How to Make an Ass of Yourself in NYC

For me, you know it wasn’t that difficult. I mean, I’ve made an ass of myself in Key West. I’ve also made an ass of myself on a Carnival cruise. So New York City was a piece of fucking cake.

I made asked Rasta to escort me as an unpaid Uber driver to the airport early one ass morning to spend a whopping 36 whirlwind hours in New York City, meeting up with my cousin R. Nasty to see The Late Show With Stephen Colbert. As I was doing this trip on an extremely tight budget (as I was saving the small amount of spending money for booze, naturally), I packed food I knew could last me for my less than two day stay.

Hard boiled eggs, popcorn and protein bars.

You shoulda seen the TSA lady’s face.

Sauntering to my gate, it was fate that my fave airport wine bar, Vino Volo started opening that morning before 7am to appease travelers that needed mimosas. And it was located straight across from my gate.

FATE.

How did I commemorate my first trip to NYC with a mimosa that cost the same as a bottle of the fancy champs I typically consume, Cook’s? Of course I asked the bar tender to take my photo – which was a big deal for me as I am a master selfie snapper.

No shame in my game.

For real though.

When I boarded the aircraft, I wanted to get a window seat so I could see the Big Apple as we flew in. Asking what looked like a non-judgemental lady if the seat in her row was available she practically did a cartwheel and said, “I’m so glad you aren’t a fat ass.”

Um, thanks?

Upon landing in LaGuardia, gathering my suitcase (yes, I checked a bag for a 36 hour trip because I could – and it was free, as I was flying Southwest) I waited about an hour for R. Nasty to land from the fabulous Hawkeye state.

I took the opportunity to capture my emotions.

My it’s cool, I travel all the time (to Iowa) face.

My HOLY FUCKING SHIT I AM FINALLY IN NEW YORK CITY face.

Once finding R. Nasty, we were off to the metropolis to live it up.

The most non-city slickers ever.

Being the budget friendly gal I am, I packed booze in my bag. (Free travel tip. I do this everywhere I go unless I’m flying to Iowa where Sister CBXB has a cocktail connoisseur for a husband and a wine closet. I have yet to have any bottle taken out of my suitcase or break – but I do carefully pack, wrapped in my jeans with a box of tampons thrown on top – no one wants to look through that mess. You’re welcome).

We celebrated our arrival with a bottle of fancy champs from Arrington Vineyards, a winery in Nashville that I received for my birthday recently. I knew I was gonna save it for a special occasion and my first time in NYC with my cousin to see Stephen Colbert in honor of his mama deemed most appropriate.

Then it was time to hit the town and acting like any local, I took photos of every bar napkin, drink and sign in sight.

Flash on in a dark bar.

When the bartender asked where the hell I was from, I turned on my non-Southern charm and he bought us shots for us being NYC virgins.

Cheers to cherry poppin’!

I forced myself up in the morning to take advantage of the scrumptious breakfast included in the cost of our hotel room.

I woke up like this. No really, I did.

An omelette like concoction, hydration station and some sort of semblance of meat.

Regardless, I ate it all and then some. I needed fuel for the day to walk around the streets of the city. R. Nasty needed a bit more beauty sleep, so we decided to meet up later. Until then, I was on my own, which is scary as I have zero sense of direction and could have walked all the way to Canada before realizing it (well, my feet would have started hurting first and I would have stopped because I’m a big fucking baby but you get the idea).

Where the fuck am I?

I swore to Christ I couldn’t find Time’s Square. Above is the image of what my eyes saw when I actually fucking Googled “where’s time’s square?”

I almost asked this guy but he seemed a little angry…plus, I couldn’t pay him but I could give him a “FUCK YOU” back.

Suri responded to my insanely stupid question with “Bitch Please, (someone entered that as my name on my iPhone and I don’t know how to change it), you are in Time’s Square.”

FUCKING DUH.

It was then I caught a glimpse of this contraption of stairs with a dude on top getting his picture taken. Uh, guess who also needed it done rightfuckingnow?

I went over to the guy as he came down the steps and asked him to take a picture of me. He laughed kindly and agreed.

Do you think ABC News noticed my jazz hands and will come calling?

