Sunday, December 28, 2014


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? 

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.