Weekend Winks – Slumber Party, Sniffles and Snuggles

What Problems?

Anything better than a fun old-fashioned slumber party?

Captain and First Mate back at it.

Captain, First Mate and Clark Griswold don’t think so.

I had three gal pals over to the mini manse in order to jump start my holiday spirit slump – and boy did it do some good for yours truly.

Sparkles, Umbros and wine for four.

Sparkles, Umbros and wine for four.

Not too long after one box of wine, we couldn’t figure out how to open the second…

How many bitches does it take to figure out a box of wine....

Um, it doesn’t even have a cork.

So I thought it was the best time to bring out my homemade sangria, Pirate’s Punch, which consists of Fireball, Captain Morgan and red wine.

Home made.

Who needs Betty Crocker when you can be Betty Crocked?

Upon proudly sharing my non-store purchased concoction, my friend Bex said “Tastes homemade.”

I can tell.

Uhhhh, thanks?

I made her drink it anyhow.

Made her drink it anyhow. Drink up bitch.

Or did I?

Typically a true party animal seeking to be the center of attention at all times, I knew my Tedstar was feeling low when I had to force him to take a selfie.

Stuffy host.

Stuffy host due to kitty sniffles.

When it was time for the ladies to sleigh bell it to slumber in their own beds, I gave away pussies as parting gifts.

Pussy parting gifts.

Just kidding. They stayed.

Saturday morning I was hoping to treat myself to brunch with sat-out-all-night-snacks but who wants room temperature carrots as hangover food?

Anything left for breakfast?

No breakfast for me.

While I was perusing an empty fridge, my Iowa twins were basking in the first snowfall of the year.

First snow in Iowa!

A few inches to start the season.

Being that they are almost four, this duo isn’t looking forward to the holidays, presents or Santa.

Not excited for Christmas. At all.

Not excited for Christmas. At all.

I for sure wasn’t excited to take Ted to the vet – worried that his sniffles may signify a worse problem than the common cat cold.

Hungover and Not Feeling Hot.

Getting the cold shoulder.

At the risk of sounding like an even bat shit crazier cat lady than I already am, I found TB’s little stuffed up nose and snot bubbles kinda cute.

Pissy pants.

Not at ALL amused having to breathe through his mouth.

I knew I was in for it on the way home after the vet because not only did he get shots of antibiotics but they also took blood as well, which is something that never thrills Ted E. Bear.

Trouble in the face.

Trouble in paradise for CBXB.

Dropping my pissy pussy off to pout the day away, I headed to my fave watering hole Dalts for a little happy hair of the dog.

Taking the edge off.

Taking the edge off.

I was only in the restaurant about 12 minutes before I inhaled a cheeseburger that I couldn’t eat fast enough but wanted to make last the entire day.

There was a burger here. I swear.

There was a burger here. I swear.

Heading home Saturday night to watch college football conference games, I was reminded where I was a year prior. The Big Ten Championship game in Indianapolis with Camo, The Silent Indian and Dada CBXB, cheering on my beloved Hawkeyes (who have had a less than stellar 2016 season BUT made it to the Outback Bowl – I’ll take it).

Big Ten 2015

Two Hawkeyes, a Spartan and a Volunteer.

Funny thing is, although Iowa lost in the last two seconds of the game, it was still one of the best days of my life. As I prepped to watch Wisconsin play Penn State, I couldn’t help but connect with this sign during Game Day.

Truth.

Truth.

Sunday snuggles meant that somebody was starting to feel back to his old self.

Sunday make-up session.

Sunday make-up session.

After a day of rest and relaxation, the work week has started off guns blazing. Which is why I may or may not have Pirate’s Punch in my mug…

Captain's Christmas punch may or may not be in my work mug today.

100% chance.

Here’s hoping there’s more snuggles than sniffles in your week.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

p.s. - Only 25 more days until Fuck Yeah 2017!

p.s. – Only 25 more days until Fuck Yeah 2017!

 

 

The F Off 2016 Countdown

FUCK 2016

Fuck 2016.

I have loathed almost every.single.second of this year that instead of an advent calendar counting down the days to my typically fave day of the year – Christmas (I mean, second to my birthday of course), I’m counting the days (30), hours (720), minutes (how do I compute this?) and seconds (for real, I can’t do math that well) and milliseconds (who can help me out here?).

Like really, really, really, really hate you.

Like really, really, really, really hate you 2016.

This year did start off on a fabulous high-heeled foot with smiles, champagne and high hopes of a bright and shiny new year.

Yay! A fresh start from a shitty 2015!

