Monday, July 21, 2014

Perk Up, Buttercup!

Well, Reader, I've decided to trump my creative block by drinking wine. Yes, wine is always the answer, no matter the question. It makes me happy and carefree and unblocked. At least the first glass does. After that, it could make me tipsy and cry-ie and sad, but right now? Carefree and blog-gy.  

Wine is a perfectly delicious dinner, and hey, I think Weight Watchers counts it as a fruit, because grapes.  And Dr. Oz says it's good for your heart, and my heart could use some good right about now, so I'm doing this for my health. I'm not really sure Dr. Oz actually says that, but he convinced me once to spend $150 on green coffee pills that were supposed to help you lose weight and my pants still fit the same, so screw you Dr. Oz. I'll lay my lushie ways at your doorstep. 

The wine is good. 

You know what isn't as good? Plants.  

They lure in you with their pretty pretty colors and you establish a relationship with them, inviting them right into your home and making a nice place for them on your porch, and then they are just never happy. They are always - always - "but what have you done for me lately?" Meaning, if they don't get a drink of water each and every day, they greet you with their sad and droopy dispositions. I mean, really. We're not in the tropics. It's Cleveland weather. Cowboy up, Plants. 

Look at them pouting right there, all because they didn't get watered on Sunday when I was Too Sad to Bathe. 

I have two plants out by the front of the house, too, and couldn't keep the one alive. There are some red flowers that are thriving by my inconsistent watering in the pot, but the purple flowers withered right on up. Survival of the toughest, yo. Those fuckers need to learn to conserve what little water I give 'em if they want to make it in this world. I'm doing it for them, so they are tough. 

But they weren't so tough, and I had to pull out all the dead stuff, and a giant centipede must have been roosting in there and it came running out on it's million legs and I almost - almost - screamed and fell right off the porch, but I didn't because I am also tough. Toughening up to nature.  I think my lazy river rafter trip in West-By-God-Virginia has made me all Rambo and shit.  Which, by the way, I still owe you the hour by hour recap - don't think I've forgotten, Reader - I wouldn't do ya that way - maybe on the second glass of wine. 

So anyway. Back to my pouty and demanding flowers. I gave them a healthy drink tonight. Let's see if they appreciate me in the morning. 

I'm not sure I can commit to this sort of a relationship in the future. 

It's just so needy. 

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Some Things Are Better In Theory

This is where it all began, Reader.  Or not really, because really it all began a year ago on the 4th of July when we went to West-By-God-Virgina to visit our favorites down there. And we had such a good time we declared, "We shall make this our 4th of July Tradition!" and raised a glass of something alcoholic and did some pinky swears to make it all official.

Fast forward a year later.  And our friendies are determined to give us The Time Of Our Lives and Pete had a host of activities planned for us. I am going on the record as stating I didn't need a host of planned activities, because I am more than happy to just hang out at their house and use all their luxury amenities such as an in-ground pool, fire pit for s'moring, and a salt water hot tub and visit and chat.

But I as also willing to try something more outdoorsy than just laying about in the pool, so I put on my Game Face when they mentioned we'd be rafting down a lazy river. Because they made it sound so much fun, Reader. With a cooler of beers between us all, rafts hooked together as we lazed our way through a July afternoon, laughing and chatting and kicking up an occasional splash of water at each other in a move of just-pure-clean fun.

That does sound like fun, doesn't it, Reader.

My first inkling that it might not be all Hats & Horns should have been when Vera gathered up the floats from the pool. Pool Floats. For a West Fucking Virginia River Raft trip. Reader, listen to me now and hear me later: Do NOT take pool floats to a gun fight. Or to the wild rivers of West Virginia.

Example here: 

But I didn't question it too hard, because Pete & Vera. They know everything.

Second inkling that this may not go according to plan was when we were heading to the river and Kenny mused aloud, "I wonder how long until those rafts fly out of the truck?" and we rounded the first curve and saw rafts dragging behind the truck.  Two of the better rafts died right there of road rash before they ever made it to the water.

