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

Weekend Winks – Bitch Since Birth

Oh, the joys of having a birthday fall on a weekend.

Not hating my day of birth.

I got to do a whole lot of nothing (aka snuggling with pussies on dreary, rainy Friday night and Saturday), squeezed in some gal time with an at-home impromptu cocktail party (where a handle of Captain was drained by Skinny Pirate consumption) and the sprinkles on top of the weekend were the bottomless mimosas I was treated to on Sunday.

Skinny Pirate #1.

After some basketball watching, Skinny Pirates and pie hole stuffing on Friday night, I was beyond elated when I woke up Saturday, realizing I slept 10 consecutive hours. Ten hours people! While this may seem like an overindulgent feat, I haven’t slept more than four hours at a time since Rapegate happened in early 2016. The lack of consistent sleep has only added negatively to my already challenging, stereotypical “blondeness”.

Feeling and looking like a million dollars, I hustled to the fridge and busted out the birthday cake Sister CBXB made while she was here. Then I promptly returned to bed to consume.

Because why the fuck not?!

Theses two demanded a lick.

I got sucked into the footage from the March For Our Lives coverage and holy shit. These fucking kids…I can’t even. My heart was aching while also bursting with pride at the firsthand accounts of honesty regarding an epidemic that knows no class, demographic, race or political affiliation. Gun reform isn’t a republican or democrat problem. It’s an American problem. It’s an issue that these kids who were born after 9/11 and Columbine have faced their entire lives – at schools, churches, movie theaters, concerts and many others face in urban communities daily. How fucked up is that?

I am hopeful that the rally cries this generation is making turns into meaningful legislation with compassion to act because thoughts and prayers aren’t, haven’t and don’t work as we have all witnessed. Realizing it’s encroaching on Second Amendment rights, how does a government limit rights stated in the Constitution and yet, the most basic human right is life itself? Is there truly a reason to have weapons of war in the hands of civilians? The government tells me to wear my seat belt and abide by speed limits (which I mostly do). I must take my fucking shoes off at the airport and walk on ever germy floors because of one shoe bombing incident.

This 11 year old girl spoke more eloquently than most adults I know.

My favorite quote from a Parkland survivor, “We cannot keep America great if we can’t keep America safe.” I love that these kids are fearless in their relentlessness to call bullshit. BRAVO. I stand with you.

Fucking truth.

I was happy to see that even in my home state of Iowa, they were marching even though it was dumping snow on them.

Speaking of Iowa, you know who was cooped up inside after ten inches of snowfall? My twins, who were going to decorate Easter eggs but ended up eating them instead.

Rainy Saturday night rolled around and my gal pal Rasta came over and delivered a very spot on gift.

We can’t wait to wear them to the pool this summer.

Sunday, I lolligagged in the bed just long enough before slipping into my bday giddy up.

I opened up gifts from bed, too….because why not?!

As for my giddy up, it was nothing but class, as always.

BITCH SINCE BIRTH

And, what outfit of mine would be complete without a pair of whore in church heels?

Dada CBXB was one lucky dude, accompanied by five gorgeous gals to brunch.

Practicing our drink counting in prep for football season.

We enjoyed bottomless mimosas, food and for me….

Mimosas.

Presents I obviously hated.

And more mimosas.

I was spoiled beyond but there are no complaints from this chick who got to laugh her ass off with some of the best folks in the world.

Bird Lady and Rasta took me to my fave honky tonk, Robert’s Western World to cap off my day.

Birthday Bliss!

I don’t think we made a scene at all.

Monday morning came waaaaaay too quickly, but it was well worth it.

Cat ass. My morning wake up call.

I’m so lucky to have you guys in my life. Thanks for knowing how to make a lady feel like a queen with all the kind well wishes, messages, cards and calls.

Until next year!

Love ya, mean it.

CBXB

How to Beat the Birthday Alternative

Getting ready to start another 365 fresh days, looking back on birthdays of yesteryear has been bittersweet. I’ve lost (and found!) the “celebrate everyday” mantra that I was so used to pre-Rapegate, coupled with the loss of relationships, deaths and general life changes that have been no control of mine.

YOU WILL CELEBRATE. AND YOU WILL FUCKING LOVE IT.

