Sunday, December 27, 2015

The Bang Bang Blues

I've got a steep case of the post-holiday blues, Reader.  I don't know if they're really holiday blues or just blue-blues, but they've settled in and seem to want to stay and visit for a while. So I'm allowing them in, and just figure I"ll settle in on the couch next to 'em and we can chat and figure out why they're here and how long they plan on staying. 

I think I was too much on "go" for the past few days, and I'm a little worn down.  That seems to be when they like to come and visit. Now don't go getting all concerned, Reader, this isn't going to become a place where we chat about our various depressions or anything like that. I rarely get down, but today it was a full-out bawl. The kind of bawl where I have to repeat words because my therapist couldn't understand a word I was sobbing into her ear on the phone. 

She's not really my therapist. She's my friendie, but she's had the horror privilege of undressing my drunk self on vacation, so she's qualified. And needed her own therapist after that debacle, but this isn't about her, it's about ME, and right now Bang Bang has the blues so let's stay focused. Sheesh. 

Christmas hasn't been very magical since my mom died, which was 20 years ago yesterday. She basically died in my arms, of heart failure, in the early morning hours, and so yeah, tough times. The holidays sort of fell apart without her there to ground us all in the tidings of good cheer. She was the glue. 

Maybe if I had had kids it would have been different. But I didn't need to carry on holiday traditions for anyone, and so while I'd often do some things like baking and some decorating, etc, it was never quite the same. And then some years I'd get busy and tired from work, and would do even less. 

This year started our holiday strong. I'm in a great place with work, which leaves me energy to have a life after the day there is done.   I addressed cards.  I did a lot of baking. I made chocolates, for crying out loud.   I toyed with the idea of putting up a live Christmas tree! But that had a lot of complications to that plan, including how the hell I was going to strap one onto the roof of my convertible, and the possibility of spider's nests living in the branches, so that holiday joy was skipped.  

However, I wasn't treeless by a long shot, because my therapist beau made me a pallet tree! Reader. It was like he handed me the Christmas Star with this gift.  It's the first Pinterest project at Chez Bang Bang that  turned out worth a fuck. See? Nifty!!



So Christmas was happening. And the actual holiday days were really nice. And then somewhere along the line, maybe around 4 a.m. last night, when I was dragged-out-tired because I was preparing to host a baby shower for today, I just got tired and looked at other people's lives on social media too much and I sunk right into woe-is-me. 

Because everyone, absolutely everyone, is more accomplished, successful, beautiful, kind, wealthy, organized, smart, lucky, loved, normal, sane, skinny, longer-haired, tan, less man-handed, whiter-teethed blah blah blah, than I am. 

Obviously, because I'm an unlovable stupid loozer who's accomplished zilch in my life, 

That's the track in my brain. I'm trying hard to jump the track. Because I don't normally get on that track, and I don't like that train at all. I know all the "tricks" to josh yourself out of it, Reader. "Practice Gratitude." "Do a nice thing." "Count your blessings." 

I've tried all that and none of it wanted to matter.  

So I just let it in and sit awhile with it and had a hard cry and my lip pouted and my eyes keep puddling up and now I'm telling you this side of Trixie that isn't the funnyish side, and that's okay, too, because I'd hate for you to think I have a Norman Rockwell life over here and it's all tequila and burritos every day. 

Because it couldn't be further from the truth, unless Norman Rockwell had 8 cats who on occasion peed in inappropriate places. Then it would be a lot like Norman Rockwell. 

So yeah. I'm working on it. It'll pass. Probably by tomorrow, because I already feel it starting to lift a little. But some days just beg for a good hard bawl. So let it rain.  




Thursday, December 24, 2015

Like Picasso, Only Less Appreciated

Let's just call December a blogging-wash, okay? Can we still be friends, Reader?  Paww-weeze?? I know I made promises of sharing my nonsensical self more, and I didn't deliver, and your days were dry, like Triskets-without-a-dip dry.  I mean, like they still had some flavor, but could have used just a little sumpin'-sumpin'.  That sumpin' being ME. Ammiright??

Okay, good.  Now we've cleared the air on that, we can get down to some real bidniz.

For some reason this month I lost my mind and decided to handmake chocolate candy treats. Because I think I must have been looking for a reason to buy a gazillion-pound-bag of chocolate.





And that was a swell idea, because how hard could this be? Ya melt some chocolate, ya dip some stuff, ya put it in your mouf, voila. 

But then I said to myself, "Well, hey, let's also add some caramel, because yum!" 

My kitchen has been a disaster for a good week now, with trays of chocolates and pretzels and almonds and caramel and other things just strewn about, in various phases of complete. 

Because the major problem with the "I'm just gonna whip up some chocolate treats" line of thinking is that I never have time to complete the task in one fell swoop.

As I've been told by my lovah, I have no concept of how time works. 

And therein lies the problemo.

I had a tray of pretzel rods dunked for their first bath in caramel, and then I had to pack it up and wait for another day with more time for the chocolate dipping.  So I wrapped them in my handy dandy Press & Seal, to keep 'em fresh until I had time to get back to my craft. 

Today was the day I had to make the time to finish it all up. Because I can't stand the disheveled-ness of the entire house any longer and it was time to put everything away. And it's Christmas Eve. 

Did I mention I'm also a dolt and volunteered to host a baby shower in my house on Sunday? The Sunday after Christmas? Yep, this coming Sunday. So I've been making blue & white candy treats for that shebang, too, and have to have a spic & span house in time to greet guests. And create a candy bar area because I saw it on Pinterest and thought "I can do that!" but I really can't, but it's too late to stop that train, so I'm on for the ride and just need to get it done. Fucking Pinterest. Sticks it to me again. 

Anyway, back to my caramel pretzel rods.  Did you know, Reader, that caramel is sticky?? 

Well, it is.  

And my pretzel rods, drenched in caramel and rolled up in press & seal became a giant blob of sticky deliciousness. 



I still have 8 lbs. of chocolate to do something with, so I started breaking up this caramel heap and decided to just go with the abstract shapes and call it pretzel candy art. Because like Picasso, my art is interpretative. 




I threw in some crushed up Reese's Cups to add a little extra taste surprise for whomever gets the treat of putting this in their mouf. It may be you, Reader. I'm giving away treat bags to the first 3 responders.  

Why do I have a feeling this is the surest way to hear crickets from you?   

So yeah.  Aren't you glad you decided we could still be friends? I'm going to shower you with abstract candy art. 

