Thursday, November 19, 2015

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, 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. 

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

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. 

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Pee Brain

Last weekend I returned from yet another week on the High Seas. Yep, Reader, if you're counting, that makes my fourth cruise for 2015. So basically, a great year.  I should write a book on How to Do Unemployment Like a Boss. Except now I'm working again, and it's all I can do to scratch out a few words for you here. Although, I am picking up the pace a bit, thanks to Liz Gilbert and Big Magic. This might be the only thing I leave behind in this life, which is sorta sad, so I guess I'd better go plant a tree or something to make up for it and then people will be all, "See that tree? Trixie Bang Bang planted that!" instead of, "Did you read that blog where Trixie Bang Bang talked about cats and vaginas, but not at the same time because that's sort of weird and even she had boundaries, albeit limited." 

I'm frankly not sure which is better, Reader.  I don't especially mind if this is my magnus opus,  rather than planting a tree that could be washed away in a rainstorm or bulldozed to build a new parking lot. See how I've just rationalized sitting at the table drinking coffee vs. digging holes outdoors?  I'm genius, Reader, pure genius. This is my legacy.  I'm doing it for the future.

Anyway, back to point of this, which is I went on a lot of vacations this year, and always always always when I come back I have a few staple resolutions for Back From Vacation Me. 

None of them are any fun, Reader.  They go something like this:

  1. Never eat sugar again
  2. Go on diet immediately
  3. Start exercising on Monday (again, poor fucking Monday, gets all the unpleasant tasks)
  4. Have perpetually clean house with weekly schedule of chores 
  5. Make weekly meal plans
  6. Get up earlier in the morning 
  7. Stop drinking
  8. Stop shopping

That's a pretty shitty resolution list and no wonder I hate coming home from vacation, where the good times roll.  I'm constantly looking for the next trip, I need to escape my own insanity.

I even have much shorter-term goals that I lay on myself, which are mostly just as unpleasant.  This is my actual to-do list from my first day back from vacation.  I had lofty goals. 

The list originally stopped at Clean Cat Litter.

By 6 p.m. on Sunday I realized I hadn't accomplished one thing on the list and was starting to feel like a Sunday Fail. 

So I did what everyone should do in that situation, and I modified the list. 

With things I had actually accomplished that day, therefore able to check right off, pat myself on the back and sit down for an evening of t.v. that needed to be watched, which was equally important and should have been the VERY FIRST THING on this stupid list. Because Walking Dead premiered while I was sailing around the Caribbean and I had a much-needed date with Rick Grimes & Friends.   

But did I even put that on the list? No. Because sometimes I am a dolt.  

Sometimes you need to celebrate the small accomplishments, Reader.  
  • I drank some water. 
  • I ate an apple. 
  • I showered, for chrisssakes, complete with a hair washing and leg shaving, so basically a shower with the works which counts for a lot around here. 
  • And I took a nap with Kitty Purry, because she missed mama for an entire week. I did it for her, Reader, because I'm a giver that way. She thought this was much more important than vacuuming and washing clothes. 

Lest you think she's too adorable here (which she is), two nights ago she peed on me. 

While I was in bed. 

She backed up against me and peed. on. me.   

So, less adorable.

Not only did she pee on me, but it sort of ricocheted off my back/butt area and splattered right into My Misters open mouth, mid-sentence.  

So yeah. I think she was expressing her disdain that the Clean Litter Box check point wasn't done to her satisfaction. While the litter pans did get scooped, she wanted the floor mopped, too. Since I've tidied up her area we've been incident-free.  Which is lucky for her, because she was thisclose to having a similar outcome as the itsy bitsy spider.

This is the second Golden Shower I've gotten from Purry, by the way. It always comes down to my not meeting her litter box needs. She definitely makes her point.  And gets results.  So basically, we should all just piss on whatever / whoever isn't meeting our needs. 

Don't think the donuts are fresh enough? Piss on the baker.
Don't like sitting in traffic in the morning? Piss on the other drivers. 

Don't like the line at Target? Piss on the people in front of you. But not at Walmart, because they may take it as flirtation.  

So yeah.  The moral of this story is to set realistic goals so you can feel like a champion, and learn your pets Love Language before you get a very unfortunate lesson at eleven o'clock at night. 

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Then This Happened Tonight.

