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. 

Sunday, July 26, 2015

The Deep End

Renovations are happening here at Chez Bang Bang, Reader, and it's a good time.   Back when I originally became a stay-at-home unwife, I had Big Plans for the summer. It included lazy days spent lounging poolside, reading trashy novels and working on my sunburn turning to more freckles tan.  

The big glitch with that plan was that I didn't have a pool.  

I say "didn't," Reader. Because one day while I was meandering through the store I saw this little inflatable beauty. 

Don't they look so happy??!  The answer is yes, they do look happy, because they're in a POOL and pools make people happy. For the most part, except when accidental drownings happen. Then, not as happy. 

But here? Happy. The dad is all lounge-y and relaxed with probably a beer in the cupholder on the side. Yep, that's right. This little number has built-in cupholders because it's fancy. The kids are hanging out and ready to splash some water around. The mom is probably inside making Kool-Aid because the mom always has shit to do, she can never just sit in the pool and relax. Or maybe they're divorced and he's a single dad and this is his weekend with the kids. I could go on with scenarios, but the bottom line is they all look like they're having a good time sitting in some water and gol'darn it, that fun was gonna be mine.  

Oh,  p.s., notice all the holes in the top corner of the box? Yeah, those would be cat bites, because they are intent on ruining all of mama's happiness. 

So in my shopping cart it went, despite the $29.99 price tag on my unemployed wage.  I figured the hours of enjoyment would pay for itself. 

Much to my delight, when I got home I discovered the cashier didn't charge me correctly and I ended up getting it for $15, plus the $2.88 for the Bellows Foot Pump I purchased to blow this baby up. Because while I am normally full of a lot of hot air, it was a for sure thing that I would pass out if I gave this pool mouth-to-mouth to breath life into 'er. 

So a summer of fun for $17.88. Plus tax. 

Only it seemed like the entire month of June rained.  Rained right on my pool parade.  When it wasn't raining, I was getting ready for or having that damn garage sale. 

June passed, and I could feel my dreams of the Summer of George lounging poolside slipping by. 

And then I got a job offer, and went to Vegas over the 4th of July, and now I was looking at only having the precious weekends once again to enjoy floating in my pool, if I ever got it installed. 

The Summer of Poolside George was looking grim.   

Until today, when my original plan was to finish cleaning up the garage from that fucking garage sale, wherein I'm a little ashamed to admit that I still have a couple of tables of shit that needs de-shitted. But instead of cleaning the garage I said to my brain, "Fuck that cleaning the garage nonsense, I've gotta make hay while the sun shines." And my making the hay involved pulling the pool out of the box and getting ready for some sweet sweet lounging. 

I wanted to put it up on the deck, so that I could be close to the bathroom if needed and somewhat ensconced in privacy in the event I wanted to skinny dip. Or chunky dunk, as the case may be. 

My Mister dubiously looked at the foot pump but was nicely surprised when he hooked it up and it actually did it's job better than the $2.88 price tag would lead you to believe.

There he is in his summer uniform - heavy denim blue jeans and a black t-shirt.  

And then he sweat-ed and bitched about how hot he was out there.  Ya think? It would be hot?

Luckily he was soon to have a pool he could cool right off in.  That is, if it didn't crash through the deck, which was somewhat of a worry, with all that water in my very big pool.

He got it all inflated with some minor cursing and brought the hose round for me, and in two shakes of a lambs tail, the pool was installed, filled and ready for some splashing-around fun-in-the-sun! And Trixie Bang Bang's Summer of George Dreams were no longer on hold. 

See how pretty?? Cool and refreshing! Or more like, "Holy WOW, that hose water is COLD!," but I got in anyway. 

Now, normally a story like this would have some sort of a horrible-warning ending coming from me, but not this time.

Nope. It was nothing but pure fun and games, except for the part where my legs were even more stiff by the time I got out because super-duper cold water, but other than that? Exceeded expectations. 