And also, stay tuned, I'll be sharing how I almost burned down the neighborhood by lighting my outdoor Christmas decorations. Because I thought "Indoor Use" was a suggestion. 

Basically I do Christmas like a boss. 


Monday, December 14, 2015

BlogTease

Hey, Reader! I have failed on my mission to find a method to writing more often.  Obvi.  

The winter is hard on Trixie Bang Bang! It's pajama-time at 6 p.m., because it's dark outside.  And the cats agree, and don't have to be convinced it's bedtime at 6:45 p.m. 

It's not that I lack things to say. Oh, nosirree, that is not the case at all. You have missed so much! But trust me, nothing that would change your life. Like for instance, we are trying out a new cat litter pan here.  It was just installed tonight, so I don't have a read on it's success or lack thereof yet, but I did come home and one of my little assholes had pooped on the kitchen floor, so really? Anywhere has to be up from here, ammiright?! 

So that's one of the most recent things you're missing out on by my not oversharing with you, Dear Reader.  

Something else? I went to Walmart tonight, to purchase said litter box and a few various other things and did not wear a bra.  Again. With a  white clingy long-sleeved t-shirt. So yeah, that happened.  I'm just not into bras on the weekend. I hate-hate-hate slipping them on and don't do it whenever I can get away with not, which is pretty much any trip to Walmart. But to not end up on a people-of-walmart post, I did wear a zip-up vest/coat thing.  

What else....hm...I had so MUCH I wanted to say, but really can't think of any of it at the moment. So since it's after midnight, it's time for more bed for me, and maybe tomorrow I'll think of the really important stuff.  

Consider this your teaser.  I'm not always one to put out all the way. Usually. But it's not a guarantee. I'm a lady of mystery, remember? 

*which part of that made you laugh harder, the "lady" reference, or the "mystery" part?? Because whew, we both know that's not really true. 


Monday, November 30, 2015

Good Enough

It's Monday night and I'm making Thanksgiving Turkey.  And drinking what started out as a glass or two, but turned into an entire bottle of cheapish-but-delish Moscato. 

We didn't manage to have a traditional Thanksgiving at Chez Bang Bang this year. For the past couple of years I've cooked, but this year I just wanted to roll around in the freedom of the day and enjoy it without doing a dag-nab thing.  And also for the first time since I left the Card Mines, I had the day after Thanksgiving off, and I wanted to do two days in a row of not a dag-nab thing.  Which is pretty much how my two days off rolled, and so for that I give thanks. 

The trio of my mister, my brother and myself moseyed down to the casino for turkey dinner and a lil' gambling. Didn't win, but had turkey that I didn't have to cook, so basically a win.  But then we missed having leftovers and I kept planning on making my 21.75 lb. bird that my boss gave me, but it just didn't happen the entire four days off.

Which brings us to a Monday night and there's four hours of turkey cooking in the oven.  And it smells ah. mazing. 

I had to prepare it after I got off work tonight. 

I don't really enjoy pulling out turkey parts from the cavities, but someone had to do it, I guess, and the cats weren't intent on helping unless you count licking the outer skin of the turkey "helping" - that was all Gussy wanted to do and I had to fight to keep him away from the bird. 

This is a bad story, Reader, for that I blame the moscato. Usually wine makes me more creative - or so I tell myself - but tonight? It's just turkey innards and delayed holidays. Sometimes that's the best you can do. 

In other non-news, I'm toying with the idea of putting up a real Christmas tree this year.  No one in my inner circle believes I can handle the responsibility of a real Christmas tree because they require daily watering. Several folks are under the belief that I can't be responsible for something for 25-ish days, which would almost be insulting, but based on my hydrangea that I seem to have killed from lack of watering, they may be right.  My one friend gently suggested I wait to buy a tree until the 12th or 15th, so I have less days to fail. 

Reader, can I live up to the responsibility of owning a live tree?  More importantly, can the cats live up to the responsibility of not knocking over a live tree??  Which one of us would cause the most Tree Destruction?

I don't know. I just don't know. I think a live tree would make it feel more holly-jolly-and-ho-ho-ho-y at Chez Bang Bang. I struggle to capture the Holiday Spirit every year. It's not my time to shine, believe it or not. So I'm willing to try the live tree maneuver. What do you think my chances are for success??  

All I know is the clock is ticking and I need to make Christmas Happen this coming weekend or not at all.  If you're a bettin' person, Reader, take odds on "not at all." Never forget my lazy roots. They run deep. 

Lastly, it's the end of Birfday Month for Trixie.  Also known as the end of the Reasons to Eat Cake For Breakfast. Luckily I had pee-lenty of cake in the past month and am sort of looking forward to a detox from the sugar and flour fairytale that is my life. 

And finally, for the Last Last tidbit, I've realized from comments and messages on Facebook that it's not common practice to toss out all our undies twice a year.  Thank you for validating my unkempt undergarments as normal. We all pretty much keep the same business in our pants. Except that now I think I need to try Soma brand undies, because it sounds exciting and I think I may be missing out on something in my lower half, and I can't have that. Unless they're over ten bucks, then my vagina will remain content in Target underwear. Because I'm thrifty, Reader. And plus it doesn't really know the difference. Or does it? Sometimes that thing has a mind of it's own, so you never know. But if my vagina wants pricey undies, it may have to go out and get a job. I can't support eight cats and a high-maintenance vagina. 





Saturday, November 28, 2015

Could Probably Use More Filter. Maybe.

Hey, where did I go again? I had really planned on being here more for you, Reader, but I forgot this is my super-duper-busy time of the year for work and I'm on the computer hours and hours and hours and hours every darn day gearing up for all the holiday buying madness, to which I am a contributor.

Yep. 

I don't like to participate in the buying frenzy, but I am a paid member of society to contribute to it.  Although I am proud that we opted out for Black Friday madness, because #AllFriday'sMatter. But I still had to write emails and stuff.

Which brings up this point, can you even believe they let me write emails and stuff? I mean, can I be trusted, Reader?

Apparently, they don't read this blog. I keep it squashed from my employer and co-workers, as it should be.

My boss, who's also the CEO, told me that very little I say shocks or surprises him anymore. AND I'VE ONLY BEEN THERE 4 MONTHS. AND HE DOESN'T EVEN READ THIS!! So can you image?

