Baby Back Twins

A crazy trifecta.

A trifecta of crazy.

It’s no secret that I am bat shit cray cray over my niece and nephew who reside in Iowa.  While I’m certifiably nuts over the twins, my pussies (especially Ted), the Iowa Hawkeyes and Skinny Pirates, my teeny kinfolk (a snazzy word I’ve picked up since living in the South) are bananas over chips and salsa.

Chips and salsa for everyone!

Chips and salsa for every meal please.

She means fucking business.

Princess B means fucking business.

While any old brand will typically do the trick when they get a hankering, there is one place that ranks highly in the hearts of the twins in regard to salsa.

Twins of a different sort.

Twins of a different sort and their mothership of salsa.

A love for all things about the Chili’s casual dining experience, the twins go banana pants when it comes to the food served.


A cheesehead stringing his snack out.

Of course the main dish is typically copious amounts of salsa.

Happy place.

Happy place.

Salsa and cheese. The gifts that keep on giving.

Salsa and cheese.
The gifts that keep on giving.

Just recently, a new adoration was revealed after a family sing-a-long of one of Chili’s most famous commercial jingles. (I mean, what classy family in desperate need of toddler entertainment doesn’t dig advertisement songs out from the past to pass down from generation to generation?)

Not sure what I’m talking about? Well, please tune in to the two virtuoso versions below. Yes, my heart is bursting with pride over the renditions of “Chili’s Baby Back Ribs“.

Allow me to set the twins up.


I want my baby-back-baby-back-baby-back-baby-back.

I want my baby-back-baby-back-baby-back-baby-back.

Naturally, I’m waiting by the phone for the marketing department of Chili’s to call and offer Prince and Princess B contracts (of course I’ll be the auntager, giving Kris Jenner a run for her billions).





Weekend Winks – a Win, a Wedding and Wee Wee Training

Even brides love jazz hands.

Even brides love jazz hands.

After a long work week accompanied by dreary weather, snuggles on a stormy Friday night helped soothe our weary spirits.

three amigos

The chug, the pussy and the broad.

As much as Precious the chug and Ted the pussy try to refrain from showing their insane love for one another, I kept catching the feline bathing the dog.  Their faces say it all…

Make out.


While my fur balls were rolling around the mini manse, my Iowa twins were rollicking around on their new play set.


Princess B making her fashionable grand entrance on the deck.

No fun.

Prince B unable to contain his excitement for all things fun.


Think they like their new digs much?

Saturday started with very normal routines at the mini manse. Gearing up for college game day to watch my Iowa Hawkeyes take on the #19 ranked Wisconsin Badgers required some help from bloody marys as I was a tad bleary eyed for the 11am kick off.

Morning kick-off mania.

Morning moonshine and marys makes my world go round.

While Dada CBXB and I were prepping for football, the twins found themselves trying to create a new routine for their mornings….

Saturday morning routine.

Potty training time!

The wee wee updates proved to be more exciting than the Iowa game BUT our fellas were the first to score a touchdown and you know that meant moonshine!


The one and only shot.

After last week’s Hawkeye 62 – 16 win (and nine – yes I said nine shots of Popcorn Sutton) I think the universe was giving our livers a much needed cleanse.  There was only one touchdown the entire game and regardless of how ugly it can get in a half, the Hawks pulled out the win with a score of 10-6.

So, naturally we did a victory shot to celebrate our team’s 5-0 record (and also to not starve our livers).

5 and 0 baby!

5 and 0 baby!

Busy living it up with shots, the twins found themselves still trying to score in their own way even after the football game.

Still at it....only changed media.

Shitters are not yet full.

The partying continued into Saturday evening as two fabulous friends got hitched.

Groom's dream come true.

The groom’s dream come true.

Lady and the Tramp.

The Lady and the blonde Tramp.

CBXB ran into an old fan!

CBXB ran into an old fan!

Sunday called for some errand running with my favorite co-pilot who has become quite famous as she accompanies me to get oil changes, pick up prescriptions and make deposits at the bank.

Sunday errands.

Who could forget this face?

Sunday snuggles found Clark and Cousin Eddie who are spending one more week with Dada CBXB while Teddy is almost back to his old self.

Clark and Cousin Eddie still stnugglin

The twins not hating the spoiling at Gpas.

