Sunday, December 28, 2014

Wanderer

It goes without saying that I am not exactly a crafty person. At all. Back in my olden married days, I had an entire attic of "good attempts" - projects that I wanted to craft & create that never really panned out.  

Once I moved I pretty much tossed all that out and realized that it's better for me to just buy the cute craft I see, rather than spending twice as much on supplies and never having a finished product. 

That's worked out pretty well, but sometimes I still get the urge of "I Can Do It!" and the cycle begins again. Currently in my upstairs closet I have a half-finished bag from when I took a sewing class, a bag of yarn and knitting tools from when I was going to create knitted awesomeness and instead have little swatch of fabric barely big enough to cover a cat, and a cake decorating kit from when I thought it make perfect sense because cake. Until I got so sick of making buckets of frosting to practice with, it almost ruined my love for cake and I shelved that whole thing and kept my cake love pure. 

So yeah, not really the crafty person.   Which also lends itself right into decorating, I'm not really much of a home decorator, either. I have things in my home, Reader, but mostly it's because Vera Wang came here and hung up all my pictures in about 30 minutes flat, or else I'd still probably have naked walls. 

We had very little personal items hung up, either. In fact, not a one. So when I decided to create a Wander Wall as my entranceway focal point, I had mixed emotions about it. Because years of failure.  I had spent about $80 on some photos to try to create an interesting wall when you were welcomed in to Chez Bang Bang, but it was three tree pictures and I never really liked them, and no one else ever walked in and said, "Wowie, look at that feature wall!" or if they did they didn't mean it in a good way.  So it was always sort of "meh."  

Then I went to a friends house and got inspired. She had some quote and her own photos on canvas around it and I thought, "There! That is exactly what I'm going to create on my long wall!" 

And then a couple of months went by while I percolated on the idea, finally pulling the trigger on purchasing a $20 wall decal. A wall decal which I frankly wasn't sure I had the know-how to adhere to my wall. Because craft. 

It arrived, and I let it sit in the box for a good month or so. And then one night I said in my brain, "Fuck it, just do it." And so Kenny and I clung our wall decal to the wall. It was hard. But turned out really pretty great.

And then I considered just letting it sit there, because what if the rest of the idea ended up sucking. But one day I said in my brain, "Fuck it, just order some photos!" and so I did, from Walmart, and started my Wander Wall of some of my favorite photos. 




I still have a few more photos to pick up, they are mounted on little square boxes.  And the one at the top is my favorite photo from my last trip with my friendie, from Belize. 

I realized that most of my favorite photos involve a beach.  

Some of them involve My not-really-my-ex* Mister. Because those times? Were some of the most fun times we've had. And they make me happy and smiley when I see them.   

*we never really were able to make the break up quite stick, and then I just got tired of fighting it and said in my brain, "Oh, what the hell!" and that's what all great relationships are based on, right? Right.

So while it's not exactly a craft, and I wasn't inspired by Pinterest, I think I've created a Pinterest-worthy wall.  And Chez Bang Bang is finally starting to reflect the people who live here, in more ways than just by having piles of cats on the couch.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

Being Today

I turned 48 last month.  I'm okay with getting older. Really. I think what my dad says has finally sunk in, 'It sure beats the alternative." 

In no particular order of importance, here's what I (think I) know being 48. 


  • Being 48 makes me see that there are worse alternatives. 
  • Being 48 looks like pillow lines pressed in my face that take a few hours to smooth out.
  • Being 48 makes me not really like the way my years-of-sun-damaged-chest looks.
  • Being 48 takes a while for me to get moving in the morning. It makes me also worry what 68 is going to feel like. 
  • Being 48 has me thinking hard about the number of years I still have left to work, and wondering if I'll have enough money to reap the rewards of my hard work in my "old age." 
  • Being 48 makes me not care so much what other people think about me.  Either you like me, or you don't. "I'm not for everyone, and everyone's not for me," is something someone once said and it's a good reminder. 
  • Being 48 makes me wonder how long I'm going to wait to do what I think I can do, like write some sort of a silly little book. Because if I don't do it now, when am I going to do it? 
  • Being 48 makes me wonder if writing a book is even worth the effort in today's day & age, because who even cares. 
  • Being 48 brings a war in my brain of, "so what, just do it anyway, because you're not getting any younger." In your 30's you don't think "you're not getting any younger" because you're still young. 
  • Being 48 makes me not ashamed to hug my friends hard and say "I love you." And I'm not a hugger or an I love you-er but I'm trying harder. 
  • Being 48 makes me okay with having 8 rescued cats, despite the opinions of other that it's a crazy amount of cats. I know it's a crazy amount of cats. I also know that letting them die because of a number that seems too big is even crazier. 
  • Being 48 makes me grateful that I'm in somewhat relatively okay health. I mean, considering I had knee x-rays done over the summer and was told I have knees that are going to need replaced sooner rather than later due to severe arthritis, but in the meantime we're just taking some pills and they seem to be helping. 
  • Being 48 makes me realize that having arthritis isn't the worse thing I could have, even though it hurts most days. 
  • Being 48 means that while I'm quite aware I'm far from perfect, but I'm trying to be the best version of myself. When you know better, you can do better. I'm working on better. 
  • Being 48 makes me okay with singing in public. Because who cares, and it's fun. 
  • Being 48 is a work in progress.



