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

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl. Not to mention I own four cats….and a chug. Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.

For real.

I still own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair and the purple one below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase (now, I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from walking bean fields….I also got a tie dyed shirt, which I still own (my hoarding abilities can be discussed another time). Obviously I put my money to expert use).

Hard earned hair acccessory.

Hard earned hair accessory.

Although I saved scrunchies from years past, this does NOT mean that I condone wearing anything of the sort in public. I feel so strongly about this, I have risked jobs and friendships, saving folks from public embarrassment.

A few years ago while at an extremely new place of employment, I spotted my boss sitting at her desk with a white scrunchie in her gorgeous hair. And while I hadn’t quite figured out our working relationship boundaries yet (being that I was her assistant) I felt it my womanly duty to rip it out of her hair.

Well, actually I walked up behind her and as I slid it off of her hair I leaned in and whispered, “We don’t wear these in public. Trust me.”

Um, no.

About to be unemployed but I don’t care.

Horrified at my casual approach and sure as shit I was about to be fired, she laughed and said thank you. We’re still gal pals to this day thanks to my brazen move in the name of fashion.

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie even though I wear tiny sombreros and t-shirts announcing my crazy cat lady status.

And then there’s my old band manager I ran into at the mall one afternoon.

I expected so much more than….

Manager fail.

THIS.

While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach, it was the teeny, tiny piece of material stuck in the layers of curls that made my skin crawl.

NOT blending in.

Scrunchie not blending in dude.

Being that I didn’t work for my buddy, I could be a little more blunt in expressing how insane it was to see a grown man wearing a scrunchie.

Someone actually procreated with you?! TWICE?!

KNOCK. THAT. SHIT. OFF.

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

Yep. Back to being a bonafide '80s rocker

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

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

CBXB shocker!

CBXB shocker!

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

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

Night sweat no more.

Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.

Even love it when it gets stuck in my mane.

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

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

I wear it to perfect my bun.

Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

Hey-oh. But why would I ever let anyone in on my bun magic?

But you can bet your ass I ever let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.

So there I am, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…

I LOST THE BLACK ONE.

Visiting Iowa, I was certain that I left it in my sister’s guest bedroom. And quickly resigned to the fact that I’d never see this beloved piece of my hair history again due to the fact that she has three and a half-year old twins.

Noooooooooooooo!

Goodbye my love.

What will keep me cool at night?!

How will a bun ever be the same?!

But then I remembered I still had a purple scrunchie from 4th grade.

Be still my beating heart.

Be still my beating heart.

As I went to sleep that evening, reaching for the limp pile of aged elastic and who-knows-how-many-germs-its infested-with-material, I heard a snap.

S-N-A-P.

Noooooooo!

Noooooooo!

My purple piece of shit went to scrunchie heaven, as the decades old elastic finally died (most likely committing suicide).

Finding myself empty-handed, I did the only thing I could think of to console myself.

I headed to Claire’s Boutique – a store I haven’t stepped foot in since I was a gal on the hunt for prom accessories in high school.  Upon entering the overstuffed store, a sweet girl who was maybe 15 greeted me and instantly looked baffled when I told her I was in dire need of a scrunchie.

“A what?” she asked.

“A scrunchie. You know, a hair tie with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.

Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the store music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her back to the clearance section where she announced…

“This stuff has been here since before I started working here two years ago. Maybe you’ll find something to help you out.”

Um, what the fuck 14-year-old?!

Um, what the fuck 15-year-old?!

The new take on scrunchies are pieces of fake fur wrapped around elastic that are about as durable as an earthworm on a dry day, which would be why they were on clearance for 99 cents.

I mean, seriously?

I mean, seriously?

Giving up on Claire’s, I headed to the mall where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts. While perusing the endless goodness at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.

Fucking scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What has this world come to?

Search to replace. Nordstrom FAIL. FAIL. FAIL! Especially with silk scrunchies. Old people lunch tables in nursing homes is hte only place this is acceptable.

These are only acceptable on white hair around a nursing home lunch table, mmmkay?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

Scrunchie sadness combined with the hilarity of an upscale department store selling them in silk.

Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do and also knowing my bun days were over, I tried mending my broken haired heart.

But then…the black scrunchie found its way back from Iowa into my loving arms.

BUT WAIT! My sister found it. And is my hero.

Miracles.Do.Happen.

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Now where’s my Caboodle?

CBXB

CBXB!

Babies Can Be Such Bitches

My kid clock hasn’t started ticking and I’m not all that upset about it (Stop with the judgement. I like your kids and don’t mind being around them. I’m just thrilled they’re yours. Especially when they’re screaming at the top of their lungs in Target, have snot running down their nose, smell of sewer due to a dirty diaper, need to go to the ER at 3am due to being sick for the 13th time this year, require one to get up at the ass crack of dawn, etc….).

This duo of messy cuteness?

This duo of messy cuteness? I’ll let you clean them up.

However this year, I have acquired twins – a niece and nephew that I couldn’t love anymore if they were my own (for the love of Christ, no one tell Teddy).

Being that I’m 1,000 miles away from them, I try to buy their love from afar by sending them presents (this tactic always works with kids under one year, right?). I am sure to send two separate packages (on the same day), as I don’t want anyone getting pissy with having to share (plus, I remember how my sister and I made sure everything was EVEN as kids).

Upon receiving my gift in Iowa, I got this text and following photos from my sister:

B got the cutest star vest in the mail today! She loves it.

This coat hurts

Obviously.

On and on and on

This seriously must be the heaviest vest in the history of the world.

My response:

Dammit! The mailman was supposed to deliver two packages on the same day! I was promised at the counter when I mailed them!

Sister:

Don’t worry. I just told her brother that you don’t love him as much.

Well I felt really screwed over (someone has to take the blame) by the lying USPS. How must my sweet nephew feel about his Auntie CBXB forgetting him?

The following morning I received this from my sister:

You do love B! He’s much more appreciative!

You're welcome

Score!

Happy

Somebody’s love can be bought by Auntie CBXB!

Upon seeing the pics, I realized that I’d sent my nephew two things vs. Bawl Baby’s single star vest.

Me: He’s so welcome! Please don’t tell Little Miss Diva that her brother got two things. PLEASE.

Sister: Too late. She knows!!

She knows.

Keeping tabs already…

I rebounded quickly, telling my sister to remind my niece B of the Tiffany’s bracelet she received from her dear old auntie when she was baptized (while all brother B got a big hug and smooch).

Did someone mention a little blue box?

Did someone mention a little blue box? All is good in the ‘hood now!

Babies can be such bitches – especially when they take after their drama queen aunts.

CBXB

CBXB!

Songs of a Move

Moving is always a pain in the ass, as you have to touch every. single. thing. you own (or so it seems) before you decide what is actually making the cut for your new digs, what hits the trash and what you will give away.

Smoking wreck

Moving morphs me into a smoking wreck. And I don’t smoke. Ever.

Every relocation situation has emotions behind it – whether it’s excitement, anxiousness, fear, happiness – and as I found myself moving yet again this summer, I thought back on previous times when I transitioned to a new place. And each memory was accompanied by a specific song, which had really never dawned on me previously.

So here are anthems from a few of my life changing moves…

Relocating to Nashville with no job, an apartment waiting for me that I’d never laid eyes on and $900 bucks in my pocket, I packed up a U-Haul, put my cat on my lap and headed for a city where I didn’t know a single soul.  I visited Nashville a week prior and spontaneously decided to give it a whirl. I didn’t have a ‘real’ job in Iowa with standard amenities (a regular paycheck and health insurance being examples), I didn’t have a ball and chain persuading me to settle down and pop out love children yet and it just seemed like the right time to make a big move.

Packing is so fun if you leave it 'til the last minute!

Packing is so fun if you start the night before you leave.

While filled with exhilarating emotions, when the day came to actually leave the comforts of my family home and the wheels turned out of my driveway, I drove down I-80 with big, fat “what the F am I doing?!” tears rolling down my cheeks.

Bawl baby in three...two...cue the song.

