Holy Matrimony.

Well, Reader, it's finally happened! I'm getting married!!! 


I've been ob-sessing! for about a month now. I can't get him outta my mind, and finally I've decided that he is my perfect match and I shall be his wife and we will live happily ever-after together. 


Last night we got reacquainted after a month apart, and I went so far as to write my wedding vows.


"Do you, Trixie Bang Bang, take Mitchell's  Carmel Sea Salt Ice-Cream to be your faithful companion, in sickness and in health, to love and honor with your mouth as long as you shall live?" 


Trixie Bang Bang: "I do!" 


"Now you may lick the cone." 

Hey, Zeus!

So over in the land of Tiny Town, I saw something today that I did not like one bit. A man, well embedded in his middle-life era, wearing dress trousers, a button down shirt and manflops. Manflops are flip-flops that men would wear - more rugged than girlie flip-flops, but definitely not in the sandal's category. Manflops. 

The only place those would have been appropriate would be if we worked in a surf shop or a beach bar. Or any place in Key West. 

We don't work at RonJon.  It's Tiny Town. Put some shoes on. 

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How do I safely travel the long distances to work and back each day? Why, I've got the Dolly Lama with me:

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We had a most fantastical dinner tonight at our fave Mexican restaurant. We sat outside on their beautiful new patio. And ordered our fave tortilla soup. Like a couple of dickheads. Because we were outside, in an Africa-hot evening: 95 degrees. 

Yes, soup please! Over here! For the two dickheads on the patio, por favor! 

And then I wondered why I had suddenly finished my Tecate beer so quickly.

The restaurant has also started price gouging, which I'm not too happy about. Before, you could buy two peppermint patties at the register for a quarter. Now? They're gouging at a quarter each.

Kenny ate his and decided, "That didn't taste like a quarter, it tasted more like fifteen cents." 

Indeed.

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On the way home from the hot and pricey Mexican dinner, I spotted this personalized license plate:

XX 300 XX

Me: "Do you think he was on the Biggest Loser, weighed 300 lbs and was a double-x?"

Me again: "Get alongside him so I can see how big he is, or if he has saggy skin or looks like someone on t.v."

Kenny: "Or. Perhaps he bowled a perfect game."

Or that, I guess.

Stingy Stinker

My friend Murd pointed out his favorite part from the prior post, where I laid a great deal of importance on "My own fucking candles!" - and I had to laugh when I re-read that.


Because really? 


My husband fucks someone in my bed, and I belabored the point that he even went so far as to use my Yankee jar candle in the process.  Oh, the humanity! 


But ya know what? I don't like to share my scents with just anyone. 

Obviously.

My Darling Ex Husband, This is For You

I try, Reader. I really, truly TRY to not let unimportant things get stuck in my craw, but sometimes things climb right on up in there and the next thing ya know, they are stuck. I must have a very snug craw.


So this one is about something that's currently stuck in my craw, and it's for you, My Dear Ex-Husband.


I guess after all those years married, he knows right how to stick in my craw. I haven't let him up there in a long, long time - many-a-year, in fact. But today? He got shoved right back up in my craw space.


My sister-in-law and nephew ran into him a few days ago, or maybe it was yesterday - I was really only half paying attention when she was telling me she ran into him. I just went on auto-tune-out when she mentioned his name, because I frankly couldn't give a flying fuck what he's doing. As Gotye sings, "Now you're just somebody that I used to know." 


But the part of the story that got my attention? As she went on to tell me that he told her he's remarried, and what all his kids are up to - the daughter joined the Army, a son in the Marines, and maybe the other two are doing something, I'm not really sure (I knew these kids for a long time, Reader - year after formative year, and I was very good to them, and then we didn't stay in touch because sometimes no good will come of things and that was one of those things), but the part where my ears pricked up? When she relayed the part of the conversation where he said, "Well, ya know, as far as the divorce, there's always two sides to every story."


Two. Sides. To. Every. Story.


Crawled up inside my craw and has lodged there. So now I shall attempt to dislodge you, Random and Careless Comment. And set the record straight, for all the Interwebs to read, and I hope your new wife would somehow stumble upon this - or perhaps your kids - and read with their own eyes the 2 sides of the story.


Side One.
Fucksteve fucked Nancy. A married woman 20 years older, well ensconced in her 50's, married for 30+ years with kids almost my age. Because she was infatuated with him for being a policeman, and lauded praise on his gigantic ego, and it swelled to a size that no wife could contain. And he fucked her in my bed, bringing his trash and guilt and bad behavior into my world.


Side Two.
I divorced Fucksteve.


So I guess you're right. Every story has two sides.


I guess I had imagined that with the passage of time - I counted, and it's been 8 years now, since that fateful night when I overheard him on the phone trash talking me and I called the police - his very own brotherhood - and threw his ass out of my house and into the street, to sleep in the gutter where he belonged - I had hoped that he had matured and had taken accountability for his behavior.