I mean, I've been on New Job Filter at work, for the most part, although the other day I did say the word "tits" out loud (it was germane to the conversation, if you can believe that). And I may have said something along the lines of, "I'd like more ram," when they were talking about adding RAM to our computers or something. And I said it all quiet-like, but with some emphasis on the ram. So yeah, my New Job Filter is ON. And the other day I told them that the question in my brain has been, "why is poop brown, and not some other color?  We eat a lot of different colored foods, but it all comes down to brown." 

Like I said, work filter ON. 

So that's my day. I've got to go shower up, with the works (legs shaved), I've got my first bar mitzvah to attend this afternoon. For my bosses son, aka the CEO's son. 

So yeah. Add vodka to this mix and who knows if I'll get fired or promoted by Monday. Because I'm creative, Reader. Especially with drink. 

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Lady Business

I've had something on my mind for several weeks now, and it's been there poking me in parts of my brain that make me question Life and Things and Stuff. Have I been doing it all wrong my whole entire life, Reader?  

I mean, I just celebrated my 49th birthday. Yep. I typed it out loud. Because for all those who don't get another year on this earth, it would be really rude to not acknowledge all the years I have gotten so far. So yeah. 49.  That's a lot of years to have been maybe perhaps doing things wrong. Well, one thing in particular, as far as this post is concerned.  Many many many peoples would tell you I've done a lot of things wrong, I've no doubt. And they are probably mostly right. But this isn't about them. It's about me and you, right Reader? Right. So they can suck it. 

But back to the problem at large. 

What got me to questioning my entire way of living was a blog I stumbled upon, a Buy Nothing New Challenge.  I was totes all about it, Reader.  I've been especially disgruntled with my years of consumerism since my debacle of a garage sale back in June, when I realized all the stupid shit I've acquired and never used or minimally used, and now it's just something I have zero use for and it's still cluttering up my garage. 

So yeah. I was all for going on a buying fast.  

And then I read a little deeper into her blog and I couldn't quite get past the part where she talked about the hardest part for her was not buying new underwears every six months, like she was used to doing, so she learned to make them or something. I didn't fully comprehend anything past the part where she said she bought entire new panties and bras every six months.  

I looked down at the ratty pair of underwears that were on my body, that were at least a good year or two (or more, but wow, I already feel filthy so we'll stop at two years) old and second guessed my entire life up until this point. 

I mean, every six months?? Bras are expensive, Reader!! In case you don't know, to support these cha-chas on my chest, it's at least a fiddy, if not more! And I'd need a minimum of four bras, and that's doing a lot of handwashing. 

Let's do the math: That's $200 bones, or $400 a year just on bras. 

Now for the panties part. 

I'd need at least seven pair. Let's go with ten. I don't do laundry as often as I should. Maybe twelve. That sounds safe. 

Each pair of underwear is four to seven dollars, right? I mean, for something with a little style, that doesn't rouch up (I just made up that word, you can use it, Merriman-Webster, it's better than your newest addition, emoji, and rouch is a good word sort of a combination of "ride" and "crotch" which aptly describes what I don't want my undies to do!). 

So yeah, I want undies that don't rouch up. And maybe they can have a little lace. And sometimes I want fuller coverage than others, so basically twelve pair will cover all my moods.  

Let's do the math: $12 x 7 = shit, I've gotta get out my calculator...er...well, let's do 12 x 5 = $60. I know that math. 

$60 x 2 times a year = $120. Plus the bras. We're looking at $520/year in new undies. And that's not counting socks. 

Actually, now that I've done the math it doesn't seem like such an offensive amount. At least on the undies. I can swing that for sure, so I guess I should be doing a little more for my apparel down there. 

I buy new stuff. I just usually don't toss out everything else that I've owned.  I'm not ritualistic about it. I just buy some stuff occasionally as I walk through Target. I thought that was fine. I didn't realize I needed a scheduled purge or else I'm just a sloppy underwear-wearer.  

But what do you, Reader? Do you throw out your entire underwears twice a year?  Once a year? What is the proper amount? And do you keep your "standbys" during the cleanse? Or is it "Everything Goes?" Am I normal, Reader, and the other lady is the quaker?  Because basically no one pays that much attention to their underwear except movie stars and strippers? What is the proper underwear-wearing time limit? I just. don't. know. 

I'd like to insert an official survey here to get some real feedback and data-points and other official sounding stuff, but I'm not smart enough to know how to do that. So either tell me in comments the proper way to handle this whole underwear refresh business, or just say it in your own head and move on to other things. I'm not hear to boss you, Reader.  I'm just trying to keep my ladyparts up-to-date. 





Tuesday, November 17, 2015

That One Last Drop

Lately this blog has been like an old man taking a pee.  It goes in fits and starts, and just when you think it's all done, a little more dribbles out.

Here's your dribble, Reader.

Today is mah birfday.

I've eaten a lot lot lot of cake in the past week.

It's been good.

At some point I need to stop eating cake.  That point is not happening tonight, however.  Tonight, I'm going to enjoy two teensy mouthfuls  - which will be the whole entire thing, it's very small - of this 440-calorie cake in a container.  

Because Salty Carmel.  

As Marie Antoinette said, "Let Me Eat Cake!" Or maybe that was me who said that. Someone said it.  

Then, it's back to regular blogging starting tomorrow. Or sometime this week. I can't guarantee tomorrow. I"m old, ya know.  

p.s. - Do you get the subject line reference, Reader?  

You can shake it
You can squeeze it 
You can knock it against the wall
But ya gotta put it in your pants
For that one last drop to fall. 

You're welcome. 

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Pee Brain

Last weekend I returned from yet another week on the High Seas. Yep, Reader, if you're counting, that makes my fourth cruise for 2015. So basically, a great year.  I should write a book on How to Do Unemployment Like a Boss. Except now I'm working again, and it's all I can do to scratch out a few words for you here. Although, I am picking up the pace a bit, thanks to Liz Gilbert and Big Magic. This might be the only thing I leave behind in this life, which is sorta sad, so I guess I'd better go plant a tree or something to make up for it and then people will be all, "See that tree? Trixie Bang Bang planted that!" instead of, "Did you read that blog where Trixie Bang Bang talked about cats and vaginas, but not at the same time because that's sort of weird and even she had boundaries, albeit limited." 

I'm frankly not sure which is better, Reader.  I don't especially mind if this is my magnus opus,  rather than planting a tree that could be washed away in a rainstorm or bulldozed to build a new parking lot. See how I've just rationalized sitting at the table drinking coffee vs. digging holes outdoors?  I'm genius, Reader, pure genius. This is my legacy.  I'm doing it for the future.

