Weekend Winks – Drunken Family Rivalries

Clown

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.

Trio

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

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.

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So here’s to kicking cancer’s ass!

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

In Heaven There is No Beer…

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

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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.

Iced

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.

W-I-N.

Who’s with us?

CBXB

CBXB!

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 .

Bombed

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.

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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…

Hmmm

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

#iwokeuplikethis

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.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

Running Out of Gas

Gas Man

Sometimes when bad shit happens to good people, it can take a minute, a month, a year or beyond until life resumes to some sense of ‘normal’. In my case, I’m still in the month category – eighth to be precise – of recovering, trudging through, putting one stiletto in front of the other, moment by moment bullshit that I didn’t ask for but get to relive every day.

Being that I was already a tad absent-minded and every bit the stereotypical blonde prior to my bad shit, it’s a wonder that something like this has never happened to me until I was a grown ass woman as a short while ago, I actually ran out of gas about three blocks from my house.

Does that light mean something?

Does that light and the constant dinging mean something?

You see, I am now often consumed by my thoughts as I go through the motions. I see someone talking to me but I’m not always processing what they’re saying. I know I should be practicing my once beloved hot yoga or jogging but being alone with my thoughts is sometimes unbearable to the point that I cry.  Which means I’m feeling feelings. Gross.

Being that I’ve been diagnosed with severe stress, extreme PTSD and adjustment disorder (I know, I know, I sound like a dream woman!), I have no clue when or where something is going to be triggered. But I do know that I’m absent-minded as fuck, so I often fall down because I don’t notice the pothole, stairs, curb, drop off in front of me. Or forget to pay bills because, well, that means I have to keep track of something. In accordance with those symptoms, naturally I ran out of gas on a humid, blistering, Nashville morning while I was experiencing what could be described as an intense tiny hangover.

As I puttered to a dead stop in front of a Nashville bus stop on a busy highway, I couldn’t help but get into a hysterical laughing fit. I’m an adult with eyes that missed the yellow ‘warning-you’re-about-to-run-out-of-that-stuff-that-makes-your-car-move’ and the incessant sound that accompanies the light. All I could giggle about is how 2016 has really been shaping up as one motherfucking humdinger of a year.

2016

2016 has done nothing but make this chick run on nothing but empty – especially emotionally – it’s been exhausting. I’m out of gas.

Thoughts on 2016.

No love for this year.

While I was contemplating what the fuck a gas damsel in distress should do, my iPhone broke the silence and the woman whose voice I hate more than most anything asked me this:

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A lot Suri. You can help me with a fucking lot.

You can help me want to shower and change out of pajamas.

You can help me want to shower and change out of pajamas.

Rapegate

You can help me understand this statement fully.

You can help me find my sunglasses.

You can help me find my sunglasses.

You can remind me to buy larger bottles of wine on therapy day.

You can remind me to buy larger bottles of wine on therapy day.

You can give Ted a head's up when his Mama has had a shit of a day.

You can give Ted a head’s up when his Mama has had a shit day.

You can tell me why I hadn't been able to sleep in my bed for 7.5 months.

You can tell me why I haven’t been able to sleep in my bed for 7.5 months.

Snapping back into my reality after 38 seconds of wallowing with Suri, the first person to come to mind in calling (although I knew there was a chance he’d be in a moonshine coma on a Sunday morning) was Camo. You know he’s the type of dude who could build an outhouse with a match and whatever else is in the back of his goddamn truck. And I was pretty sure he already had a gas can.

Gas hero

Camo needs a non flammable cape.

After making sure my chariot started – and thankfully it did – I hauled ass the nearest gas station.

Back from Fumegate.

Fumegate 2016 over.

While my gas tank took what felt like almost an hour to fill up, I started perusing around my shit show of an SUV in search of a diamond pinky ring that had gone missing. Much to my surprise, my personal luck tank was turning around.

Jazz Hands

I found the ring – along with what could have amounted to a large order of McDonald’s french fries under the driver’s seat.

Fumegate miracle.

Fumegate miracle.

Which got me to thinking about how I’ve been coasting on fumes through life the past 240 days and I started dwelling on the instances and folks who have helped me keep my fumes from fully being extinguished.

Cheers to a full tank.

Cheers to a full tank.

Family up close and personal.

