Weekend Winks – Twinning, Winning and Spinning

Princess and the Prince

Being a crazy pants aunt, I love to vicariously live first experiences through with my Iowa twins. These three and a half-year old slices of perfection went to their first dance – a sock hop – at their school last week.

All by themselves.

Hop sockin'.

Next time, I’m chaperoning.

Coming home to unwind after dancing her socks off, Princess B. changed in to her most appropriate college game day attire in  support of our Iowa Hawkeyes.

Best. Outfit. Ever.

She’s got spirit, yes she do.

You know who else had spirit(s) on Saturday?

Of course you do. Dada CBXB and yours truly were at the ready to see our fave football team take the field for an 11am kick-off. What we weren’t anticipating during our weekly trashy family tradition of touchdown shots  was guzzling five before the clock struck noon.


Foxy and loxy at 11:15 am.

Double done before noon.

Double down a few moments later.

Three and

Three and free by 11:32 am.

Four had us feeling...

Four had us feeling…


… like five was keeping us alive.

Luckily for us, I’d made my blogfamous Shit Dip that also acts as an extremely effective cleanse if you eat the entire dish of butter, corn, jalapenos and cream cheese.

Blogfamous shit dip.

Which of course we consumed in its entirety.

Dada CBXB made his “best batch of ribs ever” which is the tag line he uses in accompaniment of any fresh batch of anything that comes off of his grill.

Best batch ever.

Best fall of the bones BBQ in the county.

Thankfully our halftime helpers laid foundation for the additional two touchdowns the Hawks scored during the second half.

Two hander

Getting our kicks with our sixth.

Seven for the win, baby!

Seventh heaven for the victory, baby!

With a 49-35 Iowa Hawkeye win over the Purdue Boilermakers, the party was just starting for our football afternoon. Except I switched to a little H2O in order to save face with the fur balls in my presence (that would be Clark, Cousin Eddie and Presh).

What the fuck is going on with the humans?

What the fuck is going on with the humans?

Super fun Saturday football proved a hard recovery on my day of ‘rest’.

Little less than energetic on my day of rest. Sunday 'shot' to hell.

Not such a mover and a shaker on Sunday.

But hey, like a building in Nashville’s quaint Germantown says…

You You

And I will continue to do so, thank you very much.

Here’s to a week of you doing you.



Does Anyone Have a Caboodle Where I Can Store My Scrunchie?


Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl. Not to mention I own four cats….and a chug. Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.

For real.

I still own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair and the purple one below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase (now, I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from walking bean fields….I also got a tie dyed shirt, which I still own (my hoarding abilities can be discussed another time). Obviously I put my money to expert use).

Hard earned hair acccessory.

Hard earned hair accessory.

Although I saved scrunchies from years past, this does NOT mean that I condone wearing anything of the sort in public. I feel so strongly about this, I have risked jobs and friendships, saving folks from public embarrassment.

A few years ago while at an extremely new place of employment, I spotted my boss sitting at her desk with a white scrunchie in her gorgeous hair. And while I hadn’t quite figured out our working relationship boundaries yet (being that I was her assistant) I felt it my womanly duty to rip it out of her hair.

Well, actually I walked up behind her and as I slid it off of her hair I leaned in and whispered, “We don’t wear these in public. Trust me.”

Um, no.

About to be unemployed but I don’t care.

Horrified at my casual approach and sure as shit I was about to be fired, she laughed and said thank you. We’re still gal pals to this day thanks to my brazen move in the name of fashion.

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie even though I wear tiny sombreros and t-shirts announcing my crazy cat lady status.

And then there’s my old band manager I ran into at the mall one afternoon.

I expected so much more than….

Manager fail.


While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach, it was the teeny, tiny piece of material stuck in the layers of curls that made my skin crawl.

NOT blending in.

Scrunchie not blending in dude.

Being that I didn’t work for my buddy, I could be a little more blunt in expressing how insane it was to see a grown man wearing a scrunchie.

