The Little Things…

Being an Iowa Hawkeye football fan leaves most folks with a sense of pride (I mean, hello, ever catch my blog during football season?) even if their season is sometimes less than stellar.

We’re #1! Even if it’s just in our hearts.

Iowa is not only known for its corn, it’s truly dubbed the Hawkeye State. I grew up singing a song that included the line, “where the corn grows tall and the kids grow great. I’m glad I live in the Hawkeye State!”

If any strings are attached in being associated with this university, they’re welcomed. Now that I live in Nashville (or if you live anywhere outside of the Corn State) when I tell people Iowa is my original home, I’m received with “Oh the Buckeyes!” or “The Potato State!” and living in the South, some peeps think I say Ireland when I say Iowa (no fucking clue how they hear that, as all Iowa schools taught phonics but whatever).

Raygun t-shirts always on point.

My point is the University of Iowa may be little known by others but man, the people there are some of the fucking greatest. And it’s not because they’re mostly from Iowa (although I swear to god that the state produces the nicest, most modest (aside from me of course), hard working, earnest, salt of the earth people ever).

I was surprised yesterday by an act of kindness that almost (I said ALMOST) made me ugly cry in a happy way (which pretty much means hell would have frozen over because the first and only time I happy cried was five years ago after finding out the twins had arrived).

Happy cry, sad cry, neither is pretty.

I have a Hawkeye football poster I get every year from the Iowa State Fair (one of the greatest events on the planet) hanging in my workspace, along with a few other pieces of Hawkeye memorabilia.

Pride and joy.

Letting the love show.

Even cups get the Hawkeye treatment.

I’m sure my co-workers are all “OK. OK. We fucking get it.”

The poster has been a great conversation starter and almost any college football fan stops to comment upon seeing it. One vendor stopped and asked if I knew of CJ Beathard (quarterback) and George Kittle (tight end), both who played at the University of Iowa and both of whom were drafted in 2017 by the San Francisco 49ers. Almost responding with a “fucking duh!” I was excited this dude knew past Hawk players. So we chit chatted about how Beathard and Kittle were the shit and then the gentleman slid in that his son also was drafted in 2017 by the 49ers. His son roomed with Kittle and is tight with both former Hawkeye players.

I couldn’t wait to text my dad and tell him the scoop.

You know, because he’s a little bit of a fan, too.

I looked up Trent Taylor, who is a wide receiver (from the Nashville area!) for the 49ers and my new buddy’s son. Every time Dad Taylor came to our office, he’d stop to talk football shop and I enjoyed hearing a little inside scoop. Well, yesterday was just a dreary winter day and I got a phone call from Dad Taylor asking if I was in the office and then he instructed me to meet him in the lobby in 15 minutes.

Still having trouble with a regular fucking phone and a headset. But I’m here.

Assuming he had something for my boss, I moseyed up to the front and waited his arrival. Dad Taylor had a FedEx envelope in his hand and as I went to grab it (ever the classy gal that I am), he put his hand up. “I have something for you and I want to see your expression when you open it.” What? What?!

Then he slid out a photo from the envelope. And I immediately saw football players. And I immediately tried to not be too excited who those football players might be on that fucking photograph.

It was an autographed photo signed to me with the inscription, “Go Niners! Go Hawkeyes!” along with signatures from Trent Taylor, CJ Beathard and George Kittle. FUCK ME IN THE GOAT ASS.

Be cool! be cool! be cool! be cool! becool!becool!becool!becool! BE!FUCKING!COOL! I kept thinking in my head while my mouth was wide open (so it was basically to the floor) and at the same time I thought don’t cuss, don’t cuss, don’t fucking cuss. Because all I wanted to do was throw my arms around Dad Taylor and scream holy fucking shit! This just made my year!

I haven’t smiled this hard since 2015.

