Many Returns

It was a day of Returns today, Reader. I do that a lot. Buy, then return. Because money doesn't grow on trees, said my Grandmother, and every product I buy that I do not like is like tossing money in the trash if I do not return.

Today I returned four little things to Sephora. A teensy weensy little bag. A moisturizer, which made me break out (thanks a lot, Stupid $65 Face Cream), a $35 lip thing that was supposed to make my lips soft but really did nothing special that couldn't be accomplished from a $2 pot of Carmex, so back it went, too. And then some hair stuff that was supposed to keep me smooth between shampoos, but it made me look instead like I needed a good head-to-toe scrubbing, and then yet another hair thing that was supposed to give me beachy waves, but I did not look like Kate Upton prancing out of the ocean so back it went, too. 

So. Returns were made. To the tune of $165.49.  And I took that money right over to Costco, where I bought an entire cartload of stuff that took three trips to bring it all into the house. 

Since I was such a thrifty shopper I treated myself to these, which were a whopping $7.49:

I looked at the package and wondered, 'What's the other 30%?" 

And then tonight I put one in my mouth and found out what the other 30% is:  Magic. 

If Costco ran Sephora, I'd have probably been a lot happier with my purchases. 

That Is The Question.

Here's another little random sampling of the shit that runs through my mind, Reader. It's a little disturbing, actually, but who am I to judge me. 

Last weekend we were attending a goodbye brunch for our friendies who relocated to Houston. It was held at an artsy little pancake house that served up items like The Fat Elvis, which was a peanut butter fluff & banana topped waffle.  Which, by the way, I did not order, and is testament to the amount of Plumb Crazy I am lately, considering I love all things Elvis, all things Waffle, all things Peanut Butter and all things Banana. 

So of course I didn't order it.

Because I'm fucked in the head, Reader. I can't make good decisions even when they are presented on a platter smack-dab in front of my face. 

Instead I opted for the "savory" selection rather than the sweet and ordered a BBQ pork & egg waffle. 

At 9:30 in the morning. Because I make decisions that aren't always in my best interest. 

This didn't make it into the category of "Worst Thing I've Had In My Mouth Lately," however, it doesn't qualify as "The Best Thing I've Put In My Mouth Lately," either. I'll sum it up by saying I managed to eat 90% of it, because Waffle, but this wouldn't be my selection again. 

Anyway.

Waffles aren't the point of this rambling ride. The point of this little story is that when I went to use the bathroom at the end of the meal, I couldn't figure out which was the ladies and which was the gents. There were some indiscernible pictures on each door, and it was confusing, because 9:30 a.m., or else I was woozy from bbq pork in the morning and not enough coffee. Regardless, I couldn't figure it out and asked an employee who informed me, "Use either one, they're the same."  So I choose a door, peed and went on my way.

Driving home, it was percolating around in my head a little, because I knew that K had also used the bathroom there to pee. So I asked him, "When you used the bathroom, did you sit down to pee?" 

Him: "Uh, what?? Why?" 

TBB: "Because, there were no urinals, so wouldn't you just sit down instead?" 

Him: "Guys don't sit down to pee. Why would we?? Unless we are already shitting, then we might pee just out of convenience."

TBB: "I don't know. I thought you might sit down sometimes just to take a little rest."

Him: "No."

TBB: "But if you DID sit down to pee, how do people with really small wieners pee? How do they angle the wiener down past the balls to pee into the bowl? Wouldn't they pee straight ahead, with the wiener resting on the balls like they are a ball-shelf? And then the pee would squirt up between their legs a little?"

Him: "Stop talking." 

And that, Reader, is the shit I think about sometimes, and now you & I both know why I'm not more accomplished in life.

The end. 

One Man's Trash, Pinterest's Treasure

Him: What'cha lookin' at?

Trixie: Pinterest.

Him: What's Pinterest? ~cranes over shoulder to look at laptop ~ It looks like a mish-mash of shit. 

Trixie: It is a mish-mash of shit. And little do-it-yourself projects that make me feel like shit for not thinking of oh, turning an old ladder into a cute Christmas tree like this, instead of throwing it on the tree lawn for trash day: 

Him: That still looks like a stupid, shitty ladder. They just threw some lights on it.  If someone walked into the house and saw that sitting in the corner they'd wonder what the hell is wrong with you. 

Trixie: ~laughs ~ Yep, it really is just a stupid shitty ladder with lights on it. What the fuck was I thinking, that I needed to make that for Christmas?? I really will buy into just about any stupid thing. 

Sometimes a stupid shitty ladder should just remain a stupid shitty ladder. And you just need someone else's perspective to show you it's okay to think so, too. 

Because You Need to Know

BLOG DISCLAIMER:  The first part of this blog was written a week or two ago, and actually it was a whole fantastic series of words written, the likes of which I would have probably received some sort of award for, and then, poof, it was all gone because see below:

The only part saved was the first part. I'm going to finish it up now, but without the being drunk parts, because it's Sunday afternoon and I do have some standards to not be drunk all the time. So while I'm sure this won't be as award-winning as the first drunken draft, hopefully I can still provide you with some important updates. Because these are things you really need to know. Ahem. 

Here (look down), starting with the "READER!!" part, was where the first drunken parts were written. And...Go!

