader? Right.

My friendie made this cake and it was so delicious she just knew I needed it in my mouf, and door dashed it to my doorstep. It was nice to see a friendie face again, I miss socializing. I miss having activities and cheese and wine at my house. When it’s not just me and the cats. I’m still drinking wine and eating cheese by myself, it’s crazy talk to think that’s stopped, however now I have to finish a bottle of wine myself. Which I frankly rarely do, to be honest, so there’s a lot of wasted wine going on over here, which is a petty crime against grapes.

No, I don’t have that cake recipe, but I do need to get that. Because I also had a virtual appointment with my dr. this past week, and she specifically told me I can have cake if I want it, just be mindful of a portion size, and well, I think I did a good job with that because this cake lasted four whole days before it was gone, so good job, Me.

My doctor is a new doctor to me and we had a good discussion and she recommended I try intermittent fasting, and so I started that. And I can have cake within my 8-hour eating window if I want it, and frankly this is the diet of my dreams. One big change I had to make was learning to love drinking my coffee black in the morning, and that is a small change to make if cake and wine and cheese is able to remain in my mouth.

The coffee thing wasn’t nearly as difficult of a change to make as it could have been, I had weaned myself off of flavored coffee creamer over the past year. I never thought I’d be happy without my Almond Joy Coffee creamer, yet here I am, happy without it. So I was already switched to just cream, and now it wasn’t even a hard switch to black this week. It’s fine. Tastes can change and adapt.

So my four days of 16-hour fasting has resulted in a 3 lb. weight loss, and that’s with eating all the cake. I don’t want to get cocky about it, so we’ll leave it there for the moment, until I have a pattern of results, but I’m hopeful that my rockets have been launched and are allowing me to lose weight while having my cake and eating it, too.

Be careful intentional in what you wish for, Reader.

The Princess and the Pee

Reeeder!  I have been walking in tall cotton this year! Things ARE GOING MY WAY and yes, I’m SHOUTY about it, because I have been working like h-e-double-toothpicks to manifest goodness into my world and it was finally time for my open vortex to receive.

I know that sounds super dirty, or else maybe it’s just dirty sounding to me. Either way. I have had a very open vortex, ready to receive. Bada Bing!

This evening I decided to receive some wine into my mouf, and Purry came up to investigate because her belief is, “What’s hers in mine,” and that is mostly true because she’s my beloved old girl and if she wants, then she should damn well have.  Which is almost always anything I have with butter, cheese, an Arby’s roast beef sammy or a fresh glass of water.

She was disappointed in this glass of Malbec, and frankly so am I.

p.p.s.s. — worth noting: this 2nd photo has two round orbs in it! they were not in any of the photos before or after, so I don’t think it’s just a dirty camera. The spirits are around my spirits!

It’s Costco brand, and it was rather inexpensive so I bought TWO bottles because see opening statement about high cotton. I thought the saying might be “tall clover” and I think it can be both. So I’m in tall clover and high cotton, but this wine is drier / more tannin-y than I prefer and now what am I going to do with it other than drink it, I guess.

I’m not in such tall clover that I can afford to squander a perfectly okay bottle of vino. I’m not a Rockefeller.

Are you sitting there scrutinizing those photos, Reader, and wondering what the what that white patch is on my table?

Well, it’s just a big problem that I single-handedly created when I spilled a bottle of 100% acetone on the table and didn’t notice, and guess what happens to the finish on your wood table when that happens?? You don’t actually have to guess, you can see for yourself. I have big plans to paint this with some dark grey chalk paint, and then do a stencil on it and this happened a few months ago and I haven’t painted it yet, so it may turn into a Spring project.  I can only do so much, Reader, sheesh, stop judging me! 90-Day Fiancé isn’t going to watch itself.

The table and the wine are not the reason I feel drunk with purchasing power. No, it’s much more basic than that.

We splurged a whole hunny on a new mattress topper and it is currently doing it’s expanding foam thingy and boy-o-boy am I excited at the cloud of softness that awaits me, I hope tonight.

We took our old one off the bed because someone not me or My Mister PEED ON THE BED ONCE AGAIN, and yes, I’m pointing the finger of blame at Purry, but see above, she’s old and gets away with all her bad behavior. She’s taught me unconditional love, that is her life lesson to me.

Anyway, while My Mister and I were doing an 11 p.m. bedding presto-chango, we were disheartened to see how yellowed our 10-or-more-years-old foam topper was looking and then I caught a whiff of pee and we just aren’t sleeping on even a whiff of pee. So it was gathered up and shoved in the garage until trash day, and then we slept on our Low Bed, because it lost 3-inches in height.

My Mister: “I feel like I’m sleeping on the floor.”

Trixie: “Ditto. I hate it. Maybe the pee smell wasn’t really there after all and we should put it back on the bed?”

My Mister: “We’re not sleeping in a pee bed.”

I think that’s a pretty fair benchmark.

So today, because I have the luxury this week of not being broke off my ass any longer, thanks New Job!, we splurged and bought the new mattress topper.

Cats are locked out of the room.  At least for now.

It takes very little for us to feel like Rockefeller’s. Not sleeping in a pee bed is a pretty basic standard.

Life is good enough at Chez Bang Bang.

Wishing you the same, Reader!

**I want to acknowledge that I feel like I’ve got the world by the tail at the moment, despite the cat peeing on my bed.  Attitude, Reader. It’s all about maintaining that positive attitude.


Here We Go, 2021.

If it’s true that how you spend the first day of the New Year dictates the rest of the year, I am in for a lot of sleep and chocolate cake, which frankly sounds like I’ll be living my best life ever.

With the thought in the back of my mind that what I do today could in fact have a bearing on the rest of my year, I did make a concerted effort to also engage in the following activities:

1/  Stand outside on the deck and stretch and take some yoga-breaths in and out, despite getting rained upon, because nature is good for the soul, even when you’re viewing the destruction of December’s storm to your backyard, knowing that Mother Nature is a Mother who does what the hell she wants.

2/ Drink a good amount of water, including a bottle of San Pellegrino, which I’ve added to my daily-ish routine since reading about the health benefits of adding this mineral-rich water to my bod

3/ Take all my meds and vitamins on their routine, which has slacked off during the last few weeks of pre-post-pre-post-pre-post holidays since Thanksgiving, which is a whole of of pre and posting holiday excuses to justify why I forgot to take my Vitamin C et al.

4/ Did some stretching around, because I do yoga. I mean, in the loosest sense of the word, but I started it last January or and while I haven’t kept it up on the daily, I’ve kept it up a whole hella lot more than I did any other year before.

So basically, today was about balance. Balancing out my noon wakey-up-y with some outdoorsy breathing and cooking for my blind raccoon and eating more chocolate cakey, and also having a pint of raspberries because nutrition, and drinking water and making spaghetti sauce and now here we are, typing up a New Years non-inspirational message of hope, but more of, “Let’s just do the best we can more often than not, and if we can’t do the best we can every single day because we’re tired sometimes, just try to balance it out with some water and raspberries and maybe a vitamin so we don’t feel all sluggy and feed something that needs a meal and can say, “Pretty Good Job, Me,” at the end of the day.

That’s my wish for you, Reader, as we leap into 2021. That every single day you have at least one reason to say, “Pretty good job, Me.”

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