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.  

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. 

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. 

I Ask Myself.

Every. Day.

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. 

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. 

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.  

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.