Yay! A fresh start from a shitty 2015!

But somehow, this year just took a big dump on almost everyone I know.

For me the sparkle of 2016 lasted about 24 hours.  Family drama involving cops, divorce, death of a young friend, bad shit happening to a good person (that would be moi), and still on the hunt for a job –  all squeezed in on or before January 27, 2016.

How can this be happening already?!

How can this be happening already?!

If someone would have told me what the next 11 months entailed, I would have punched myself in the face, possibly crawled into an oven set to broil or figured out how to construct a time machine into the future (although I would need help with the dimensions portion of this project due to the aforementioned horrible math skills).

Fuck 19

Fuuuuuuuck.

So, here’s the kick off to my Fuck Off 2016 countdown to better days for everyone I know ahead.

Fuck you for making me feel ashamed of myself to which was no fault of my own.

Fuck you for making me feel ashamed of myself to which was no fault of my own.

Fuck you for a culture of victim ignoring, shaming, and turning the other cheek when convenient.

Fuck You 2

Fuck you for taking the happy, the uncompromising confidence, the pride, the sparkle, the light, the love out of a girl who has never known any different.

img_3122

Fuck you for taking away my ability to give a rat’s ass about my appearance to the outside world.

Fuck You 4

No really, fuck you. I mean me in no make-up in public….I think it’s been since 7th grade.

Fuck You 6

Fuck you for the seven months of sleepless nights on my leopard couch because being alone with my thoughts became unbearable due to an act on one single night.

Fuck You 7

Fuck you for the lasting post traumatic stress disorder, severe adjustment disorder and extremely delayed response to that event I’ve been trying to cope with over the last 11 months.

Fuck You 9

Fuck you for the pile of emotions that creep and sneak and fall from the sky at unexpected moments that are bigger than the goddamn mountain of laundry I avoid doing.

Fuck You 8

Seriously fuck you. I’ve never been a crier.

Fuck You 9

Fuck You 10

But fuck you for real 2016! I just.can’t.stop.

Fuck You 11

Fuck. Even Ted got into the emotional mix.

Fuck You 14

Fuck you for making my cortisol levels soar, my energy plummet, allowing my anxiety take over, laziness to kick in, sleeplessness be a constant and for making my diet consist of mainly Pepto Bismol, Aleve and carbohydrates.

Fuck You 15

Fuck you for taking away my excitement for my most wonderful time of the year…celebrating any and everything.

Fuck You 12

Fuck you for the Halloween fail.

Fuck You 13

Fuck you for the sucking the Christmas spirit out of my soul (except my Clark Griswold glass, of course).

Fuck You 16

My gift to 2016.

My gift to 2016.

Fuck you for the lonely feeling of fight – but the fierce (while faint) is still in me and ready to kick some ass.

Thank You

Oh 2016…

Fuck You 20

And so, the countdown for me, for you, for the upside down world we live in at the moment is on. I say we commit to a bottle of bubbly per Fuck You 2016 countdown day.

Holla 2017!

Who’s with me?!?

Holla 2017!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Vote or STFU

This One's Armed. Try to Grab Me.

Don’t you hate it when someone is bitching and moaning about politics, the President or a policy? And then you find out they didn’t even vote in the election pertaining to what they’re griping about? Now, this election season has been full of shit slinging, name calling, and memories of pussy grabbing caught on an audio recording so it’s safe to say two candidates left standing are … not ideal but it is what it is.

Truth

Often times people seem to think that their vote doesn’t matter or count. It’s easy to forget there was a time when not everyone in the United States could vote.

My great grandma Lulu, who passed away at 103, was born when women weren’t allowed to vote (and was also alive when two Presidents were assassinated (McKinley and Kennedy), the Wright brothers flew their first plane, when the first Ford Model T car was produced in 1908, and when Amelia Earhart disappeared in the air  – just to give you an idea of Lulu’s longevity).

Once women were granted voting rights in 1920, she participated in every single election until her death. Fact is, Grandma Robinson thought it was important to vote every chance she got, which has had a lasting impression on me.

Lulu cast a vote in every election from 1920 to 2000, (she also only ever drove a car – a Model T Ford – once, into a ditch).

During the last Presidential race, I was fortunate enough to get up close and personal at the last four rallies before voting day. Regardless of whether it was the candidate in which I was rooting, it made me feel proud to know that folks still care.