Someone actually procreated with you?! TWICE?!


A mere two seconds later, the scrunchie was mine and my buddy was back to being, well, my buddy.

Yep. Back to being a bonafide '80s rocker

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.

CBXB shocker!

CBXB shocker!

But I only sport these little pieces of fashion fails on two occasions.

I wear one to keep myself cool when I sleep within the confines of bedroom walls.

Night sweat no more.

Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.

Even love it when it gets stuck in my mane.

I still even love this piece of shit when it gets stuck in my mane every morning.

The other occasion in which I wear something so taboo is a deep, dark scrunchie secret.

I wear it to perfect my bun.

Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.


Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

Hey-oh. But why would I ever let anyone in on my bun magic?

But you can bet your ass I ever let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.

So there I am, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…


Visiting Iowa, I was certain that I left it in my sister’s guest bedroom. And quickly resigned to the fact that I’d never see this beloved piece of my hair history again due to the fact that she has three and a half-year old twins.


Goodbye my love.

What will keep me cool at night?!

How will a bun ever be the same?!

But then I remembered I still had a purple scrunchie from 4th grade.

Be still my beating heart.

Be still my beating heart.

As I went to sleep that evening, reaching for the limp pile of aged elastic and who-knows-how-many-germs-its infested-with-material, I heard a snap.




My purple piece of shit went to scrunchie heaven, as the decades old elastic finally died (most likely committing suicide).

Finding myself empty-handed, I did the only thing I could think of to console myself.

I headed to Claire’s Boutique – a store I haven’t stepped foot in since I was a gal on the hunt for prom accessories in high school.  Upon entering the overstuffed store, a sweet girl who was maybe 15 greeted me and instantly looked baffled when I told her I was in dire need of a scrunchie.

“A what?” she asked.

“A scrunchie. You know, a hair tie with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.

Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the store music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her back to the clearance section where she announced…

“This stuff has been here since before I started working here two years ago. Maybe you’ll find something to help you out.”

Um, what the fuck 14-year-old?!

Um, what the fuck 15-year-old?!

The new take on scrunchies are pieces of fake fur wrapped around elastic that are about as durable as an earthworm on a dry day, which would be why they were on clearance for 99 cents.

I mean, seriously?

I mean, seriously?

Giving up on Claire’s, I headed to the mall where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts. While perusing the endless goodness at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.

Fucking scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What has this world come to?

Search to replace. Nordstrom FAIL. FAIL. FAIL! Especially with silk scrunchies. Old people lunch tables in nursing homes is hte only place this is acceptable.

These are only acceptable on white hair around a nursing home lunch table, mmmkay?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

Scrunchie sadness combined with the hilarity of an upscale department store selling them in silk.

Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do and also knowing my bun days were over, I tried mending my broken haired heart.

But then…the black scrunchie found its way back from Iowa into my loving arms.

BUT WAIT! My sister found it. And is my hero.


All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Now where’s my Caboodle?



Weekend Winks – Jazz Hands, Chugs and Pussy

A win is a win no matter how boring ugly.

You know I love the word pussy – a word I use quite frequently on this blog in describing my beloved feline fur balls. However, hearing it come from a dirty old man’s mouth, in regard to grabbing a woman’s crotch (any woman’s crotch for that matter) because he’s a ‘star’…. fucking please. So, to tune out all of the P word debate nonsense, I chilled with my fave P word – Precious the chug on the mini manse porch Friday evening.

My punkin with a full pumpkin.

My punkin with a full pumpkin.

We had to take it easy, as I was bleary eyed for an 8am appointment at the hair house on Saturday. Luckily, I get to bring my mascot – who needs no primping with a face like hers.

Salon style.

Louis Vuitton salon style puppy.

Even though I feel very Paris Hilton circa 1999, annoyingly toting my squatty bodied pooch in my purse, it’s too fun to resist – so I don’t.

Sunglasses hide sins.