I realize that it’s just a picture. But the idea that someone who doesn’t know me well, just wanted to do something nice for the sake of being fucking nice. Trent Taylor’s dad reached out to him and Trent took the time to not only sign the photo himself but get Beathard and Kittle to do so as well. Standing there trying not to shriek my brains out, with moist eyes, all I could utter was “I can’t say anything right now or I might cry and I’m never a lady with nothing to say!”

Dad Taylor did what most dads would do and gave me a great big hug and said, “I’m so thrilled you’re thrilled.” I basically skipped my way around the office the rest of the day showing anyone who would look and listen (and gave no shits) my photo and back story.

I ran around searching for the perfect frame and naturally got something ultra studly to home the picture. A matted, mirrored frame. That sits proudly underneath my Iowa Hawkeye poster.

A very subtle, footbally frame.

I slept with a grin on my face that night. I know I woke up with one in the morning. And I haven’t smiled so hard since 2015 – that’s no lie. What I’m getting at is you know that saying – you never know what battles others are facing (or something along that fucking line)? These peeps don’t know any struggle I’ve endured over the last three years. All they know is that I’m a huge Hawkeye fan (and now the Niners #1 fan) and did something nice because they fucking wanted to. And now I have a treasured story and possession to remember the feeling of specialness because of strangers’ kindness.

Aside from making my fucking day, week and month, this act basically made my year. Which is a fabulous sign because it’s still only early January. Whoop!

Once a Hawkeye, always a Hawkeye.

Now go start someone’s year off on the right foot by being nice.

Go Niners!

GO HAWKEYES!

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!

How to Have a Birthday Blow Out

It’s time once again to gather ’round the bar at Dalts, guzzle sip on Skinny Pirates and celebrate my 22nd annual birthday.  While not much in a celebratory mood lately, time spent reflecting on birthdays past put some much needed pep in my step and I’m gonna be sure I abide by all of my memory rules this weekend!

Birthdays of yesteryear taught me some extremely important lessons that I need to keep in mind, as I prepare to celebrate another year of fabulous fun.

Huff. Puff. and Blow.

Huff. Puff. Blow.

1) Always take a peek in a mirror before a photo is snapped, forever capturing the loveliness of you on your special day or you may end up with something like this….

My most gorgeous birthday photo ever.

Hello Gorgeous.

Seriously. Stare in the mirror and give a rat’s ass or you’ll be gazing at your lovely self in something as beautiful as a crocheted vest for years to come.

Crochet nightmare

Fashion at its finest accessorized with wispy bangs.

Celebrate

Own advice not taken. Clearly.

2) Upon receiving presents, always act like you’ve just received the best.gift.ever. Even if you have no clue what it is or have no intention of ever wearing/using/displaying/eating/drinking.

Always act surprised.

Holy shit! I love it! No, truly I do.

3) Insist upon holding fingers up to commemorate which age you were celebrating when photos end up in albums.

Insist

I’m this many today.

Even if you’re not quite sure how old you are, own whatever you are saying which will demand more attention on you.

Even

If I say I’m two and a half, I AM TWO AND A HALF, ya dig?

4) Cake matters. Choose your design wisely.

Scoobs.

Everyone wants a piece of Scooby.

Then insist someone hand feed it to you.

Keepin' it classy. As usual.

Keepin’ it classy. As usual.

5) Practice your ‘birthday face’ so you can look adorable in all photos.

Mug for the camera.

Oh who me? Why yes it is my birthday. I’ll just hold this pose for the rest of the day.

Camera!

Adorableness fail.

6) Be sure to have a themed party. Even if it involves you looking like an ass clown.

theme

Send in the clowns.

7) Dance, jump and twirl to your heart’s content, acting as if you have one ounce of rhythm somewhere in your being.

PARTY!

Shake, rattle and rollin’ expected.

Dance

High kicks accepted.

Head banging also accepted.

Head banging also welcomed but you’ll regret it in the morning. Trust me.

8) Noisy favors are a must. Especially if party goers are under the age of six.