Lovin’ found its way into the mini manse, as Ted openly gave Presh a Sunday evening lick down.

Fur ball kisses

Finally not giving a fuck who sees this display of affection.

Adulation was in the air this weekend as the twins found themselves spreading their own love to one another.


Precious moments.

Here’s hoping you find yourself with some of your own lovin’ this week.




How to Be a Four Eyed Drunk Girl

One of my many blessings in life is my eyesight from hell.

Without aid from the wonders of optometry, I can’t operate a vehicle, I can’t see the alarm clock from my bed and I can’t find a contact lens when I’m drunk.

Hello Gorgeous

Hello Gorgeous.

Since gracing earth with my presence I’ve worn glasses and adapted to doing all kinds of activities in the lovely plastic specs that took up half of my facial circumference daily.

Dancing in tap class? No problemo.

Tapped my

Four-eyed Ginger Rogers at her finest.

Eating birthday cake in gigantic red goggles? Got it.


I wish I may, I wish I might have glasses that cure my poor eyesight.

Playing catcher for a girl’s softball team? Easy peasy.

Putting a catcher’s mask over my subtle, cherry red eyewear was about as much fun as you can imagine. Especially when I’d dramatically rip off my  mask (and also accidentally tear my glasses off in the process) in an attempt to catch a foul ball behind home base, which never happened as I couldn’t see shit without those Coke bottle sized lenses in front of my eyes.

Catch this.

I got it! I got it! I got it! Wait, I can’t see it….and now I have dirt in my eyes. Help.

When I was presented with the opportunity to swap my daily face accessory with contact lenses, I jumped at the chance. Surely, by getting contacts I would magically turn into a gorgeous mini version of Cindy Crawford, Heidi Klum or Gisele Bundchen.

The transformation was amazing…

That's it!

From totally geek….

Yeah...didn't make that much difference.

…to totally geek.

But that didn’t thwart my attempts to be a Midwestern model.

Eat your heart out Gisele.

Eat your heart out Gisele.

While forcing plastic lenses (gas permeable, mind you) into my eyes as a kid surprisingly didn’t turn me into a supermodel, they did help the moderate to high astigmatism that plagued my eyeballs.  Having contacts also taught me the importance of routine, as I had to clean the teeny tiny lenses morning and night which years later is as much a part of my daily activities as sipping a Skinny Pirate.

Speaking of routines and alcohol, I never ever go to sleep without taking my hard contacts out. So even when I’ve had five two cocktails too many, my body goes through the motions of removing my seeing aides.

One recent evening after happy hour, I popped my left lens out and instead of having it fall into my palm as usual, it suddenly disappeared.

Into thin air.

Scene of contact crime

Anybody see it?

Thing is, hard contacts are about half the size of your pinky nail. And my contacts are clear.  Upon realizing my mistake, I immediately became a statue, trying to not move a muscle while reaching for my trusty old spectacles.

Then I started to slowly gaze over the mounds of beauty products in an open drawer next to my contact case.

No luck.

Then I lightly combed the vanity with my fingers hoping to recover the hard piece of plastic.

No luck.


Yeah, it takes this many pieces to put my puzzle together.

Then with a slight pit in my stomach, I looked toward the floor covered in khaki carpet.

No luck.

Little. Clear. Carpet

Anyone see it?

Slightly drunk, kinda blind and after crawling on my hands and knees for half of the evening, I threw in the towel on trying to locate the little bastard.

Classless and contactless.

Swapping gas perms for goggles.

The next morning, I was getting ready to hop in the shower and went to grab my towel that hangs on the door directly behind the sink where my contact went missing.

Shower time.

A witness to the great contact caper.

And what to my wondering eyes did appear?


My mother fucking contact.

There was a miracle that morning, folks. My thumb slightly brushed up against the piece of modern medicine that makes my eyes happy on the pink terry cloth.

So how did my contact end up on a towel that was behind my head when I popped it out of my eye?  It will forever be a mystery to this slightly drunk and kinda blind gal.

I’m just happy I don’t currently have four eyes.



Weekend Winks – Snoozin’ and Boozin’

There’s really never a dull moment in Nashville, unless you want there to be one (but what fun is that?!) so the weekend kicked off in full force at an NHL game where I met my hockey soul mate, Bob.