Sunday, December 21, 2014

New Things In My Mouth

Hi Reader. It's been a while since you learned what I've put in my mouth lately. I know, I know.  You're disappointed. So here it is, the latest thing that's been in my mouth (that's worthy of mention). 



Salted. Carmel. Nutella knockoff. 

Reader. When I got this home and opened the jar, the smell alone was something sent down from the heavens. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I didn't even get a spoon, I stuck my tongue out and LICKED IT right out of the jar. Like an ant-eater. Or something with a long and snaky tongue that licks out of jars. Whatever thing that would be, that's what I was. 

Kenny was less than thrilled to watch that, because while he's had his tongue in my mouth etc., many many many times over the past 9 years, he still didn't want to eat any of this after my tongue was buried in the jar.  Sort of like how you don't want to ever use anyone else's toothbrush despite the sharing of bodily fluids, because ewww. 

So the jar was mine, all mine. 

I finally found a suitable vessel to bring this ambrosia into my lips, in the form of 'nilla wafers and bananas. 

It's been a good time around here in my mouth. 

Now if Nabisco would get off their ass and jump on the Salted Carmel bandwagon and do a little something with the next phase of the Oreo, we could live happily ever after. And if you see them out in the marketplace Reader, please send a photo. Because I'll want a cut of the profits, Nabisco, for my brilliant idea. Or at the very least a job offer for coming up with the next great taste in Oreos. Which would actually be my dream job. 

Nabisco? Please email to schedule an appointment, I can be available.  I've got plenty more ideas for the Oreo, that was just an easy-peasy no-hard-thinking involved money-in-the-bank idea.  Think of what I could come up with if I had a glass of milk and unlimited supply of the cookie. Other than diabetes and a fat(ter) ass. 

Thursday, December 18, 2014

In Sickness and In Health

Ho-Ho-Ho, Reader!  I've been crickets for a bit, I came down with some sort of a flu-type bug while at Tiny Town last Thursday.  I was sitting in yet another waaaay-tooooo-looooong meeting, looking for my exit strategy just in case it came down to it, and  then they wheeled lunch in, and it was time to exit.

I excused myself, grabbed up my computer, a bunch of random papers, my purse and beelined for Chez Bang Bang. And I mean beelined, Reader. I looked down at one point and was pushing the pedal to the medal at 80, which is really quite risky for my old-lady-granny driving style. 

So then the flu caught me, and I was laid up in bed for 2 1/2 solid days, wherein my fever-riddled body became the perfect cat mattress.




I was too sick to even know his toddler-sized ass was even on me, and while I'd like to think he was just trying to hug me and bring me comfort, we both know he was heat miser-ing that fever offa me. 

He's a user, is what it boils down to.

Luckily I had Kenny here to tend to my every need, wherein by "tend" I mean he left me the hell alone and let me sleep until I just couldn't sleep anymore, which was sometime on Sunday.  He did bring home White Castle hamburgers on Friday, because that's the perfect "feed a fever" food, as we all know.  In fact, we were watching - well, I should say I was zoning in and out of - Saturday Night Fever because completely fitting, and in one scene they were cooking White Castle hamburgers on the grill and about thirty minutes passed and I said, "I must be having some hallucinations because all I can smell are White Castle onions!"  That's when Kenny confessed that he'd eaten 10 of them or something obscene like that, and I was smelling his breath in the room.  

Which is less enticing than it sounds, Reader. Much. Much. Less. 

So I wasn't hallucinating at all to Saturday Night Fever, it was the smell of White Castle in the room, wherein Life Imitated Art. Which calling Saturday Night Fever "art" is really a stretch because that movie was horrible, Reader. There was a whole gang-bang rape scene for poor, scorned-by-Tony Donna right in the back of the car, and when she was done getting raped, Tony, aka John Travolta turned around with small lips and sneered, "There, are you happy now??" 

Because clearly her tears were tears of joy. Clearly. 

And then the other guy jumped off a bridge and killed himself because he'd gotten some other girl pregnant, and Donna, who'd just been raped, sought comfort from the whole thing in the raper's arms. Because naturally. 

So really, not how I'd remembered that movie at all. Why did I think it had more dancing? 

It could have used more dancing. 

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Copy Catters

This is a Throwback Post, Reader, but we're only throwing back all the way to this past Halloween. Because I am not very timely as I spend my time on ... well, I'm not really sure what exactly. I assure you nothing meaningful. 

My friend posted this to my Facebook today. And I'm pretty sure I have a lock on a lawsuit because they must have been following me around on Halloween, saw the genius of my costume and copy-catted me (gold star for my very intentional pun) into Action Figure Me. Quickly. 