Blow it out.

Blow out birthday party.

9) Always go with the celebratory flow.

Go with the flow

Balloons in my hair? Sounds like a good birthday look.

Or at least let someone catch you when the flow gets to be too much for you to stand on your own.

Hey-oh!

Hey-oh!

10) Don’t ever turn away a birthday kiss, no matter how much you think it may hurt your face.

Scruffy faces hurt my cheek. Always low maintenance.

Always being low maintenance, scruffy faces hurt my cheek. Shave already!

11) Even if you share the same birthday with a cousin (gentleman to my left in photo below with thrilled look on his face) be sure you try to be the star of the show anyhow.

Sharing

Sorry. Not sorry B. Happy Birthday today by the way!

12) Never, ever, ever, ever turn down a birthday shot. Ever.

Why thank you

Birthdays taste so good.

Cheers to your birthdays of yesteryear – as well as a year full of the happiest of birthdays for all of us and those we hold dear!

This evening, I’ll be drinking to the wise words my Gma has told me every year, “having another birthday sure beats the alternative.”

Smart lady.

Now let’s blow this birthday up!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Remedy Trashtacular Hair Hell

Ever wake up after a hard night’s sleep, take a gander in the mirror and immediately want to wave a white flag in defeat?

About last night...

About last night…

Surrendering any hope for good lookin’ locks for the day, you know when you show face (or dark roots, rather) in public folks will be talking behind your back about what a trashtacular turn for the worst your looks have taken? How you’re letting yourself go? How you must be broke as the top three inches of your hair are shades darker than the rest of your locks?

There's Something About Mary hair.

“There’s Something About Mary” hair – only greasier.

OK, so I don’t generally go in public decked out like a dork.  But I do often wake up longing for hair that magically grows a light blonde out of my scalp (instead, I have to visit my magician every six weeks) therefore alleviating the need for me to wash my hair every.single.day.  If I miss a shampoo, I look like I have taken Crisco to my roots by noon.

How does one cover up the trashiness growing from her mane?

Here are a few remedies I’ve found work for my hair indiscretions.

#1. The Snooki

Snookie

The Southern version of the Jersey Shore ‘do.

Requirements: two barrettes.

Two barettes

Objects may seem higher in the mirror than in actuality.

This overall style saves me 25 minutes of hair hell in the morning.

#2. The Bang

When I was bitching at work regarding my greasy, grimy mane, a girl turned around and said, “Just wash your bangs in the morning.”

No shit? Being blonde is hard work.

Wash your bangs. Duh.

Full frontal cleanliness.

Requirements: shampoo and blow dryer.  This version of “clean” hair saves me 20 minutes of primping.

#3. The Bret Michaels

Every rose...

Every hair has its thorn…

Requirements: scarf (and no ponytail the day/night before).

Louis Vuitton to the rescue!

Talk dirty to me.

This is an ultimate time saver, as I can truly bounce out of bed, tie a scarf and go (but I have to remember to pack a Sharpie marker in my purse for all of the autographs I’m asked to sign while sporting this style), which saves me 30 minutes of hair agony.

#4. The Bun

This was an accidental oily hair cover-up, as I tossed my locks up in a bun one day at the beach.  But when I realized it would stay put all day, the look was added to my dark root arsenal.

An accidental beach miracle.

An accidental beach miracle.

Requirements: one scrunchie (yes I said a scrunchie – I’m too cheap to buy the bun sponge helper thing. But it doesn’t count as a scrunchie in public if you can’t see it. Ok? OK?!) and bobby pins.

Bun it.

Just dreaming of Jeannie and wishing I could grant wishes.

Behind the bun.

Behind the bun.

This ballerina remedy adds another 15 minutes to my day.

#5. The Hat Trick

Greasy

Can’t tell I’m a slimy mess under the fedora, can you?

This is the simplest remedy of them all. Grab hat. Put on head.