However, peering back over my shoulder now, there are extremely important lessons that I adhere to even today, as I prepare to celebrate another year of fabulous fun.

Huff. Puff. and Blow.

Huff. Puff. Blow.

Still at it.

Thank God I have candle blowing help now.

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.

Relax already.

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) Hold up fingers to commemorate which age you were celebrating, as these photos will end up in albums and you won’t always remember what outfit you wore which year (side note: how hilarious is it that I have a shirt on that says First Mate, First Mate?).

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?

When you’re out of fingers on both hands, just count drinks.

Three times….infinity?

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.

Just be careful if your cake starts on fire due to the copious amount of candles.

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.

Oh hi, just an adorable Mexican giddy-up for a girl who can’t keep her eyes open.

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

theme

Send in the clowns.

Even if no one shows up, you still look like you got it going on.

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.

It’ll wear them out and force them to be couch potatoes.

Overcrowded couch? What’s better than that?

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!

Presh loves to French kiss. Don’t judge.

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 by the way!

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

Why thank you

Birthdays taste so good.

13) Enjoy the fuck out of the loved ones who surround you for celebration because you never know when it’ll be the last time.

Teddy B and me.

Crazy and Aunt Crazy Pants.

This year, I’ll be drinking to the wise words my Gma always told me as I bitched about growing another year older, “having another birthday sure beats the alternative.”

She was one smart lady.

I’ll drink to that!

No matter how hard I have to huff, puff and blow on my candles.

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!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

It’s All in the ‘Tude

Attitudes are the shit and I burst onto this planet with one in tow. I was born with the confident “I can do anything” stance somehow and my folks continued to nurture that temperament as I grew up. The only thing they cautioned me on was to not get married until I was at least 25 (they may be wishing they’d sung a different tune as I’m a candle lovin’ lady with four pussies, a chug and would now be considered an ‘old maid’ in a different era).  Before Rapegate, there was never an issue with me adjusting my attitude – being able to kick my own ass back into shape as needed.

Lately I’ve been exceedingly inundated with cheerful “I’m thankful for…” countdowns, “reasons for merriment,” and “I resolve to…” positive posts on social media. Going into the holiday season, I struggled to gear up for anything festive – and I hated my attitude. As some of us were excited to be knee deep in gravy for a solid two months, I was hoping this holiday season didn’t linger as long as my 21st birthday hangover.

I may or may not have drunk dialed my boyfriend’s mother at 3am. She answered.

Thing is, I never thought I would fall into latter category, as typically on America’s birthday, I’m salivating like Dracula does over a neck – thisclose to getting my Halloween décor out on the fifth of July. But mentally for the past two years, it’s been a monstrous war inside of my skull, emotions swinging back and forth more extremely than POTUS’s hourly tweets. Not just regarding holiday cheer but being cheery about life in general. Oh Rapegate, thank you for PTSD, adjustment disorder, severe stress, insomnia, panic attacks and all of the insecurities I gained at your reckoning.

Previous multi-seasonal head cheerleader.

In my experience, PTSD (can go fuck itself) is exhausting – not only mentally but physically as well. I’m constantly on edge, have nightmares, difficulty staying asleep, experience major loss of interest in activities I used to love the fuck out of and feel ultra-guilty about “letting” myself be raped (how fucked up is that feeling?). Accompanying these symptoms are feelings of alienation and self-inflicted detachment from friends, family and my old self. Problem is, I’m having trouble kicking my own attitude back into shape and I loathe being out of control of my emotions (so you can imagine how comfortable the last 23 months have been for me).

I think I’ll just stay in bed and wallow.

With mental issues, one can rationally know how lucky they are (or know what happened to them isn’t their fault)– no matter what bad shit has happened to them – or people they love. With this being the first holiday season without Aunt Crazy Pants and the fur ball love of my life, Ted, grief has also been a constant companion even though there are crazy fun memories of hilarity, hijinks, pee-your-pants fun to fall back on. The heaviness of grief crashes like tsunami waves, compounding the sense of loss I carry with me daily due to my personal trauma. I can almost feel my heart hardening at times.

Miss you something crazy.

Miss you something terrible.