Third niggling suspicion that this might not go according to plan should have been when we got to the docking point and I asked Vera where the paddles were and like a true Do-it-Yourselfer, she replied, "I forgot 'em, let's go find some sticks." STICKS, Reader. Sticks and Pool Floats. Launching into the river.

I was getting apprehensive, and when I'm apprehensive, I have to pee. A lot. "Go pee over there by the side of the road," my friendies gamely advised me.  Except I'm not good at outdoor peeing. It's a skill I have never mastered, because I tend to avoid situations where there is no indoor plumbing.

Then Darla piped up, "Leaves of Three!! Leaves of Three!" and at first I thought we found a stash of pot growing by the roadside and thought this might be the best trip ever, but then realized it was a call of action to watch out for the Poison Ivy. So if I had hesitation about peeing in the wild before, now it was a real concern as I don't need a dose of poison ivy on my lady parts. I didn't end up with poison ivy on my vagina (see, Reader, I told you in the post below we'd be back to the usual nonsense about my vagina. You're welcome.), but I did end up with pee down my leg because I was too concerned to squat low to the ground and it was just all bad. Bad bad bad.

While I was peeing, the guys were taking the trucks down to the landing zone. They were gone about 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES, Reader. How many miles, at 70 miles an hour, do you think they went? Surely more than they should have, because at 1/2 mile an hour in that river we'd be Midnight Rafting, since we didn't get started until 3 in the afternoon. Because, as Vera stated, "Ya'll are sleepers, aren't ya."   Yes, we are sleepers. We are lazy lazy guests who can't get started until mid-afternoon, when most people are coming in from their rafting adventures.

Fourth warning that we should maybe be reconsidering our rafting adventure was when a group of kayakers came in where we were fixin' to launch, looked at our assortment of pool floats & sticks and said, "Ya'll taking those out there??" and sort of shook their heads at each other.

We thought they were envious of the fun we had planned. Because we had a cooler of beer, designed to float with two pool noodles tied together on each side. That's why.

They were probably also noticing the pee down my leg, but by then I was getting re-nervous and just thinking about having to pee. Again. So I wanted to get in the water. 

We finally set off in our assortment of pool floats. One two-banger was the Cadillac, that Pete & Vera were driving (see above), it was actually built for river rafting according to the box. I don't know exactly what sort of river, but definitely a river more gentle and predictable with less shallow and pointy parts would be a pretty good guess.

Stay tuned for the hour-by-hour recap, wherein I pee. A lot. It'll be titled "Two Hotdogs & Some Beans." You won't want to miss it.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Why I Am

So there's a lot of shenanigans going on around Chez Bang Bang lately, Reader.  Most of it isn't suitable for an Open-to-the-World blog format, which makes me have to censor myself, which I find really really really difficult to do. I pretty much roll as an open book, love me or leave me. Which, to be fair, I've had my share of folks who chose to do the leaving part, but that's okay too because Free Will. 

Now I'm not so open, and it's thwarting my creativity. I would like you to believe that most of the stories on this space are made up adventures from my tired imagination, but that would mostly be a lie. I say "mostly," Reader, so if there is something really outrageous, I still have an out to claim that's the not true part. Those really really uncomfortable things that I write about, usually pertaining to my vagina, let's pretend those are the made-up parts. You'll be happier about it, and I'm all about you. 

I don't know how to tell stories that aren't somehow grounded in my reality. 

I've been giving some thought lately as to why I put so much of myself out here to the whole wide world to learn about me, and I figured out I do it for me. My life is ridiculous and sometimes funny and sometimes sad and one hundred percent human, shortcomings and all.  Why hide from it. I like writing about the irreverent things that make up my world. Plus, it forces me to sometimes practice punctuation, so really I should be getting extra credit. Wouldn't that be nice if Life handed out extra credit, and some areas that you're really failing at could be pulled up into a passing mark by a little side project? Because I could really use that sometimes. 

This is also a good way to learn who I am, and what sort of nonsense takes up valuable space in my brain that should be used for solving world issues instead of wondering who's jizzing in my restaurant food. You can decide whether you like me or not, because after this you can't claim you don't know what you're getting into when you become part of my world. So it's all your own fault, Reader. 


