Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Uno, Dos, Tres, Quatro, Cinco, Cake

Hola, Lector. ¿QuĂ© hay de nuevo?

Yep. I picked Spanish Alarm Clock over Morning Walk after Day 3. Or it might have been Day 2, who's keeping track. No one, Reader, that's who.  

I did manage to keep up the ol' walking routine for about four days of that first week, but I quickly and very - very - easily slid back into letting Evening Girl do the walking while Morning Me slept in.  And that quickly turned into, "Let's just go get some dinner and watch t.v., Evening Girl is tired." Or cansado, as I've learned from Spanish Alarm clock.  

The true loser in this story is...well, no one is actually winning or losing, I'm the only player in this game, and I'm okay with it, so I guess there is no true loser.  I had hoped, er, well, thought about maybe trying to get ship-shape before my next cruise, which is coming up shortly, but that's not going to happen. Probably not anyway. Most likely not. So instead I've done what I do best, which is eat cake. A lot lot lot of cake. Because I'm really good at that, and they say do what you love and the rest will fall into place, and I love eating cake. I'm waiting for "the rest" to do it's part. 

In fact, we and some friends were down in Amish Country, hoping to go to a hot air balloon festival which didn't pan out because everyone else in the entire state had the same idea, and we were getting there around 3 p.m. and, well, that was too late.  The website led us down the wrong path. It said to get there later in the afternoon, which I thought was the perfect sort of Saturday afternoon festival for me because then I could keep my ass in bed even longer that morning. But it was not a good plan, as all parking was g.o.n.e.  

Ever resilient when plans are wayward, we decided to just go eat. And that's where we spied this little number in the bakery window, and my friendie and I made a plan that it was going home with us. Because it's somebody's birthday somewhere, and it would be plain rude to not celebrate it with this cake.  

We are a lot of things, Reader, but we are not rude where cake is concerned.  So we bought it and brought it home and sang "Happy Birthday, Someone," and ate cake.  

Was it as good as it looked?

Do you even have to ask, Reader? Really? Look at it.  Of course it's going to be delicious. Of course it is. Love must have been stirred into the batter, because I could taste it. Vanilla-y love.  

So what have we learned here tonight, Reader, in this quick moment we've spent together?  

Well, first, I'm doing a horrible job of keeping you up-to-date on my very important life.  I apologize. And you're welcome, because you'll never get these minutes back, and you could be doing something really good with those minutes. But probably not, you'd probably just be watching t.v., or checking Facebook, so therefore I will continue to fill your minutes with nonsense. 

Second, it doesn't make me lazy to only last a week with my walking routine. It makes me bilingual.  

Lastly, be flexible with your plans. You never know when that fork in the road has a piece of cake on the end. 

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

La Vida Loca

I came home from another fun weekend of drinking and general shenanigans and vowed once again that it was time to get in shape starting Monday.

It's always on a Monday. Poor Monday. It just adds to the bad rap.  

Started slow.  A walk around the block, which is about a mile, so better than nothing.  The real test would come on Tuesday, when Evening Me started making plans for Morning Me to get the fuck up early and take a stroll before work. 

Which actually isn't tasking Morning Me with too much, considering I don't have to leave for work until 9 a.m. But when that alarm goes off, it's anything goes, and usually what goes is the snooze button. For about six rounds. 

Funny enough (strange, not haha), somehow (cats, I blame cats) my radio alarm got set to a Spanish station and now I'm awakened each morning to the Latin beats.  I think it's sort of like an immersion course, it can seep directly into my hypnogogic-state brain and the language will actually learn itself? I don't think that's quite right, maybe it's my brain that will learn itself? Whatever, something is getting learned. Maybe. Time will tell.  

Anyway.  This morning was the test, if I really meant it this weekend about getting in shape or if it was yet another best laid plan of Weekend Me. That alarm went off, I did a little cha-cha and hopped right outta bed, all proud and sleepy-eyed. At the ridiculously early hour of 7:45 a.m.  

In the MORNING, Reader. 


Well, early by super-duper lazy people standards (finger points back at me). 