Thing is, it super sucks because I missed my old holiday pukes all over the place self (and I mean all over – the mini manse, my office, fucking reindeer antlers on my car, Christmas underwear, socks, sweaters (that others might wear to an ugly sweater Christmas party I wear on the December regular), adorning Santa hats like they’re simply a part of my noggin, blasting holiday  music from my car like I’m Santa himself, watching fa-la-la-la-la Lifetime movies that are so full of cheesiness, I want to kick my own ass for loving them).

Christmas Gaudy Queen of yesteryears.

In therapy, I’m tits high into the thick of processing the act – the moment of my rape and my feelings (ew) – while also constantly reminded, triggered, (whatever you wish to call it), daily by the super cool humans who apparently never learned fucking body basics in kindergarten. Thursday afternoons I see my own personal super hero, Sheila, and as she guides me toward a semblance of my old self, sessions almost always leave me with an emotional hangover that can last days. The mental, emotional and physical fatigue I fight daily, barely leaves me any energy to gussy up for work, so the thought of getting in any kind of holiday spirit was simply draining.

I woke up like this. And just want to go to work like this.

But I’m at a point where I must ban myself from a weekend full of bed lingering when I’m not trying to be social (stepping out of my mini manse and Dalts bubble little by little). I forced myself to get Halloween decorations out to the max because I hadn’t for two years. The fucking nerve of me.

There’s a glimpse of my old holiday mistress.

So, too, it is time to get in the motherfucking thankful, celebrate everything, CBXB spirit again YEAR-ROUND. Period.

When Dada CBXB and I were watching the Iowa Hawkeyes win their first bowl game in four years (yeehaw!) and he suggested I keep my Christmas tree up a little longer because it looked so pretty. (Side note – my buddy Camo insisted that I put my worldly pink, sparkly possession up and almost forced the ornaments on the fucking thing himself – and I’m glad he did).

Once the goddamn thing was up, I couldn’t help but be excited about turning the lights on when I got home from work. I also raced home every evening to see if anyone from my pussy posse knocked the pink tinseled delight over (remained in tact all season) being that this was their first experience with an actual Christmas tree. Turns out, they just like to sit underneath it and stare up at the lights, much like their mother.

Hello Gorgeous.

Speaking of moms, mine suggested that if I still had mine up, I should decorate it with Valentine’s attire. And just like that – I had an Oprah AHA! moment.

If I kept my tree up all year round would that make me:

  • a) Festive
    b) Red neck
    c) White trash
    d) Crazy as fuck
    e)All the above

Guess what my answer is?

  • f) I don’t give a fuck

So, there you have it. I’m keeping my tree up all 2018 in celebration of celebrating.

Getting my ass back into the habit of loving everything about any little out-of-the ordinary thing of the day/week/month/year. If you visit the mini manse, best bring me something to hang on the pink tinsel (yes, mini bottles of Captain Morgan count).

I have a sparkly army – and if you’re reading, you’re a part of it – who has done nothing but encourage me every step of the goddamn way. Via comments. Messages. Snail mail. Phone calls.

Just minor digit change from last year.

I rang in the new year with reminders that I’m facing nothing alone sent to me from all over the world – here’s a sample of my faves:

I even wore armour sent by HJ and CC by way of Denver, CO (and no I wasn’t tipped and yes I was pissed no one tried all night).

Onward Buttercup There’s Fuckery to Spread

Attitude for gratitude, my friends. I have nothing but it for you.

Join me in being fierce as fuck in 2018.

Cheers.

Rapegate Therapy Fun

One of the perks of Rapegate is I’ve gained a superhero named Sheila that I see every Thursday. As a matter of fact, Thursdays are now just referred to as Sheila Day in my world. She’s been my therapist since the saga of this soap opera turned shit show of my life began January 29, 2016.

The non-perks of Rapegate have been the PTSD, severe stress, adjustment disorder, insomnia and borderline clinical depression. BUT this gal is keeping me in check weekly and slowly putting my broken ass back together.

Sheila Day begins with carefully crafted armor, to assess the correct attitude.

Yes, the sunglasses help.

Yes, I need hand lotion suggestions.

Watches from Gma and Aunt Crazy Pants keep me company every Sheila Day.

And I love that my friends take notice, in keeping up with my struggles.

Thanks DC. I heart you.

 

I always leave Sheila a little more than shredded emotionally, mentally and sometimes even physically (examples: throwing up in my car after a particularly brutal session, stomach aches that cause me to shit my pants and in the rare case, full on panic attacks). PTSD is a real fucking humdinger. Thank you Rapist.