Me and my Predator's squeeze...Bob.

Bob the fan referee and his classy new sidekick who swiped his fedora.

Speaking of classy, aren’t the chicks who continuously take selfies in the stands beyond annoying?

Water is awesome.

We know.

I am a gigantic fan of snail mail – and an even bigger fan when a package is sent my way. Especially when it involves Christmas AND my Iowa Hawkeyes. So I was beyond excited to rip open this gift from my sister upon my return from the ice rink.


Gifts just because make my world go round.

A little box of heaven.


While we’re on the subject of Iowa, you know I think my twins are the shit (well, because they just are) but not simply because they’re related to me (let’s be real – how lucky can they be?). My heart tends to burst with pride purely calling them my niece and nephew but when they seem to follow in Auntie CBXB’s footsteps – well, that almost makes my head pop off.

Just a model

While Prince B mugs it up for the camera…


…Princess B knows the exact timing for a perfect photo bomb.

Skills run in the fam.

The mad skills run in the family. Obviously.

It wouldn’t be a fall weekend without a whole lotta college football fun and my mini manse was geared up and ready to go for some Iowa Hawkeye domination on Saturday.

Tailgate time!

Tailgate time!

Being that Iowa has been a severely mediocre team at best the past five seasons, to keep the games interesting Dada CBXB and I instilled the fine family tradition of doing a shot of moonshine after each Hawkeye touchdown a few years ago.

Little did we ever assume, believe, know that our fellas in black and gold would ever score more than four touchdowns in a single game…

Shot #1

Shot #1

Shot #2

Shot #2

Shot #3

Shot #3

Shot #4

Shot #4

Somewhere in between touchdown six and seven, we lost count…

Winning is exhausting.

Winning is exhausting.

But not really!

But not really!

You’d think a final victorious score of 62-16 would impress anyone but of course my pissy pussy Ted could have given two shits.


Who gives a flying fuck about football? Rub my belly bitch.

I’m pretty sure the evil eye bracelet my buddy brought back to me from Greece had something to do with my spectacular weekend full of shenanigans.

I'm never taking this off.

I’m never taking this off.

Evil juju be damned!




Ass Kissing Like a Boss

Most of my working adult life has been spent kissing ass (which, when it boils down to it unless you work for yourself, comes with career territory), as I’ve found myself being a personal assistant (job description: therapist, mom, chauffeur, wife that goes home at night, nurse, pet wrangler, girl Friday, psychoanalyst, chef, medical doctor, maid, laundress, child care provider) more than once.

Being that I live in Nashville, I once scored a job as a member of an “up and coming country music artist’s” management team (translation: personal assistant).

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

This up and comer had more money than God. Like hundreds of millions of dollars to live on and wipe her ass with, allowing her to not work a day in her life. Ever. So what’s a gal with all of that money and limited talent to do? Be a country singer -DUH!

My first day on the job, I was supposed to fetch lunch for this budding superstar. My list said chicken broth and Sprite. Surely this was supposed to read chicken noodle soup and Sprite, yes? Nope. I sat there and watched a grown woman with the body of a 4th grader slurp chicken broth for lunch – you know, to keep that girlish figure.

That being said, I should have known better when I was requested to bird sit (yes, you read that right) her three fine feathered friends and she told me to help myself to anything in the fridge. But when I ran to see what kind of name brand goods a rich up and comer ate, I was sadly disappointed to see that A) I would be starving over the weekend and B) it was all food for the birds except for mustard, Jell-O cups and eggs.

Help yourself to my bird food. Literally. Her birds' food.

Help yourself to my bird food.

Of course, being that this is Music City and I worked for a mover and shaker, I experienced all kinds of fun events. Like the Country Music Festival held in Nashville every June. Before we headed there for her first appearance, she said to my colleague, “Better not tell anyone you work for me or you might get mobbed.”

Tens of tens

Clearly I feared for my safety as she performed.

Other events I was able to experience included red carpet moments for her gigantic showcases. One time, as I was laying out her very high-end, $28,000 designer dress out for a show she ran in after a facial and screamed, “MY FACE IS RED!” I glanced up at her and agreed by saying, “Your face is red,” as she’d just had her mug rubbed, poked and prodded. Her response? “Eat shit and die.” I’m surprised I have any tongue left after all of the biting I had to do in order to keep a paycheck.