That wasn't the post I planned to write this morning as I sipped my coffee and got down to packing for my Wild & Wonderful West Virginia Weekend, but it's what came out of my fingers. 

Sorry it's not the normal nonsense I usually deliver. I'll get back to stories about my vagina next week.  You're welcome. 

Sunday, June 29, 2014

The Very Worst Thing

When I first decided to do a bit on What I've Put In My Mouth Lately, I had really no idea of the cornucopia of material I would have in front of me. Apparently, I put a lot of noteworthy things right in my mouth, Reader. 

In the follow-up of the latest teaser-post, here is the evidence of the Very Worst Thing I've Had In My Mouth Lately.  I know you've been waiting with bated breath. Wait no longer. 

THIS is the Very Worst Thing I've Had in My Mouth lately: 

Now, normally I enjoy the restaurant that served up this little morsel. Normally, Reader. Not this time. 

My friendies and I try to get together on some sort of a basis so we can catch up with each other and eat.  We usually go to this little restaurant in town that serves up vegan fare for my friend The Healthy Hoff

As much as I love the Healthy Hoff, this was unacceptable. 

It was spicy. And wormy. And gross. 

Reader, because of this meal right here, I became a spitter, not a swallower. 

The second worst part of the night was when the table behind us ordered some disgusting smelling fish meal THAT THEY COOK AT THE TABLE, Reader - FISH cooked AT THE TABLE. 

The table directly behind me. 

Where I sat downwind from the smelliest meal on Planet Earth. 

And it glommed onto my clothes and hair. 

I smelled delightful.  Ahem. 

But the best part of the worst meal? Was my friendies, of course. They make even a horrible spicy worm in my mouth worth it. 

Monday, June 23, 2014

Some Bad Things

Hi, Reader.  

I've put the Worst. Thing. EVER. in my mouth this week. 

And I almost stepped right on a smallish black snake in my lawn. 

The End.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Her Cups Runneth Over

Good day, Reader! It's a glorious sunshiny, low-humidity Saturday here. Cats are on the deck sunning themselves and chasing a bumblebee that keeps landing in the flowers I planted on the deck. Which, by the way, I hadn't considered the repercussions of bee-attraction when I decided I needed flowers on the deck. 

I have a couple planters of these, thanks to my friendie Vera who brought me the deck rail holder thingies. Yes, that's the official name of the thingie. 

These on the deck are fairing much better than the plants in the front yard, which are a buffet for deer. They've plumb trimmed my hostas back to tiny sticks. 

Thanks a lot, Bambi.  On a related nature/gardening note, I have not seen the snakes since their first outing in the spring. Maybe they weren't so excited to see me, either, and moved it along. I will say that I had my hairdresser/friend Michele gather up a bag of hair for me to sprinkle around the outside of the house to deter the snakes, because I read that online and the Internets knows everything. I never got around to sprinkling it, however, because People and My Mister thought it was creepy and that we'd look like that house that was maybe creating a human skin suit inside. So the hair is still in a bag in the garage (don't tell My Mister, he will be creeped out even more....sshhhhh!). 

So you remember that post where I mentioned I was trying to teach My Mister how and where to kiss Kitty Purry while I was on vacation? Right here on her exposed tummy?

First, let me answer your question. NO, we don't shave her tummy. That would be weird, and we are a lot of things around here, but cat-tummy-shavers are NOT one of them. Like Gaga, she was born this way. 

Well, here is a close up of her little kitty nips I cautioned that he avoid: 

I feel very exploitative even posting these on here. But you see how I had a valid concern?? If you're going to kiss her on the tum-tum, this area needs to be avoided or it crosses some sort of line.  

It's probably best that he avoided the whole thing all together.  

Kitty Purry might need a training bra.    