Real Life Me at Halloween, complete with pink robe. 



Now, Reader, the really disturbing part of the whole ensemble that I whipped up for Halloween was that I had all of these items in my possession, save for a clean litter scooper and that sexy cat headband.

Action Figure Me missed the mark by not including the litter scooper, nor the Hello Kitty pajama pants, which were underneath my robe. 

I'm a bit offended that they gave Action Figure Me such an unattractive and manly face, because not even close to the beauty of Trixie Bang Bang. 

But the biggest discrepancy between Action Figure Me and Real Me? They think six cats is all ya need to wear the crown, wherein a crown is hair rollers and a headband with kitty ears. 

The real life Trixie Bang Bang? 
COMES WITH 8 CATS! 






Saturday, December 6, 2014

Read Between The Lines




That is a lot of promise in packaging right there, Reader. 

It effectively did it's job, as it stopped me in my tracks as I was shopping around for absolutely nothing important.

Because my life could really use a change.  It's not horrible, at all, and I'm still grateful and all that jazz, but it could seriously use some improvements.   

Of course I had to pick it up and check the price tag. I was willing to put up twenty-five large (that's dollars, not thousand -this is middle-class America, not Beverly Hills). When I saw that I could Change My Life for $12.99, in my cart it went.  

I knew even as I was putting it in my buggy that I was probably wasting $13.  But on the slim chance it could change my life, well, I wasn't willing to risk not taking the risk. 

I expected a new job, a husband, weight loss and a house that cleaned itself when I opened this up. 

So far, none of that has happened. And oh, by the way, I'm still having bad hair days, too. I think I've used too many squirts at once, because it oiled me up and it looked like I needed a good hair-scrubbing right after I'd gotten done scrubbing it.  

I guess my life did change, as I had to shower more often than before. So there ya have it. Truth in advertising after all.They never said it was going to change for the better. That was the customer's (a.k.a Gullible Trixie Bang Bang) pollyanna, glass-half-full interpretation.  You could probably sell me some ocean front property in Arizona, too. Because I love the beach, and Arizona is quite sandy, from what I've been told. 





Thursday, December 4, 2014

Vegan Friendly

Words I texted tonight:  "I found the missing potato!!!" 

I was three-exclamation-points excited to find that missing potato, which has been MIA since before Thanksgiving.  

If you've ever had a potato go bad in your house, you'll know why it was so important to find it.  A rotting potato = peee-ewwww.  And then they start to decompose like a corpse, and turn mushy and squishy and I just really have enough smells to combat around Chez Bang Bang without yet another one thrown into the mix. 

My potato was missing because see below:


I was going to photo-shop out the bottle of cleaner seen in the picture, because it makes my counter top look untidy, but then I thought it's actually proof that I clean, so it's not lazy housekeeping at all, but more like a Good Housekeeping gold star of approval by keeping it out in the open.  I so far haven't come up with a good explanation on why I've left packing tape on the counter since Sunday. I'll come up with some rationale, just give me a minute or two..or three.

After I found the rogue potato, Gussie thought I'd brought him a new toy and wanted to have another go at it.



He's also the reason the tomato I had on the counter had teeny-tiny little vampire bite marks in it.  

Maybe he's a vegan, like my bad-ass plant eater friend The Hoff.  I'd be happy to never put vegan cheese - also known as not-even-close-to-being cheese - in my mouth ever again. He's welcome to it. 
.


Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Back Door

Last night I got a Cleveland Steamer from Girl Cat.  

I'm not sure if a Cleveland Steamer is exactly the right phrase, because I'm not sure if the exact right phrase even exists, but I know for sure she didn't give me a Dirty Sanchez, because I just looked that up on Urban Dictionary and first, EWWWWW and second, WHY and third, Thank GOD I have never had the need to know what that is. 

I'll wait for you go get back from checking it out. You know you're going there right now.  

Okay, are you good and grossed out now?  I hope so. This will now seem like a pleasant little read.

So back to it. Last night Girl Cat gave me some sort of a Steamer.

You see, Kenny was over and the cat was around. I said, "I smell poop!" And he said, "Eh, boy, we'd better check it out." 

We hauled her into the bathroom and did our routine: He holds the front part, and lucky me, I get to do the dirty work. But not the Dirty Sanchez work.The front part isn't really a great time, either, by the way, because she's a biter. Hard. She means business when you're messing around her business.

I lifted her tail and saw the culprit holding onto her fur.  Using a baby wipe, I plucked it out. And then I figured I'd better tidy up the fur area just a bit with some new baby wipes, and I guess all that tugging and wiping around back there .... well, the next thing ya know, she fired liquid shit right out of her ass and it landed in a steaming splatter on my arm.

Reader. I've never. Ever. Ever. had hot steaming poop shoot out of an ass and land on me.

Reader. I could live the rest of my life happily without ever experiencing that again. In fact, I dearly hope that's the case.