A giant-ish (well, the size of a nickel, perhaps giant-ish is a bit hyperbole) spider was just sauntering down my kitchen wall tonight, Reader.  It was more of a slow mosey, really, but I knew I had to address the situation because spiders are not allowed to live inside Chez Bang Bang.  It's a rule. They should read the signs posted by all the entranceways.  

It crossed my mind that I would grab a paper towel, gently smoosh the towel around the spider and then re-home him. Because The Dalai Lamas Cat.  Have you read this one yet, Reader? If not, add it to your reading que, it's a good little story with life lessons in there. And plus, it's about a cat. So win-win.

Then the Sauntering Spider Situation took a really disturbing turn, because it looked like there was a yellow-y clearish bubble thing on it's back, and I'm not exactly an official doctor, but I do use Web MD a lot and almost correctly diagnosed myself with skin cancer so basically I have medical skills to perform diagnostics. And that spider was either infected with ebola, or it was going to have a gazillion little spider babies all over my house.  I. Was. Not. Pleased. With any of this situation. The having to take care of it part, or the just ignore it part and hope she saunters her preggo ass outta the house before hatching.  

I had very little choice in this matter, and gave myself a running little pep talk in my brain as I walked past the spider, through the kitchen to get a paper towel to gently scoop it up and place it outside. Like, "Hey, SpiderWoman, I'm just gonna walk right past you, it doesn't even bother me a bit, I'm a gazillion times your size, what harm can you really do ~pushes down visions of recluse spider damage from my mind's eye ~ I'm not even slightly on edge here, Spider."  

All the while I my insides were queasy and my hands were shaking. The spider didn't need to know this. 

And then a few cats were sitting at the bottom of the wall, just watching this spider and it's slow descent, and basically they suck at their job which is to keep all things like spiders out of the house. So yeah, useless, and the opposite of the Dalai Lama's Cat. Or maybe they're too much like the Dalai's cat, all "Live and Let Live" bullshitty.  

Regardless. I was disappointed in them. 

I got the paper towel, leaned in for the spider and before I even knew what I was doing, I was screaming and making "eeekkkk" sounds and my fingers clamped together and crushed the poor little fucker. It was like I had an out-of-body spider trapping experience, with no control over my movements. 

Reader. When my fingers came together, there was a popping sound combined with a specific *pop* feeling, like a pimple being popped.  

I screamed even louder, and then did a little unchoreographed jig in the kitchen as I was tossing the remains in the trash.  It was really a spectacular site, and you missed it. Which is why you should come over sometime!  We could visit. And re-home spiders together. Since The Incident, I've been sort of afraid to go near the trash - which is totally rational, I know - but you could throw out all my garbage for me while you're here, too!  

So yeah. That happened. And now I'm just like Planned Parenthood, only I don't have free condoms to hand out.* I fully expect the Republicans and Christians to boycott the fuck outta me and take away my funding. 

*I'm not sure if Planned Parenthood actually passes out free condoms, but it seems like something they might do and it's easier to just go with it than to actually look it up and be sure. I'm good with just guessing. It's the Lazy Girl Research and yeah, I'm going to trademark the shit outta that. Just as soon as I make up a way to go about trademarking things. Here! I think actually posting it HERE, RIGHT NOW, is sort of like claiming dibs on it! Consider yourself trademarked, Lazy Girl Ways. I see a new venture in our future. As soon as we can get off of the couch. 

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

New Positions

In the interest of "write more, sit at a desk less," I'm trying a new position in bed, Reader.  I've brought my laptop to bed and am trying to see if Creativity is able to find me while I'm propped up with pillows in a semi-reclined position.  I'm not sure if this position lends itself to creativity. At least not with a computer. Ba-da-bing!  Who are we kidding, mostly not with anything else either,  unless it involves compiling a lengthy wish-list in my head of home renovations I want to do that have been inspired by HGTV. That's what mostly happens in bed around Chez Bang Bang.  Mostly, Reader, because I'm still a lady of mystery. 

Did you laugh as hard as I did over that last sentence?! Wooo Doggie me too! as Andy Griffith would say.

But back to the business at hand, which is create more.  As I've mentioned in my prior post, I love Elizabeth Gilbert's book Big Magic so hard, and I really want to try a make some creative changes - I'm getting no where fast and feeling stale. 
Because if nothing changes, nothing changes. But I have the toughest time with her biggest point, which is discipline.  I'm just so tapped out after sitting at a desk for eight to ten solid hours during the work week that the last thing I want to do is open my laptop and sit at the kitchen table. But I want to write stuff. 