Thursday, June 12, 2014

What I've Put In My Mouth Lately: June

This past Monday was The Day, Reader. The Day I decided enough was enough, and I was taking charge of my health.  I started over the weekend with some simple sciatic-nerve stretches, because my leg has been a-killin' me since I went on vacation in April/May.  I have to do something, or my friendie is going to trade me in on a younger model who gets around better than me for her next vacation. I snap, crackle and pop when I stand up, and then I have to stand there and think about the physical act of putting steps in front of each other. 

Things are really going downhill fast around here.  I used to be more nimble. I mean, nimble for me. Let's face it, I'm never going to be Rubber Girl (get your mind out of the gutter, Reader). Maybe I should have said Bendy Girl.  I'm not very bendy, is what I'm saying, and I'm never going to be super-duper bendy, but I would be happy with someplace in between where I'm at and that.  

So I started doing some sciatic nerve stretches that I found from a Youtube video, because they are the leaders in physical therapy rehabilitation.  I unfurled my *dusty* yoga mat and assumed some positions that included crossing and bending and stretching of legs.  The pain in my knee has been so bad lately, I was willing to try just about anything, including heroin, but that's hard to come by when you're a white, middle-class, middle-aged woman who collects cats and lives in the suburbs. I don't happen to have a Kingpin hookup.  

Anyway, long story longer, I found some sort of almost instant relief from those crazy little exercises, and kept up the routine throughout the weekend. I was finally starting to feel what it's like to be a normal person, and not someone riddled with arthritic pain with every step. I mean, I was able to sleep without the constant throb-throb-throb of my hip/leg/knee. My Mister and I even took a weekend romp in the sack, and let me tell you, even he reaped the benefits of some of that increased agility and was quite pleased with the results. 

Monday morning rolls around and I figure, hell yeah, let's do this! Let's stretch and walk and get in shape, and eat healthy and give up sugar and all sorts of commitments like that. 

The week went really great. I increased my steps on my fitbit from my normal 1,200 steps (stop judging me, Reader! That's impolite. I have a desk job. And a bum knee / body) to just over 4000 steps per day, as I've been sprinkling in some small walks around Tiny Town's parking lot throughout the work day. Which, by the way, as I'm doing it I have a flash that this is what it must be like to be a prisoner, walking around the yard for my 20 minute outdoor break.  Then I go back to my cell.

Anyway. Decisions were made. Agendas were being adhered to. Sweet and snacks were being refused. Life was feeling good.

Then we took a trip to the grocery store for cat food and salad and a few other household items. 

My fast-clipped walk came to a screeching halt right at the front door. America's Most Animal Friendly Cookie Maker is up to their old tricks. 

And it was the cruelest of them all. 
Two great tastes. 
That taste great together. 

I would like to end this story by stating how I used a kung-fu move to kick the display over with my newly agile legs, stomped on the packages and continued to the lettuce aisle.  

I would like to. But I can't, because that would be a lie. 

My Beloved Mister questioned why there were two bags of these in the cart.  Uh, duh. Because it's two for six bucks, that's why. And oh, by the way, did you see the Limited Edition tag in the corner?? It would be foolish to NOT buy two bags, and I am nobody's fool (shut it, Reader). 

I did not try them out when we got home. I have actually been under the weather with a stupid summer cough/cold, which has me feeling like crap-o, and I wanted to put these in my mouth only once I was at the top of my game, so I could give them a fair review.  

Today I was still sick, even sicker, as a matter of fact, and stayed home from Tiny Town, which is a testament to how poorly I felt, because ya gotta be s-i-c-k to take a day off from there. 

All day I resisted the lure of the siren's call of the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Oreos.  Then this evening when I finally started to move around a bit, I decided this and a cuppa milk would be dinner.  

Because feed a cold, starve a fever or something like that. 

They were one of the best tasting Oreo's I've had in my mouth lately. If you're a fan of the Reese's cups and the Oreo's, get yourself a bag. Your mouth will thank you. Your ass might not, but we can't make every body part happy, now can we.  

Nabisco: you're welcome. Even though we're not in an advertising relationship yet, we should be because, come on. Don't make me hobble you and tie you to my bed. hashtag#1Fan.