Kenny has said before, "With Great Fur, Comes Great Responsibility."

Yes. yes it does. And tolerance. And fortitude. And other words I'm not quite sure of, but something more, because, Reader, that was an event.  And now I've shared it with you, so it's almost like we experienced it together, only not really because I'm the only one who had to shower afterwards.  


Sunday, November 30, 2014

Does Not Meet (Expectations)

I really thought I'd have it all together once I lived at Chez Bang Bang by myself. Here's how I thought it would go down.

What I thought would happen: I'd go to be bed at a reasonable hour, resetting my fucked-up internal body clock. I've seen enough House Hunters, Diners Drive-Ins & Dumps, and every episode of Seinfeld and Big Bang, I don't need to waste precious sleeping hours watching more.

What really happens: Still rolling around in bed til 2 a.m., watching infomercials and other banal telly.  And then I've stayed up so long I'm hungry again, so I need a snack. And then the cats want a snack, too, so we're all standing in the kitchen eating. At 2 a.m. 

What I thought would happen: I'd become an early riser on the weekends. An early riser by my standards, Reader, not some crazy person's standards. My standards equal getting up somewhere in the neighborhood of 9 a.m. Or 9:30.  Surely by 10. 

What really happens: I still roll out between 11 and noon. See above point. I may wake up earlier, but then I find every good reason to just loll around in bed for a while longer. Where "a while" equals several more hours and then I'm staring noon in the face. 

What I thought would happen: I'd take those extra hours I gained in the morning and hit the gym, firming up my fat and getting it bikini-ready (well, that's hyperbole, we both know that, but you know, something less jiggly and large). 

What really happens: I think about going to the gym. Then I make breakfast, which should really be called lunch due to the time of day it happens, and eat some sort of cake that I have leftover from something.  And make plans in my mind for Evening Me to go to the gym. Which never happens, because Evening Me says fuck you to Morning Me who makes those plans. 

What I thought would happen: I'd really take some pride in my appearance, paying extra special attention to my grooming with no one here to interrupt me. 

What really happens: I haven't showered since Thursday night. Part of the reason I tossed and turned last night was because my legs are so prickly and my hair is so dirty, I was bothering myself on all ends.  I do brush my teeth, but that's as far as it's gone this weekend.  Yesterday was Pajama Saturday.  Which, as I pointed out on Facebook, is an exercise in efficiency, because it makes getting ready for bed a snap. 

What I thought would happen: I'd maximize the quiet time in the house to start my book idea, and have a finished product by next summer.

What really happens: I play Candy Crush, read the same shit over and over again on Facebook, read about Snooki getting married, check out Kim K.s Instagram photos, and delete my Twitter account because I just don't have the time to send Tweets out into the Interwebs.  But you do get this, Reader. You're welcome.

What I thought would happen: The house would be spic & span at all times. Because there's only me.

What really happens: I forgot the part where I live with eight (don't judge me, Reader! I'm well aware that is a very large number) furry ninja assholes. Who knock over furniture, scatter any random paper left out, track kitty litter through the house and sometimes forget where they are supposed to pee.  The answer is litterbox, not my bathroom rug, in case you were wondering. 





What I thought would happen: I'd have zero amount of dirty laundry, and it would all be hung in closets on color-coordinated hangers and I'd put my work outfits together for the entire week on Sunday nights, complete with accessories. 

What really happens: Went to switch the laundry around last night, got distracted, didn't do it, shut the dryer door. Woke up this morning (well, afternoon...is it still considered morning if it's the time you wake up?), opened the dryer and two kittens jumped out. 

Yep.  I accidentally locked Walter WhiteEars and Gussy in the dryer. For at least 12 hours.   

Guess who pooped in the dryer?    

And with just me here, guess who got to clean poop out of the dryer? 

Me. That's who.  

So I coulda killed the kittens, and now I'm cleaning shit out of the dryer.  I needed to use a screwdriver on a cloth to get it out of a groove in the back of the dryer. All before my first cuppa coffee. It was awesome.  

What it boils down to: Reader, my life has gotten more glamorous being by myself here at Chez Bang Bang. Don't be jealous.  It's not all hats & horns.  





Saturday, November 29, 2014

Thankful

I stood in the doorway leading out to my deck, fresh brewed cuppa coffee with french vanilla creamer in hand, watching the kittens romp in the snow.  And my only thought was, "I am so very very lucky." 



"I'm lucky" was my brain's refrain as I looked around at my life. 

From my house that I adore and feel so very fortunate to get to live in....

To the ridiculous amount of kittens that I own and am fortunate to be able to afford to rescue..



The smell of lunch cooking in the kitchen...

The heat from the fireplace warming me...

The sound of the creek babbling below me...

And my view that I get to see when I step outside. 



I hope you, Reader, are as fortunate as I am today. 





Sunday, November 23, 2014

Deflowered.