As I was hopping down the stairs, there was a small crowd around the man who’d taken my pic and I said it seemed like I was missing out on the joke. Come to find out….I’d interrupted a photo shoot for a Jamaican rapper. And it was the rapper whom I’d asked to take my picture. And the stairs were their prop for the photo shoot.

Uh…..*cue unashamed tourist moment*………

Curly Cash the Jamaican rapper couldn’t have been more nice and accommodating to this ass clown of a tourist.

I’d worked up quite an appetite unabashedly disrupting a photo shoot, so I stopped at Angelo’s Pizza on the way back to get R. Nasty. Who was I not to stop since happy hour started at noon?!

Selfie game on. At the bar. By myself. ‘Cause I’m cool like that.

Let’s not forget the food pic.

After our experience with Stephen Colbert, more selfies and food pics ensued in our NYC fun.

We hit up Ruumy’s Tavern which had a large array of sake cocktails.

I ordered the most naturally named for me booze concoction on the list…Because I Cannot Sleep.

Oh bro-in-law Dr. Cocktail, can you recreate?

Flash on again at the bar. I think this one finally got an eye roll from R. Nasty.

Not wanting our hours full of NYC fun to end, we picked up some booze at Duane Reed and had after hours in our hotel room. Which really was all fun and games…

… until I had to depart the hotel at 5am to catch my flight back to Nashville.

Upon returning to the mini manse, a hot, hot, hot soak was needed for my weary feet (and body…and liver).

The Pussy Posse couldn’t have been more lazy about their mother being back home. All five of them could barely lift their heads and open their eyes when I squealed at the highest decibel possible how happy I was to see their faces.

The Fab Four Pussies

Preshy rounding up The Posse

You can bet your ass I took my non-embarrased, touristy tired ass and nestled in between them for the remainder of the day.

So now I’m wondering if I can ever show my face again in NYC, acting like a cool, calm, collected, well traveled person.

I think we all know the answer to that question.

Cheers!

CBXB

 

 

 

The Colbert Report

Tokens of appreciation can go along way. So, too, can the tokens of absolute strangers who help make magic happen.

As many of you readers know, I lost my Aunt Crazy Pants to fucking lung cancer last September. Her son, R. Nasty became her primary caretaker and together, they watched The Late Show With Stephen Colbert every evening – in fact, it was one of the last things they ever did together.

It was also something I got to watch the last time I partied with ACP.

Colbert Time!

Ever since her passing, my sister and I had been working on how to solidify tickets for R. Nasty to attend the show. You know, kind of a way to honor his mom. Through letters and emails and contacts and friends and acquaintances of friends and husbands of wives who work at Conan O’Brien, who had a friend who writes for The Colbert Show, WE GOT TICKETS.

Don’t mind if we do!

VIP to be braggy.

While R. Nasty resides in Iowa and I am in Nashville, we decided it would be super easy to meet up at LaGuardia Airport because what could possibly go wrong? Naturally, upon my landing an hour ahead of him, I selfied the fuck out of myself and sent it to all of my friends and family.

R. Nasty and I were only two terminals away from one another, so what I thought would take hours, took mere minutes to find one another after he landed. It was the non-city slickers in us that needed aid. So I texted Rasta, the gal pal who was extremely instrumental with our VIP ticket grab, how to get an Uber in NYC. I mean, there are Ubers and Lyfts in Nashville but you walk right out of the baggage claim and BAM there is no way to fuck it up.

So Rasta guided us on how to get on the bus that would drop us off at the parking lot where an Uber we called would be waiting on us. This city shit was already hard.

But we did it!

Upon checking into the hotel (that I made R. Nasty pay for naturally, after surprising him with tickets, making him cough up cash for shit), I immediately checked on a bottle of Tennessee champagne I had packed carefully in my luggage to celebrate this momentous occasion (you guys, R.Nasty and I don’t get out much – neither of us has been to a city bigger than Chicago, k?).

Who doesn’t put champs in their suitcase?

Once we guzzled drank the champs dry, we unpacked and here’s what our bathroom counter looked like…

My accessories at the top of The Economist vs. his one accessory which was The Economist.

We decided to giddy up and check out the area – Manhattan – to be exact, which I thought would look a helluva lot fancier than it did. But I’m from Nashville, so what the fuck do I know? What I DO know is to ask for recommendations and my social media buddy, suggested a fab place called Faces and Names.

