Thursday, December 18, 2014

In Sickness and In Health

Ho-Ho-Ho, Reader!  I've been crickets for a bit, I came down with some sort of a flu-type bug while at Tiny Town last Thursday.  I was sitting in yet another waaaay-tooooo-looooong meeting, looking for my exit strategy just in case it came down to it, and  then they wheeled lunch in, and it was time to exit.

I excused myself, grabbed up my computer, a bunch of random papers, my purse and beelined for Chez Bang Bang. And I mean beelined, Reader. I looked down at one point and was pushing the pedal to the medal at 80, which is really quite risky for my old-lady-granny driving style. 

So then the flu caught me, and I was laid up in bed for 2 1/2 solid days, wherein my fever-riddled body became the perfect cat mattress.




I was too sick to even know his toddler-sized ass was even on me, and while I'd like to think he was just trying to hug me and bring me comfort, we both know he was heat miser-ing that fever offa me. 

He's a user, is what it boils down to.

Luckily I had Kenny here to tend to my every need, wherein by "tend" I mean he left me the hell alone and let me sleep until I just couldn't sleep anymore, which was sometime on Sunday.  He did bring home White Castle hamburgers on Friday, because that's the perfect "feed a fever" food, as we all know.  In fact, we were watching - well, I should say I was zoning in and out of - Saturday Night Fever because completely fitting, and in one scene they were cooking White Castle hamburgers on the grill and about thirty minutes passed and I said, "I must be having some hallucinations because all I can smell are White Castle onions!"  That's when Kenny confessed that he'd eaten 10 of them or something obscene like that, and I was smelling his breath in the room.  

Which is less enticing than it sounds, Reader. Much. Much. Less. 

So I wasn't hallucinating at all to Saturday Night Fever, it was the smell of White Castle in the room, wherein Life Imitated Art. Which calling Saturday Night Fever "art" is really a stretch because that movie was horrible, Reader. There was a whole gang-bang rape scene for poor, scorned-by-Tony Donna right in the back of the car, and when she was done getting raped, Tony, aka John Travolta turned around with small lips and sneered, "There, are you happy now??" 

Because clearly her tears were tears of joy. Clearly. 

And then the other guy jumped off a bridge and killed himself because he'd gotten some other girl pregnant, and Donna, who'd just been raped, sought comfort from the whole thing in the raper's arms. Because naturally. 

So really, not how I'd remembered that movie at all. Why did I think it had more dancing? 

It could have used more dancing. 

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Copy Catters

This is a Throwback Post, Reader, but we're only throwing back all the way to this past Halloween. Because I am not very timely as I spend my time on ... well, I'm not really sure what exactly. I assure you nothing meaningful. 

My friend posted this to my Facebook today. And I'm pretty sure I have a lock on a lawsuit because they must have been following me around on Halloween, saw the genius of my costume and copy-catted me (gold star for my very intentional pun) into Action Figure Me. Quickly. 




Real Life Me at Halloween, complete with pink robe. 



Now, Reader, the really disturbing part of the whole ensemble that I whipped up for Halloween was that I had all of these items in my possession, save for a clean litter scooper and that sexy cat headband.

Action Figure Me missed the mark by not including the litter scooper, nor the Hello Kitty pajama pants, which were underneath my robe. 

I'm a bit offended that they gave Action Figure Me such an unattractive and manly face, because not even close to the beauty of Trixie Bang Bang. 

But the biggest discrepancy between Action Figure Me and Real Me? They think six cats is all ya need to wear the crown, wherein a crown is hair rollers and a headband with kitty ears. 

The real life Trixie Bang Bang? 
COMES WITH 8 CATS! 






Saturday, December 6, 2014

Read Between The Lines




That is a lot of promise in packaging right there, Reader. 

It effectively did it's job, as it stopped me in my tracks as I was shopping around for absolutely nothing important.

Because my life could really use a change.  It's not horrible, at all, and I'm still grateful and all that jazz, but it could seriously use some improvements.   

Of course I had to pick it up and check the price tag. I was willing to put up twenty-five large (that's dollars, not thousand -this is middle-class America, not Beverly Hills). When I saw that I could Change My Life for $12.99, in my cart it went.  

