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 Burn Down a Mini Manse

I’m a woman of many talents.

I photobomb like it’s my career, my dainty laugh makes 80-year-old men want to fight me,  I have a knack for getting strange dudes to send me dick pics and I’m on the brink of being Nashville’s cray cray cat lady.  However, I recently uncovered a new ability of mine when I almost burned my entire apartment complex to the ground with a microwave and a glittery paper plate.

All that glitters is not gold. It's more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

All that glitters is not gold.
It’s more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

It all started with these gorgeous red paper plates, rimmed in silver sparkles because an ordinary white hue was all too normal for me to purchase.

Of course I had to have them.

Food tastes better when combined with glitter, yes?

Maybe it was because I had five one too many Skinny Pirates the night before but I thought it was a good idea to throw the shimmering piece of flimsy cardboard into the microwave in order to heat up chicken fingers (also from the previous evening that may or may not have sat on the counter all night long).

Don't worry. I'm sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Don’t worry.
I’m sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Upon closing the appliance door and setting the timer for 30 seconds, I stepped away from the kitchen, distracted by one of New Cat’s many attempts to commit suicide by sitting on the banister of my second balcony porch.

No energy to thwart suicide attempts by New Cat.

Thinking long and hard about how rough he has it in my mini manse. Fucker.

In the mere seconds I was away rescuing my idiot pussy, something started happening in the microwave.

A stench started to quickly fill the air.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, flames were bursting through the microwave door as the timer counted down to zero.

For a moment, all I could think about was the loss of my chicken tenders. My hungover ass then snapped out of it and flung the door of the appliance open to find a smoldering, disintegrating plate with burnt to a crisp pieces of poultry attached to it.

So glitter doesn't warm well.

So…… sparkles don’t warm well.

Mourning the loss of my food like broken high heel, I was further pissed off thinking that the manufacturer of this piece of shit plate didn’t list any danger warnings about putting a metallic glitter plate into the microwave for all of the dumb asses out there who apparently don’t know foil starts on fire in a microwave like yours truly.

Then I turned the crispy plate over.

WARNING

I may have missed something here.

Once I realized I wasn’t even close to being the most mediocre genius on the planet, my feelings of grief were geared toward the loss of my beloved red (because white is too normal) microwave that now smelled like a year-long bonfire had taken place inside and ceased to run properly.

Um...

The not so sparkly remnants of a small kitchen fire.

Much to my hungover delight, Target (my mothership) had a shiny red appliance just waiting for me on the store shelf later that day.

Forced to invest in a new appliance.

It’s a kitchen miracle.

Forced to utilize my lingering brain cells, I tried to figure out how to unplug the old glitter cooker from behind the refrigerator without having to move the 250 lb unit.

Not going well.

This might as well have been brain surgery.

You guys, it’s hard being a blonde with so many talents.

Help.

Help.

Who wants to come over for a fancy chicken tenders dinner and watch me put my new microwave to use tonight?

Don’t worry, I got new glitter plates.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Stillet-toed

Oh how I love my heels.

They’re fun to prance around in, add height to my shortish frame and clickity clack when I walk all over the office (driving co-workers to want to put their head in a pencil sharpener) announcing my presence before my booming voice can do it for me.

Love me

Fee-fi-fo-fum I’m stomping around just for fun.

I especially love when I score a pair of Sam Edelman’s at TJ Maxx and must showcase immediately.

TJ Love

Yep. I’m a Maxxinista.

Thing is, I often feel like I can do regular tasks while wearing my stilts.  For instance at work, I needed to move the kitchen table to make room for another chair.

Why take my heels off when I could look fashionable while performing an ordinary chore?

Tough table

No table is too tough for my stiletto adorned feet.

As I was moving the chairs here and there….

Tough Table

Three’s a crowd.

…I accidentally stepped on the top of my left foot with the right heel of my fabulous pumps and this happened…

Um...

Down the rabbit hole with no Alice in sight.

As I ungracefully hit the concrete floor, my eyes were greeted with black ceiling tiles once I was able to open them after being clenched shut due to the precise pin pointing of pain I inflicted on my own foot (which would be blonde moment 1, 568,209).

Heaven?

Hello Blondie. You’re an idiot in your shoes.

Before I could glance around, making sure I made an ass out of myself for my entertainment only, I felt my eyes get watery.

NOT crying. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

While the coast was clear of anyone being around for the assault on myself, I collected the small amount of my dignity remaining and turned my attention to my throbbing toe.

Toed.

Yep. Definitely stilet-toed.

Still hobbling around at work, there’s nothing twenty a few cocktails can’t cure over the weekend, right?

Nothing a drink can't fix!

Oh Teddy! Mama needs a refill!