Feel the conundrum, Reader? 

Me, too. 

So I'm giving this a go. We are now officially in bed together. I expect flowers in the morning, just so you know.  Although I did re-take my Love Languages test today to see if my expectations had changed and no sirree, they have not. Wanna get in my pants?  Do the dishes and run the vacuum. If you filled up my car with gas once a week and ever ever ever ran it through the car wash for me, this body would be your wonderland. Well, not necessarily a wonderland in the John Meyer sense, but more along the lines of "I wonder what the fuck is going on there?" kinda way. That kinda wonderland. But it could be yours, all yours, for the simple act of a few household chores and maybe installing a rainforest showerhead for me. So yeah. Just come over and install my showerhead tomorrow, Reader,  skip the flowers. 

Alright. This didn't go anywhere near the road I had intended to take, but I took you along for the ride on a Tuesday night, Reader, and that's the important part - I'm in bed, and putting out for YOU, mid-week! And you thought our relationship had no surprises left. Don't underestimate me. Don't overestimate me, either. Just don't do any sort of estimating, I guess is the lesson here. 

Okay. We'll try this again tomorrow night. Maybe it'll be better. I need a ciggy*. 

*I stayed up way way way too late Sunday night watching Bridget Jones Diary. It has sort of embedded itself in my brain, and I even woke up this morning singing - complete with a British accent - a made-up musical number about the hole in my sock and too many cats in the house. See what you miss when you don't spend the night, Reader? 

**I stayed up way way way too late Monday night watching a fucking scary movie, which I hate, but got sucked in and couldn't stop watching and it lasted until 2 a.m. or something ridiculous, and when the credits rolled it said it was a true story, so then I was really fretful all night long and tossed and turned and had a stuffy nose which really just compounded the problem. The end result equalled two nights in a row with short/tossy-turny sleep and a lot of red eyes today at work. 

**And oh, by the way, I don't really need a ciggy. It's just fun to say ciggy. 

***And lastly, I think the verdict is out on whether or not I'm good in bed. At blogging, Reader. At blogging. I know I'm awesome at the other thing. (sleep). 

Monday, October 19, 2015

Shingle Someone's Roof

Hi Reader, Hi!!! Long time, no words from me to you. It's not because I don't love you, Reader - I do, I really really do! 

But I've been all caught up in my life and then I went on vacation. Yep, I had my fourth and final cruise for 2015 just this past week.  And it was super-fun, as always, only this one had an extra-special twist because somehow I convinced my almost-80-and-set-in-his-ways daddio and his lady-friend to join us on this trip.  

I know, I was surprised, too!  

In all seriousness - which is rare around these parts - it was so great to spend time with them.  I realized that my dad is actually getting older.  And that's a hard realization to accept, Reader.  And I also learned more of his words of wisdom on this trip, which I shall use myself at some point in my life.  

We took a trolley tour of Jamaica. He really enjoyed the tour, and I think seeing how shamble-y it is outside the Walls of Vacation was eye-opening, and he really liked the Jamaican girl who gave us the tour. So much so, that he gave her a little tip, and wanted to tell her supervisor what a great job she did.   

After he did that, we were walking away and he uttered my very favorite sentence of the whole trip. You need to read this with a slow southern drawl, please. Yes, Reader, it's time you did a little work with this blog.  So practice it, and then you can read this next sentence. 

Alright? Ready? Go. 

"Well, I may not be able to put a shingle on her roof, but I sure as heck ain't gonna take one off, neither." 

So yeah. Gold. Pure Gold.  

And now I'm back, feet on the ground again. And I am almost finished with my vacation book, Liz Gilbert's newest release Big Magic and it has reignited me to work on my craft, with fortunately - or unfortunately, as the case may be - is writing this nonsense,  it's how I give back to the WORLD, Reader, so really I'm a philanthropist with a CRAFT and not just words about vaginas, vacations and cats. 

I'm Big Magic. Don't de-shingle my roof, Reader. 

**For you, Reader, who may not quite understand my daddio's words of wisdom and took it right to something dirty, first of all get your mind out of the gutter. Not everything on here goes there. It usually does. But not always. Basically it means if you can't say/do something nice, don't say/do anything at all. But his version is much, much, much more magically fun. 

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.