Requirements: any kind of stylish head topper.

Put a cap on it.

Playing hide and seek with the horrific dark roots.

This trick saves me 35 minutes of messing with my tresses.

After all of the five remedies above have been tried and tested over the 42 days between salon visits (minus the nerd look), it’s time to visit my miracle maker.

Preshy

Getting blonder (not smarter) by the second with my precious sidekick, Precious.

My roots breathe a momentary sigh of relief as I let them come out to play in all of their newfound blonde glory.

FullSizeRenderBlonde!

Back to blonde(r) requires celebration, naturally.

If you happen to see me in any of the above states, you’ll know I’m either trying to eek out seven weeks between salon visits or avoiding the hair wash (because I’m hung over, tired from a long weekend, hung over or just plain lazy).

It’s possible you won’t recognize me in all of my “I-swear-I-don’t-live-in-a-house-on-wheels-although-you’d-never-know-it-with-my-three-inches-of-visible-dark-roots” various, incognito giddy ups as you mistake me for Bret Michaels. Or any guest from the Maury Povich show.

Cheers to good hair days!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Love a Scrunchie

Yes, that kind of scrunchie.

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl. Not to mention I own two cats....

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl.
Not to mention I own two cats….

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?!

Someone actually procreated with you?!
TWICE?!

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

Yep. Back to being a bonafide '80s rocker

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

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

CBXB shocker!

CBXB shocker!

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

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

Night sweat no more.

Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.

Even love it when it gets stuck in my mane.

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

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

I wear it to perfect my bun.

Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.

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 two 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.

I think I found it in my Caboodle.

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.

Stop judging me.

CBXB

CBXB!

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.

Cake

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.

Ugh

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?

Grab'n'go.

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.

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Almost Give a Gay Guy a Heart Attack

And no, the answer is not me naked.

Surprise party of one.

The answer is a surprise party of one stuffed into a car trunk.

This past weekend I was beckoned to Des Moines by my bestie Scooby to supply his husband with a good old fashioned make your heart stop birthday surprise.  Brainstorming on how I would be presented as a grand gift we landed on the idea of shoving me into the trunk for an ambush on Mr. Scooby.

Naturally, we pulled over in a church parking lot to get the deed done.

Good idea. God won't care.

Nothing strange about this scene.

A quick prayer was said in the hopes that no one would suffocate to death, all other vehicles on the road would avoid rear ending us and I prayed Scooby wouldn’t forget about me as soon as he went into the house to fetch his hubs.

Are you there God? It's me, Scooby.

Are you there God?
It’s me, Scooby.

With the surprise package in compact place, we were off.

Alive and kickin' but feeling very sorry for all of the damsels in acting TV  distress. This trunk shit is hard work. Especially the not laughing part.

Big ass, tiny space.

In case you were wondering what your trunk look like from the inside...

In case you were wondering, here’s what you’ll see if you’re ever thrown in a trunk.

As the car reached its destination, I heard voices approaching the vehicle to take a gander at what gift awaited while I almost pissed my pants from trying to keep my not so quiet laugh subdued. Mr. Scooby said, “is there a puppy in there?”

S.U.P.R.I.S.E. it's not a puppy!

S.U.P.R.I.S.E. it’s not a puppy!

It’s CBXB!

Happy or sad?

Bewildered birthday boy.

While the surprise was a success, I had a grand entrance fail.

Graceful exit. Easy in, hard out. Grand entrance fail.

Does anyone have a crane?

Once able to hoist my fat ass out of the trunk (a true junk in the trunk story here folks) it was birthday hugs for everyone.

Hieee!

It’s me!  In the flesh!

It's for reals.

For reals.

The only thing left to do was get the party started.

Let's party!

What’s a soiree without jazz hands?

And party we did.

Happiest of birthdays Mr. Scooby!

Happiest of birthdays Mr. Scooby!

Now how in the hell am I going to top this next year?

CBXB

CBXB!