Family up close and personal depositing some gas.

Family fully blowing my self esteem up with hot air.

Family fully blowing my self-esteem up with hot air.

Family cheersing me from agar.

Family cheersing with me across the miles.

Family bringing the Cornhusker fun to the Music City.

Family bringing the Cornhusker fun to the Music City.

Mugs that make working away from the office the best ever.

Mugs that make working away from the office the thing best ever.

Whiskey in coffee needed for this shit.

Whiskey in coffee is needed for this shit.

Friends filling up my tank, embracing my cray.

Friends filling up my tank, embracing my cray.

Friends following through on a brunch date because they know you need it.

Friends following through on a brunch date because they know you need it.

The more I thought about the non flammable Camo giving my car the liquid needed to work, the more I considered how much has been changing – even if it’s at a snail’s pace.

Refilling...

Easing myself back into the bedroom the only way I knew how…

Netflix, hot pussy, hotter sox and wine.

Netflix, hot pussy, hotter sox and wine.

Then Mr. Bear got extremely demanding, tired of restlessly trying to fight me for room on my leopard couch.

SLEEP THE FUCK IN HERE.

SLEEP THE FUCK IN HERE ALREADY.

The way I ended back up in my heaven of a bed was by having a buddy spend the night who was a tad too intoxicated to drive home. Without thinking, I offered up my permanent bed couch. And you know what? I may not have slept more than mere minutes but I was back in the bedroom saddle again.

Awe yeah!

Awe yeah!

Another quarter of my personal tank has been filled by Sunday nights being mani night again.

Horror show.

Naked nails are not this chick’s style.

Mani Monday back in all of its glory folks.

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Thinking about how lucky I am to have those around me keeping my primary tank as full as possible – and about the teeny, tiny baby steps I’m making are so easily overlooked by myself when consumed by a panic attack or go-to feelings of despair. While I can’t always help how I feel, I know the Grand Canyon I accidentally fell into January 1 of this year through no fault of my own, is something I’m slowly climbing out of (I say slowly because let’s be real…my nails are jewels, not tools).

Now it’s my turn to be the Fumegate Crusader. I’m heading to Iowa this week to assist Aunt Crazy Pants with whatever it is that floats her proverbial boat as she started her fight against that fucking illness called cancer last week.

Aunt Crazy Pants and her side kick.

Dumb and Dumber at their prettiest.

Thoughts on 2016.

Thoughts on Cancergate.

However, I’m showing up with lighter fluid (and of course wine) to ignite this fight.

Lighter fluid and fella included.

Fire stirrer in back not included, so don’t get excited Aunt Crazy Pants.

Here’s hoping that our fumes never run out and we’re lucky enough to always be surrounded by folks who want to keep our gas tanks full.

I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.

CBXB

CBXB!

Celebrate Four Years, C’mon!

Woohoo!

This is a CBXB celebration!

Ole!

Cel-e-brate good times, come on! Let’s celebrate.

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There’s a party goin’ on right here,

Cowboys and Crossbones has been blogging four fabulous years.

C'mon!

 So bring your good times, and your laughter too,

Who me, loud?

I’m gonna celebrate and take Jell-O shots with you.

Whipped Cream

Come on now…

Cel-e-bra-tion

Let’s all celebrate and dance for good times.

 Good Time

Cel-e-bra-tion

We gonna celebrate and be fed food all night long.

 Feed Me

It’s time to come together

It’s up to you, what’s your dancin’ pleasure?

 Dancin'

Everyone around the world

Come on!

 DANCIN'

Cel-e-brate good times, come on!

This calls for cake, it’s all right.

 Want Some?

Cel-e-brate good times come on!

Skinny Pirates for everyone!

CBXB as Captain.

We’re gonna have a good time tonight

Let’s double fist, it’s all right.

 Bottomless...

We’re gonna have a good time tonight

Dress Teddy up,

Mr. Ted E. Bear with his Christmas flair.

Then get him drunk.

Winos

Oh Baby…

We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Lose a shoe, it’s all right.

Red Solo Cups are so chic - only in Miami.

We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Drink all this,

oh boy

Look like shit.

Look Like Shit

Woohoo!

Four whole years of good times, come on! (Let’s celebrate)

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Writing this blog is so damn fun, come on, stay tuned for more!
It’s a celebration!