I threw on a pair of track pants and socks and sneakers that I laid out the night before, couldn't bother with a bra because that seemed tight and constrainy that early in the morning. My boobies were still asleep, for God's Sake, they weren't ready to be strapped into the reality of the day.

I brushed my teeth, threw on a shirt over a tank top (I did have a modicum of decorum, I didn't need my chest flouncing all down the street without a little restraint), looked at my bed-head top-knotted hair and decided it was good enough.  Who'd be out that early in the morning, after all? I didn't need to look presentable, I just needed to get a-walking.

Guess who's out that early in the morning, Reader?? Everyone, that's who. All the neighbors, with their dogs.  And old people.  Up and down the street I encountered person after person, me with my semi-flouncy boobs, no undies, and sticking-up top-knotted hair.  

But I marched around the neighborhood like a boss. A underwear-less boss.  With bedhead.  But a boss. 

And then I came home, drank a hot cuppa my Chaga tea, listened to a 10-minute morning meditation on the deck, hopped on the inversion table for a quick decompression and got on with my day. 

So yeah. I'm better than you. This once. Unless you did something crazy like get up and run places, or go to the gym at some crazy hour before the sun came up, then you win. But since you probably didn't I figured I'll be horribly insufferable for just this once. 

Because what are the chances it'll happen two days in a row?   I mean, I have plans for it, Reader. I've even put a pair of underwear next to my track pants for tomorrow. I'm optimistic.  But it can really go either way once the Latin beats go off in the a.m.  I may decide to stick with my Spanish lessons.  

Monday, September 7, 2015

That's Alright, Mama

When exactly did my life become so much fun, Reader?? I think it started back in February when I no longer had to work at Tiny Town. Because while most people would view a lay-off as the most stressful time ever, I look back on 2015 as some of my happiest days in recent memory. 

I was just sitting outside this morning, drinking a cuppa coffee and looking at the pretty day and I was so grateful to have this life. 

Maybe it's all in the attitude. Or at least partially in the attitude. But an unhappy work life can create a shitty attitude that no amount of repeating gratitude-inspired mantras can unshit. Or de-shit. I'm not really sure what the opposite of shitty officially is, so let's go with de-shit. Sometimes it's tough to de-shit your attitude, despite your best intentions. That's all I'm saying. 

I haven't had to really work on de-shitting myself lately. I mean, I can still have a moment or three, but for the most part I'm feeling good about everything from one day into the next. It's easy to be positive, though, when shit isn't shitty.  

So yeah. It's good to be me.  

One of the greatest parts about being me is that I know the greatest people. And one of my people, The Healthy Hoff, asked if she could borrow my house to throw a surprise party for her mama.  Of course I pimped out Chez Bang Bang for Operation 70th.  

And then the greatest friend asked the other greatest friend for any ideas for the Greatest Birthday Ever.  

After some intense brainstorming, we devised the plan to have an Elvis show up and perform. Because one of the big regrets in the The Hoff's Mama's life was never having seen Elvis perform live.  

So we brought her an Elvis. Because we're awesome that way. And I may be just a tich self-serving. Maybe. Just a teensy weensy amount. 

It was an epic night at Chez Bang Bang.  Ep. Ic.  

Elvis came and performed for two solid hours. He sang and gyrated and took photos and kissed girls and handed out teddy bears and scarves and had the whole room on their feet. 

He posed with Elvis Goose, who was properly dressed for the occasion in his white jumpsuit, because Elvis thought Elvis Goose was ah.mazing, which it is because who has an Elvis jumpsuit and cape for their concrete goose? No one except Trixie Bang Bang, that's who. Because I had this outfit custom made.  

I'm even more pathetic awesome than you realized, huh, Reader. 

The second biggest star at the party was this little number:

Yep. Our electronic trash can, which became a member of the family this past week.  So yeah, she was a bit of a show-stealer.  I had a basic plastic can for the past two years, and coveted one of these fancy schmancy numbers, but refused to spend $$$ on a trash canister.  Because that's stupid when you can spend that money on an Elvis instead. Priorities, Reader. 