Some times I need complete alone time to cry in my closet after Sheila Day. Other times, I need companionship that First Mate was happy to supply last night.

After therapy therapy.

One thing that always happens after therapy is the inability to get an appropriate night’s beauty sleep.

Well hello 3am.

Naturally, I wake up more beautiful and less aged than the night before.

Just kidding.

Due to the lack of seeing the inside of my eyelids for more than two hours requires copious amounts of coffee that I loathe all hours of the day. Then, my emotional hangover for the weekend kicks in.

Sometimes coffee turns into…

But it’s nothing the pink stuff can’t cure.

Shots straight from the bottle.

So, as my leg is bouncing to the ceiling here in Nashville today, you can bet your ass I’ll be doing a little relaxing later on.

Coping mechanisms.

Here’s hoping your FriYAYs are more fun than mine. Throw back an extra Skinny Pirate for me, pretty please.

Cheers!

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Ass Hats, Ass Slaps and Lazy Asses

Is the weekend ever here fast enough?

Not for this duo who couldn’t wait long enough for me to take a piss before expressing their delight in having their mother smother them for two whole days.

We spent Friday lounging around the mini while I guzzled wine like Kristen Wiig in an SNL skit.

My dream come true.

Sunny Saturdays in Nashville call for pool parties. Since I don’t do beer and sipping on Skinny Pirates all day can make for an early evening, I’ve discovered spiked seltzer water. It’s the shit – 4.5% alcohol, 90 calories per can and 0 sugars.

Truly. Madly. Deeply in love.

After an all day sunfest, our pool crew decided to hit up my fave watering hole, Dalts for the aforementioned Skinny Pirates and home cooked food.

Feed me.

Thirst quenching fun with Cat Boy, Pool Mom and Rasta.

You see, we chose Dalts for our after hours pool party because last weekend, we ran into a bit of trouble at another local bar. After several rounds of cocktails and bar snacks, I got up to sing one of my fave AC/DC songs with the band. Complete with a greasy bun, prescription sunglasses on at night (’cause I’m douchy like that – oh, and also sunglasses hide sins, requiring no makeup after a pool day) and a maxi dress.

After my non-Grammy winning performance, on the way back to our table, some guy at the bar smacked my ass so hard my bun fell out. Some guy who I hadn’t spoken to all night. Some guy who I hadn’t ever laid eyes on before. A stranger. Trying to get some semblance of dignity back after the unwanted, unmerited slap of a stranger, I made my way back to our table. Just in time to find Cat Boy in the dude’s face, defending my honor…and thankfully so. Who knows what I may have done once I garnered my wits?

Girls just having some fun.

We were immediately asked to leave the bar and I inquired whether or not both parties were being asked to leave. I was told yes and I must say that I understood why – alcohol combined with angry tempers don’t mix but not one person – not the ass hat who slapped me, not the bouncer, not the employee who asked me to leave a very busy bar acknowledged what had happened. And as we stood outside waiting on our Lyft, we witnessed the stranger who smacked me being served another round of drinks with his buddies.

Isn’t that nice?

Daily reminders compliments of Metal Marvels.

This kind of shit isn’t OK. It bothered me all week and so after a few days, I called the owner of the bar who went back, looked at the tape and called back to apologize. He also said that as an owner of this establishment of 13 years, he’d never had any issues brought to his attention like this and wondered out loud how many other times something of this nature happened. Which is so fucking true.

If you see something, say something.

Violence isn’t the answer but fuck. There is never an appropriate time to spank a grown woman – a stranger to you – like she just hit a home run in the 9th inning of the World Series. Hands off.

Luckily for me, these two were just happy to be scarfing down on celery and pizza and I got picture proof of it.

Are your diners this cute?

Princess B got a new leotard and hates it. Obvies.

Hot shit and she knows it.

You know who else is hot shit? Former Iowa Hawkeye, Karl Klug, who has played for the Tennessee Titans since 2011. As Dada CBXB says “Klug is what hard work and not great talent is all about.” Does he sound like a former football player and coach? It’s been beyond fun having a defensive end on our professional team to cheer on every Sunday (after our college football Saturday fun). Klug signed autographs after practice last weekend and my friend’s boys were lucky enough to get a little pep talk, as well as an autograph.