Fabulous find compliments of a fellow Captain@sgrstk – and if you don’t follow him or have never read his books, go do so right now.

We were kind of excited to be there. And when I asked R.Nasty if he was having fun, he responded with “Yeah, this is kinda fun.” To which I kindly replied – YOU WILL AND ARE HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE.

Not excited. At all.

We had libations in honor of our first time in NYC, talking about ACP and just chit chatting about whatever the fuck you typically do when you are getting a bit buzzed.

Cheersed!

…and cheersed…

… aaaaaand cheersed.

So as we stumbled marched out of the bar to explore more of the block (I mean, my feet already hurt), what did before my wondering eyes did appear?

Destination Station!

Not being in the least bit full of any ounce of shame, it was selfie time.

Theater selfie fail #1.

Due to the length of my arm being about as tall as an earthworm, we had to do round two.

Theater selfie fail #2.

Satisfied with shitty selfies, we went back to the hotel room for wine and snacks in preparation for the one and most likely only day of our lives we would be VIPs.

Tidiness runs in the family. Obvies.

I must say the kink in my neck remains at my incessant gawking at all of the buildings and signs and bicyclists who give zero fucks if you are walking in their pathway. I also very narrowly missed my death about 536 times by stepping off of a cub almost too soon which would have resulted in my demise by a yellow taxi cab.

Daylight theater.

What do good tourists do when heading to their fave late show? They do as tourists do and eat at there.

The restaurant of Mr. Colbert’s choice, or so I like to think.

I also continued my unabashed selfie taking because what’s a memory without a photo?

Not a tourist at all.

R.Nasty and I sipped on cocktails and waited for our 4pm call time to stand in the VIP (I did mention we were VIPs, right?) lane at Angelo’s watching all of the little people who only had priority seating. The horror.

 

We straight up VIP, yo!

And naturally I needed to document with a selfie as well.

Yep. Proof we’re VIPs.

We also had Aunt Crazy Pants with us. Lest not forget the things all mothers and daughters bond over, tattoos – Mama CBXB and I had ACP’s signature inked onto our wrists (yes, I know we are now complete bad asses) over her first birthday weekend above us.

Lucky charm in tow.

Then it was time to enter the theater that makes me want an entrance to my mini manse in lights now.

Before I made my national television debut, the warm up comedian came out and picked on audience members. R. Nasty was beyond relieved that we were seated middle balcony but don’t worry, I was loud enough to get picked out of the crowd. As we were being interviewed, the comedian asked where we were from and if we were married. I said no, we’re cousins but since I’m from Tennessee, we could be.

Yeah, R. Nasty could have died. Of course I hated the attention and laughs.

The could be our wedding photo.

The show started and the anticipation was beyond expectation. It was super fucking cool seeing Stephen Colbert run out from behind stage left and to the crowd slapping high fives. He delivered his monologue and the guests were a very beautiful but boring Lucy Liu and an engaging Henry Winkler.

Oh and you won’t be one bit surprised that my family and friends who tuned in that evening heard me laughing more than they saw me. Only because I have the loudest laugh on the planet….and you could only see the back of my head.

No autographs please.

If there’s any take away from all of the whirlwind 36 hours I spent in NYC with R. Nasty, it’s that the experience we shared together is irreplaceable. I’ve typically lived my life as an as afterward kind of gal, a chick that just jumps in if something sounds fun and I’m so fucking glad I was able to share this with R.Nasty who deserved to get the hell outta Iowa and cut loose (side note, I needed to get the fuck out of Nashville and have some of my own fun as well).

The Infamous Iowan and the Trashy Tennessean.

So if you’re ever contemplating what you should be doing, or if you can swing that trip (hey, I packed hard-boiled eggs and protein bars – AND booze) do what Barb would do…

Love ya, mean it Aunt Crazy Pants. We all miss you something terrible but we’re living it up with you watching over us down here.

Cheers!

CBXB

 

Weekend Winks – Rapegate, Pool Parties and Fang Fingers

You guys really know how to help a gal when she’s down and out! The overflowing abundance of support from my Rapegate post restored any questionable faith in humanity I may have had prior to posting. Not only was writing about the trauma cathartic for me, as now the matter is out in the open and I can talk about it, but also I didn’t expect the feelings of relief – conflicted with a little bit of fear when I hit the ‘publish’ button on the post.