Sunglasses hide sins. Yes, even inside.

Hurrying home after my gussy-up, I filled my fave wine glass with a Skinny Pirate for an 11am Iowa Hawkeyes kick-off.

Resembles our team's season falling apart.

My glass is resembling our team’s season falling apart.

While we’re tried and true fans, our tradition of touchdown shots was sidelined due a measly two field goals. So we chose to do sympathy shots in the third quarter.

Sympathy shot.

Forced to shoot out of boredom.

Then finally in the last two minutes of the game, Iowa scored a touchdown and we were able to celebrate family tradition style.


Blurry celebratory shenanigans.

While we were day drinking our brains out, my Iowa twins were modeling for family photos.


I mean….the cuteness factor here almost makes my head pop off my body.

I mean...that hair.

That hair.

While I planned on detoxing Sunday, the realm of crazy surrounding the presidential debate forced encouraged me to take the edge of all of the nonsense with a little vino.

Proper debate prep.

Proper debate prep.

When did debate coverage become similar to College Game Day? When posters that made me piss my pants started showing up behind the commentator’s heads.

Best. Sign. Ever.

Best. Sign. Ever.

Even baby Elsa Pants was in dire need of a drink after the word devil was used by one candidate to describe the other.

Even Elsa Pants was

And Presh could only muster a side eye glance at the shit show.

One eyeing the madness.

One eyeing the madness.

Naturally, I guzzled. Well, in truth my sister and I played a game where we drank every time Donald Trump sniffled. Which meant we guzzled every other minute.

Forced to guzzle

Somebody give that man a fucking tissue.

The best thing I’ve seen since the debate was posted by Taraji P. Henson on Instagram in reference to pussy grabbing.

I hope Trump never comes near mine.

Grab these pussies? We'll cut a bitch.

You can’t grab this. We’ll cut a bitch.

Here’s hoping no one forcefully grabs anything of importance to you this week.




Weekend Winks – Can’t Steal My Sunshine

Whitney Lover Love

The past 240 days of 2016 have put me in a seemingly endless downward spiral, creating a monster of a walking, talking freak show shell of myself because when bad shit happens to good people, everyone responds differently. In my case, I’ve been left in a constant state of limbo for nearly 9 months, in which actions of those in authority performed, conducted demanded (by me) on my behalf were out of my control (a fucking nightmare for an OCD maniac such as moi).

Being wound tighter than a yo-yo that hasn’t been used since 1972, good news was delivered Friday morning that made me happier than in as long as my memory can serve me (which isn’t saying much these days). The kind of happy that makes you feel intoxicated in the absence of booze (of course that didn’t last long). The kind of happy that makes you feel genuine joy. The kind of happy that gives you a glimmer of hope, a sliver of validation and sparkling reminder that karma is a motherfucker when it’s doled out to those who deserve it.

The kind of happy that feels like sunshine.

Cheersing to karma being a motherfucker.

The celebration between a mother and her little fucker.

As tidings of joy (god, I can’t wait for Christmas) spread, my support group helped me celebrate from coast to coast.

From Hotlanta!

Love in the form of a 12 pack from Atlanta.

Flowers of

Feted with flowers from gal pal and blogging bestie  Princess Rosebud from Cali.

Good thing for me the celebrating didn’t end with Skinny Pirates on Friday night. The party trickled into Saturday, where I didn’t have to choose a fave booze to holler’n’swaller t0 while cheering on my beloved Iowa Hawkeyes.

Playing Favorites

Room for all of my nearest and dearest game day delights.

A small hair of the dog did take the Friday night bite out of the 11am kick-off.

Game day started off right.

Even the tailgate crew gussied up in their game day finest.

Gussied up and

Glitterati is a good sport.

Trying to keep our average American figures in check, our tailgate spread remained low carb (but who gives a rat’s ass how many are in your cocktail, amIright?).

Healthy spread to offset the dehydration of livers.

Healthy spread to offset the dehydration of livers.