For my birthday I was treated to a new iPhone by the Mister (Kenny, in case you couldn't figure that out, which could be confusing because My Life Lately- who knows).  He usually buys us the upgrades, and we were due as we were both walking around like nerds with dorky iPhone 4S's.  It was embarrassing. 

We went to the store for the upgrade, and we traded in our old phones, too, because the last time the dude told us that we'd get more money for them if we sold them ourselves and we never did that so we got zero dollars. We learned from our past mistake and were happy to take the hundred bucks for each phone.  

In the process of trading in the phones, I needed to disengage the "Find my iPhone" app that was installed on the phone.  

Reader. 

This is where it all went haywire. 

Because I always always always have trouble logging into my app store, something to do with the fact I don't sync up my stuff to my computer at home, because I am of the belief that when my phone and computer sit next to each other on the table they should "cloud up" and just sort of know what the other thing is doing, because Steve Jobs promised they would. Or if he didn't promise that, it's what I was led to believe and now he's dead, so I have misplaced anger when my stuff doesn't work.

After several futile password attempts the Best Buy Guy said, "Hey, maybe I can log in on the computer and we can access your account that way." 

Seems like a good idea. Right, Reader? 

Except to access my account on the computer we had to go to my security question.  Let me go on the record as stating that usually my brother sets up all my Apple products, and syncs them and whatnot, and generally steps in where Steve Jobs fails me. The account the Best Buy Guy was accessing was an email account I didn't even know I had, so I'm under the belief that it was one my brother set up for me, to make everything back up and cloud together. 

So The Guy retrieves my security question and reads it out loud, in tandem with my reading it on the computer screen: "WHO TOOK MY FLOWERS"  he reads. Loudly. Very loudly.  

It took my brain about a half second to process that question, realizing he read it not quite right, and my security question was in fact "WHO TOOK MY FLOWER" which sounds a whole lot less innocent than some random thief who may have at one time stole a vase of wildflowers from me. 

Did I say The Guy read this question out loud? Loudly? So loud, the couple sitting next to me uttered an, "Oh my!" and all the remaining Best Buy Guys beelined over to me because now I've definitely got everyone's interest.

I'm not one to normally embarrass.  I mean, it can be done, but it takes a lot. The Mister told me he'd never seen my face turn that deep a shade or red so fast, and in fact I actually hid my face in my coat, with an "Oh, my God!" escaping from my lips in the process, and then I started laughing to the point that tears were rolling down my face. 

Once my Best Buy Guy realized what the question was, he started laughing, too, and I think he wanted to ask me on a date, and then the other guys said, "In all my years, I've never had that as a security question before!" Of course not, Guy.  And  also, you were like twenty years old, so it's not like you've had a ton of "all my years" under your belt. But to his point, normal people choose questions like "What was your high school mascot" or "Name your childhood best friend" and steer clear of security questions that bring their vagina into play.   On the other hand, it's not like one ever expects that question to get read aloud in a crowded store, either. 

I still needed to answer the security question, and luckily I guessed correctly or that would have been even MORE humiliating, but I got it right on the first try. Which, I will go on the record as stating that perhaps this IS the best security question, because your high school mascot can change if you switch schools, and most people have more than one best friend, so really it seems like the best question ever.  You're welcome to steal it, Reader.  I'd tell you the answer, but that's between me and everyone who was at Best Buy that day.  It's our little secret.  

Now the only question I have left to ask is, did I choose that question myself or did my brother set that one up for me? Because it seems like it would be something he would do seeing as he's a fan of Friends and Monica was always talking about her flower, but at the same time he also knew the answer, which is more information about my vagina than he probably ever needs to know.  I really can't image setting that question up for myself, because 'my flower"?  Would I really type that?? I just don't know, Reader. Some days I just don't know. 

And oh by the way, Reader, I found out that stupid ringtones don't switch over to new phones, so I had my $1.39 Shake It Off for about one whole week and two dances before I lost it all. Gone. Just like my flower. 

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Renewal.

It's my Birfday Weekend, Reader. Which means a time for cake, more cake, cake some more, general shenanigans, and then reality, also known as Driver's License Renewal Time. 

I hate Responsibility smack-dab in the middle of Frosting. But lucky enough, I remembered on Saturday that I needed to get my license renewed, as well as new stickers for my plates.  Renewing my license comes with it's own style of stress. I don't want a sucky picture, because I have to show everyone every time I try to buy beer.  So I had to pay special attention to making an effort, like having clean hair, and throwing on some clothes that will help me attempt to look like I weigh what my driver's license says. 


I got to the BMV..or DMV...or whatever it's called with fifteen minutes to spare before closing.  I was primped and ready to pose for my four-year photo.  And then I saw that fucking eye test machine and my brain said, "Oh, Fuck." 


Yep. I'd forgotten all about that stupid eye test, which had the possibility of making me non-renewable. I can see fine, Reader, just fine - I'm not going to be expected to read teensy weensy Line 5 Random Letters while I'm driving. They should have more realistic eye test things, like reading a great big word STOP or street names. Not 5BF9o(or is it a zero?)5tbfx8(or is it a six?).  Who SEES that while driving? No one, Reader. That's who. 