What’s a gal who likes to celebrate do with mixed emotions and feelings of waves as large of a tsunami? She cracks open a bottle of champs given to her by gal pal Saving Grace (I was saving it for a momentous occasion – and this felt like one) while bawling and laughing at the same time. Yes, I’m still a hot mess.

Cheers to the release of yesteryear! Oh, and of course, FUCK 2016.

The outpouring of your support – my army that each and every one of you reading right now is a part of – lifted me up so high, so fast I just can’t thank you enough for the kind words, comments, messages, cards, letters, sharing of your own traumas, calls, texts and visits. While I might be Captain Sparkly Pants, you all have been nothing short of soldiers supporting one of their own. For that, I thank the fuck out of you.

Every single portion of Rapegate has been riddled with road bumps. So it’s onward and upward as I move forward, navigating unknown terrain even to my Sex Crimes Detective. We’ll get that worked out, I’m sure.

The wrong woman was fucked. Literally and figuratively.

Warm fuzzies are creeping back into the cracks of my emotions. My heart swelled a little when my phone reminded me over the weekend of cherished moments my sister and Gma shared on the last days of our grandma’s life. Of course, I had a picture of my stank-eyed pussy Ted, too, from that day.

Three of my favorite peeps still today.

When I texted the photos to my sister, we talked about how fast it’s gone – feeling like maybe it should be the first year.

It’s true. In two years, our extended family has gone through two divorces, a birth (yay!), rape (that’d be mine), cancer (that’d be Aunt Crazy Pants), a cross-country move for a cousin….just to name a few.

While reminiscing over the last two years, Facebook had an amusing memory from five years ago of Dada CBXB and I having a patio party, after we’d done some planting (in pots, to which didn’t make of course).

Funny, we already had plans to ‘decorate’ my mini manse loggia (fancy word I learned from a previous, rich employer that means back porch as I kept saying back porch and she kept correcting me that it was a loggia). So we hit up the flower hot spot for ferns, all pink flowers and some sort of palm thing that is going to go great with my pink flamingo (of course a gal like me has plant accessories before the actual plant).

Green thumbs galore.

Because that thirty minutes was so exhausting, we spent the rest of the day playing at the pool.

Fun fun in the sun.

My favorite pussy also likes to relax in the rays but I just can’t help myself and have to take a picture. This is always the glare I get when I get caught mid snap.

Resting bitchy face with a case of the side eye.

Wanna know what those two Iowa twins are up to? Well, first off they have graduated from pre-school.

Get out the caps and gowns.

Naturally, this meant celebrating was in order and they didn’t hate one minute of it.

Starting with snow cones.

Celebration splash pad style.

Their parents even took them to see where it all began. At the bar in Iowa City, where my sister approached her future husband at the very booth below for a cigarette (obviously the trashtacular classiness runs in the family). He didn’t smoke (neither did she) but it all worked out and here we are today…

Taking it back to where all of the magic began.

Being that they’d visited a festival, Princess B had to get her face painted – and clearly thought it was poorly done as you can see from the photo below.

Hello gorgeous.

Graduating from pre-school also calls for dessert.

Sweets for the sweets.

Dessert that was good to the last drop.

Yep. Definitely takes after her aunt CBXB.

Something else seeping back in through the cracks of this gal is nail painting and t-shirt bedazzling. Nashville’s NHL team, the Nashville Predators have made it to the Stanley Cup finals (for those of you who don’t know hockey – it’s like the Superbowl. For those of you who don’t know what that is, just look at the nails and sparkly shirt below) for the first time ever in our franchise’s history. I joined in on the fanfare with Predator colored nails and blinged up a shirt to boot.

Fang Fingers is what the crowd does here in Nashville when the opposing team has to go to the penalty box. They play the music from the shower scene in Psycho and fans seriously stand there and move two fingers from both hands in a clawing motion. We may look like ass clowns but we don’t care. Also, I was so pumped to get this shirt because aside from getting to see our mascot Gnash come down from the ceiling before every game, I can’t ever wait to do Fang Fingers.

All out sparkle for my fave Cinderella NHL team.

