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. 

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. 

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. 

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.