Automatic dance party.

Celebrate with me and the pussies for another year strong! (Let’s celebrate)

SOLD.

Don’t forget the chug.

A lift through downtown Nashville in Louis Vuitton style.

We’re gonna have a good time tonight, all of my readers, you’re outta sight!

Ted loving Ted

We’re gonna have a good time tonight, this year can’t end, quite fast enough!

Kiss my ass 2013!

Let’s all meet here again next year, we’ll celebrate, my blogging year five.

Insist

Everyone around the world, come on!

WOOHOO!

CBXB

CBXB!

Dumb and Crazy Dumber

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Folks often tell me that I act like my aunt Crazy Pants (I mean obvies, look at the jazz hands!).

The past few years for both of us have been nothing but a shit show (to put it mildly0 and she has been dealt yet another large blow in the last few days. Due to the fact that she’s spunky, with a ‘fuck this shit’ attitude (yeah, we’re waaaaay similar), reality is what it is and we’ll deal.

We could be known as Thelma and Louise (but we’re not as cool and fabulous – we wouldn’t drive off a cliff on purpose, we’d do it because we were lost and missed a turn) although we more often times resemble Lucy and Ethel (on our best days) but in reality we can most identify with Dumb and Dumber.

Crazy!

Crazy times two.

Of all of the things we have in common, we share a love of Jell-O shots which are a staple at every family gathering (classy, I know) and party I throw.

Jello Love

Jell-O shots = Love

I mean we really love the spiked gelatin.

oving Jell-O maybe a little too much.

Like really, really, really love.

Down the hatch. How many?

Especially with whipped cream.

Our consumption of Jell-O shots makes us both more limber (until we wake up the next morning and can’t move).

Jell-O makes us limber

Who doesn’t do a leg lift after a bit of J-E-L-L-O?

Hey-o! Almost to the toes!

Hey-o! Jell-O makes me stretch almost to my toes!

However, I do not ever try to do tricks with my shots of liquor. There’s too much risk that it won’t make it to my mouth, which in my mind would be a travesty.

She can shoot Jell-O with no hands!

She can shoot Jell-O with no hands!

Or can she?

But really, she can’t.

Can't. Stop. Laughing. At. Her. Or, I mean with. WITH HER.

Can’t. stop. laughing. at. Aunt Crazy Pants. Errr, I mean with. Laughing WITH HER.

Upon making sure that whipped cream was ground into my carpet (thus I will not be getting my deposit back), Aunt Crazy Pants decided to go on a path of destruction in my mini manse by taking her tipsy ass into my beloved dressing room.

Fave room in my mini manse...

What CBXB does with extra bedrooms.

This wing of my mini manse is home to my two shoe towers (and no, I still don’t have too many shoes Dad and yes folks, I do wear all of them).

Tower of Shoes

Wall of bliss.

Admiring my collection

Even Ted admires my collection daily.

All was well in my closet kingdom until this tiny bull walked into my sparkly china shop and decided to trip into one of my towers that was bolted to the wall. The shelving quickly turned into a leaning tower of shoes, as it had about six inches in between the wall and the back of the racks.

Bag of Crazy

Apparently, the whipped cream on her glasses obstructed her view.

We then had to call in Camo during our girls night in to put a temporary band aid on the problem so we wouldn’t be making any trips to the emergency room with stories of shoe boxes falling onto our heads.

Closet hero

Closet hero.

Saving the Closet

I’m a big help, I know.

Crazy Pants can kiss my ass.

Think HGTV will come calling due to my mad holding skills?

When Camo was rewarded with a beer, Aunt Crazy Pants tried to show her gratitude by mauling him.

Mauling. Part 1.

Manhandling, Part 1.

Mauling Part 2.

Manhandling Part 2.

Make it stop. No seriously, make it stop.

Make the manhandling stop. No seriously, make it stop. Somebody muzzle her.

L-Dawg came in to save the day (and Camo’s dignity) by wrangling Crazy Pants with a dish towel.

L-Dawg wrangled Crazy Pants

Making sure no more Jell-O shots spill and Aunt CP stays in her seat.

For the next eight minutes, all was good in my mini manse hood until this happened….

Down the hatch.

Down the Crazy Pant hatch.