READER!! Let me first set the stage: I have had a LOT of Barbados rum in my Pepsi tonight. A LOT.  Blame Joanne. You probably don't know her, but blame her anyway. 

Or, actually, don't blame her, because she's suffered the equivalent of War Crimes, also known as Trying to Undress Me While I Was Drunk On Vacation.  I had on a swimsuit with an underwire. Too too too much Pain Killer Punch. Stumbled out of the bathroom of our cruise ship room D.R.U.N.K. and in need of undressing assistance. 

She was there for me.

So really, let's commend Joanne and give her a Gold Star for Heroic Efforts for prying my drunk ass tits out of my underwire bathing suit top.

But I digress from the original intent of this post, which is To Set The Record Straight On Several Things. Meaning, I owe you, Reader, some answers, and you mean EVERYTHING to me, Reader, even if I don't know who you are. Or if you're one of my Mean Readers who sent me a shitty personal comment (you know who you are) and then hid from me so I couldn't respond, you still deserve some answers because you're spending your valuable life seconds on me, and you should get something for your time. I'm a giver. 

Okay, Reader, here's where it all went Poof. Thanks, Walter WhiteEars.  But I am still dedicated to providing you with answers to your burning questions about the outcome of some recent blog nonsense, because Reader, I can't have you losing sleep wondering. 

The First Thing You Need To Know:

About that Butter Coffee. Butter belongs on toast. And waffles. And pancakes. Not in your fucking coffee. The first day I think I had a placebo effect, because I was all wired up and and perky, and didn't even need my first meal of the day until dinner time, in which I had more butter, because Dr. Oz and Honey Boo Boo say it's healthy and good for me.  That butter was mo' better, actually, because it was transported with crab legs into my mouth. 

On the second morn of buttered coffee, I was yawning and hungry by 9:34 a.m. I was sitting through a four hour conference and let me tell you, I needed a heroin-addict-line of caffeine spilling right into my veins to keep me awake. The buttered coffee was a big fat Hashtag Fail. So eff you,  Dr. Oz, but not Honey Boo Boo, because she's just a little kid who is going to probably end up in a soft core porno or at the very least have a career in stripping and marry an old millionaire and end up on Celebrity Rehab, unless Dr. Phil intervenes beforehand. 

I'm back to coffee with normal creamer, which by the way, I'm happy to report I re-found my favorite flavor just last night.

I haven't seen this at my grocery store in months and I was frowny, thinking that it had been discontinued, but it was only discontinued by my grocer, and is alive & well at Target. Yes, I bought two of them just in case. Just in case of what I'm not quite sure (I can't drive to Target again??), but I have two and have turned my frown upside down. 

The Second Thing You Need to Know:

The Chez Bang Bang Shoe Mystery is no longer a mystery at all, and it isn't even a good story. It was, after all, Kenny's water shoes from the Wild West Virginia Weekend, which was over the 4th of July weekend and the shoes are still sitting in the bushes, where he tossed them upon our return home to "dry out." They've been rained on a lot since then. They are still sitting there, by the way. It's September 14th. Ahem. 

And oh, by the way, he found the missing shoe in the bushes, so no, neither a deer nor a beaver are walking around with one water shoe on. Hashtag Letdown.  

The Third Thing You Need to Know:

I'm not sure if I'm ever going to get back to Part Deux of the Wild West Virginia Weekend rafting trip. Let me just say these few things about it, consider this the Cliffs Notes version of the story. You're welcome, because really, you need to get some things done this weekend. Look at your to-do list, I'm sure there are things on it.

1. Taking pool floats on a West Virginia River is a bad idea. 
2. I didn't think we were ever going to get off that river.
3. You cannot smoke a joint while drowning in rapids. I'm not saying anyone wanted to do that or brought one with them,  but just that you can't. 
4. You also can't drink beer while navigating the rapids with your tree limb sticks also known as, "Vera, where are the paddles? Oh, I forgot 'em, just grab some sticks" paddles. 
5. Did anyone mention beforehand that there are snakes in the water? No. They did not. But when Darling yelled, "Hey, Trixie, what's that swimming past your feet??" and you look to the right and see a snake dog paddling its way from one bank to the other, guess what? You know there are snakes in the water. 
6. Guess how much Trixie loved snakes in the water?? Guess how many snakes passed by Trixie's feet that day? I'll tell you know many: Two. Two too many for her to be happy about it. Guess how hard Trixie clung to her pool float so she would have at least some measure of float in that snakey-infested water? Hard, that's the answer. She clung hard to that ripped up pool float. 
7. Trixie developed Situational Tourette's after three hours and two snakes later. She cursed and cried and started the bartering phase with God to get her off that river. As Kenny stated, "We knew you were okay while you were cussing like a sailor. We got nervous when you got quiet." 
8. Guess who didn't even get her hair wet while rafting that day? Nope, not Trixie. She had a rats nest on the back of her head from rubbing up against that plastic float for four hours. But Darling, who was pushed down that river by her beau like she was Cleopatra, didn't suffer a hair out of place. Her beau, on the other hand, walked the whole entire time and suffered. A lot. 
9. The trip was summed up like this: "I had a better 4th of July last year. And I was in prison. At least there, I got two hot dogs and some beans."
10. So yeah. Sometimes prison might be the better choice.
11. Hashtag NeverAgain. 

Anything else you need to know, Reader? Inquire, I probably have some answers.