But thanks to our friendly neighborhood Costco, who charged a very reasonable $39.99 for this little beauty, she was mine, all mine.  And several other folks who were at the party and went out the next day and bought theirs, all theirs. 

So yeah. It's a pretty rockin' time here. From trashcan's to treasures, we've got it all right here, right now.  I hope you can say the same, Reader, and here's to us all having a de-shitty week.  

***This is a little on the lame-ish side, I'm working on getting some creativity back, because maybe my life is so much fun right now that it's sapped all the words from my head. Or maybe I just need more wine. Probably that. 

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Plays the Bongos Naked

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT! ———- typed in my best Matthew McConaughey voice. 

Enough of these excuses, Me, of not having any time - energy - inspiration to write up a story or two. 
Because believe me, I've had pee-lenty of things that deserved a story to be told.  But now the moment has passed and they will never have their moment of infamy. We're going to play this one by the numbers, just to do it down and dirty. The way you like it, Reader. ~drops mic, walks off stage~
 ~comes back onstage, because the goods haven't yet been delivered. Wherein "goods" is used in the very loosest sense of the word, because really that's giving this post a little too much credit.~
Anyway. Back to the numbers.
1./ I'm officially old-ish. In the same day this week I picked up three prescriptions from the pharmacy and two pair of glasses from the Wal*Mart, one pair for up-close and one pair for driving so that I can avoid driving 7 MPH when it's dark and rainy outside. Because for some reason that really angers a bunch of people behind me on the road. Why the rush, I ask. The folks that get all harrumph-y are probably the same folks who post "It's not the destination, it's the journey" bullcrap on their Facebook pages, making them seem all zen when actually they take out their frustrations on poor bad-visioned old ladies on the roadway.  The other factor that contributed to my old-ish-ness this week was I celebrated my thirty year high school reunion. The dirty thirty. So yeah. There I was with a bunch of old people. I've no doubt everyone else thought the same thing when they looked around the room and saw me. I saw me in pictures, Reader, and lemmee tell you, I made a big decision to start working out immediately. "Immediately" being defined as soon as I have the gumption after work, or can maybe get up early in the morning, so basically "immediately" means never, but it felt empowering at the time to make a strong proclamation.  Sometimes just saying it loudly and firmly is enough. 
2./ Two of the prescriptions I picked up that day were for acne. Yep. So basically my skin is regressing to adolescence in defiance to the grey hairs that seem to be fighting their way to populate my head more and more each passing month.  Or it could be that I'm eating like a teenager with unlimited access to take-out. Because my refrigerator? Has a lot of styrofoam containers in it right now.  I failed to grocery shop and that's what happens.  Tonight I felt sorry for my insides and made myself a salad with the not-quite-browned lettuce that was hanging on for dear life in the fridge, to go with my slice of delivery pizza. Because see point #1, I'm dieting since my reunion. Or something. 
3./  I have a ton of middle-aged fun lined up for the next couple of months. Concerts and trips and long weekends. Bill Burr, Garth Brooks, a cruise. Put-in-Bay - yep, those are the fruits of middle-aged labors. See how I'm adding fruit to my diet right there, Reader? Because I'm a healthy fanatic, that's why. 
4./ The new Walking Dead spin-off started this past Sunday and I had zombie nightmares. All. Night. Long. So yep, a great show. I will just never rest again on Sunday night. I'm fairly certain all that tossing & turning counts as exercise. 

Well, that's a good starting point to for me to put out a little bit mid-week. We have to ease back into a routine slowly. It's not the journey, it's the destination.  Or something. I've gotta run, it's late and I have to make plans for me to not get up and exercise in the morning. That's right. I'll make a big proclamation about how Morning Me will get up early and kick my own ass, but Evening Girl's mouth writes a lot of checks Morning Me's ass is not going to cash. But I feel better just thinking that maybe there's a chance. I'm counting that as a "plus" on the workout side. 
———- Just keep livin’!!!!”