Your face matches the empty carpet.

Did I mention that your face matches the empty carpet?

I also got to be a personal stylist when we were getting ready for “big” magazine shoots (you know for a free city publication).  While helping her skeletal frame in and out of outfits, touching up her lip gloss, assuring her that her hair was just big enough but not too big I often got to hold her beautiful diamond jewelry between shots.


Who wouldn’t spend $56,000 on a toucan ring? WHO?

This lovely creature of a woman also purchased a puppy for her manager on Valentine’s Day. Because nothing says “I love you” like a dog you (i.e. the assistant) get to take care of. Forever. A puppy was beyond an appropriate gift for a guy who travels three weeks per month. Perfection. So you all know that this goddamn dog became my pet, right?


The bane of my existence, pain-in-the-ass, little love of my work life.

As we all know I’m much more of a cat lady, although I couldn’t help but fall in love with that flipping happy face.  Which ended up being a good thing as the puppy single-handedly destroyed my office one night, managed to eat a bag full of mini Snickers over lunch one day therefore shitting gold for three weeks (after I was assured by the vet she wouldn’t die), chewed through the hose on my personal washing machine when I took her to my house and managed to eat through every single can of a 12 pack of Sprite, spraying the sugary liquid from floor to ceiling. FUN TIMES.

Such a good listener

Sit. Stay. I’m magic with dogs.

While wrestling with the dog became part of my daily duties, I also got the pleasure of carting this woman to and from very important appointments (mani, pedi, massage, hair appointments).  And what better way to use my double degree from a fine university than to balance her three pet birds on my body while driving through the streets of Nashville (you know, to socialize them)?

Goddamn Bird I ended up loving...ugh.

No Polly, I don’t want a mother fucking cracker. I want you to keep your crest from obstructing my view of traffic.

Amazing what one will do for a paycheck, isn’t it? While I happily, thankfully, fortunately, get down on my hands and knees and praise Jesus every day that I don’t work for this woman anymore, here’s how I always wanted to respond to her requests….

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking most all of the time.

Safe to say I don’t miss her! One bit.

The dog…that’s a different story.



Weekend Winks – Shots, a Chug and Bachelorette Fun

Just your typical Saturday night.

Just a typical Saturday night at my mini manse.

Ending the week right, the chug Precious and I were able to go and get gussied up at my fave Nashville salon Trumps.

Primping up with puppy.

Primping with puppy.


One of the two of us really is precious and I’ll let you guess who.

Knowing that I like to take a fur baby everywhere and following in her Auntie CBXB’s footsteps, Princess B went to Build-a-Bear and created a cat (naturally).  When it came time to give her new feline a moniker, apparently Princess B inherited my creative juices and went with the highly innovative choice of “Pet” (almost as clever as my beloved pussy’s name New Cat).

Princess B and her cleverly named kitty, Pet.

A princess and her pet.

Ditching the dog, I headed to a lunch in celebration of a fine young lady and her upcoming nuptials.

Ladies who lunch.

Ladies who lunch.

No celebration is complete without jazz hands, ya dig?

A bride-to-be with class and a lady that’s white trash.

Did you guys know that Elsa from Frozen has a twin who is also named Elsa? Well, it’s true. And they live in Iowa and are related to me.

Elsa loves to read.

Elsas loves to read.

Prince of Star Wars

I imagine Prince Elsa will one day want to kill me for posting this photo.

If it’s a football Saturday in September, you can bet your ass it’s Iowa Hawkeye tailgate time!

Iowa girls can't help it.

Iowa girls can’t help it.

With the kitchen pretty much prepped and ready to go, the only thing left to do was flip the TV to the right channel.


Booze, booze and more booze.

Cruising to the channel, the guide listed an either/or scenario. My game, Iowa vs. PITT or Penn State vs. Maryland. Now, I pay extra money to get the Big Ten Network through Comcast, (my stupid fucking cable provider that I’m dying to leave – hurry up Google Fiber!) and you’d think they’d provide an alternative network when two games in the same division are to be played at the same time to please viewers.

No such luck.

FUCK Comcast.

FUCK Comcast.

After precisely 92 minutes on the phone, asking the customer service rep which game they’ll be showing (reps don’t have that information (WTF?), so we had to wait until kick-off), I was told I could view on my laptop and if I could wait, they’d give me a password.

So we waited….

…and waited….

…and did a shot while we waited….

Stress shot.

We hate drinking.

And FINALLY! We got the small screen up and going with our Hawkeye game in the second quarter.

Might as well be Buffalo Wild Wings.

Might as well be Buffalo Wild Wings with this set up.

Once the game was on, we had some catching up to do and got to our trashy tradition of moonshine shots after every touchdown.


Shot #1

Shot #3

Shot #2

Shot #3

Shot #3

In the final two seconds of the game, the score was tied and our field goal kicker (my new hero) hit a 57 yard field gold for the win. I’m pretty sure my entire apartment complex thought there was a party of 60 in the mini manse as we carried on like we’d just won a million dollar lottery.

Shot #4 for the W!

Celebration shot #4 for the W!

The rest of the evening went as follows…



So you can imagine that Sunday went a little something like this with my main squeeze, Ted.

Sunday started like this.


Sunday ended like this.


Here’s hoping your week is off to one fabulous start!

Fuck Comcast.




The Bitch….er, I Mean Bear is Back.

My pussy is baaaaaaaaaaack!

The bitch is back. And no, I'm not talking about me.

The bitch is back.
And no, I’m not talking about me.

A little over a month ago, Ted became sick in what felt like a matter of minutes – as one day he seemed happy, healthy and bitchy as ever but then suddenly lost almost half his body weight, wouldn’t eat and became lethargic (couldn’t even hold his head up to meow profanities at me).  Taking him to the vet, I had to leave him in the kitty ICU.

Full on worry mode

Yes, we asked that the bandage match his eyes.

And then the worrying at the mini manse began…

The Griswold twins were plagued with uneasiness over Bear’s absence.

The Griswold twins were worried.

Clark was so terrified he had to take a nap.

Precious thought she may never again get a bath, since Ted demands he be the one to clean her.

Our favorite little chug on the planet, Precous was worried.

Destined to be a forever dirty dog?

Speaking of worry, I was about thisclose to being shoved in a straight jacket and taken to the nearest loony bin.

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sit still. But thank god I could still drink.

Liquor and pills make everything better. Wait. What?

Just your regular, every day shit show.

My nerves frayed more when every single test ran on Mr. Bear turned up with nothing to report and another was conducted with days to wait in between for results. But you folks came out in droves with your good wishes, karma, prayers and support.

Messages of good

Cutie of a well wisher.


My friend’s kid is obviously going to be the next Picasso.

With all of that love swirling around for TB, he mustered the strength to pull through a surgery, was granted a diagnosis (that’s treatable!) and after what felt like eons in the pet hospital, I wrapped him up and took him home.

Homeward bound

Homeward bound.

Think somebody missed someone?

Think somebody missed someone?

Seeing my typically plump pussy so lean, I did what any mother would do.

Fur and bones

Fur and bones.

I put food in his face every time he turned around (and then tried to wrangle Presh away).

Eat his heart out, much to P's dismay.

A double dose of duck and tuna.

Favorite snack of peas whenever he wants.

His fave green peas always at the ready.

Malts are also now in his diet.

Malts make everything better.

Overflowing his martini glass with food. EAT DAMMIT!

Overflowing his martini glass with food.

While thwarting off his furry roommates in order to get to his heaping amounts of food I shoved in his face, Tedstar’s presence was missed so much that he couldn’t get one moment to himself.

Not alone...fur friends

No peace on the porch.

so happy together

Cuddles on the couch are so cute.

Or were they?

Except when the 24/7 cuddles aren’t welcomed.

After shipping everyone else out of the mini manse so Ted could get some r and r, he is now basking in the glow of being an only child again.


Alone in the nap bed.


Alone on the porch.


Alone on the couch.

Ridin' in style

Alone in the car.


Alone with me at work.

Alone with me at work.

Where I continuously maul him all day long.

Where I continuously maul him all day long…

Much to his dismay.

…much to his dismay.

The bear is now demanding his fur bros and sister reappear before I kiss him to death.

Yes, I know I’m a crazy cat lady. And I don’t give a fuck.

The bitch is back!