Anyway, back to point of this, which is I went on a lot of vacations this year, and always always always when I come back I have a few staple resolutions for Back From Vacation Me. 

None of them are any fun, Reader.  They go something like this:

  1. Never eat sugar again
  2. Go on diet immediately
  3. Start exercising on Monday (again, poor fucking Monday, gets all the unpleasant tasks)
  4. Have perpetually clean house with weekly schedule of chores 
  5. Make weekly meal plans
  6. Get up earlier in the morning 
  7. Stop drinking
  8. Stop shopping


That's a pretty shitty resolution list and no wonder I hate coming home from vacation, where the good times roll.  I'm constantly looking for the next trip, I need to escape my own insanity.

I even have much shorter-term goals that I lay on myself, which are mostly just as unpleasant.  This is my actual to-do list from my first day back from vacation.  I had lofty goals. 



The list originally stopped at Clean Cat Litter.

By 6 p.m. on Sunday I realized I hadn't accomplished one thing on the list and was starting to feel like a Sunday Fail. 

So I did what everyone should do in that situation, and I modified the list. 

With things I had actually accomplished that day, therefore able to check right off, pat myself on the back and sit down for an evening of t.v. that needed to be watched, which was equally important and should have been the VERY FIRST THING on this stupid list. Because Walking Dead premiered while I was sailing around the Caribbean and I had a much-needed date with Rick Grimes & Friends.   

But did I even put that on the list? No. Because sometimes I am a dolt.  

Sometimes you need to celebrate the small accomplishments, Reader.  
  • I drank some water. 
  • I ate an apple. 
  • I showered, for chrisssakes, complete with a hair washing and leg shaving, so basically a shower with the works which counts for a lot around here. 
  • And I took a nap with Kitty Purry, because she missed mama for an entire week. I did it for her, Reader, because I'm a giver that way. She thought this was much more important than vacuuming and washing clothes. 






Lest you think she's too adorable here (which she is), two nights ago she peed on me. 

While I was in bed. 

She backed up against me and peed. on. me.   

So, less adorable.

Not only did she pee on me, but it sort of ricocheted off my back/butt area and splattered right into My Misters open mouth, mid-sentence.  

So yeah. I think she was expressing her disdain that the Clean Litter Box check point wasn't done to her satisfaction. While the litter pans did get scooped, she wanted the floor mopped, too. Since I've tidied up her area we've been incident-free.  Which is lucky for her, because she was thisclose to having a similar outcome as the itsy bitsy spider.

This is the second Golden Shower I've gotten from Purry, by the way. It always comes down to my not meeting her litter box needs. She definitely makes her point.  And gets results.  So basically, we should all just piss on whatever / whoever isn't meeting our needs. 

Don't think the donuts are fresh enough? Piss on the baker.
Don't like sitting in traffic in the morning? Piss on the other drivers. 

Don't like the line at Target? Piss on the people in front of you. But not at Walmart, because they may take it as flirtation.  

So yeah.  The moral of this story is to set realistic goals so you can feel like a champion, and learn your pets Love Language before you get a very unfortunate lesson at eleven o'clock at night. 




Thursday, October 22, 2015

Then This Happened Tonight.

A giant-ish (well, the size of a nickel, perhaps giant-ish is a bit hyperbole) spider was just sauntering down my kitchen wall tonight, Reader.  It was more of a slow mosey, really, but I knew I had to address the situation because spiders are not allowed to live inside Chez Bang Bang.  It's a rule. They should read the signs posted by all the entranceways.  

It crossed my mind that I would grab a paper towel, gently smoosh the towel around the spider and then re-home him. Because The Dalai Lamas Cat.  Have you read this one yet, Reader? If not, add it to your reading que, it's a good little story with life lessons in there. And plus, it's about a cat. So win-win.

Then the Sauntering Spider Situation took a really disturbing turn, because it looked like there was a yellow-y clearish bubble thing on it's back, and I'm not exactly an official doctor, but I do use Web MD a lot and almost correctly diagnosed myself with skin cancer so basically I have medical skills to perform diagnostics. And that spider was either infected with ebola, or it was going to have a gazillion little spider babies all over my house.  I. Was. Not. Pleased. With any of this situation. The having to take care of it part, or the just ignore it part and hope she saunters her preggo ass outta the house before hatching.  

I had very little choice in this matter, and gave myself a running little pep talk in my brain as I walked past the spider, through the kitchen to get a paper towel to gently scoop it up and place it outside. Like, "Hey, SpiderWoman, I'm just gonna walk right past you, it doesn't even bother me a bit, I'm a gazillion times your size, what harm can you really do ~pushes down visions of recluse spider damage from my mind's eye ~ I'm not even slightly on edge here, Spider."  

All the while I my insides were queasy and my hands were shaking. The spider didn't need to know this. 

And then a few cats were sitting at the bottom of the wall, just watching this spider and it's slow descent, and basically they suck at their job which is to keep all things like spiders out of the house. So yeah, useless, and the opposite of the Dalai Lama's Cat. Or maybe they're too much like the Dalai's cat, all "Live and Let Live" bullshitty.  

Regardless. I was disappointed in them. 

I got the paper towel, leaned in for the spider and before I even knew what I was doing, I was screaming and making "eeekkkk" sounds and my fingers clamped together and crushed the poor little fucker. It was like I had an out-of-body spider trapping experience, with no control over my movements. 

Reader. When my fingers came together, there was a popping sound combined with a specific *pop* feeling, like a pimple being popped.  

I screamed even louder, and then did a little unchoreographed jig in the kitchen as I was tossing the remains in the trash.  It was really a spectacular site, and you missed it. Which is why you should come over sometime!  We could visit. And re-home spiders together. Since The Incident, I've been sort of afraid to go near the trash - which is totally rational, I know - but you could throw out all my garbage for me while you're here, too!  

So yeah. That happened. And now I'm just like Planned Parenthood, only I don't have free condoms to hand out.* I fully expect the Republicans and Christians to boycott the fuck outta me and take away my funding. 

*I'm not sure if Planned Parenthood actually passes out free condoms, but it seems like something they might do and it's easier to just go with it than to actually look it up and be sure. I'm good with just guessing. It's the Lazy Girl Research and yeah, I'm going to trademark the shit outta that. Just as soon as I make up a way to go about trademarking things. Here! I think actually posting it HERE, RIGHT NOW, is sort of like claiming dibs on it! Consider yourself trademarked, Lazy Girl Ways. I see a new venture in our future. As soon as we can get off of the couch. 