In one city, over 17,000 people showed up to support one man’s 15 minute speech, carrying signs, wearing t-shirts and exuding passionate enthusiasm.  Volunteers (who showed up at 6am to prepare for a 6pm rally), grandparents (who didn’t know how to work their cameras in time to get a good picture), twenty-somethings touting handmade posters, parents with kids (wishing they were home) on their shoulders, teenagers in packs of friends, boy scout troops accompanying the American flag, cowboys in belt buckles – people from all walks of life showing up.

People who most likely had nothing in common except for their backing of one Presidential candidate.

No punches thrown at this Republican rally. #usedtobeclassy

While this election (well, elections in general) have gotten increasingly mean, bitter and much more below-the-belt personal, it’s easy to be turned off to the whole shebang. I mean, even local Nashville restaurants are getting in on all of the awful action – quoting a candidate in the running to control the United States on their billboard.

Rosepepper

Yes world, most of America is embarrassed.

Yet, this year when one candidate is accused of e-mail (and overall) corruption, the other has the utmost no respect for women and at 59 years of age claimed he could grab any female by the pussy because he is a self proclaimed ‘star’.

In my perfect world, Jack Sparrow would be elected as POTUS and there would be Skinny Pirate parties every day.

Skinny Pirates

Whether or not you choose to vote is your right (and be glad it’s a choice that you get to make). But if you don’t show up at the ballot booth today and cast a vote, don’t come crying when you disagree with policies of the victorious. Although, if you think both candidates are sub-par (my new favorite word since my boss screamed that I was that type of employee last week #loveher), might I suggest a write in?

And if that’s too much of a stretch for you, please keep this in mind…

Truth.

Truth.

So in a recap, vote or shut the fuck up.

And now, I’ll hop off this soap box.

CBXB

CBXB!

Partners in Pumpkin Crime

Pumpkin Partners

Growing up (and still today for yours truly), Halloween was the kick-off to a long-awaited holiday season.

I'll cut a bitch

Even at the tender age of three, I’d cut a bitch.

With an assist from my dad.

Letting Dad (you know, the guy who dresses up like Pam Anderson) do all of the carving work because even way back my nails were “jewels, not tools”.

In small Iowa town where I was raised, we had costume parties at school and church (when you used to be able to call it a Halloween party complete with witches and bats, instead of a bland Fall Festival with scarecrows and hay bales – why are there fun haters? Why?), parades to prance proudly down our eight block Main Street (where every single one of the 1,200 citizens seemed to show up) and so much trick-or-treating mania, I’d have to come home halfway through the evening just to dump my candy (hiding it all from my dad in the dryer or it’d be gone by morning) because my pumpkin got so overloaded, it was too heavy for me to carry.

hall

Forget my adorableness for one second – what about the clown behind #165?

ped

Spectator sport for the entire town.

In my younger years, I carried the burden of celebrating Halloween by myself and being a lone Cookie Monster got frustrating.

Ho Hum

One is the loneliest number.

Begging my parents to procreate, I was presented with my sister (you know, the one who called my dad a goddamn son of a bitch at the age of four) who was immediately awarded with side kickin’ it as my lifetime partner-in-crime (lucky her). If I was going to be dressing up (oftentimes making an ass out of myself in later years) she was going to be doing it too, by god (town parades included).

In the beginning of our twosome, we were all about cutesy costumes.

Sugar'n' Spice

The rock star and Raggedy Ann. A little sugar for my spice.

The ‘cute’ theme seemed to carry on in our early years.  Except for the tilt in our heads…and the fog in the background…and the overall sinisterness of this photo.

Creepy Hollow

Cute masked crusaders in Creepy Hollow.

As we grew older, I wanted a little edge (well as much edge as an elementary kid and toddler could muster) to our giddy ups. I let my young inner badass out, as my sister scared the pants off no one.

very busy

That’s right. I was hardcore even in elementary school.

We slid slightly into the ghoulish department as my sister joined me in grade school.

Scardey Crow

Scaredy crow and premature mini old man. Almost spine-chilling. Almost.

Then I graduated to truly frightening and fearful territory as I crept toward junior high.  Pebbles was not impressed.

Pebs

I’m also starting to wonder if there was any other color of hair paint than green, since that tends to be a trend here.

When we thought we were oh so grown up, our costumes reflected our mature attitudes.

Lady and the Tramp.

Lady and the Tramp. Or Princess and Sock Hop Girl…however you want to look at it.

We were reminded in following years just how far from adults we were…especially yours truly. A recycled mask and costume from a previous Halloween hid my “I’m way too old for this shit” attitude toward trick-or-treating when I was forced to go with my younger sister.

Barley a Boo

I can’t tell who’s more excited – the monster or the witch.