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Much Ado About Nothing

Hey Ho, Reader.  Yep, another week goes by without any news from my enda town.  I had plans to write about the nonsense that's my life but then I got busy, and then 10:00 p.m. on Sunday night rolled right around and here we sit, me with really nothing to say and you not here to read all about it. 

In a nutshell, August has gone down like this:

  • Laughing
  • Eating (corn, peaches!)
  • Kissing (Kittens)
  • Friending
  • Drinking (yes, thank you I will have a beer!)
  • Planning (vacations, long weekends, impromptu cookouts)
  • Cleaning 

What's missing from that list is writing. And exercising. 

I keep planning on doing both, and then see all of the above. 

But yeah, the list is starting with laughing. I'm having a really fun time lately.  Work, home - it's all a good time. I hope the same goes for you. 

Miss you. Let's get together sometime. Unless you're a stalker, and then please disregard.  

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Less Screen, More Time

The problem with blogging now is that I'm on the computer so much at work I don't like to get on my computer anymore in my free time.  

I don't even log on to my computer at night.  Don't pull it out of the case.  And you know what? I've been sleeping really well. And you know what else? My lack of words probably hasn't had an impact on you one lil' bit.  

So what I'm saying here is, you're not getting any new words from me tonight, either, because it's hot in my breakfast nook, it's 9:30 on a Sunday night, and my brain does not want to engage.  And we'll both live, Reader. That's the good news.

Let's have a great week, okay.  It's an order, not a question. 


Sunday, August 2, 2015


"Her boobs are sooooooooo biiiiigggggg....."

"HOW BIG ARE THEY?!?!??" - The crowd shouted

"Her boobs are SO BIG, they were invited to join a special boobie-treatment care facility."  

Yep. Trixie's Boobs have joined a care facility. They're members now. Or will be in two to three weeks, once the paperwork is processed. 

It all started with The Spot.  I've posted a sort-of gross-ish picture of The Spot, so you, Reader, can appreciate just why exactly I was a tich concerned when this just popped up on my freckle-y chest one fine summer morning.  

See? It's red and has raised edges and looks mean.  

That white thing tucked in to my shirt? Is a dryer sheet. Because it's supposed to ward off mosquitoes, which actually does a pretty good job of it, FYI, if you're looking for a good-smelling mosquito repellent that keeps you static-free. I didn't cling to anything that day. 

Anyway, when this beauty cropped up and didn't go away, I made my very first appointment with my Obamacare medical insurance facility.  

I was a tich nervous. There were only two options accepting new patients in my area.  So I picked the closest one, and made my appointment.  I was pleasantly impressed that I was able to get in within a couple of days, no long wait.  

I started to wonder exactly what I had gotten myself into when the directions included "Next to Dave's Mercado" and closer inspection of their website revealed a whole entire section dedicated to Refugee Services.  I mean, good for the refugees.  But do I belong there? was the question in my brain. Because sometimes my fancy purses and fancy watch and fancy car makes me get bigger than myself, which in reality is an unemployed person using Obamacare and swimming around in a blow-up pool from the discount store. 

So I told my ego to simmer down and drove to my doctor appointment. 

There was a hotdog stand at the corner of the parking lot, which I viewed as a plus because who doesn't love a parking lot hotdog?! We all do, Reader, except for The Healthy Hoff and maybe a handful of others who don't know good food when they smell it in the parking lot of a medical practice. 

I walked in behind a guy who was also going in to the office, but as he opened the door he hocked up a great big ball of moisture from his mouth right there on the sidewalk near me and the door. 

I was charmed. 

And upon entering the clinic right next to the Mercado, I was greeted with a very big dose of B.O. For realz. I'm not blogzaggerating,* Reader. 

It was the B. Plus a whole lot of O.

It was a vast waiting area, full of a cornucopia of people, and there were five (or more, I was a little shell-shocked at that point) numbered desk areas and they were just shouting out people's names and kids were running around and throwing pamphlets on the floor, and an old Chinese man sitting next to me made a really wet sounding noise and I heard a lot of languages all at once. 

I was woozy and took a very careful seat. 