I even cooked something without a recipe…yes. Be ah-mazed. Because I still am.

Cauliflower crusted buffalo chicken pizza.

Cauliflower crusted buffalo chicken pizza.

Family tradition continued the shenanigans of good fortune with touchdown shots.

Shot one! But not done.

Shot one! But not done.

Two and through.

Two and through.

The Hawkeyes eeked out a victory (a win is a win no matter how ugly) and while I take a victory even if not proudly, my heart about burst with delight when I received this video of Princess B.


I know that you are now overflowing with patriotism. I mean, who couldn’t after that rendition of the Pledge of Allegiance?  And, speaking of overflow, here’s hoping all of you peeps in Iowa are staying as dry as possible although the waters seem to keep rising.

Four feet of sandbags and still a raging river in Cedar Rapids.

Four feet of sandbags and still a raging river in Cedar Rapids.

The rest of my weekend was spent deciding what mini manse improvement projects I should do now that I have a little pep back in my step. It’s amazing how much an ounce of relief can revive your spirit. My pal Mills made the suggestion below and I think it’s something that even I could handle in a day’s work.


I mean, I already have the bag of wine, I just need to find massive shower clips. Who can help?

The pussy posse dominated my Sunday, demanding some mama time. I’m sure you can guess who still remains king of the castle though, right?

Thank God I have enough body mass for all of them.

Thank God I have enough body mass for all of them.

While I’m not a political pot stirrer, I couldn’t help but fall truly, madly, deeply in love with this shirt

Love trumps hate. Truth trumps dishonesty. Karma trumps asshats.

Love trumps hate.
Truth trumps dishonesty.
Karma trumps asshats.

Here’s hoping nothing steals your sunshine this week.



Weekend Winks – Drunken Family Rivalries


Oh what to do when your fave college team is playing their in state rivals (and cousin’s fave team)? Iowa Hawkeye fans get their asses on the road from Nashville to Atlanta for a little family rivalry fun, viewing the game together.

Suck it State.

Suck it Iowa State.

Of course I can’t hardly live without my main feline squeeze, Ted so I packed him into the caravan (possibly against his wishes).

Naturally I also packed my my main feline squeeze into the caravan.

Pussy packed and not ready!

Although Mr. Bear’s traveling spirits perked right up when Gpa offered up some of his cheeseburger.

Cheeseburger in paradise.

Cheeseburger in paradise.

Cold cocktails awaited our arrival in Atlanta much to our delight.

Double the Skinny Pirates.

Double the Skinny Pirates.

The real reason I brought Tedstar to Atlanta was to babysit my cousin’s adorable duo while the adults ventured to the Atlanta Iowa Hawkeye Club for the football viewing party.


Adventures in babysitting.

The sweet, southern belle gathering was about to get loud as our transplanted northern selves took over the viewing space at Mazzy’s Sports Bar in Roswell.

You should have seen my toe touches.

You should have seen my toe touches.

I have to give props to my cousin Tballs who was the lone Iowa State fan in the Hawkeye bar.

The lone Iowa State fan at the Hawkeye bar. CyCLONER


Keeping up with our classy, traditional Hawkeye touchdown shots, we started early in the first quarter. Even Tballs the Cyclone was a good sport at first.

TD #1!

TD #1!

TD #2 left us Hawk fans happy.

TD #2 left us Hawk fans happy.

TD #3 required some muscle.

TD #3 required some muscle.

The fourth and fifth shots went a little like…

What the who?

What the who?

But the sixth shot went down like a charm…as us Hawk fans had to use two hands compared to the big 0 for the Cyclones.

But the sixth went down like a charm.

Winning doesn’t suck.

With a winning score of 42-3, we needed to take a victory pic, of course.

Winners photo!

Sleeping beauties and their beast.

Photo op 3,412 turned out alright!

Photo op 3,412 turned out with all eyes open!