And being older we’re not so much cute, cuddly or even scary creatures…we’re just mostly cocktailed.

bl

The odd couple. Pocahontas and Kid Rock.

Now that we’re miles apart during the costuming time of year, it’s fun to look back at our sisterly ghosts of Halloween’s past. But what’s even more fun is seeing her twin goblins growing to love the holidays as much as she and I did as kids.

Scary season #1.

As

Permanent partners-in-crime.

Scary season #2.

I know, I know. The cutest fucking dog and cat you've ever seen.

I know, I know.
The cutest fucking cat and dog you’ve ever seen.

Scary season #3

Princess Leah and Yoda

Star Wars at its silliest.

Here’s hoping you have the perfect partner in Halloween crime.

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Winos, Weirdos and The Walking Dead

Co-working at its finest.

For some, weekend work functions can really suck if you let them. However, the right mix of co-workers (that you’re lucky to also call friends) can make any event more tolerable…especially if the event revolves around any sort of libation. Like a wine festival.

Trashy, classy and a tad sassy mix.

Sandwiched between trashy and classy. #heaven

I mean, who wouldn’t be pumped to be stuck between two blondes who know how to act incredibly VIP-ish.

We. Are. Somebodys.

We. Are. Somebodys.

Or, maybe he has a point….

Can you just carry everything? Thanks.

Can you just carry everything? Thanks.

We hightailed it to my beloved Dalts just as soon as we could to carry on the out-of-office shenanigans much to the rest of the bar’s dismay.

What

She loves us.

We critiqued all 4,09,265 selfies taken over a three hour period.

Ew.

Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.

And then took one more.

Trashy is easily rubbing off.

My trashtacularness seems to be rubbing off on The Golden Girl.

While I was working on my wino wind down, the Iowa twins were frolicking in all of the fun that fall has to offer.

Double the fall fun!

Traipsing through the leaf debris.

Halloween bake-off.

Baking Halloween treats with creative flair.

Starting their Christmas lists a little early this year.

And starting their Christmas lists a little early.

After rehydrating my liver with a bloody mary Saturday morning, I was prepped and ready for the Iowa Hawkeye football game kick-off at 11am.

I even made my blogfamous Pigskin Sushi.

I even made my blogfamous Pigskin Sushi.

It may not look pretty but pickles and ham taste mighty fine together. Since the inception of our trashtacular family tradition of touchdown shots, we have yet to go a game with no moonshine. However, we were sorely disappointed when our team not only lost but only made field goals.

Losing like we mean it.

We’re thirsty after a 17-9 defeat.

It

Poor, lonely shot glasses.

The remainder of the weekend required a lot of lounging with my pussies (Rocky would like you to know this was snapped from a bad angle).

David and Goliath. Or Arnold and Danny.

David and Goliath. Or Arnold and Danny. Or the difference between my g-string and bra size.

The snooty duo of Ted and Presh stuck side-by-side, warming my leopard couch up for the premiere of The Walking Dead (holy fuck!) and promptly left the area when my less than quiet reactions to what was happening on screen turned into screeching.

The duo.

Patiently waiting for the flesh eating zombies.

The show forced me to lift my one night ban on drinking due to the high anxiety the events of the episode caused yours truly.

I might have gone overboard.

I might have gone overboard…

In closing, many of you know my bestie Scooby, who makes often appearances on this blog (although he doesn’t read it, so his husband Mr. Scooby has to tell him when he appears). Scooby is the friend that holds your hair back when you puke (while laughing at the back of your head), rushes to your aid when bad shit happens to good people, and will stuff a body into a trunk for a laugh.

So it’s suffice to say we’re family. And this family member is about to go to Atlanta on a manhunt because Scooby was involved in a hit and run while he was walking at a crosswalk yesterday. HE WILL BE OK. But he had to scramble to the curb after the vehicle ran him over and then the car fled the fucking scene.

I'll cut a bitch.

I’ll cut a bitch.

While his multiple broken bones will require surgery, he’s going to be OK after this scariest of incidents. Please send him and his family all of the good juju you can muster while he’s traveling home to Kansas City to prep for surgery and recover.

I’m way the fuck over 2016.

CBXB

CBXB!

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.

#1

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…

FIve

… 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.

Cheers!

CBXB

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

photo-3

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.

THIS.

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?!

KNOCK. THAT. SHIT. OFF.

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.

THE HORROR!

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…

I LOST THE BLACK ONE.

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.

Noooooooooooooo!

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.

S-N-A-P.

Noooooooo!

Noooooooo!

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.

Miracles.Do.Happen.

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Now where’s my Caboodle?

CBXB

CBXB!