Football season can’t get here fast enough!

You know what else can’t get here fast enough? Tourists leaving Nashville. Us locals can’t even go downtown anymore without fighting asses to elbows…I mean, I’m sure Robert’s Western World is wondering where in the hell the folks who come and sit in he front row for 10 hours have been. Although the Music City has grown so much in the past five years, we may have to get there at 10am just to see our fave band come on at 10pm.

Winding down the weekend, there was a packed couch.

The gray duo on one side of the couch.

Balanced by the human sized Rocky on the other.

Somehow, some way we made it to our usual wind down spots, naturally.

All’s well that ends well.

Here’s hoping you have an ass slappin’ fabulous week – for all of the right reasons.

CBXB

 

 

 

My Billion Dollar Pussy

Who knew you could buy a knight in shining armor?

He refuses to wear the armor.

This is a busted ass version of a fairy tale (what other version would you expect from me?), where I’m not the queen. That role is of course, has been occupied by His Royal Highness Teddy Bear ever since I rescued his ass seven years ago. I’ve happily played the role of loyal servant (and I still do) however, the perils of life turned me into a version of Humpty Dumpty…. one that weebles, wobbles and falls the fuck down (typically face first).

Me speedy recovery remedy after a fall.

While I’m the damsel in distress, my feline has caused me more torment as he’s decided to test the waters of almost every single ailment known to catkind while I was trying to trudge through the forest of life, getting us into some semblance of a kingdom. Even though his dramatic ailments added to my worry, he pulled the fuck through every time. Just like a knight in shining armour.

Just scaring mom for shits and giggles.

I couldn’t love my cat Teddy Bear more than if I birthed him from my own loins (but let’s be real, I’d pay a surrogate because ew, pain) and I would take a bullet the size of Donald Trump’s ego to save his furry life. Although over the years, the amount of cold hard cash I’ve shelled out to keep the love of my life alive and kickin’ rivals the amount NASA spends to put an astronaut on the moon. But it’s worth every fucking penny.

Like the start of many fairy tales, ours was love at first meow. Never mind the fact that he had an upper respiratory infection and ringworm due to being crammed in a one-bedroom apartment of 30 other felines before he was rescued (save your fucking jokes about this being me one day for later, please and thanks). Being such a trashtacular high maintenance gal myself, it felt nothing other than natural that this soon-to-be drama king chose me as his human soulmate.

Forced Soulmates.

After His Majesty’s ringworm and respiratory infection subsided, we learned that he had a food allergy to chicken (through several visits to the vet) as he would develop what basically looked like kitty chicken pox. The little red dots would scab over and Tedstar got to wear a cone, which ever pet owner knows is the best time ever.

The most pissed off cone head on the planet.

All the feels about the cone, complete with puke.

So I received a prescription card to purchase $80 per bag cat food that’s a mixture of peas and duck. Maybe I should have known when I walked into the kitchen one day and saw this…

Bitch Peas

Forcing Ted to be my bestie took a solid two years, as he was skiddish, nervous and full of anxiety due to the lack of human contact while he was one of 29 others the first year of his life. But one miraculous day, my shy little pussy morphed into a full on stalker. I couldn’t sit (and still can’t) down for 15 seconds without him creeping onto my lap or darting like a figure skater through my legs while I tried to walk or wanting to partake in chores as he sat on my hip (mostly pouring Skinny Pirates and applying lipstick) but he does love to assist…

…with laundry…

…with dishwasher loading…

…and unloading…

…and letting me know when the shitter’s full.

He even started presenting me with lavish gifts only a pussy could deliver to his mother.

Prancing in one night with a cardinal in his mouth while I was relaxing in the bath.

He proudly corralled tampons like John Wayne did cowboys.

Once, he even tried to reenact scenes from my favorite crime show, Forensic Files, by creating an outline of his body in a bush, as he misjudged it being a solid surface.

Forensic feline body outline.

As life tends to twist and turn, shit hit the fan after our first three years together. I went through what might as well have been a divorce, losing a long-term relationship, my house, my job AND getting to move in with my parents all in the same week.

WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK.