The Predators were on no one’s radar and have had the heart, fight and spirit of Nashville behind them. For real, the entire city could not be more proud. This is a photo of the main artery in Nashville on game day. It stemmed from the stadium with an overflow of people who couldn’t get in to the game (due to the insane ticket prices) down ten blocks to the river. Not to mention the packed bars and restaurants.

Game day in Smashville.

While the Preds are behind in the series 2-1, you can help cheer them on with me at 7pm CST on NBCSN.  They whooped some ass on Saturday with final score being 5-1. Badasses.

Speaking of badass, here’s how I pumped up my mental state closing out the weekend.

The inner badass is coming back…

You guys are my badasses. My army of badasses. I love each and every one of you.

Hooah!

CBXB

CBXB!

Sayonara 2016

Know anyone who had a ridiculously fabulous 2016?

Me either.

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

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

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

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

I tried taking a cue from Elsa early on…

Elsa's help.

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

Not a Sexy Smoker

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

Good Advice

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

Corn Bag

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

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

Three's a Crowd

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

Mouths

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

Chug Life

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

2016 at its Finest

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

Better Tedder!

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

Fire Starter

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

Win Win

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

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

Therapy Thursday

IOWA!

My kind of pour.

My kind of pour.

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

Gussy

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

Heeled UP

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

Tailgating

Cheering it on with family as often as I could.

CHEER

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

Holla!

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

For real.

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

Work

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

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

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

FUCK YOU TRUMP

TRUTH

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

TRUTH TRUTH

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

CHAMPS!

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

MOTHERFUCKER

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

Bangin'

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

Together

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

MOTTO

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

I say enough.

FUCK YOU 2016

Sayonara 2016.

FUCK YEAH 2017!

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

Weekend Winks – World Traveler

OK, so maybe I’m not so much of a world traveler as a back and forth to Iowa traveler.

The past two weekends I’ve found myself in opposite ends of Iowa, partying it up with some of my fave family members starting with Prince and Princess B.

Twins are so easy.

Twins are so easy.

I hadn’t seen my hell on wheels duo since January and being that they’re now two and a half no moment spent with them is dull.

Princess B

This laugh is as funny as it appears.

Prince B

Nephew nuzzles are the best kind of love.

My sister typically stocks up on my beloved Anderson Erickson chip dip (seriously the best dip on the planet and my ample ass can prove it!) for me but Princess B had other plans.

Love us some dairy.

Who needs a spoon?

We also ganged up and loved on our favorite Hawkeye, Dada CBXB.

Three

As you can see, he hates the attention.

After a two night layover back in my own Nashville bed, I headed up to see my spunky Gma (you know, the one who pretends to hate Jell-O shots and wheels around the town square in style) as she’s not been feeling fabulous recently.

Gma

Happy to be hanging together.

I also found myself willingly stuffed in a trunk for the sake of a birthday surprise for my fabulous friend Mr. Scooby.

Got thrown in a trunk

Not much I won’t do for a laugh.

Mr. Scooby was surprised to say the least.

Surprise success!

My bestie Scooby flew me into Des Moines to surprise his hubs, Mr. Scooby for his birthday. This trip also served as a way for Scooby and myself to get shit faced at the finish line while his hot husband and equally good looking running mate, Royal, sprinted 13.2 miles at the annual Dam to Dam.

Drunk Mascot

Race runners with their soon to be drunk mascot.

A little too much excitement in the collecting of champagne bottles resulted in a bubble catastrophe in the grocery store. I swear my two bottles of wine at supper had nothing to do with it.

Clean up on aisle nine...

Clean up on aisle nine…

But the spill was definitely worth the trouble as Scoobs and I tailgated at the finish line at the ass crack of dawn the following morning.

Force fed champs well before noon

Force fed champs well before noon.

We also mustered enough energy to engage in a photo shoot while waiting for our runners.

Holla!

Holla!

They did it!

They did it!

After drinking the day away, we kept it up by cocktailing with a fellow classmate, Rolo.

Old friends.

Old friends are the funnest!

After our 118th cocktail of the day, we decided that Scooby looks like the dad from the ’80s TV show “Alf”.

Don’t you agree?

Alf Dad = Scooby

Well, we don’t think the hair looks the same…

Although a whirlwind of a time, it was a spectacular weekend seeing my gays who make me belly laugh so hard I count it as an ab workout.