I knew even as I was putting it in my buggy that I was probably wasting $13.  But on the slim chance it could change my life, well, I wasn't willing to risk not taking the risk. 

I expected a new job, a husband, weight loss and a house that cleaned itself when I opened this up. 

So far, none of that has happened. And oh, by the way, I'm still having bad hair days, too. I think I've used too many squirts at once, because it oiled me up and it looked like I needed a good hair-scrubbing right after I'd gotten done scrubbing it.  

I guess my life did change, as I had to shower more often than before. So there ya have it. Truth in advertising after all.They never said it was going to change for the better. That was the customer's (a.k.a Gullible Trixie Bang Bang) pollyanna, glass-half-full interpretation.  You could probably sell me some ocean front property in Arizona, too. Because I love the beach, and Arizona is quite sandy, from what I've been told. 





Thursday, December 4, 2014

Vegan Friendly

Words I texted tonight:  "I found the missing potato!!!" 

I was three-exclamation-points excited to find that missing potato, which has been MIA since before Thanksgiving.  

If you've ever had a potato go bad in your house, you'll know why it was so important to find it.  A rotting potato = peee-ewwww.  And then they start to decompose like a corpse, and turn mushy and squishy and I just really have enough smells to combat around Chez Bang Bang without yet another one thrown into the mix. 

My potato was missing because see below:


I was going to photo-shop out the bottle of cleaner seen in the picture, because it makes my counter top look untidy, but then I thought it's actually proof that I clean, so it's not lazy housekeeping at all, but more like a Good Housekeeping gold star of approval by keeping it out in the open.  I so far haven't come up with a good explanation on why I've left packing tape on the counter since Sunday. I'll come up with some rationale, just give me a minute or two..or three.

After I found the rogue potato, Gussie thought I'd brought him a new toy and wanted to have another go at it.



He's also the reason the tomato I had on the counter had teeny-tiny little vampire bite marks in it.  

Maybe he's a vegan, like my bad-ass plant eater friend The Hoff.  I'd be happy to never put vegan cheese - also known as not-even-close-to-being cheese - in my mouth ever again. He's welcome to it. 
.


Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Back Door

Last night I got a Cleveland Steamer from Girl Cat.  

I'm not sure if a Cleveland Steamer is exactly the right phrase, because I'm not sure if the exact right phrase even exists, but I know for sure she didn't give me a Dirty Sanchez, because I just looked that up on Urban Dictionary and first, EWWWWW and second, WHY and third, Thank GOD I have never had the need to know what that is. 

I'll wait for you go get back from checking it out. You know you're going there right now.  

Okay, are you good and grossed out now?  I hope so. This will now seem like a pleasant little read.

So back to it. Last night Girl Cat gave me some sort of a Steamer.

You see, Kenny was over and the cat was around. I said, "I smell poop!" And he said, "Eh, boy, we'd better check it out." 

We hauled her into the bathroom and did our routine: He holds the front part, and lucky me, I get to do the dirty work. But not the Dirty Sanchez work.The front part isn't really a great time, either, by the way, because she's a biter. Hard. She means business when you're messing around her business.

I lifted her tail and saw the culprit holding onto her fur.  Using a baby wipe, I plucked it out. And then I figured I'd better tidy up the fur area just a bit with some new baby wipes, and I guess all that tugging and wiping around back there .... well, the next thing ya know, she fired liquid shit right out of her ass and it landed in a steaming splatter on my arm.

Reader. I've never. Ever. Ever. had hot steaming poop shoot out of an ass and land on me.

Reader. I could live the rest of my life happily without ever experiencing that again. In fact, I dearly hope that's the case.

Kenny has said before, "With Great Fur, Comes Great Responsibility."

Yes. yes it does. And tolerance. And fortitude. And other words I'm not quite sure of, but something more, because, Reader, that was an event.  And now I've shared it with you, so it's almost like we experienced it together, only not really because I'm the only one who had to shower afterwards.  


Sunday, November 30, 2014

Does Not Meet (Expectations)

I really thought I'd have it all together once I lived at Chez Bang Bang by myself. Here's how I thought it would go down.