Little does this picture convey that I’m a water balloon waiting to burst inside of my SUV in a mere matter of seconds.

And what song was blaring on the stereo, aiding my sudden emotional insecurity of moving so far away from every familiar person in my life?

Wide Open Spaces” by the Dixie Chicks.

Cliché? Hell yes. Did it make me feel better? Oh F yes.

Carrying on like a bawl baby, acting as if I would never see my home state of Iowa again, singing along with the song…

“Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about
Who’s (me sniffing) never left (I wipe my snotty nose) home (I begin bawling), who’s never struck out (now crying so hard can’t catch breath)
To find a dream (me wailing) and a life of their own
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone”

I think every trucker I passed and glanced down at my car thought about running me off the road to put me out of my own misery. But at the end of that long weekend move, I was excited, scared and ready to take on Nashville with all of the gusto a young gal such as myself could muster.

First 'real' apartment!

First ‘real’ apartment and it’s mine. All mine.

As life happens, I found a job within the first week of my move, met friends, joined a band, found a boy I shacked up with and all seemed to be falling into place. Except when it didn’t several years in.  I lost my job, vacated the shared house with my boyfriend and ended up getting to move in with my parents (every adult child’s dream come true) all in the same week. To say that it was epic shit show is an understatement.

Shit show.

A year full of hot mess and mascara stained cheeks that forced me to laugh at my ridiculousness.

The world seemed to cave in, the sky fell down and the Earth under my feet was ripped from beneath me.  I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t catch a break. Not only was I reeling from a difficult break-up (I’d been with this man longer than some gal pals had their husbands) I couldn’t believe I had given my blind loyalty to friends only to have them vacate as soon as I needed them or even worse, take advantage of my trust when I was most vulnerable. Valuable life lessons learned and true friends left standing. Oh snap!

The song that played on constant repeat this time around?

Grenade” by Bruno Mars with a doozy of a chorus that goes like this…

“I’d catch a grenade for you
Throw my hand on a blade for you
I’d jump in front of a train for you
You know I’d do anything for you
Oh, I would go through all this pain
Take a bullet straight through my brain
Yes, I would die for you, baby
But you won’t do the same”

I was able to get through the tough year with family, best friends, running my ass off and any liquor I could get my hands on (the always oh-so-healthy coping mechanism).

Car bomb shots seemed like such a good idea...

Car bomb shots with cousins seemed like such a good idea…

But not really...

Until they went down the hatch…

Of course when my liver dried out and I was able to eek out the funds to make the move into my mini manse after 10 months of parental living, the song blaring from every available speaker was “Fuck You,” by Cee Lo Green, which has pretty much become my life anthem (side note, please play at my funeral if I should die before you. Thanks).

And now for my recent humdinger of a move…

Feeling kind of like a card-carrying adult, I was thinking at this point in my life the next step for me would be to move into a bona-fide house (or at the very least a spanky condo) and I was very happy in the small duplex I was renting, which is where I planned to stay until the timing was right for me to leave. But instead, I got kicked out of my mini manse duplex two months ago when the land lord’s son knocked up his girlfriend and they needed to expand to my side. Rough news, as I lacked the funds moving requires and the last thing I wanted to spend what little savings I had on first and last month’s rent, pet deposits, utility transfer fees, endless tanks of gas, etc….

Thank God for t-shirts that say it all.

Oh you need me to move ASAP? Let me just get my trusty shirt, sunglasses to wear inside due to swollen, shit show eyes and get drunk first. Thanks.

The Rolling Stones helped me get through this past summer move with “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”

“You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need”

The lyrics continue to remind me that while at a forced proverbial fork in the road, intoxicated by my life’s sudden and unexpected twists and plot changes, I just might find that in the end of this chapter I will get what I need (or at least I F’ing better!) – I just wish I knew what that was going to be…(patience is definitely not a virtue in which I’m familiar).

I’ll keep you posted.

Until my next moving anthem presents itself, I’ll be cranking up the Cee Lo and rockin’ out to my life’s theme song as I continue to unpack by touching every. single. thing. I own.

CBXB

CBXB!