The cats lived up to the curiosity part of their nature and came out to investigate.

So yeah. This is where you'll find me during hot summer nights and weekends, with a cold drink in my cupholder.  

Until I get an infection up my crotch from sitting in a pool of stagnant water.

Or a good dose of Legionnairres' disease

I guess I'd better visit Litehouse Pools and figure out how to keep my inflatable pool water fresh. Cause I've got enough other things to worry about, which oh, by the way, includes what I believe is a little dose of cancer, so no Legionnairres' for me, thanks but no thanks.  

Yeah, you read that right. I slipped it right in there,all quiet like, because we don't want to talk too loudly about it. But thanks to Almighty Google and Web MD, I'm about 83.4% certain I've got a touch of the cancer. The problem is, I can't get in to see a doctor because I had to find a new doctor because my original primary care physician is inadequate for anything important, and now I have new insurance so I need to get in with someone accepting new patients. But then I started my job and that infringed on my searching-for-a-doctor time last week, but I took care of it yesterday and will be calling to make an appointment bright and early Monday.  

Not to be concerned, Reader, I'm fairly certain it's just a teensy touch of skin cancer, the non-spready kind from what I've diagnosed myself with from pictures on the Internet. Because that's how medicine's practiced nowadays. Duh.

This spot just cropped up a couple of weeks ago, right there on my chest. When I first noticed it in the mirror I thought to myself, "What the fuck is that??" But then figured it would go away. Several days later my friendie saw it and immediately said, "What the fuck is that on your chest?" 

And that's when I knew I had a little problem that needs solved. Thanks for nothing, Fair, Freckly Skin which burns like a motherfucker at the kiss of a sunbeam. 

So yeah. I'll be SPF-ing the fuck out of my spot while I'm lazing about in my Legionnairre's water.  

Come over.  We can get diseases together, it'll make it more fun that way. I'm not sure who's going to be having more fun, but didn't someone say misery loves company, so why wouldn't diseases love company, too? Don't leave Diseases out, Misery. It's rude. 

And oh, by the way, I'm taking applications for a lifeguard. 

And a cabana boy.

Please submit shirtless photos to be considered for the position. 

And polish up on your "feeding me grapes" routine. 

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Tidy Cat

Okay, either "I'm sorry" or "your welcome" for leaving you with a picture of the camel toe for so long. I'm not here to judge. Well, not that, anyway.  On a side note, someone I know just said yesterday that my writing is sometimes "perverted." I was flattered.  And, oh, by the way, that makes you, Reader, who's reading this also a little perverted.  We're all Flatteringly Perverted. You're now part of the club. I think we should get t-shirts made. 

But that's not what I came here to tell you about.  

I came here to say a lot of other things, but then realized it's been a really long time since you've seen Kitten Cuteness and I owe you that. 

This is Nosey Dots (who is formally named Jessie, but we call him Nosey most of the time, because he has dots on his nose, duh) and Gussy.  Nosey is cleaning him up.  Nosey cleans everyone. 

He likes his kittens on the tidy side. 

Even if he has to pin them down with his 14.4 lb. fat cat ass. 

Yeah, we weighed him. 

You can get a mild hernia picking him up. 

My kittens turned 1 on the Fourth of July.  Well, that's the day they first found me. They probably turned 1 sometime in May.  

They are still ridiculously cute.  They have the wanderlust, though, and have spent a lot of summer hours outside.  Yeah, we let them outside. Gussy is small enough that he fits through the slats on the deck and just jumps off and then goes into the woods and ravine to play.  So we let his brothers out too, because safety in numbers. 

But sometimes Gussy doesn't come back for a while, and he spent most of the other night outside, which caused me to awake every two hours to call for him because Worried Mama.  

He finally came in at 4 a.m., flying across the lawn to get in and went right to his litter box. He either doesn't know he can poop outside, or he's refined and prefers to do it in his litter box so I have the privilege of cleaning up more of his poop.  I'm lucky, I guess. 