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

New Positions

In the interest of "write more, sit at a desk less," I'm trying a new position in bed, Reader.  I've brought my laptop to bed and am trying to see if Creativity is able to find me while I'm propped up with pillows in a semi-reclined position.  I'm not sure if this position lends itself to creativity. At least not with a computer. Ba-da-bing!  Who are we kidding, mostly not with anything else either,  unless it involves compiling a lengthy wish-list in my head of home renovations I want to do that have been inspired by HGTV. That's what mostly happens in bed around Chez Bang Bang.  Mostly, Reader, because I'm still a lady of mystery. 

Did you laugh as hard as I did over that last sentence?! Wooo Doggie me too! as Andy Griffith would say.

But back to the business at hand, which is create more.  As I've mentioned in my prior post, I love Elizabeth Gilbert's book Big Magic so hard, and I really want to try a make some creative changes - I'm getting no where fast and feeling stale. 
Because if nothing changes, nothing changes. But I have the toughest time with her biggest point, which is discipline.  I'm just so tapped out after sitting at a desk for eight to ten solid hours during the work week that the last thing I want to do is open my laptop and sit at the kitchen table. But I want to write stuff. 

Feel the conundrum, Reader? 

Me, too. 


So I'm giving this a go. We are now officially in bed together. I expect flowers in the morning, just so you know.  Although I did re-take my Love Languages test today to see if my expectations had changed and no sirree, they have not. Wanna get in my pants?  Do the dishes and run the vacuum. If you filled up my car with gas once a week and ever ever ever ran it through the car wash for me, this body would be your wonderland. Well, not necessarily a wonderland in the John Meyer sense, but more along the lines of "I wonder what the fuck is going on there?" kinda way. That kinda wonderland. But it could be yours, all yours, for the simple act of a few household chores and maybe installing a rainforest showerhead for me. So yeah. Just come over and install my showerhead tomorrow, Reader,  skip the flowers. 

Alright. This didn't go anywhere near the road I had intended to take, but I took you along for the ride on a Tuesday night, Reader, and that's the important part - I'm in bed, and putting out for YOU, mid-week! And you thought our relationship had no surprises left. Don't underestimate me. Don't overestimate me, either. Just don't do any sort of estimating, I guess is the lesson here. 

Okay. We'll try this again tomorrow night. Maybe it'll be better. I need a ciggy*. 


*I stayed up way way way too late Sunday night watching Bridget Jones Diary. It has sort of embedded itself in my brain, and I even woke up this morning singing - complete with a British accent - a made-up musical number about the hole in my sock and too many cats in the house. See what you miss when you don't spend the night, Reader? 

**I stayed up way way way too late Monday night watching a fucking scary movie, which I hate, but got sucked in and couldn't stop watching and it lasted until 2 a.m. or something ridiculous, and when the credits rolled it said it was a true story, so then I was really fretful all night long and tossed and turned and had a stuffy nose which really just compounded the problem. The end result equalled two nights in a row with short/tossy-turny sleep and a lot of red eyes today at work. 

**And oh, by the way, I don't really need a ciggy. It's just fun to say ciggy. 

***And lastly, I think the verdict is out on whether or not I'm good in bed. At blogging, Reader. At blogging. I know I'm awesome at the other thing. (sleep). 

Monday, October 19, 2015

Shingle Someone's Roof

Hi Reader, Hi!!! Long time, no words from me to you. It's not because I don't love you, Reader - I do, I really really do! 

But I've been all caught up in my life and then I went on vacation. Yep, I had my fourth and final cruise for 2015 just this past week.  And it was super-fun, as always, only this one had an extra-special twist because somehow I convinced my almost-80-and-set-in-his-ways daddio and his lady-friend to join us on this trip.  

I know, I was surprised, too!  

In all seriousness - which is rare around these parts - it was so great to spend time with them.  I realized that my dad is actually getting older.  And that's a hard realization to accept, Reader.  And I also learned more of his words of wisdom on this trip, which I shall use myself at some point in my life.  

We took a trolley tour of Jamaica. He really enjoyed the tour, and I think seeing how shamble-y it is outside the Walls of Vacation was eye-opening, and he really liked the Jamaican girl who gave us the tour. So much so, that he gave her a little tip, and wanted to tell her supervisor what a great job she did.   

After he did that, we were walking away and he uttered my very favorite sentence of the whole trip. You need to read this with a slow southern drawl, please. Yes, Reader, it's time you did a little work with this blog.  So practice it, and then you can read this next sentence. 

Alright? Ready? Go. 

"Well, I may not be able to put a shingle on her roof, but I sure as heck ain't gonna take one off, neither." 

So yeah. Gold. Pure Gold.  

And now I'm back, feet on the ground again. And I am almost finished with my vacation book, Liz Gilbert's newest release Big Magic and it has reignited me to work on my craft, with fortunately - or unfortunately, as the case may be - is writing this nonsense,  it's how I give back to the WORLD, Reader, so really I'm a philanthropist with a CRAFT and not just words about vaginas, vacations and cats. 

I'm Big Magic. Don't de-shingle my roof, Reader. 



**For you, Reader, who may not quite understand my daddio's words of wisdom and took it right to something dirty, first of all get your mind out of the gutter. Not everything on here goes there. It usually does. But not always. Basically it means if you can't say/do something nice, don't say/do anything at all. But his version is much, much, much more magically fun. 






Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Uno, Dos, Tres, Quatro, Cinco, Cake

Hola, Lector. ¿QuĂ© hay de nuevo?

Yep. I picked Spanish Alarm Clock over Morning Walk after Day 3. Or it might have been Day 2, who's keeping track. No one, Reader, that's who.  

I did manage to keep up the ol' walking routine for about four days of that first week, but I quickly and very - very - easily slid back into letting Evening Girl do the walking while Morning Me slept in.  And that quickly turned into, "Let's just go get some dinner and watch t.v., Evening Girl is tired." Or cansado, as I've learned from Spanish Alarm clock.  

The true loser in this story is...well, no one is actually winning or losing, I'm the only player in this game, and I'm okay with it, so I guess there is no true loser.  I had hoped, er, well, thought about maybe trying to get ship-shape before my next cruise, which is coming up shortly, but that's not going to happen. Probably not anyway. Most likely not. So instead I've done what I do best, which is eat cake. A lot lot lot of cake. Because I'm really good at that, and they say do what you love and the rest will fall into place, and I love eating cake. I'm waiting for "the rest" to do it's part. 