There was no turning back once she was out of Jell-O shots, so we put a boa on her and made her dance (and we have videos to prove it).

After the finishing shots, there was no wrangling her. So we put a boa on and made her dance.

Dumb and Dumber at our dancing finest.

I’m happy to report that the mini manse is still standing. But I’m certain that’s due to the fact that Aunt Crazy Pants went home.

Although now that’s she’s home, we need good juju, fabulous magic, positive vibes, abundant karma – and for anyone who lives close enough, margaritas delivered to her house.

Cheers to Aunt Crazy Pants!

You are so loved.

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Welcome to the Jungle

SLASH

Life lately has felt as if I’ve been needing a machete to cut through the roughage of life growing up all around me. While it can more often than not feel all-consuming, it’s always a bonus when you got folks who have your back in blowing off some steam.

Ahhhh....Fridays are so refreshing

Like Dada CBXB always ready for a cold one.

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And suck I do.

And when I need it, suck down Skinny Pirates, I do!

With a little extra help from Camo and The Silent Indian, my spirits were flying higher in no time at my local haunt, Dalts.

You know what else exposes my pearly whites? Pics from the world’s cutest niece and nephew.

Party up north.

Two Iowa clowns.

I can't even.

I can’t even.

Not only should these two faces be in magazines, billboards and on TV (I beg their mother to let me be their auntager) but Princess B could rock the world of hair with her tresses.

Hair care

But then again, her awareness of self is already gigantic – I wonder if the world could handle her.

All 'tude. All the time.

All ‘tude. All the time.

Speaking of cuts, Precious got her summer chop going on and won’t stop strutting around the mini manse.

Chug-a-lug got a cute cut, too.

Chug-a-lug got a cute cut, too.

Ripping myself away from twin photos and my real life ewok proved difficult but somehow I managed when my buddy invited me along to see Guns N’ Roses – which from the hype was going to be the Nashville concert of the year.

I know. I'm so rock'n'roll.

Don’t even tell me. I’m so rock’n’roll.

You know when you don’t want to get your hopes up, keeping expectations low because aging rockers somehow, someway, typically disappoint?  Well, this wasn’t the case Saturday night.

I have always wanted to see Guns N’ Roses in all of their glory but when Axl Rose (who looked like he could be a Real Househusband of LA due to over botoxing but sang like a motherfucker), Duff McKagan and Slash (the ultimate shit of rock guitar shredders in my book) came out and took the stage in Music City my expectations were far exceeded.

I’ve seen the Stones. I’ve seen Paul McCartney. I’ve been backstage, side stage and on stage at numerous stadium shows for some of the greatest acts in the industry due to my work life. However, this show took the proverbial cake because I couldn’t stop smiling the entire show (or screaming, or air guitar playing or stopping myself from buying a new wardrobe so I have a GNR shirt for every goddamn day of the week).

I died.

Tri-Slashta.

That show put some much-needed kick ass pep back in my step. The concert also reminded me of the time years ago I made an ex-boyfriend dress as Axl to complement my Slash. Not hard to wonder when I want to dress as old rockers for Halloween why we’re not still together (well, aside from the fact that he’s dating a newer version of me who will probably go the route of a Hooters waitress for dress up holidays). Ya dig?

Where do we go now?

Where do we go now?

Where did I go? Straight to the lovin’ teeny tiny T-rex arms of my fave chug, Presh.

Straight to bed.

Rocked out, lights out.

Sunday marked a milestone in the mini manse. The baby, Elsa Pants, ventured to Ted’s glass of kitty caviar – and lived to tell about it.

Fed the beast. Martini meows.

Martini meows.

Another fabulous pick-me-up over the weekend? One of my beloved gal pals, Bex, found the hardback (you know, because hardbacks are way more convenient than a paperback or Kindle) version of my all-time fave books, Stephen King’s The Stand. I have been looking for this nearly a decade and she stumbled upon it at a used bookstore – and remembered! Great friends kick ass.

HARDBACK!

Although I don’t have my hands on this masterpiece yet, I did settle down with Stephen King’s newest End of Watch and it was so fantastic, I read it all on Sunday. With company of course.

Wild Nashville nights.

Wild Nashville nights.

A little less wild in my jungle by weekend’s end.

Cheers!
CBXB

CBXB!