So yeah, I never thought I'd let me Beloved Indoor Housecats outside, but the heart wants what the heart wants. And their hearts want to play in the yard, and feel grass under their feet and chase bugs.  I don't want to keep 'em locked up for life. But I do think I need to get an enclosed area outside so they can have grass under their feet, without the risk of getting eaten by a coyote.   That's next on the house projects list. 

Enjoy your Sunday, Reader. I've got a cookout with corn on the cob and peach pie to enjoy at my Daddio's today.  Summer = Yummer.  

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Figuratively Speaking

I was doing a bit of online shopping looking lately and stumbled across this advertisement for some sort of torture-chamber undergarment, because clearly this lady is fat and needs this six-hooked, elastic-ed contraption to mash her body into a figure suitable to walk around in public.

Aside from that, does anything else jump out at you from this picture, Reader? 

Or is it just me? 

There's a good chance it's just me. 

Because that image made me want to dress up like Jasmine from Disney's Aladdin movie as soon as I saw that Camel. And I also noticed her very apparent "magic carpet." Aladdin, Jasmine and several friends could ride on that thing. 

I mean, as far as advertising techniques go, this one may be considered a winner because it definitely caught my attention. I even saved it to share with you. You're welcome. 

However, I couldn't tell you what the product actually is, nor did I buy one, because I do not need to call that sort of attention to my kuntz area, as it gets pah-lenty of attention as it is. 

And speaking of my kuntz, would you even believe it if I told you I actually got the job with the company I shouted out "MIKEKUNTZ!!'" to in my phone interview??? 

Hard to believe it, Reader, but YEP, it's the troof.  I'm going to be back in the workforce soon!! I start in mid-July as a Merchandising Manager for a young e-Commerce biz.  I'm going to be in on the groundish floor, and will reap many rewards for my contributions with this company once I prove my awesomeness, which should take about five days. Because of said awesomeness.  I've already been working - unpaid - on my strategies and contributions that will help drive and grow the business. I'm trying to knock some of the rust off of the hamster wheels that churn my brain before I actually start. 

I'm super-excited about the work, less super-excited about trying to correct my awful sleep pattern. Because it is a doozy.  I now go to sleep sometime between three and six in the morning, and get up, oh, in the early afternoon.  

They shouldn't make Forensic Files a nightly marathon if they wanted me to go to bed earlier.  I've been really hooked on watching hours and hours of those shows. And then it scares me and I have to get up and walk through the house and check that no one is trying to break in to Chez Bang Bang and diddle with my kuntz while they think I'm asleep, because they would be in for a surprise, because I'm AWAKE at 2 a.m., Badguys, so stay the eff away. I'm on high-alert.  And have been practicing kung-foo. Not really, but I think about doing karate chops to people, so I'm counting it. 

So yeah, not exactly restful sleep after I do finally turn off the hours upon hours of murdering shows. Last night I even managed to tolerate a half hour of Nancy Grace, because the story was compelling, but Nancy herself is so annoying and just makes shit up rather than reporting on any facts and says the same stuff over and over again, which annoys the piss out of me so I turned her off mid-way through and now I need to Google and find out more details about the murdering of a doctor-lady in Florida. You've created more work for me, Nancy Grace. Thanks for nothing. 

Let's recap here, Reader, because this has been all over the place. Our Top 5 take-aways are:

1/ No one needs underwear that details out their camel toes. Unless you DO need those underwear, Reader, and then I will try to find out the brand for you, because I'm a giver.

2/ I will become a productive member of society once again mid-July, abandoning my current "job" of spray painting every empty bottle in the house to turn it into a Pinterest project. 

3/ Sometimes talking about your kuntz in an interview can land you a job. And not just in prostitution. 

4/ Don't break into my house, BadGuy. You'll be the one getting an unpleasant surprise, right between the shoulder blades. 

5/ Nancy Grace creates more problems than she solves.