In fact, we and some friends were down in Amish Country, hoping to go to a hot air balloon festival which didn't pan out because everyone else in the entire state had the same idea, and we were getting there around 3 p.m. and, well, that was too late.  The website led us down the wrong path. It said to get there later in the afternoon, which I thought was the perfect sort of Saturday afternoon festival for me because then I could keep my ass in bed even longer that morning. But it was not a good plan, as all parking was g.o.n.e.  

Ever resilient when plans are wayward, we decided to just go eat. And that's where we spied this little number in the bakery window, and my friendie and I made a plan that it was going home with us. Because it's somebody's birthday somewhere, and it would be plain rude to not celebrate it with this cake.  


We are a lot of things, Reader, but we are not rude where cake is concerned.  So we bought it and brought it home and sang "Happy Birthday, Someone," and ate cake.  

Was it as good as it looked?

Do you even have to ask, Reader? Really? Look at it.  Of course it's going to be delicious. Of course it is. Love must have been stirred into the batter, because I could taste it. Vanilla-y love.  

So what have we learned here tonight, Reader, in this quick moment we've spent together?  

Well, first, I'm doing a horrible job of keeping you up-to-date on my very important life.  I apologize. And you're welcome, because you'll never get these minutes back, and you could be doing something really good with those minutes. But probably not, you'd probably just be watching t.v., or checking Facebook, so therefore I will continue to fill your minutes with nonsense. 

Second, it doesn't make me lazy to only last a week with my walking routine. It makes me bilingual.  

Lastly, be flexible with your plans. You never know when that fork in the road has a piece of cake on the end. 






Tuesday, September 15, 2015

La Vida Loca

I came home from another fun weekend of drinking and general shenanigans and vowed once again that it was time to get in shape starting Monday.

It's always on a Monday. Poor Monday. It just adds to the bad rap.  

Started slow.  A walk around the block, which is about a mile, so better than nothing.  The real test would come on Tuesday, when Evening Me started making plans for Morning Me to get the fuck up early and take a stroll before work. 

Which actually isn't tasking Morning Me with too much, considering I don't have to leave for work until 9 a.m. But when that alarm goes off, it's anything goes, and usually what goes is the snooze button. For about six rounds. 

Funny enough (strange, not haha), somehow (cats, I blame cats) my radio alarm got set to a Spanish station and now I'm awakened each morning to the Latin beats.  I think it's sort of like an immersion course, it can seep directly into my hypnogogic-state brain and the language will actually learn itself? I don't think that's quite right, maybe it's my brain that will learn itself? Whatever, something is getting learned. Maybe. Time will tell.  

Anyway.  This morning was the test, if I really meant it this weekend about getting in shape or if it was yet another best laid plan of Weekend Me. That alarm went off, I did a little cha-cha and hopped right outta bed, all proud and sleepy-eyed. At the ridiculously early hour of 7:45 a.m.  

In the MORNING, Reader. 

Early.  

Well, early by super-duper lazy people standards (finger points back at me). 

I threw on a pair of track pants and socks and sneakers that I laid out the night before, couldn't bother with a bra because that seemed tight and constrainy that early in the morning. My boobies were still asleep, for God's Sake, they weren't ready to be strapped into the reality of the day.

I brushed my teeth, threw on a shirt over a tank top (I did have a modicum of decorum, I didn't need my chest flouncing all down the street without a little restraint), looked at my bed-head top-knotted hair and decided it was good enough.  Who'd be out that early in the morning, after all? I didn't need to look presentable, I just needed to get a-walking.

Guess who's out that early in the morning, Reader?? Everyone, that's who. All the neighbors, with their dogs.  And old people.  Up and down the street I encountered person after person, me with my semi-flouncy boobs, no undies, and sticking-up top-knotted hair.  

But I marched around the neighborhood like a boss. A underwear-less boss.  With bedhead.  But a boss. 

And then I came home, drank a hot cuppa my Chaga tea, listened to a 10-minute morning meditation on the deck, hopped on the inversion table for a quick decompression and got on with my day. 

So yeah. I'm better than you. This once. Unless you did something crazy like get up and run places, or go to the gym at some crazy hour before the sun came up, then you win. But since you probably didn't I figured I'll be horribly insufferable for just this once. 

Because what are the chances it'll happen two days in a row?   I mean, I have plans for it, Reader. I've even put a pair of underwear next to my track pants for tomorrow. I'm optimistic.  But it can really go either way once the Latin beats go off in the a.m.  I may decide to stick with my Spanish lessons.  




Monday, September 7, 2015

That's Alright, Mama


When exactly did my life become so much fun, Reader?? I think it started back in February when I no longer had to work at Tiny Town. Because while most people would view a lay-off as the most stressful time ever, I look back on 2015 as some of my happiest days in recent memory. 

I was just sitting outside this morning, drinking a cuppa coffee and looking at the pretty day and I was so grateful to have this life. 

Maybe it's all in the attitude. Or at least partially in the attitude. But an unhappy work life can create a shitty attitude that no amount of repeating gratitude-inspired mantras can unshit. Or de-shit. I'm not really sure what the opposite of shitty officially is, so let's go with de-shit. Sometimes it's tough to de-shit your attitude, despite your best intentions. That's all I'm saying. 

I haven't had to really work on de-shitting myself lately. I mean, I can still have a moment or three, but for the most part I'm feeling good about everything from one day into the next. It's easy to be positive, though, when shit isn't shitty.  

So yeah. It's good to be me.  

One of the greatest parts about being me is that I know the greatest people. And one of my people, The Healthy Hoff, asked if she could borrow my house to throw a surprise party for her mama.  Of course I pimped out Chez Bang Bang for Operation 70th.  

And then the greatest friend asked the other greatest friend for any ideas for the Greatest Birthday Ever.  

After some intense brainstorming, we devised the plan to have an Elvis show up and perform. Because one of the big regrets in the The Hoff's Mama's life was never having seen Elvis perform live.  

So we brought her an Elvis. Because we're awesome that way. And I may be just a tich self-serving. Maybe. Just a teensy weensy amount. 

It was an epic night at Chez Bang Bang.  Ep. Ic.  