Foursome

Best bikini workout ever.

There was one teeny, tiny kink in my flight back to Nashville.

It took off at 6am.

I woke up at 5:15am.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

This wouldn’t be such an issue in any other booming metropolis but the thing is this was the one and only flight out of Nashville via Southwest on Sunday. My hungover ass had to make the plane.

At 5:39am I announced my arrival at the airport running in, screaming like a crazy lady at the Southwest ticketing agents:

“WILL I MAKE A SIX AM FLIGHT?”

“You have a slight chance but your bag will never make it.”

Throwing my suitcase at the agent (while thanking her at the same time), I turned into an Olympic runner barreling through security (thank god for salt of the earth, nice, understanding Iowa people who suggested I budge when they saw dust at my feet due to my sudden athletic abilities) and sprinting to my gate in just enough time to dry heave (my body is only used to me doing arm curls in order to get a cocktail to my watering hole) when I sat in my seat as the airplane door slammed shut 30 seconds after my entrance.

Um, oops.

Aging five years in fifty minutes.

And you know what? Even with my beyond late check-in, the suitcase made the airplane.

Made it!

God I love Iowa airport workers.

As this post comes to a close, I’ve received word that things aren’t looking so hot for my Gma and your good karma sent her way would be much appreciated as my family and I hope she’s resting comfortably.

Gma

Ladies out on the town.

And as I am giving my liver a rest, here’s hoping your week is off to a fabulous start!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Weekends Winks – Oscars and Ice

Cocktails, shopping, cats and Oscars added up to fabulous Nashville fun this weekend.

Shop 'til you drop.

Shop ’til you drop.

After a low-key Friday night (trying to avoid a repeat of Sushi’s Revenge), Mama and I headed to the Mall at Green  Hills (small slice of Nashville heaven) where we decided it would beyond cute to get matching t-shirts at Juicy Couture on Saturday.

Go duck yourself.

We don’t give a duck. Nope. We don’t.

All of that shopping lead us to Cheesecake Factory where we quenched our thirst with strawberry martinis.

Feels so good when it hits the lips.

Feels so good when it hits the lips.

Upon review of my purchases at home (how could I go shopping without getting a pair of shoes?), New Cat (yep, he’s still here) claimed one of the boxes for his very own bed (as I’m sure you all know Ted has every other nook and cranny of my mini manse under his paws).

Bed in a box.

Bed in a box.

I hunkered down to be a tried and true crazy cat lady on the leopard couch.

Snuggle Time

Three’s definitely a crowd.

Pussy love. Cat fight.

Pussy love, slowly turning into a cat fight.

While I enjoyed a sunny Nashville morning, my twin cutie pies in Iowa were busy watching their dad shovel snow in zero degree weather.

Below 0?!

Beautiful March day.

Cold doesn’t have any impact on their adorableness, of course.

All dressed up!

Ready for the Academy Awards red carpet!

Little did I know, snow was in the forecast for Sunday night and hundreds of shoppers greeted my appearance at the grocery store. Like, lines 22 people deep. At 11am. On Sunday morning.

Apocolypse is coming!

Forget the bread and milk. I need booze!

BLoddy Mary me.

Which is why I stopped for a bloody mary on the way home.

With a warm belly full of vodka, it was time to head to my mini manse and get prepped for the Academy Awards.

Fancy snacks. WEll, champagne is fancy.

Me and my fancy snacks.

Because I have the hand strength of a 92-year-old, it took a good 45 minutes trying to pop the cork off the champagne bottle. Much to Teddy’s delight, I finally got the damn thing open.

Willing the bottle open.

Party time!

After averting a champagne crisis, we got down to business devouring the classy chocolate chip cupcake (and I must say for being gluten-free, dairy free, and soy free was pretty freaking delish).

Cat cake sharing.

Cat cake sharing.

While admiring all of the glitzy gowns and glamour, my friend Tony supplied me with a pic of what I need the floor of my closet to read…

Duh!

Duh!

You know all of those folks freaking out at the grocery store? Well, they were right as this morning the city has shut down due to snow and ice.

Shut down the city.

Ice in the city.

While they’re enjoying their bread and milk, I’m enjoying my Skinny Pirates.

Now who do you think is having the better snow day?

CBXB

CBXB!