By the time my name was shouted across the room called, I was relieved to be doing something other than trying to not catch germs.  

The girl at the counter could not have been nicer, or more efficient. 

She asked a lot of questions and I'm now listed in all capital letters on my Official Chart as "NOT HOMELESS."  Again, no blogzaggeration. 

They also asked if I was sexually active, and did that include Men, Women, or Both. That's in my chart now too, so I'm not sure if I'm allowed to switch or if I have to stick with my answer.  

Also, they wanted to take a photo of me to match me up with my records for ever and ever, Amen, but I declined because I looked pretty horrible as I will admit I did not gussy up at all for the appointment. I figured the standards were low there (re: Refugee Services) and I didn't try at all. That's one point on the plus side for this experience, no need to put on fancy airs. 

By the time my name was yelled across the whole entire waiting area announcing it was my turn, I was more than ready to get my Spot looked at and get out of there. 

I walked through the double doors and it was there that I left the world of B.O. and Chaos behind and walked into a brightly lit and clean-smelling medical wonderland of purposeful activity. I was weighed and measured, where I was surprised to find out I'm actually a 1/2 inch shorter than I used to be, so I apparently bought that inversion table just in the nick of time before I shrink up into a teeny tiny version of my self.

And I also found out my blood pressure, which was pre-hypertension- high during my Tiny Town Era, is now on the normal/low side. So yeah, one more plus for no more Tiny Town.

The girl taking all my stats could not have been more pleasant and nice. And she asked a lot of questions, reiterating the sex life activity question, and she also asked me about my boobs and my past appointments at the Cleveland Clinic regarding my boobs. 

I asked her how she knew all that and she said, "Well, you're a new patient, so I did a little research and since we're linked with the Cleveland Clinic I was able to pull up all your records from your biopsy back in 2011, and have that all here, including the images, for the doctor to see when she comes in." 

Who? What? Huh??  I mean, Who does that, Reader?? I've never ever ever been to a first doctors appointment anywhere where they've researched to get all info they could about my health.  

I was flabbergasted and impressed.  

And then I met my Obamacare doctor.  

And was even more impressed. 

She took her time. 

We chatted. A lot. 

She got to know me, and by the middle of that appointment she asked me to take off my shirt so she could give my boobs an initial exam because she was far more worried about my lack of follow-up on my boobs since 2011 than she was about that Spot on my chest.  

She was going to give me a pap test, too, but we both agreed that neither one of us was up to that impromptu morning routine. We're going to save that for our second date, wherein I'll have a chance to prepare my area and shave my legs for the debut. It's only polite, and my vagina likes to be mannerly.  

My boobies were pronounced A-Okay from the initial feel-up, but she wanted them to join the special care facility so they can be monitored on a regular basis. She typed up a whole lot of notes on her computer and get this - all my info is going to a patient advocate person, who will find the best place for my boobies to be seen based on my location requirements and insurance. They are going to do all the research for me and call to talk to me about it within 2 to 3 weeks. 

I have never had a doctors office do the research for me.  

I did ask the doctor if she was "going to be my person every time I came in." She laughed and said, "Yes, we will be each other's person from now on."  I wanted to be sure I wasn't just passed around like a piece of meat-with-big-boobs every time I go in there. 

As for my Spot, Reader? The initial spot that brought me into this medical wonderland?  Well, she doesn't think my Web MD diagnosis is accurate, she scoffed at my Internet diagnosis. She didn't see "basal cell carcinoma" when she looked at it, so she prescribed a gel for it and we're going to monitor it for the next couple of weeks. 

The moral of this story is something about don't judge a doctor's office by the smelly B.O.'d chaotic waiting room. 

And get your boobs checked. See how this blog serves as a public service announcement? I think this qualifies me to raise funds and start a race in the name of Trixie's Boobies. 

*blogzaggeration is when Trixie Bang Bang may take liberties with a story because it's her story and she can tell it any way she wants, with made-up overly-hyped parts because she likes to think of herself as an "avid story teller" instead of a liar-liar-pants-on-fire blogger.