On Sunday, my Iowa twins were picking apples in the orchard while the football fans were trying to revive our livers with anything other than a shot of alcohol.

Apple pickers.

Apple pickers.

Thankfully, the livers responded well to our choice of water (and a little hair of the dog) and we were all back in the saddle again – ready for next week’s tailgate!

If you visit my blog frequently, you know I’m banana pants over animals of all kinds. Most of you I know virtually and in daily life, love their fur babies like true human spawn. So when something indescribably inhumane happens to one of pal’s animals, I can’t help but have a hurt heart.

Please keep my friend Bex and her family in your loving thoughts, sending them some good juju as their beloved Fred was hit by a car on Friday – and the driver kept going, seeing that it hit a dog. Heartbreakingly, Fred didn’t survive his injuries and is no doubt leaving a void in their home.

Accidents happen but motherfuckers who leave the scene they created have a special place waiting for them in hell.

We also need some fabulous karma thrown in my Aunt Crazy Pants’ way. She’s fighting her way through cancer like Rocky Balboa but sometimes we need a water break and pep talk.


So here’s to kicking cancer’s ass!






In Heaven There is No Beer…


It’s the most wonderful time of the year (aside from my birthday, Ted’s birthday, Christmas and the Iowa State Fair)!


The white trash classiness that is my life continues as another season of college football kicks off this weekend!

My dad and I started a tradition a few years ago to celebrate every touchdown that our favorite college football team, the Iowa Hawkeyes, scored with a shot of moonshine (this way no matter what the outcome of the game, you can have fun – even if your team sucks – which is how this lovely tradition began. Unless they score nothing of course, and if that’s the case, get a new team).

First shot of the season.

First shot of the season feels so good!

Our freezer stash of Popcorn Sutton’s Tennessee White Whiskey is prepped and ready to go for the season opener.


Chic shenanigans await.

Problem is this year, Dada CBXB is heading up to see my fave duo on the planet as I type, so we’ll have to resort to our trashtacular tradition via Facetime, which we’ve already mastered in years past.

Miles schmiles.

Miles schmiles.

Being that the Hawks were 12-0 in the regular season last year, we hope our liver tolerance remains in tact for alcohol that makes chest hair grow whether you like it or not. While we’ll be celebrating apart, we have everything we need to round out the first college game day.

Double fisting at its finest.

Double fisting at its finest.


Who’s with us?



Weekend Winks – On a Wing and a Prayer

Much Needed

There’s many reasons why humans over consume booze.

One of those 4,891,492 reasons is travel.

Last week, I was en route to Iowa to see Aunt Crazy Pants after her first round of chemo.

Fuck Cancer

She’s a jazz hander too!

I was also going to manhandle the twins while in the Hawkeye state.

I mean...

Princess B turning into a Queen.

That face.

Prince Charming.

An early morning flight makes for one tired cowgirl, as I can remember when I’ve stayed up until 4:30am but haven’t had to wake up at that ungodly hour since my mother was feeding me formula from bottles. Bleary eyed and in dire need of a mimosa, I couldn’t figure how the fuck to use the machine to check in my luggage.

Warning sign.

Warning sign.

After being thisclose to a meltdown an agent came over and assisted my sorry ass, saying the machine was acting up (but I’m pretty sure it was user error). Bags checked and I was off to board a plane that was at full capacity with 170+ peeps. Just as we were about to taxi away from the gate, I heard a brief clicking sound followed by an announcement by the pilot that our plane had just been hit by lightning.

Yes, you heard me right. My motherfucking plane was hit by lightning. The wing of the plane to be precise and while this occurs in the air all of the time during storms, maintenance was going to take a peek to see if there was any damage. Funny thing is, it wasn’t even raining.

Not even raining.

A beautiful day to be struck by lightning.

After deboarding that plane and hopping on another after an hour, as the aircraft was about to taxi away from the gate, the flight attendant came over the loudspeaker announcing “There are no more connecting flights to Des Moines today. You will be on your own for accomodations until tomorrow morning at 10am.”