But before I even made it over to the eye test, my renewal trip hit a snafu. 


BMV lady: "Did you get an e-check?" 

TBB: stares at her. 
BMV lady: "Because you need one before I can give you a new sticker." 
TBB's Brain: Looks at sign about the penalty for supplying fraudulent documents.  Wonders if that counts just for lying, too. 
BMV lady: "Ma'am?"
TBB: "Uh. Why would I need to do that on a relatively new car?" 
BMV lady: "We just started doing it on 2010's. See how your paper that you handed me say's "E-Check - and it's marked YES." 
TBB: "Uhhhh. Yes. yes! I did get one! It was great!"
BMV lady: "The computer says ya didn't." 
TBB's Brain: so basically that question was entrapment. shakes fist in frustration. 
BMV lady: "But I can still renew your license, step over to the eye test machine."
TBB's Brain: Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck. 

So I stepped over to the eye machine, trying my best to charm her along the way, all ha-ha-ha'ing and whatnot. 


I pressed my forehead to the machine and my brain thought, "Piece of cake! - I can see all those top lines just fine." 


Then the BMV lady said, "Read Line 5." 


TBB: "Line 5?? The teensy line in the dark??! Well, there's just no way in the world I'm going to pass this, I can tell you right now." 


BMV lady: "Oh, wait, let me turn the light on."


TBB: ~shew~


Once the light was on, Line 5 only got marginally better. So I used my strategy of reading really fast, so her brain would be a step behind my words. 


Unfortuately, her brain sort of caught up. 


BMV lady: "Wanna try that again?" 


TBB: "Not really...but here goes.   B587960CVX8..." 


BMV lady: "could that 8 be a 6?" 


TBB: "Yep, I think that is a 6, I misspoke!" 


After a couple harrowing tries, and blaming it on allergies?? - because there's a foot of snow on the ground right now, so all those snow pollens are flying around in the air - she passed me. 


It's not going to go well four years from now, Reader. I can see THAT plain as day.


So I'm legal to drive, Reader. I hope my car does better on her e-check test than I did on my eye test. 


Friday, November 14, 2014

Ta-Duh!

Based on my actual life, my to-do list should look like this, Reader:


  1. Pet cats.
  2. Shower. Complete with washed hair and everything. That's a big deal, especially as my house was 62-damn-degrees this morning. I've got a very complicated thermostat and am not quite sure how to reset since the time change. 
  3. Bake cupcakes.
  4. Eat cupcake(s) - no judging on the quantity, Reader, it's Birthday Weekend, ergo, as many cupcakes as I choose to cram in my cakehole is the appropriate number of cupcakes.
  5. Make executive decision that it's too treacherous to attempt to drive to work. In a teensy convertible. Thanks, Mother Nature. Really. I think this is my birthday weekend gift. 
  6. Take picture of cupcake. 
  7. Post picture of cupcake to Facebook. Because, Reader, my friendies need to see it, not just hear about it. As do you. Lucky you. Ahem.
  8. See what everyone else is up to on Facebook. 
  9. Post pictures of Kittens Being Cute to Facebook.
  10. Acknowledge I should be doing something productive. 
  11. Think I should blog about this. Do it. Half way through realize this is a poor use of my time. Do it anyway. 
That's a way more accurate to-do list if we're thinking about what actually gets to-done around here. 

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Haters Gonna Hate

I'm really jamming on that gol'darn T-Swift's new song, Shake It Off. So much so, Reader, that I spent a whopping $1.29 + $0.10 tax on the dern thing to have as my ringtone, usurping Pink's Raise Your Glass in the process. 

I don't dole out the scratch very often on new ringtones. I don't have my phone set up with different songs for different folks. I pick one and it rings for all, and I don't change it often. I'm talking years, Reader - years (at least 2 years, anyway)!  So this was a big move for me. 

The other night my brother was over and I made him call me while we stood in the driveway together. 

Because since loading up my new song, not a single soul had called me. Several days had passed. That's how popular I am. 

Ahem. 

So once my new T-Swift ringtone rang, I broke into my dance moves I'd been saving up to do with that song, much to my brother's dismay delight. 

He commented, "Well, maybe you'll lose a little weight with all that song cardio you're doing, if you can just get some people to call you." 

I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. So it was a slam, bam, thank you ma'am, with a double dose of insult right there - I'm fat, and a friendless loser.  That's the beauty of brotherly love. We then went out and had big salads together. 

On to my next thing. 

Today I said this to my boss:

"I'm sorry, I just fingered your box, right after you got it all clean." 

Then we looked at each other, and I ran out of her office.  

Sometimes context is everything, Reader. You've gotta know the context, or it just sounds - or looks - bad. 