I wonder what would happen if I stumble over my own two feet in my house slippers?

I’ll keep you posted.

CBXB

CBXB!

The Seven Month Itch

March marks my seventh month in the blogosphere, which I suppose means I’m still relatively new at this. When I started posting, I not only wondered what in the hell I was going to talk about daily (like I ever shut up) I also wondered who in the world would be interested enough (aside from my mother and the required family member readership) to come hang and take a peek into my life.

In celebration, I’ve decided to share seven random facts about myself. Sit back, relax and grab a cocktail (or three)…

#1. I have a really fun family that I love hanging around.

up up and away

Trying to get a lift onto my dad’s back after honky tonkin’ for my sister’s bachelorette party.

#2. I often make an asshole out of myself on accident.  Labeling them as blonde moments makes me feel better.

Scary...

It’s JAWS! Scary shark! Wait, where’d the shark go?

#3. Rarely do I drink ’til I puke. But when I was younger and didn’t know any better, thank god someone was there to capture the Kodak moment.

My bestie, Scooby holding my hair back. While laughing. Loudly.

My bestie, Scooby holding my hair back. While laughing. Loudly.

#4. I’ve been crazy about cats my entire life.

Cray cray in training.

Cray cray in training with Ernie.

#5. Richie Sambora (yeah, the one from Bon Jovi) once put a guitar pick he used during a show into my hand. I said into my hand! He didn’t throw it into the crowd and I happened to catch it, he walked over and handed it to me.  This was in the Heather Locklear vs. Denise Richards days. I was pretty sure I hated Richie for cheating on his gorgeous wife, Heather (I mean if she gets cheated on, where’s that leave the rest of us gals?) and knew I hated him for dating his ex-wife’s friend during the divorce. Then Richie’s hand touched mine and well….

I. DIED.

I. DIED.

I fell so much in love with the stupid pick, I had it made into a necklace. It’s my personal heirloom to pass down to my cat children. Teddy refuses to wear it around his neck because he thinks it’s too “heavy.” CATS.

Not too heavy for this neck.

Not too heavy for this neck.

#6. I have a trashy habit (does this surprise anyone? Anyone?!) of cutting down bags of chips as I stuff them into my mouth.  This not only alleviates your wrist from getting greasy, this tactic is much more time efficient when trying to inhale the crumbs at the bottom of the bag. Trust me.

I know, I know...why didn't you think about this before?!

I know, I know…why didn’t you think about this before?!

Breakfast of Champions

#7. I couldn’t love my cat Teddy more than if I’d birthed him myself. Yeah, yeah, I know. C.R.A.Z.Y.

Couldn't love this cat more...

Crazy in love.

Here’s to seven more months of fun!

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Get Drunk on Grapes

Cold winter nights have you guzzling your favorite wine, nestled under a blanket on the couch with your cat within arm’s reach? (Oh wait that’s me – but you could insert a dog, goldfish, pet bird or I guess even a kid).

Frozen, sugar coated vodka grapes will be just the surprise you need, as you fill with sadness at the last gulp of wine in your glass, finding an alcoholic treat awaiting your taste buds.

a little sweetness

The perfect companion for the wino.

Step One:  Start by putting the fruit in a large bowl – poking a hole (or three to be sure to soak in every ounce of vodka possible) in each grape.

Poke holes in the grapes

Step Two: Pour vodka over the batch of grapes.

My favorite part

Step Three: Cover and put in the fridge over night.

Put in the fridge over night

Step Four: Pour the remaining vodka out of the bowl and cover grapes with sugar.  Put in a large baggie and freeze for at least three hours.

sugar coma

Step Five: Put in desired serving dish.

blah

Step Six (optional): Making it easier to construct a grape kabob for my wine glass, I inserted long, sparkly toothpicks into the serving dish.  You can skip this step entirely and just dump a few grapes into your chosen choice of vino (but of course I like pretty).

blah

Mission accomplished!

And here’s a blonde moment from yours truly:

I felt awful wasting the vodka I poured out of the bowl once the grapes had chilled over night. With my typically useful brain (which at this moment was the size of a bird’s), I thought it would be genius to make vodka ice cubes!

These are super easy to make, too. Just pour vodka in cube trays, insert into the ice chest and wait for hell to freeze over (you would think that with all of my cocktailing experience, I would have the where-with-all to recognize the sheer stupidity of this exercise as alcohol never freezes. Ever. I even glanced at the bottle of Jaeger I had next to these f’ing trays as I slid them into the freezer).

Dumb ass

Needless to say, the ‘ice cubes’ came out of the freezer the same way they went in.

Caution to recipe makers – don’t eat the vodka grapes while preparing or you may end up looking like an ass in front of yourself.

Cheers!

CBXB

Image 1