Trying to get back up on my own paws, I moved four times in three years. During this tumultuous time in life, Ted remained steadfast by my side. Although he continued to be high maintenance as fuck, making his mother stress to the max about her sidekick literally kicking the bucket. Among his many ailments:

Kitty Celiac Disease which forces me to feed my cat rather than myself the week his food runs out.

Fancy fucking feast.

Bi-yearly upper respiratory infections that always allow us a road trip to the vet.

Kitty colds suck.

And often require overnight stays for fluids.

Skin sensitivity at the most random times of the year.

Also, requiring visits to the vet, along with medication.

In more than one place, at different times naturally.

Resting bitch face.

No cost for me.

Motion sickness that was a super fun thing to discover.

The utmost dignity for the unattractive regurgitating of food in his mother’s lap.

A case of curiosity as he went missing from the mini manse for 24 hours and I spent my last dime making color copies and plastering car windshields in my apartment complex.

Every. single. car. But worth the $300, as he was found.

Fleas…after being outside one time in his entire life. It was like he had a one night stand….with fucking fleas.

This dip was fun before a trip to the vet.

Inflammatory Bowel Disease that took three weeks to uncover through exploratory surgery, endless testing and finally the right medications.

The gift that keeps on giving.

Congestive heart failure brought on by the steroid medications he was put on for Inflammatory Bowel Disease.

Which also took weeks of fun in the kitty ICU to uncover.

He’s been living with congestive heart failure for over a year now, which requires five medications daily, that I shove down his throat in a ball of cheese.

My own version of Walter White’s lab.

We single-handedly keep our veterinary’s lights on, where Ted is a motherfucking celebrity. He is their fave patient (most likely because we pay their mortgage bills).

Ted with his loyal and loving vet tech, Danielle.

Why go this far for my baby? Why the fuck wouldn’t I?

In the last two years, I’ve lost a career I’d spent years building, I lost the type of immediate family I thought would never be shaken, I lost friends who chose sides, I lost emotional, mental and financial stability I thought I’d created for myself. And then, I was raped. So this cat (and I want to punch people in the throat who say “it’s just a cat”), is – and has been my knight in shining armor.

Sometimes a smothering knight in shining armor.

He greets me at the door daily. He eats, shits, commands all of the attention, helps me put my make-up on every morning, sunbathes on his terrace daily, sleeps on my chest, demands the food in his martini glass be filled to the brim so as not to strain his neck, enjoys an occassional glass of wine (kidding…kind of…I mean he is my cat).

This little love has put up with his big hearted mother and accepted the siblings introduced – who KNOW the pecking order of the mini manse. It’s like the seas part and Ted’s fucking Moses when any of my other four fur balls are on my lap and the Bear decides he’d like to sit there instead.

My pussy posse.

Adding to the brood just made the love grown. And animal rescuing always begs the question…who rescued whom?

Currently his home on my chest remains the same when I’m flat on my back. Although now, due to his congestive heart failure,  he’s like a sprinkler system, as every time he exhales through his nose, my face gets a hydrating snot mist (I should probably bottle this up and sell it). It’s even more adorable when I’m yawning and he occasionally sneezes into my mouth. It’s like a snot shot.

#relationship goals

We’ve kept one another going during the shit show of our lives over the past several years. I seriously look this pussy in the face (and you know you’re not supposed to do that because cats can see into your soul but let’s be real, mine’s still dark and twisty so there’s no harm done) and instruct him to hang on as long as possible.

You go, I go.

Thing is, without the constant companionship and unconditional love of the bitchiest feline on the planet, I may have ceased my emotional fight. Sound crazy? I don’t give a fuck. This pussy and I have been through the good, the bad, the ugly and the worst.

Shoulders to lean on.

From all of my family and all of my friends, Teddy’s lead my army in putting this busted ass version of Humpty Dumpty back together again. And while I may be trying to pay off pussy debt well into my golden years, he’s worth every goddamn penny.

He sure as shit knows it, too.

Our goodbyes in the morning on my way out the mini manse to work go something like this, “I love you Baby Bear. Don’t go dying on me.”

I’m going no where…you’ve purchased me an additional 46 lives.

Phew.

I think I’ve earned a bumper sticker that reads “My fur kid costs just as much as your human spawn.” Because there’s no one else in life I would rather have in the driver’s seat with me.

All aboard for the shit show.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!