Elvis came and performed for two solid hours. He sang and gyrated and took photos and kissed girls and handed out teddy bears and scarves and had the whole room on their feet. 

He posed with Elvis Goose, who was properly dressed for the occasion in his white jumpsuit, because Elvis thought Elvis Goose was ah.mazing, which it is because who has an Elvis jumpsuit and cape for their concrete goose? No one except Trixie Bang Bang, that's who. Because I had this outfit custom made.  

I'm even more pathetic awesome than you realized, huh, Reader. 



The second biggest star at the party was this little number:



Yep. Our electronic trash can, which became a member of the family this past week.  So yeah, she was a bit of a show-stealer.  I had a basic plastic can for the past two years, and coveted one of these fancy schmancy numbers, but refused to spend $$$ on a trash canister.  Because that's stupid when you can spend that money on an Elvis instead. Priorities, Reader. 

But thanks to our friendly neighborhood Costco, who charged a very reasonable $39.99 for this little beauty, she was mine, all mine.  And several other folks who were at the party and went out the next day and bought theirs, all theirs. 

So yeah. It's a pretty rockin' time here. From trashcan's to treasures, we've got it all right here, right now.  I hope you can say the same, Reader, and here's to us all having a de-shitty week.  



***This is a little on the lame-ish side, I'm working on getting some creativity back, because maybe my life is so much fun right now that it's sapped all the words from my head. Or maybe I just need more wine. Probably that. 

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Plays the Bongos Naked

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT! ———- typed in my best Matthew McConaughey voice. 

Enough of these excuses, Me, of not having any time - energy - inspiration to write up a story or two. 
Because believe me, I've had pee-lenty of things that deserved a story to be told.  But now the moment has passed and they will never have their moment of infamy. We're going to play this one by the numbers, just to do it down and dirty. The way you like it, Reader. ~drops mic, walks off stage~
 ~comes back onstage, because the goods haven't yet been delivered. Wherein "goods" is used in the very loosest sense of the word, because really that's giving this post a little too much credit.~
Anyway. Back to the numbers.
1./ I'm officially old-ish. In the same day this week I picked up three prescriptions from the pharmacy and two pair of glasses from the Wal*Mart, one pair for up-close and one pair for driving so that I can avoid driving 7 MPH when it's dark and rainy outside. Because for some reason that really angers a bunch of people behind me on the road. Why the rush, I ask. The folks that get all harrumph-y are probably the same folks who post "It's not the destination, it's the journey" bullcrap on their Facebook pages, making them seem all zen when actually they take out their frustrations on poor bad-visioned old ladies on the roadway.  The other factor that contributed to my old-ish-ness this week was I celebrated my thirty year high school reunion. The dirty thirty. So yeah. There I was with a bunch of old people. I've no doubt everyone else thought the same thing when they looked around the room and saw me. I saw me in pictures, Reader, and lemmee tell you, I made a big decision to start working out immediately. "Immediately" being defined as soon as I have the gumption after work, or can maybe get up early in the morning, so basically "immediately" means never, but it felt empowering at the time to make a strong proclamation.  Sometimes just saying it loudly and firmly is enough. 
2./ Two of the prescriptions I picked up that day were for acne. Yep. So basically my skin is regressing to adolescence in defiance to the grey hairs that seem to be fighting their way to populate my head more and more each passing month.  Or it could be that I'm eating like a teenager with unlimited access to take-out. Because my refrigerator? Has a lot of styrofoam containers in it right now.  I failed to grocery shop and that's what happens.  Tonight I felt sorry for my insides and made myself a salad with the not-quite-browned lettuce that was hanging on for dear life in the fridge, to go with my slice of delivery pizza. Because see point #1, I'm dieting since my reunion. Or something. 
3./  I have a ton of middle-aged fun lined up for the next couple of months. Concerts and trips and long weekends. Bill Burr, Garth Brooks, a cruise. Put-in-Bay - yep, those are the fruits of middle-aged labors. See how I'm adding fruit to my diet right there, Reader? Because I'm a healthy fanatic, that's why. 
4./ The new Walking Dead spin-off started this past Sunday and I had zombie nightmares. All. Night. Long. So yep, a great show. I will just never rest again on Sunday night. I'm fairly certain all that tossing & turning counts as exercise. 

Well, that's a good starting point to for me to put out a little bit mid-week. We have to ease back into a routine slowly. It's not the journey, it's the destination.  Or something. I've gotta run, it's late and I have to make plans for me to not get up and exercise in the morning. That's right. I'll make a big proclamation about how Morning Me will get up early and kick my own ass, but Evening Girl's mouth writes a lot of checks Morning Me's ass is not going to cash. But I feel better just thinking that maybe there's a chance. I'm counting that as a "plus" on the workout side. 
———- Just keep livin’!!!!”

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Much Ado About Nothing

Hey Ho, Reader.  Yep, another week goes by without any news from my enda town.  I had plans to write about the nonsense that's my life but then I got busy, and then 10:00 p.m. on Sunday night rolled right around and here we sit, me with really nothing to say and you not here to read all about it. 

In a nutshell, August has gone down like this:


  • Laughing
  • Eating (corn, peaches!)
  • Kissing (Kittens)
  • Friending
  • Drinking (yes, thank you I will have a beer!)
  • Planning (vacations, long weekends, impromptu cookouts)
  • Cleaning 


What's missing from that list is writing. And exercising. 

I keep planning on doing both, and then see all of the above. 

But yeah, the list is starting with laughing. I'm having a really fun time lately.  Work, home - it's all a good time. I hope the same goes for you. 

Miss you. Let's get together sometime. Unless you're a stalker, and then please disregard.  

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Less Screen, More Time

The problem with blogging now is that I'm on the computer so much at work I don't like to get on my computer anymore in my free time.  

I don't even log on to my computer at night.  Don't pull it out of the case.  And you know what? I've been sleeping really well. And you know what else? My lack of words probably hasn't had an impact on you one lil' bit.  

So what I'm saying here is, you're not getting any new words from me tonight, either, because it's hot in my breakfast nook, it's 9:30 on a Sunday night, and my brain does not want to engage.  And we'll both live, Reader. That's the good news.

Let's have a great week, okay.  It's an order, not a question. 

#LifeIsGoodEnough.


Sunday, August 2, 2015

Spot-On

"Her boobs are sooooooooo biiiiigggggg....."

"HOW BIG ARE THEY?!?!??" - The crowd shouted

"Her boobs are SO BIG, they were invited to join a special boobie-treatment care facility."  