Should I tell you the context surrounding that statement, or just let ya wonder? I think I'm done explaining myself for now, and will let you just enjoy it for what it is and make up your own scenario. Trust me, anything you can think up will probably be more fun that what was actually going on. In the meantime, I've got some new dance moves to choreograph.  



Sunday, November 2, 2014

Now With More Flavor

I'm in love. L.O.V.E.  The Real Thing, Reader. 

I expected it to be cheesy and overdone, I guess I thought I'd seen it all since I've seen it in Vegas. 

But when I stepped out of the train station and got my first glimpse of Venice, it was love at first sight. 

I arrived as dusk was falling, and believe you me, that is the time for your first impression of Venice. The lights are just starting to twinkle on the water. 








So not like Vegas at all. 

These are just a few snaps of some of my favorite parts. No, not the food. I actually lost 4 lbs. in Venice. The food was not the biggest attraction. At all. On my first night there I stopped at a restaurant that looked good enough and close to my hotel, in the Castello neighborhood.  On the recommendation of the waitress I ordered a traditional Venetian dish. Wait, is that right - Venetian? - or am I still confused with the magic of Vegas? Well, whatevs. It was a traditional dish, of polenta - which is Depression Food that my grandmother cooked often and I like - and then sardines and a sweet & sour sauce. 

It was rather yucky. 

Good thing there's plenty of wine to wash it all down. And thanks to Facebook, I just learned that a glass of red wine is equivalent to an hour's worth of exercise, so guess who began a new exercise regimen starting last week. It's rhetorical, Reader - we both know it's me. And you should have a glass of red, too, because all the experts say we'll have a better chance of sticking to our new exercise routine if we do it together.  

I'll wait while you go pour yourself a glass. 

Alrightie. Now that we're working out together, I'll share just a few more snippets of my wonderful week in Milano and Venice. It was wonderful. I made new friends, and we exercised quite often together in the evenings.  

Tidbit #1
Upon checking into my hotel in Venice, I discovered that they really take their love seriously. Instead of shampoo, my hotel provided a travel sized bottle of Intimate Cleanser. 



Upon sharing this learning with my Facebook Friends ~ahem~ a few select comments followed:

Looks like you used it all?



I am not sure if that bottle is big enough for the task at hand...


The second comment was from my younger brother, which while funny enough is also disturbing, and the bottom line is that the consensus is that folks think my vagina area is in need of a good cleaning and/or is gigantic. 

Both may be accurate. Are probably accurate. But to go on the record, the intimate cleanser is CLEAR, I didn't use it, as I was in Venice sans lover, and my twat was fine. Or at least if it wasn't, there was  no one there to tell me any different.  

Tidbit #2
Europe had it's time change last weekend while I was there. So I gained an extra hour of something, but since my body clock was already so fucked up from the six hour time difference - which it never did adapt to - I'm not even sure what that meant. 

This weekend was our time change, which also happens to be my most favorite day of the year, even more than Christmas, because I heart sleep that much. And it coincided with the start of Birthday Month for me, which is NOW, so start your shopping, Reader- the clock is a tickin' - use that extra hour you gained wisely, a.k.a., shopping for me. Since I just started a new exercise routine, some wine glasses would be a nice addition to my workout equipment. 

The point is, I think  I gained two hours in the past week, and yet I didn't accomplish a fucking thing with them. So basically if I'm granted more hours in the day, I just sleep more and still wake up tired. God knows I didn't spend them watching Honey Boo Boo, because Tidbit #3.

Tidbit #3
I leave the United States of America for a week, and Honey Boo Boo goes off the air.  I used valuable International Minutes to keep up with the shenanigans. Go ahead and judge me, Reader. I judged me the entire time I was downloading all the sordid stories. 

Tidbit #4 
Italians eat entirely too much meat with added fat chunks. While we had some really good food, there was also some really gross food, and not a whole lot in the fruits and vegetables arena, unless you count the stomped grapes.  And they are scrimpy with the water, pouring about a quarter of an inch in your glass at a time. I spent the week parched. 

Tidbit #5
While on an airplane I will pass the time by eating whatever the hell the flight attendants plop in front of me.  On the nine hour flight home I had the choice of vegetable lasagna  - You know it, I know it, vegetable lasagna here knows it! - or chicken curry. 

Reader, if there is one thing I hate, it's curry. I detest curry. 
Guess which meal I selected? 
You'd be wrong. 

I chose the chicken curry. 

And I ate it. 

 I blame the high altitude and the lack of water from the prior week.  


Tidbit #6
I think I have a brain tumor. Not from the trip, but not enhanced by the trip, either. Because my words? Have been all confused lately.  Yesterday, this sentence came right out of my mouth:

"My hairs are leggy."  

And then once it registered what had come out of my mouth, I said, "I can't believe those twisted words just came out of my mouse." 

Yep. My hairs are leggy. And my mouse can't speak properly anymore. 

It's either a brain tumor, or the aftereffects of all that exercise I had last week.