What I thought would happen: I'd go to be bed at a reasonable hour, resetting my fucked-up internal body clock. I've seen enough House Hunters, Diners Drive-Ins & Dumps, and every episode of Seinfeld and Big Bang, I don't need to waste precious sleeping hours watching more.

What really happens: Still rolling around in bed til 2 a.m., watching infomercials and other banal telly.  And then I've stayed up so long I'm hungry again, so I need a snack. And then the cats want a snack, too, so we're all standing in the kitchen eating. At 2 a.m. 

What I thought would happen: I'd become an early riser on the weekends. An early riser by my standards, Reader, not some crazy person's standards. My standards equal getting up somewhere in the neighborhood of 9 a.m. Or 9:30.  Surely by 10. 

What really happens: I still roll out between 11 and noon. See above point. I may wake up earlier, but then I find every good reason to just loll around in bed for a while longer. Where "a while" equals several more hours and then I'm staring noon in the face. 

What I thought would happen: I'd take those extra hours I gained in the morning and hit the gym, firming up my fat and getting it bikini-ready (well, that's hyperbole, we both know that, but you know, something less jiggly and large). 

What really happens: I think about going to the gym. Then I make breakfast, which should really be called lunch due to the time of day it happens, and eat some sort of cake that I have leftover from something.  And make plans in my mind for Evening Me to go to the gym. Which never happens, because Evening Me says fuck you to Morning Me who makes those plans. 

What I thought would happen: I'd really take some pride in my appearance, paying extra special attention to my grooming with no one here to interrupt me. 

What really happens: I haven't showered since Thursday night. Part of the reason I tossed and turned last night was because my legs are so prickly and my hair is so dirty, I was bothering myself on all ends.  I do brush my teeth, but that's as far as it's gone this weekend.  Yesterday was Pajama Saturday.  Which, as I pointed out on Facebook, is an exercise in efficiency, because it makes getting ready for bed a snap. 

What I thought would happen: I'd maximize the quiet time in the house to start my book idea, and have a finished product by next summer.

What really happens: I play Candy Crush, read the same shit over and over again on Facebook, read about Snooki getting married, check out Kim K.s Instagram photos, and delete my Twitter account because I just don't have the time to send Tweets out into the Interwebs.  But you do get this, Reader. You're welcome.

What I thought would happen: The house would be spic & span at all times. Because there's only me.

What really happens: I forgot the part where I live with eight (don't judge me, Reader! I'm well aware that is a very large number) furry ninja assholes. Who knock over furniture, scatter any random paper left out, track kitty litter through the house and sometimes forget where they are supposed to pee.  The answer is litterbox, not my bathroom rug, in case you were wondering. 





What I thought would happen: I'd have zero amount of dirty laundry, and it would all be hung in closets on color-coordinated hangers and I'd put my work outfits together for the entire week on Sunday nights, complete with accessories. 

What really happens: Went to switch the laundry around last night, got distracted, didn't do it, shut the dryer door. Woke up this morning (well, afternoon...is it still considered morning if it's the time you wake up?), opened the dryer and two kittens jumped out. 

Yep.  I accidentally locked Walter WhiteEars and Gussy in the dryer. For at least 12 hours.   

Guess who pooped in the dryer?    

And with just me here, guess who got to clean poop out of the dryer? 

Me. That's who.  

So I coulda killed the kittens, and now I'm cleaning shit out of the dryer.  I needed to use a screwdriver on a cloth to get it out of a groove in the back of the dryer. All before my first cuppa coffee. It was awesome.  

What it boils down to: Reader, my life has gotten more glamorous being by myself here at Chez Bang Bang. Don't be jealous.  It's not all hats & horns.  





Saturday, November 29, 2014

Thankful

I stood in the doorway leading out to my deck, fresh brewed cuppa coffee with french vanilla creamer in hand, watching the kittens romp in the snow.  And my only thought was, "I am so very very lucky." 



"I'm lucky" was my brain's refrain as I looked around at my life. 

From my house that I adore and feel so very fortunate to get to live in....

To the ridiculous amount of kittens that I own and am fortunate to be able to afford to rescue..



The smell of lunch cooking in the kitchen...

The heat from the fireplace warming me...

The sound of the creek babbling below me...

And my view that I get to see when I step outside. 



I hope you, Reader, are as fortunate as I am today.