Apparently? He has not, if he's trying to tarnish my reputation and integrity by implying, with his comment, that there is some seedy "other" side to the story that involves me. 


To my own family member. 


Who knows all about him fucking Nancy, in my own house, in my very own bed. With candles and shit set up on the nightstand, that he forgot to put away when I got home from a trip. My own fucking candles. 


So. If somehow New Mrs. Fucksteve - or The Children of Fucksteve - or The Friends of Fucksteve - should happen to ever stumble up on a lil' ol' blog by Trixie Bang Bang, here I present you with both sides of the story. 


The end. 

Probably Long Enough for a Hanging, Though.

Seinfeld-ians, you know the episode where the bad-breaker-upper tells Elaine she has a big head, far too big for her body, and then she obsesses about her ginormously disproportionate head and a bird even runs into it? 


I had my big-head moment yesterday. 


At the hands of my massage therapist, no less (ah, clever pun usage here, check the box in my favor!).


Now, I have discovered the BEST massage therapist in all the land. If you're local, you really should go and see her. Really. But Saturday, while she was giving me a little neck/shoulder work she commented that it was more difficult because, "You have a short neck."  


A short neck?? I have a short neck?? It's a shortcoming I wasn't even aware I had until she - a person who obviously knows her way around a multitude of necks - pointed it out to me. 


I laid there and obsessed about my short neck, and how it probably makes me look squatty and even more big-boobied because now my head is so much closer to my chest than it is for normal folk. 


And then? She mentioned it AGAIN! And I said, "Hm, how short is it in comparison to other necks??" and she demonstrated how difficult it is to work her fist in between my head and shoulders because of my FREAKISHLY SHORT NECK! 


She didn't actually call it "freakishly" - and then went on to explain how some people are short-waisted, some people are long-legged - I just happen to be short-necked.


WTF, Reader. As if I didn't have enough strikes in the "Against Me" pile with this body. Now? I'm cursed with a short neck that I never even knew I had. 


I never really have liked anything up tight around my neck, I'd always figured it was because I was hanged in a past life. It's more likely just because it makes me feel claustrophobic, due to a spacing issue. 


So I've been laying about doing neck elongation moves, hoping to Swan myself up a little bit.


Life really isn't fair. Some people get all the good long necks out there.  

Girls Best Friend

At the jewelry show in Las Vegas, I Spied my next engagement ring. Which is really quite a scary locale to spy your engagement ring, because everything there is blingy and beautiful and big.  


But this? 


Was a simple 3-ish carat asscher cut diamond flanked by some lovely diamonds on the sides - but subtly on the sides,  not showy and pretentious - so as not to steal the shine from the 3-carat showstopper in the middle. 


As I said. 


Simple.


Like me. Just a down-home country girl, practically living off the land, growing my own foods, making my own soaps.  


I bemoaned the fact that I didn't own that ring to the vendor who was walking around with me. 


Me, whiny and plaintive: "Why couldn't I have gotten a ring like that when I got married?!" 


Vendor: "Uh, because you married a policeman instead of a jeweler." 


And this is a lesson all young girls must be taught. If you're going to marry, marry a giant ring because that will last far far longer than the marriage. In most cases, anyway. Or in my case, as the case may be. 


Reader? Send your young ladies over, I'm happy to impart my teachings on the Important Things In Life, with only a little bit of Sour added. 


Whatever. I yearn for that ring. 


And now? I needs to find me a jeweler. Or have My Mister get into the diamond business.  And not the ones on a deck of cards.  

Shoved in My (Mail)Slot

After a long hard day of work and driving, what a nice surprise to check the mail stoop and find FUN mail, not "you've just quit your job, now go figure out your life/insurance/401k/grown-up-sucky-stuff" mail. 

Yep. I had not one - but TWO -  fancy packages delivered to my doorstep - packages I didn't even order for myself! The best kind of packages! 

And more importantly? The same-day-delivery of these two packages - one sent by my brother, and the other was a mystery gift, however could only have been sent via The Healthy Hoff. And they couldn't have been more polar opposite in nature, yet both so completely squeal-with-delight-upon-opening. 

I've delighted in reading through recipe after recipe of all things better with butter.  And have a few things slated for the taste testing already. 

And my shoebox of items from Klutchclub: A box chock-full 'o healthy living stuff. 

I will detail out the items at a later date, but wanted to share because I was just so damned excited that People Like Me, They Really Like Me! enough to send me fun prizes in the mail. 

Or. They are thinking, "Bake me some shit to shove in my cakehole, biatch." Or. "Biatch, get offa yo' lazy ass and do a little something healthy for a change." I don't know why they talk all street like that, calling me out like that. You'd have to ask them.