Enjoy your extra hour, Reader. Be more productive than me, or at least join my exercise club that I'm going to start some day. It's a new era, Crossfit Fucks - the Wine-ercizers are going to take over. 





Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Ciao, Reader!

Hi, Reader! Long time no chat.  Well, a one-sided chat, but a chat none-the-less. 

Sorry I left you with that last stinky post for so long. 

This is not going to be much of anything, either. Ya wanna know why??  Well, I'll tell ya why. Because I'm off to Milan for a work trip. Yep, working at Tiny Town has finally delivered the best payoff since I started. One of my vendors invited me to a conference by the Italian Trade Commission. Score for me. It pays to be nice. 

I'll let that sink in for a moment and let the jealousy take hold. Because this? Is going to be the best work trip. Ever.  Unless I get Taken and sold into some sort of weird fetish sex slavery cult, where men want overweight, middle-aged women with arthritis and big tits.  Because I'm prime pickings for that little genre.  

So unless that happens, I'll be in Milan. Then maybe possibly Venice for a night. Then I'm off to Switzerland, Lucerne to be exact, where I shall drink cocoa and say, "Aw!" as I drink in the sights and my beverage. 

Don't try to rob my house, Bad Guys. I've got Kenny and eight guard cats here.  Yep, you read that right. Eight of 'em.  Enter at your own risk. They just might pee on you, based on how they're acting lately.

I'm heading out in five minutes, but I made time for you, Reader. Because you're that important to me. And I needed to gloat.  Ahem. Sorry. 

Enjoy your week! I should be drunk by tomorrow evening on fine wine. Which makes me classy. 

Sunday, October 12, 2014

You'll Wanna Skip This One.

I was chatting with some guy friends of mine. And somehow or another the subject of girls with smelly vaginas came up.  Yeah, I don't know, Reader, I don't know how. It just did. I may have brought it up. As in, "Hey, what's the worst thing that you've ever smelled down there?" and then the subject came up.

Guy Friend #1 said that he was with the hottest girl ever, but it was a bad situation down there. But she was so good looking that he gave it another go, only he decided to start the date in the shower, figuring he could fix it all up down there.

It didn't work. 

So now I know if I ever get invited into the shower as foreplay, I'd better pay better attention to my hygiene.  Thanks a lot for the extra paranoia, Guy Friend #1. 

Then Guy Friend #2 said that he dated a girl who had a bad situation down there. But he loved her, so he just didn't get his nose close to the situation after the first time. He stayed above the belt line, although the aroma was so pungent that he could smell it during doggy-style.

So I asked them both, "Did you ever just tell the girls?" 

I don't know why I thought that was a viable option. Do it for humanity? Something noble like that?  

They both shot me a look with crazy-eyes, like they were looking at someone who'd just lost their mind right at that exact moment.

I suggested a witty little icebreaker that would get them laughing at the shared joke, and almost sounding flattering:

"Why don't ya say, "Baby, you put the P.U. in Pussy!" But say it all sexy like."

After they were done laughing and laughing, she'd go to the bathroom, freshen up the situation and they'd live happily ever after. 

Or not. It may end much, much differently. 

Hey, I can't solve all the world's problems. 


Saturday, October 11, 2014

Stay In The Room

For my friends, celebrating 23 years of Marital Bliss this weekend:




They met in college and have been good partners and friends in life. 

It's hard to stay together. Every year is a celebration, not just some "milestone" number.  Because it's really hard putting up with other people sometimes.  And after all those years you're most likely not putting your best foot forward all the time. Or maybe that's just me, and other couples hide their disgustingness better than I do. 

For instance, coming home from work yesterday I shared the part of my day with Kenny that maybe I should have kept to myself. The part where I had to use a q-tip to pick the dried blood out of my nose so I could do a little something people like to do, also known as breathe, because it's already dry in the house (I hope that's the reason and it's not nose cancer!) and my nose has been bloody for several days now. 

That's the stuff only the closest get to know about you after years and years together.  And now all of you. Thanks, Oversharing Me. 

Maybe I should have tried harder to keep some mystery in my relationships. But Jezzus, that seems like so much effort. Because when you ask how my day is? I might want to tell you the grossest part, like I had to pick bloody scabs out of my nose just to breathe. Sometimes that sums up the day. 

How do you keep the romance alive after years and years together, Reader?  Do you share all your disgusting parts with your partner, or do you keep your grossest bits hidden? 

I'm certainly no expert, that is no doubt - two ex-husbands tell the story of my un-success.  Maybe I should keep my bloody booger stories to myself and go with the pat answer "Fine" when asked how my day was. 

And now you know just one more gross part of me, Reader. You're welcome. And I'm sorry. But back to the point of this bloody mess of a story, and that is to wish only the happiest to my Columbus friends Rob & Beth.  Cheers to many more. 

*P.S.  - no one except me and Jennifer Aniston is going to understand the post title, so stop trying to figure it out. But it's significant. If you're really interested and have 20 minutes, you can watch here: