Say Yes to the Dumpster Dress

There is zero shame in my game.

While holy matrimony has never been high on my list of hopeful accomplishments (although I can train the fuck out of a man. Ex-boyfriends that were once couch potatoes, allergic to family encounters, bitched about having to go to out-of-town weddings, were closeted alcoholics, verbally abusive – all matters leading to break ups are now treating ladies right. Now I get to sit back and watch my masterpieces practice my long, hard efforts in their current love lives. Bitter much…who moi? You’re welcome girls).

Whipping male asses into shape for fellow females.

Often classifying myself as trashtacular, it will come as no surprise that when I was driving by one of the many dumpsters near my mini manse, my interest was beyond piqued when I spied a gigantic white box big enough to store body parts beside the filthy green trash receptacle.

I did what any classy person would do…I slammed on the brakes, leapt out of my rust bucket, just knowing that the headless corpse I was about to discover would land me on my fave TV show, Forensic Files without having to be deceased.

Instead, as I slowly opened the box, an even bigger surprise awaited my eyeballs.

A fucking wedding gown. Preserved to perfection.

Was this a sign? An omen? Bad juju (I mean Jesus, is there any luck in finding a wedding dress dumpster diving? I mean, aside from it being free and all). I suddenly became a woman more excited about a wedding dress than finding a stray pussy that needs a home (JUST KIDDING. I would first home the cat and then set my sights on my pretend wedding).

This dress had been abandoned once before. Who was I to do it again? The chiffon pouf found a home in the back of my rust bucket, along with a Christmas tree and anything else I don’t have room for in the mini manse. It resided there until one evening at a gathering of gals for Supper Club. Among the convo, I mentioned my dumpster diving prowess skills and with zero urging, ran out to my car and got the box.

The shenanigans began.

Upon opening the box, we not only discovered there was the dress but also the veil AND THE SHOES – which revealed the previous owner’s practicality, as they were ballet flats. Ew.

My new favorite bad hair day ‘do.

Suddenly, I became a flushed bride trying to stuff myself into polyester chiffon (I mean, I didn’t go on a wedding dress diet because I didn’t know I would be so fortunate to be all dressed up…with no altar to go).

I haven’t tried to stuff myself into anything chiffon since, well, ever. I mean, naturally my prom dresses were sequins and any bridesmaid dress that I will “totally wear again” (and never, ever have) were more on the silk/satin side of the material world.

With a touch of fake tulips off my gal pal’s mantel, I was a (literally) hot bride – one lit cigarette butt from going up in flames.

While half of the group was trying to get me in and out of the dress, the other ladies were playing private detectives. We had a name from the alteration receipt, which was from a dress shop in Hoover, AL. WHAT WAS THE STORY BEHIND THIS DRESS?

I mean, if it was cheating, wouldn’t one burn the dress? A nasty divorce, even, maybe donate the dress? But to leave it unscathed at the dumpster really proved that this former bride had a sliver of regard for the giddy-up that once promised her forever, which may now be my forever. But whatever.

With the small paper trail and armed with her maiden name, our investigators were able to peruse social media, locate her, see second wedding photos (with a far more updated gown) and we all now know she lives three buildings down from me. Maybe we should all quit our jobs and become private detectives?

Lost but found.

OR maybe I will just quit my day job, go down to Broadway Street in Nashville in my new threads and pretend I got left at the altar for sympathy and free Skinny Pirates.

OR better yet, I can be the runaway bride and charge tourists (who pay for any and everything) $5 for a picture with this damsel in distress.

OR do I plan a wedding to myself for myself and register for all the things like Louis Vuitton bags, Christian Louboutin heels, a Go Fund Me account for vet bills, and a collection for a new car (i.e. Range Rover)?

OR do I wear this on every second date I go on?

While I have yet to ever online date, this for sure will be a profile picture if I ever do. Accompanied with one single tag line:

Must love cats.

I betcha they’ll be lining up to say, “I don’t,” even if I’m not looking for anything but casual.

Regardless, I can’t stop wearing the fucking veil.

Don’t mind me. Just a crazy lady parading around in a stranger’s veil.

Here comes the bride…to the nearest dumpster near you.

CBXB

Sayonara 2016

Know anyone who had a ridiculously fabulous 2016?

Me either.

Not to say great things didn’t happen for folks in this dumpster fire of a year but seriously, although my Gma used to say, “don’t wish your life away,” I couldn’t think of anything more that I would wish for than the goddamn clock to strike midnight on December 31, 2016.

Yes. How we all feel about this past fucking year.

Yes. How we all feel about this past fucking year.

While I kicked my year of with bad shit happening to a good person (yours truly) last January, there have been highlights and honest-to-goodness reminders as to why I wished I was a mother fucking super hero (or ass kicking princess).

I tried taking a cue from Elsa early on…

Elsa's help.

But I’m not a sexy smoker (see below). Nor do I know how to inhale. And lastly, I hold grudges like my net worth (let’s be real…I’m elated when I have triple digits in my checking account, so not really saying much), therefore this wasn’t going to be my outlet to let 2016 the fuck go. Also, it was just February.

Not a Sexy Smoker

Trying to heed advice of my fave, fearless lighting designer, Hawaiian Housewife (I know you’re rolling your eyes to the back of your skull M), who seems to let any/everything roll down her back (except puke – in which case she likes to displace on moi) with her famous line of…

Good Advice

Well, I didn’t try a bag of dicks per se but instead used an Iowa ear of sweet corn.

Corn Bag

While delicious, this didn’t help in the hate that seethed out of my soul for the year of all shitacular years.

So what did I do? I sprinted, ran, happened to be at PetSmart on an adopt-a-pussy Saturday sponsored by Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue (yes, I am now officially the face of their rescue and I will give you an autograph) and I did what any sane person does. I picked out three cats to add to my brood because in the end, you really can buy love.

Three's a Crowd

And in the end, you now have four feline mouths to feed.

Mouths

Plus I gotta fill the tiny yapper of my Ewok resembling chug, Precious.

Chug Life

But in the end, I got my loving therapy through this….

2016 at its Finest

All of the extra feline lovin’ seemed to help my in heart failure main squeeze, Mr. Ted E. Bear rekindle his love for life. And that made me feel like one extremely lucky lady – even though I will forever be recognized as the crazy Nashville cat lady. I give zero fucks for that title if this little pussy can still be by my side daily.

Better Tedder!

Friends tried to help by burning some of my past hurts away, while I ignited flames with lighter fluid.

Fire Starter

The fire didn’t really cure anything BUT this shirt did reflect my outlook…

Win Win

So I’d call that a win-win, wouldn’t you?

Being involved in a traumatic, life changing event, I enlisted the help of a f.a.b.u.l.o.u.s. therapist that I regularly see on Thursdays (#therapythursdays anyone?). Upon completion of sessions, copious amounts of vino is required. And while I don’t mind drinking with my five (yes I said fucking FIVE fur balls), my sister and gusband (gay husband) are more than ready to join me in Iowa and Missouri, respectively, when I need the company.

Therapy Thursday

IOWA!

My kind of pour.

My kind of pour.

Over the course of this year, I’ve let my pride of self-worth sit on a back burner and simmer (due to uncontrollable reactions to aforementioned bad shit happening).  With the help of friends who aren’t afraid to tackle the CBXB monster and family who’ve dealt with me forever, I was forced to not only wash my hair but show face at my fancy salon (with my fabulous chug in tow, of course) to get my pink rejuvenated and remain blonde.

Gussy

Those same folks about keeled over seeing me in flats and also forced me into my pre-2016 daily shoes…stilettos. I mean, I’ve always been known for my practicality.

Heeled UP

Counting on those who know you best, I hung in like a champ for my Iowa Hawkeyes football tailgates – and kept the family tradition of moonshine touchdown shots alive with Dada CBXB.

Tailgating

Cheering it on with family as often as I could.

CHEER

Speaking of cheering, you all have sent nothing but positivity, well wishes, fab karma, and outrageous juju my Aunt Crazy Pants’s way after her cancer diagnosis this summer. While she’s my end-all-be-all-twin, she’s still kicking some fucking cancer ass. And that’s the way we prefer.

Holla!

Aside from my family and very, very close circle of now known friends (funny how tragedy, traumatic experiences, etc. leads you to your faithful peeps) these two twin monkeys have done nothing but keep my rails from coming fully off the track. I mean, look at their faces. How lucky am I? Even if it was the most dismal year in the history of histories in my lifetime?

For real.

Speaking of rails on the track, while my job is typically a full-on shit show, I have people surrounding me in the office that are full of life, love and overall kindness. Their humor, wit and ability to deal with crazy on a daily basis has made my 2016 a better place.

Work

What made this year – day after day – hour upon hour – minute upon minute – second upon second – all the more difficult was the constant issue of rape culture and the shaming of women, men and any human who has suffered this intolerable situation. From Brock Turner getting a fucking six month sentence after raping a woman in public on a campus, to the published accounts of victims reading letters to their accused in court, to a fucking presidential nominee with 12 – yes 12 women accusing him of inappropriate conduct…one being recorded on tape resulting in a TV anchor’s dismissal from a network by simply being in the situation and not stopping it.

But then, America voted that man president. Women I know voted for that man. Women I know that have daughters voted for that man. Men I know who have daughters voted for that man. Why? It’s beyond me.

Not only does he “grab pussy” because he’s a “star” but he’s totally going to “Make America Great Again.”

FUCK YOU TRUMP

TRUTH

I’m all for voting and standing by your decisions. And I’m also not saying I loved the other choice on the ballot but fuck. Nominating a male chauvinist pig (among many other indecencies as a human being) as POTUS made the end of the year almost unbearable as a person in my standing.

TRUTH TRUTH

This year has proven unbelievable in the most horrific ways. Unbelievable in the most humane ways. Unbelievable in the amount of support I have garnered at the hands of acquaintances, friends, social media buddies, family – the outpouring was (and still is) something that I can’t even still comprehend in the best way possible. To that, I am grateful. To that, I dedicate my first bottle (of tonight) champs to you.

CHAMPS!

I will put on my finest threads and ride out the rest of the hours 2016 has to offer.

MOTHERFUCKER

I will most likely headbang my way into 2017, giving zero fucks about the neckache I will endure.

Bangin'

Because if you are reading this, you have aided me through the darkest 365 day chapter of my life thus far. And I love you for being there digitally, emotionally, physically, snail mailingly, social medially, FaceTimingly, textingly, etc. You have no idea how much one message, like, encouraging word can carry me through days.

Together

The motto I have stuck to and lived by every moment of 2016…

MOTTO

And now, it’s time for a fresh start. Not to say I – or anyone else – is immune to bad shit. It happens. It’s life and makes up the DNA of our souls. But sometimes enough is enough.

I say enough.

FUCK YOU 2016

Sayonara 2016.

FUCK YEAH 2017!

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

Vote or STFU

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!

Celebrate Four Years, C’mon!

Woohoo!

This is a CBXB celebration!

Ole!

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

Image 18

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)

DSCN0359

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!

How to Become a Poster Child for Pussy

How does one become a pussy poster child you are wondering?

You adopt five fucking cats in six months (yes, you read that right). And then become that bona fide crazy lady who is a borderline hoarder of little furry beasts. But I didn’t mean to….

You see, my love of pussy started at a young age and never waned.

I might as well have been born a kitten.

I might as well have been born a kitten.

Planning vacation activities as an adult around cat shows on piers qualifies one for being a deranged feline lover.

Elbowing four year olds for a front seat.

Elbowing four-year olds for a front row seat to watch cats that do tricks.

Falling in love with aforementioned cat show host because he, well loves pussy as much as I do.

Soul mate.

Just as crazy about cats as me. #soulmates

Visiting Ernest Hemingway’s cat cemetery in Key West almost put me over the edge.

Noooooooooooo.

Sweet little souls I never knew.

Naturally I made an ass out of myself crying alone in a fucking cemetery for cats. Actually, I was bawling behind sunglasses so much so that a stranger came up and asked me if I was OK.

Cried

Why can’t all cats live forever?

Until that Key West vacation, I was a one pussy at a time kinda gal. Even though I’d always loved cats of all kinds, I had one precious prince at a time. Until there was New Cat.

Fuck Face.

A true Fuck Face of a feline.

New New showed up at my door one cold, snowy night and not wanting to love him after of course taking him in, I didn’t give him a name. He insisted on staying put in the mini manse and so, we kept this little Dennis the Menace who tore down window shades to get a better view outside, climbed curtains, broke vases, was once almost washed with clothes – you get the idea.

Couldn't even piss without him all up in my grill.

Hell, I couldn’t even piss without him all up in my grill.

Yet NC and Ted fell in love and became playmates as well as bruthas from anotha mutha.

Brotherly love.

Hugs, love and punches to the face.

The first time I ever felt famous was due to New Cat because I had to get a prescription for him from Walgreens. And felt like an ass hat when the nice pharmacist asked for the patient’s name and I replied with New Cat to a quizzical look. Which was then called over the loud speaker when the medicine was ready…so now I get notes on my personal prescriptions from my pharmacist (who is now a friend!).

Famous Pussy Lover

Nashville’s famous pussy lover in the flesh.

But very suddenly last summer, the most annoying cat in the world died of saddle thrombosis (a blood clot on his spine) at an emergency clinic in the middle of the night. To say that Ted was inconsolable is an understatement.

Pretty inconsolable.

Terribly sad mama and baby bear.

And then, I did the only thing a mother could do.

While stopping in at Pet Smart for Ted’s $75 bag of cat food, I accidentally saw these two mugs as Sweet Faces Rescue resided in the main aisle of the store with oodles of cats and kittens needing homes.

Double take on New Cat.

Double take on New Cat.

And then, I made the mistake of holding them.

At the same time.

Two's not a crowd.

Two’s not a crowd.

Fast forward three seconds and I was adopting two bros for my main squeeze ho.

Uh..

Uh…this happened.

Mothers always know what’s best for their kids and the attraction between the twins and The Bear was immediate.

Ted fell hard.

Ted fell hard.

Precious the chug, not so much.

Precious, not so much.

We had to ease her into the tuxedo twins.

I knew the two new felines needed names and due to my love of all things Griswold, I instantly knew what I would name this duo.

Naturally it onlyl made sensse.

Hallelujah! Holy shit! She’s naming them!

And so the mini manse then consisted of Clark, Cousin Eddie, Ted and Precious.

Clark, Eddie, Teddy and Presh.

The chug and the pussies.

But then, keeping in line with the Griswolds, my cat shitter got full.

Literally.

Cat shit alert.

Cat shit alarm clock is a fun way to wake up.

Diharrea galore made Ted ultra sick.

SKin and bones due to

Not a happy skin and bones camper.

The twins and Ted needed to be separated, so Clark and Cousin Eddie went to visit Dada CBXB.

Gpa

Obviously hating life with Gpa.

Dad fell in love with the twins by the time Mr. Bear was back in the saddle so, in keeping with the Griswold family style, I wrapped up the damn cats and gave them to him for Christmas.

Wrapped up the damn cats.

My equivalent of Aunt Bethany.

Ted was well, Presh was happy but then bad shit happened to me.

Who Loves me?

Who Loves me? Cats. Cats will love me.

I was in dire straits for too long, wallowing in depths of despair while Tedstar and Presh were like two old fogies in a nursing home.

And I turned

We all needed help.

So, Mama CBXB thought it would be a genius idea to get me a kitten.

Cute.

I didn’t hate that idea. At all.

Elsa Pants

So we ended up with Elsa Pants.

Typically, I rescue cats that are at least two years old, knowing their chances dwindle with each passing year they age. With this in mind, as I stood up with the newest addition to my family in Pet Smart, I saw these eyes peering out of a cage.

FUck. Those New Cat Eyes again.

Fuck. New Cat Crazy Eyes.

But wait! There was also a brother in the back of the cage who wasn’t adjusting well to rescue life because they were four when their owner surrendered them (stupid motherfuckers like that piss me off).

Strong, silent type.

Strong, silent type.

Naturally, I couldn’t leave them there one without the other. Yes, you heard that right.

Maybe I should just hold them? Maybe I should just try them on for size?

Maybe I should just hold them? Maybe I should just try them on for size?

SOLD.

SOLD.

Penny, the Queen of Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue about fell over when I told her I’d take all three of them (since I had rescued Clark and Cousin Eddie just a few months prior).

Negotiations.

Negotiations.

And just like that, I became even more famous for my love of pussy.

IMG_0513

I’m not sure who was most excited about getting to their new permanent mini manse home – the pussies or me.

Elsa Pants, Ruby Sue and Rocky. Two Griswolds and a princess on their way home.

Elsa Pants, Ruby Sue and Rocky. Two Griswolds and a princess on their way home.

Turns out, they were welcomed with furry Teddy Bear arms upon their arrival.

Settled in right away.

In order of importance according to Ted.

Naturally I’ve taken all kinds of shit for having four cats and chug, loving candles, reading and being single.

Daily occurrence.

Daily occurrence.

Fun gifts.

Appropriate gifts.

Friendly reminder.

Just doing what the advertisements that pop up on Facebook say!

But in the end, I really just don’t give a fuck because rescuing these babies has enriched not only their lives, they’ve helped save me. They’ve aided my sick little bear by assisting him to live on some love. And the company I keep is always feisty.

First Mate sent this to me one Saturday and I knew I’d finally made it as a Pussy Poster Child.

She said, “this just popped up on my feed and made me smile.”

IMG_1518

Now get on over to Sweet Faces Cat & Kitten rescue and stare into my smiling, happy face. And if you can’t adopt, why don’t you donate?

On a side note, I’m not allowed to go to Pet Smart when I’m upset. So if you see me headed that way….STOP ME.

Meeeeeeeow.

CBXB

CBXB!

The Dick Pic Debacle

I got another dick pic!

Just kidding. April Fools. But this is such a goodie, couldn’t refuse sharing again.

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

________________________________________________

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

This not-in-the-slightest fairytale post contains a blurred out dick pic I received as a love note.

________________________________________________

It all started with an innocent girl’s night out. My friends and I rarely get together, as everyone is busy with work, husbands and offspring (I of course, am extremely busy with my mini manse full of fur balls).

Girls Night

Wild gal nights out no more as procreating became a focus point for everyone but yours truly.

Several years ago, I found myself single and when our gaggle of gals ran into a group of Ohio guys at a honky tonk, my bestie G (you know, the one who almost got in a fist fight to defend my honor against an 80-year-old man) chatted up a nice fellow who had recently moved to Music City. At the end of their 82 second conversation, she turned to me giddily exclaimed, “I gave him your number!”

New Cat, New Cat your order is ready.

Fucking bitch.

OK, so maybe I was overreacting a tad.

I looked at the dude who was obviously an old frat guy (you know the look – “fancy” leather flip flops, khaki shorts, golf shirt tucked in with a belt typically accompanied by swoopy bangs on forehead (affectionately called Bama Bangs) – at least in the South anyway – but this guy had a shaved head) I thought it wouldn’t kill me to put my toe back in the dating pond, as dude looked harmless.

Something along the lines of these guys. So NOT my type.

Being that I’m from Iowa, I assumed Mr. Ohio and I could bond over Big Ten football (even though I loathe THE Ohio State Buckeyes).  So I talked to the guy for about four entire minutes, he asked if I’d like to go to happy hour the following week and I accepted.

And soon after wished I hadn’t.

The following day I received no less than 23 texts and tried to be a good sport before turning into an extremely annoyed lady –

Nice meeting you last night! You too.

What’s for breakfast? I don’t cook.

Send me a pic! You know what I look like, I just met you last night.

What’s your last name? No Googling before our date.

Are you on Facebook? Isn’t everyone?

And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on until I finally said (at 7:30pm) that I was going to bed.

Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I reached out to G and my sister who both thought maybe this guy was simply nervous and overly anxious for our date in a few days.

OK, OK maybe I wouldn’t write him off – yet.

But then, I received this the following morning…

Thought you might like this.

Um...creepy?!

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what the hell to say. Who sends half naked pictures to a chick when she’s already said yes to a date?

That you’ve only talked to for 240 seconds?

My silence seemed to only pique his interest more.

Do you like piercings on guys?  No response.

Do you want me to pick you up at 7:30 or 8pm? No response. (Although we said happy hour you stupid fuck and I might as well put my photo on a milk carton if I give you my address).

Do you have any tattoos I’ll be surprised to find? No response but fucking seriously?

And after forwarding everything to my sister and G, I got two similar responses:

CRAIGSLIST KILLER CANCEL DATE IMMEDIATELY

Of course I was already in the process of excusing myself from hanging with this psycho because I was sure to be hog tied and either end up at the bottom of the Cumberland River or in one of his apartment rooms for 3.4 years before eventually gnawing through my own arm to escape.

Either way, no thanks.

Here’s how it went as I tenderly tried to turn him down…

The Break Up

Now I’m sure you’re thinking that I went easy on him as I used the word “reschedule” which I’d soon regret. But I didn’t know how much this D-Bag knew about me, having my phone number, so I went for the easing out of it approach.

Which didn’t seem to work well because this kept happening (I’ve blurred out anything associated with my job)…

photo 2

D-Bag kept sending me pictures of himself sitting at his desk, “funny” memes he’d found online and asking how I was doing. My silence was turning out not to be so golden.

The photo below came the evening that we were supposed to be meeting for drinks and I suppose it was allowing me to see just what I was missing out on.

I must say, a step up from his khaki shorts.

Oh gee, you look like 874,912 men that reside in Nashville.

photo 3

At my usual Friday night happy hour, I was laughing and showing friends what D-Bag had been sending over and over with no response from me and another photo popped up.

photo 4

THOUGHT U MAY LIKE THIS?!?!

He thought I might like this?!

photo 3

My initial reaction:

MY EYES!

MY EYES!

As the entire bar turned to look at our table because yours truly couldn’t stop screaming, “DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST FUCKING SEND THAT?!”

I happened to be sitting next to First Mate at the time – much to her arm’s dismay as I almost ripped it off upon seeing the penis of a complete stranger with whom I’d had a four (FOUR!) minute conversation.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

I’m pretty sure I single-handedly polished off a bottle of Jager before stumbling home to pass out in the comforting paws of Ted.

Down the hatch

Please be a mind eraser. Please.

When someone doesn’t respond to your naked picture you’d think that would be the biggest hint of all time, like a neon sign blinking “STOP TEXTING ME YOU CRAZY ASS CLOWN” but it turns out this douche really wanted to get together.

photo 5

When he didn’t stop, I was going insane trying not to respond. Naturally, I was discussing this with everyone from work friends to girlfriends to my family. We couldn’t decide if going to the police would make him angry (or crazier) and if I responded, it would most likely egg him on.

He didn't stop.

Stop the madness!

I thought of sending a pic of me with runaway bride eyes (remember that Georgia lady and her eyes?!) and one of Camo’s menacing guns, D-Bag might piss himself and leave me alone.

Crazy bitch with a gun.

Yes, it would be aimed at his penis.

But I refrained. I sat on my hands and D-Bag’s messages kept coming with no replies from this chick.

photo

By this point, he’d been texting to no one for over a month and I was beyond pissed off.

Furious.

You don’t fuck with an Iowa girl.

Don't mess with a girl who's been corn fed.

Nope. Don’t do it.

You don’t fuck with a crazy cat lady.

Image 6

Seriously. Don’t even think about it.

And you most certainly don’t fuck with a picture happy blogger who will be sure everyone knows that you, a gigantic D-Bag, work at the downtown Nashville Omni hotel where you started as a Project Manager from Ohio but are now permanently residing in Music City.

There also may or may not be flyers up of him in all of his glory at the hotel.

Image 3

Bloggers mean business.

Sorry you if you can’t erase the images above from your mind.

But I just had to share because as D-Bag said…

I thought you might like it.

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Be an Anybody on a Red Carpet

If you need a reminder of where you’re at in the food chain, try attending a fancy award show like I did for work a few years ago at the Country Music Awards ceremony (we’re there again this year, too).

IMG_1878

An anybody surrounded by major somebodies.

Here’s a little tutorial in being somebody vs. anybody…

If you’re somebody, you get dropped off at the red carpet in a tricked out Chevrolet sponsored event car.

Lady Antebellum, being chauffeured to the red carpet entrance.

If you’re anybody else, you get to park two miles away, fending off a Chatty Cathy parking attendant (who also happens to be from Iowa and wants to talk your face off about it) and make your grand entrance on foot.

Obviously everyone awaiting my arrival.

If you’re somebody, you wait for the photographers to shout your name before appearing on the carpet.

Begging for the celebs.

Shawn Johnson, the retired Olympic gold medalist and Dancing With the Stars alum being cat called from the peanut gallery.

If you’re anybody else, you hide in this hallway while the star you’re accompanying soaks up the flash bulbs.

Where the star wranglers hunker down during red carpet photo moments. This hallway is directly behind the “stand and pose” photo wall.

Being somebody, you don’t need any announcement when you appear on the red carpet. Photographers and fans just know you and shout your name accordingly.

Lisa Marie Presley (yes, that Presley) needs no introductions (and yes, I was dying as I was snapping this photo).

When you’re anybody, your name appears in marker on a clipboard that is held up for the photographers just before you turn the corner to be photographed, ensuring people know who the hell you are.

Courtesy applause for the anybodies, please.

When you’re somebody and you recently got caught stepping out on your high school sweetheart wife, you go to the awards show with her anyway (and they’re since divorced and he’s remarried, which sounds like a sad country love song, doesn’t it?).

Jason Aldean and his now very unforgiving ex.

If you’re anybody else and everyone knows you’re a cheat, you stay at home and watch the awards from your couch in your pajama pants you haven’t taken off for three days, a stale beer and yesterday’s pizza, feeling very remorseful.

My pussy caught in a blatant act of cheating and not giving a fuck.

My pussy caught in a blatant act of cheating and not giving a fuck.

When you’re somebody, you know you look good and work it all the way up and down the red carpet.

Lady Antebellum’s Hillary Scott strikes a pose in a form fitted dress.

Jake Owen pranced around in a leopard blazer that I wanted to rip off his shoulders and keep all to myself (therefore giving him a complex that I was stalking him because I literally took 12 pictures of him down the carpet due to his jacket).

When you’re anybody else, you blog about the perils of what to wear to work the award show.

Does this vest make me look like somebody or just anybody?!

When you’re somebody, you get interviewed live by TV stations.

Tim Allen being interviewed by Evan Farmer of CMT.

When you’re anybody else, you crouch down in the corner ninja-style, trying to stay out of the camera’s shot or you’ll be kicked off the carpet. The horror.

Hiiieeeee! Don't mind me. Just over here taking 4,098,461 photos and maxing my phone's memory out.

Hiiieeeee! Don’t mind me.
Just over here taking 4,098,461 photos and maxing my phone’s memory out.

If you’re somebody, you have no problems finding a plus one to be your date.

Lisa Marie Presley with her hipster hubs make one handsome couple.

When you’re anybody else, you have to hang with all of the other people who are working the show.

Workin’ it with men in uniform. Poor me.

When you’re somebody, you perform on the massive stage.

A CMA Award show stage.

When you’re anybody else, you’re perfectly fine asking a stranger to take your picture in front of it.

Anybody want to take my picture? Anyone? Hello?

When you’re somebody, your entourage follows you up on stage to get you gussied up before the live performance.

Hair, make up and wardrobe folks putting the final touches on Carrie Underwood before her performance.

If you’re anybody else,  you have to take pictures back stage to remember where the bathroom is located, so you can brush your hair and reapply lipstick.

Which way to the ladies?

When you’re somebody, you blow the roof off the joint, then head out to the after party.

Aided by the foggiest fog machine ever and blasting confetti, you would have thought it was New Year’s Eve during Carrie Underwood’s performance.

When you’re just anybody, you get to go and walk the empty red carpet before tearing it down.

Long walk to fame…and I finally arrived.

And then pose like just anybody else while no one calls your name.

**Insert crickets chirping here**

It’s rough trying to be anybody! Wish somebody would have told me.

CBXB

CBXB!