Did I mention it was 9:30am when this was announced? So I’d basically have a 24 hour layover on my own dime. After five hours at the airport, being struck by lightning, boarding and deboarding two plans all before 10am, I ubered my ass home and hoped for good karma to come my way the next day.

Early birds

Early birds hoping for good luck worms.

Next day was a flying success! I made it to Des Moines and to Aunt Crazy Pants’s palace just in time to make her my world famously bland potato soup.

Giada Delaurentis I am not.

Drunk chef.

Those who know me well can vouch for the severely deficient culinary skills I possess, so it was no surprise to my mother when I called to ask her how you know potatoes are done boiling. “When you can stick a fork in them.”

Stick a fork in them. Fork Me.

Fork me in the goat ass.

Fortunately, wine helped the ho-hum porridge seem a little more gourmet and was a hit with ACP.

Well, the wine was delish!

Wine. Making dining fine since forever.

I was asking myself how my co-workers would function without me in the office and I got my answer early on Friday via an illustrated text message.

Reason 6,891,482 to inhale libations? Work environments that are bananas. Which is why it’s good to have a drinking buddy whom I left alone while in Iowa. Poor thing.

While my partner-in-work crime was cocktailing in solitude, I became the third wheel of my fave duo.

Trash sandwich

Trifecta of happy.

An impromptu family get together is always filled with shenanigans.

Family be

The family that parties together, hangovers together.

Especially when Aunt Crispie gets out her gigantic chalice and fills it with whatever liquor is lying around.

Aunt Crispie means business.

All business. Party business.

I was down with a glass of booze the size of my head because it’s what I drink nightly .


The photobomber gets bombed.

You know what’s the best idea ever after mixing martinis, Aunt Crispie’s concoction and Skinny Pirates?

Fireball shots, of course.


Which lead to a photo shoot, naturally.

Don't be jealous.

Gisele and Derek Zoolander are for hire.

The rest of the evening followed as such…


…and I was in dire need of hydration the next morning.


Pretty as a trashy princess.

I had to quench my liver because I sweet talked two of my cousins into joining me at the Iowa State Fair – my mothership. My most favorite day of the year (aside from my birthday and Christmas). The day I open mouth and insert whatever is covered in fried batter.

Fair bound baby!

Fair bound baby!

My cousin Smarty Pants has accompanied me to the fair more times than he cares to admit. Saying that he doesn’t love it is an understatement. I don’t think he necessarily hates it but last time he came with me, he read The Economist while I scavanged through the animal barns.

No reading material needed this year as I drug both of their asses everywhere and forced them to capture every Kodak moment.

Nope. Nothing compares.

Nothing compares to Smarty Pants and his favorite hog.

I traipsed them through the animal barns while cousin ConMan was bitching about having to take his 49th photo of the day.

Get in the picture and shut the fuck up.

Get in the picture and shut the fuck up.

I also made my two Iowa State Cyclone fans stop at the Varied Industries building to visit my beloved University of Iowa booth where I settled for a pic with a plastic Herky the Hawk mascot instead of the real deal.

Hawkeyes rule.

Hawkeyes rule.

Not knowing how long I’d be at the fair (typically a 12 to 14 hour day for me but we got a late start), I forgot that I was wearing my prescription sunglasses as the sun went down. This worked out in my favor as our last stop was a walk down the bright lights of Midway to ride the double ferris wheel.

An asshat in night vision goggles.

An asshat in night vision goggles.

A lady in line said that this was the last year for my fave ride but she couldn’t remember where she heard it. And I believe everything anyone tells me – including strangers. Can anyone from Iowa confirm this to be true?!

Lat year?

Say it ain’t so!

My sister texted to see if I was going to last until the 11pm fireworks.

You bet your ass I did. Asshole in her sunglasses at night. Until next year!

You bet your ass I did.

Until next year…I’m on a strict diet of celery and Skinny Pirates.