Yep. Trixie's Boobs have joined a care facility. They're members now. Or will be in two to three weeks, once the paperwork is processed. 

It all started with The Spot.  I've posted a sort-of gross-ish picture of The Spot, so you, Reader, can appreciate just why exactly I was a tich concerned when this just popped up on my freckle-y chest one fine summer morning.  

See? It's red and has raised edges and looks mean.  


That white thing tucked in to my shirt? Is a dryer sheet. Because it's supposed to ward off mosquitoes, which actually does a pretty good job of it, FYI, if you're looking for a good-smelling mosquito repellent that keeps you static-free. I didn't cling to anything that day. 

Anyway, when this beauty cropped up and didn't go away, I made my very first appointment with my Obamacare medical insurance facility.  

I was a tich nervous. There were only two options accepting new patients in my area.  So I picked the closest one, and made my appointment.  I was pleasantly impressed that I was able to get in within a couple of days, no long wait.  

I started to wonder exactly what I had gotten myself into when the directions included "Next to Dave's Mercado" and closer inspection of their website revealed a whole entire section dedicated to Refugee Services.  I mean, good for the refugees.  But do I belong there? was the question in my brain. Because sometimes my fancy purses and fancy watch and fancy car makes me get bigger than myself, which in reality is an unemployed person using Obamacare and swimming around in a blow-up pool from the discount store. 

So I told my ego to simmer down and drove to my doctor appointment. 

There was a hotdog stand at the corner of the parking lot, which I viewed as a plus because who doesn't love a parking lot hotdog?! We all do, Reader, except for The Healthy Hoff and maybe a handful of others who don't know good food when they smell it in the parking lot of a medical practice. 

I walked in behind a guy who was also going in to the office, but as he opened the door he hocked up a great big ball of moisture from his mouth right there on the sidewalk near me and the door. 

I was charmed. 

And upon entering the clinic right next to the Mercado, I was greeted with a very big dose of B.O. For realz. I'm not blogzaggerating,* Reader. 

It was the B. Plus a whole lot of O.

It was a vast waiting area, full of a cornucopia of people, and there were five (or more, I was a little shell-shocked at that point) numbered desk areas and they were just shouting out people's names and kids were running around and throwing pamphlets on the floor, and an old Chinese man sitting next to me made a really wet sounding noise and I heard a lot of languages all at once. 

I was woozy and took a very careful seat. 

By the time my name was shouted across the room called, I was relieved to be doing something other than trying to not catch germs.  

The girl at the counter could not have been nicer, or more efficient. 

She asked a lot of questions and I'm now listed in all capital letters on my Official Chart as "NOT HOMELESS."  Again, no blogzaggeration. 

They also asked if I was sexually active, and did that include Men, Women, or Both. That's in my chart now too, so I'm not sure if I'm allowed to switch or if I have to stick with my answer.  

Also, they wanted to take a photo of me to match me up with my records for ever and ever, Amen, but I declined because I looked pretty horrible as I will admit I did not gussy up at all for the appointment. I figured the standards were low there (re: Refugee Services) and I didn't try at all. That's one point on the plus side for this experience, no need to put on fancy airs. 

By the time my name was yelled across the whole entire waiting area announcing it was my turn, I was more than ready to get my Spot looked at and get out of there. 

I walked through the double doors and it was there that I left the world of B.O. and Chaos behind and walked into a brightly lit and clean-smelling medical wonderland of purposeful activity. I was weighed and measured, where I was surprised to find out I'm actually a 1/2 inch shorter than I used to be, so I apparently bought that inversion table just in the nick of time before I shrink up into a teeny tiny version of my self.

And I also found out my blood pressure, which was pre-hypertension- high during my Tiny Town Era, is now on the normal/low side. So yeah, one more plus for no more Tiny Town.

The girl taking all my stats could not have been more pleasant and nice. And she asked a lot of questions, reiterating the sex life activity question, and she also asked me about my boobs and my past appointments at the Cleveland Clinic regarding my boobs. 

I asked her how she knew all that and she said, "Well, you're a new patient, so I did a little research and since we're linked with the Cleveland Clinic I was able to pull up all your records from your biopsy back in 2011, and have that all here, including the images, for the doctor to see when she comes in." 

Who? What? Huh??  I mean, Who does that, Reader?? I've never ever ever been to a first doctors appointment anywhere where they've researched to get all info they could about my health.  

I was flabbergasted and impressed.  

And then I met my Obamacare doctor.  

And was even more impressed. 

She took her time. 

We chatted. A lot. 

She got to know me, and by the middle of that appointment she asked me to take off my shirt so she could give my boobs an initial exam because she was far more worried about my lack of follow-up on my boobs since 2011 than she was about that Spot on my chest.  

She was going to give me a pap test, too, but we both agreed that neither one of us was up to that impromptu morning routine. We're going to save that for our second date, wherein I'll have a chance to prepare my area and shave my legs for the debut. It's only polite, and my vagina likes to be mannerly.  

My boobies were pronounced A-Okay from the initial feel-up, but she wanted them to join the special care facility so they can be monitored on a regular basis. She typed up a whole lot of notes on her computer and get this - all my info is going to a patient advocate person, who will find the best place for my boobies to be seen based on my location requirements and insurance. They are going to do all the research for me and call to talk to me about it within 2 to 3 weeks. 

I have never had a doctors office do the research for me.  

I did ask the doctor if she was "going to be my person every time I came in." She laughed and said, "Yes, we will be each other's person from now on."  I wanted to be sure I wasn't just passed around like a piece of meat-with-big-boobs every time I go in there. 

As for my Spot, Reader? The initial spot that brought me into this medical wonderland?  Well, she doesn't think my Web MD diagnosis is accurate, she scoffed at my Internet diagnosis. She didn't see "basal cell carcinoma" when she looked at it, so she prescribed a gel for it and we're going to monitor it for the next couple of weeks. 

The moral of this story is something about don't judge a doctor's office by the smelly B.O.'d chaotic waiting room. 

And get your boobs checked. See how this blog serves as a public service announcement? I think this qualifies me to raise funds and start a race in the name of Trixie's Boobies. 


*blogzaggeration is when Trixie Bang Bang may take liberties with a story because it's her story and she can tell it any way she wants, with made-up overly-hyped parts because she likes to think of herself as an "avid story teller" instead of a liar-liar-pants-on-fire blogger.