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!

Weekend Winks – Emotional Banana Pants

Since my experience with bad shit that happens to good people, I have been a walking, talking shit show.

I’ve slept on my couch for the past four months, find it hard to be alone, don’t love my mini manse the way I used to, started a new job, adopted three cats, threw up in my car (soberly), shit in my car (while talking soberly to my drive thru pharmacist as if nothing was happening), developed adjustment issues, eat every single emotion that I experience, then don’t eat for three days in a row, was granted a girls trip of a lifetime to Mexico by two walking saints, have nerves that never go away, my feelings have been boiling for four months now and every.single.little.thing is a major issue, an ex-boyfriend and friend of over 11 years put me in my proverbial place, another man in my life has thrown major shade, the family dynamics I’m used to have shifted in ways that I can’t control, my bank account was hacked on Friday, meaning for three to five business days I’m broke and my usually positive self is more and more negative by the day and I want to fire me from myself.

All of that being said, I’m a swinging pendulum of highest highs and lowest lows. Listening to my therapist hero, Miss Sheila, I’m just trying to take one day at a time and find joy in the little things. Like, the Country Music Festival (that used to be called Fan Fair and really, still should be) that took place in Nashville over the weekend.

CMA Fest

Naturally, when work called for a White Trash Bash party in honor of the tens of thousands of tourists pouring their hard-earned money into my beloved Nashville, I was beyond happy to participate in something celebratory.

What's a CMA Fest without a redneck?

Tattoos not permanent.

And blow off some steam I did.

Seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.

Seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.

I enjoyed myself so much that I got on stage. In a very popular downtown honk tonk. In overall shorts. And sang. With braids in my hair. In overall shorts. And cowboy boots. And forgot the words to a song I’ve sung 1.578.987 times with my ’80s cover band. In overall shorts. And my new boss captured it all on film.

And yeah, this. Life.

Needing an S.O.S. from life. Immediately.

Thankfully I snagged a safe ride home but my grown ass needed a way to get to my vehicle the following day. What would we do without women who arrive in chariots with the best hangover food ever?

Breakfast of hungover champions.

My personal Uber, complete with snacks.

Once my body full of nerves returned back to the mini manse, I was once again in the throes of my emotions – and according to Miss Sheila – I loathe feeling feelings.

#sos

#iwokeuplikethis

Adulting has been so difficult lately that I’ve started to identify with a local Nashville Mexican joints social media postings….

Truth

Truth

But instead of being full of tacos I was left in bed with a bunch of fur balls.

This is how I want my life to be always.

Forensic Files Friday night.

Wallowing in self shame, embarrassment, pity I was invited last second to meet up with some old work colleagues (and friends) and decided it best for me to socialize.

Old friends. Good friends. Fun times.

Old friends. Good friends. Fun times.

I then decided to take up smoking – and surprisingly it took the edge off about 12 of my 3,794,579,000 nerves.

I asked for a puff and got the whole shebang.

I asked for a puff and got the whole shebang.

Other friends made me piss my pants by shopping the local racks of the store I hate more than anything in the world for tank tops to wear to Bonnaroo.

I hate Walmart but NEED that tank.

I loathe Walmart but NEED that tank.

Another reason to stay off the couch and keep moving was a pre-celebration opening at a buddy’s new bar. It’s dog friendly, so you know that Presh, Dada CBXB and yours truly were on hand to party.

Dada CBXB and Presh

Hot Saturday date night!

Bird Lady also made an appearance in my weekend, as did another inappropriate t-shirt that is now one of my faves.

Bird Lady and shirts with iniappropri mae me happy

Just wearing my emotions.

Much like my buddy at Dalts, who wouldn’t give me this t-shirt because his girlfriend gave it to him.

This is why I love Dalts.

Pure stud.

You show me your kitties, I show you mine.

mouths to feed.

Four feline mouths to feed keep me going.

Mini lions.

And my mini lion chug Precious, of course.

Naturally anything from my Iowa twins puts a grin on my gigantic mouth breather.

I mean, those faces!

I mean, those faces!

But most of all, I have to keep getting off of my leopard couch, braving emotions, feelings, checking account robbers and put one foot in front of the other for my favorite pussy, my best friend, my main squeeze, Mr. Ted E. Bear (who is costing almost as much as rent with his meds these days but you know (and he knows) he’s worth every goddamn cent).

Prince

Forever the king of my castle.

My new life mantra for my therapist prescribed “day-by-day” attack on life was passed onto me by one of my besties, Whitney Lover.

Mantra

I’ll drink to that…every damn day.

Motherfucking cheers.

Motherfucking cheers.

Thanks to you – readers, social media buddies, real life friends, co-workers, family, kind strangers – for sticking by your hot mess of a shit show. Here’s hoping you’re sucking a little less each and every day this week.

Love ya, mean it.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

The Man. The Myth. My Legend.

Image 90

Being that he’s often (happily) guest starring in blog posts and it’s his birthday weekend, I’m sharing some of the valuable life lessons that dear old dad passed down.

LESSONS FROM MY LEGEND

My dad taught me…

That you should always have your family’s back…

bl

                                       …even if they maul you.

How to throw my hands up in the air…

wave

…and wave them like I just don’t care.

To never leave home…

...without my shades.

                                              …without my shades.

The importance of being able to “blow up” one’s muscles.

blow

                       They keep blowing…

and

                                              … and blowing…

still

                                                 …and blowing.

You taught me that pink isn’t just for gals…

flex

         …tough guys wear it too.

That sequins should be in my everyday attire…

love

     …’cause you gave me the first bedazzled top I ever acquired.

It’s OK to stand out in a crowd…

Dada C-Note

and that giving is better than receiving…

Image 91

…unless you’re three and don’t realize it’s not you’re birthday.

The importance of slathering on sunscreen daily…

very

                      …as long as there’s someone to rub it in for you.

You taught me the significance of jazz hands…

was

…because you never know when you’ll need to use them.

How to travel on a road trip…

check

…with rot gut vodka, a plastic cup and using your finger to mix.

Reminding me there’s more than one fish in the sea…

fish

                …especially whenever a boy has been mean to me.

That being the life of the party…

never

                                          …is never a bad deal…

                                                             EVER.

You taught me that shots…

too

                     …are cocktails, too.

And the family that shoots together…

Wild Turkey

Image 11

Stays together.

                  …stays together.

That it’s important to share…

at the

                 …even while pigging out at the Iowa State Fair.

How to relax…

after

                                               …after a long day.

You showed me you’d always be there to carry me through hard times…

broken foot

         …with a broken foot…

broken ankle

              …a broken ankle…

                          …and when I’m just too drunk to walk.

You taught me that it’s OK to spoil people…

treat

                          …especially when their nails are wet…

           …as long as you return the favor.

Most importantly, you taught me that not all heroes wear capes…

Not all

…some wear their daughters on their backs.

So let us all raise our glasses today…

cheers!

…and cheers your birthday away!

Those are just a few of my lessons from…

happy

 The Man. The Myth. The Legend.

Better get those Hawkeye shot glasses out and ready to celebrate this weekend!

Happy Birthday Dada!

CBXB

CBXB!

My Dramatic Pussy

 After blood work, an ultrasound, two X-rays, an exploratory surgery, refusing to eat and over a week at the pet hospital (he’s still there recovering), my always dramatic main squeeze Ted was diagnosed with inflammatory bowel disease and pancreatitis, both of which are treatable in cats!

Ted

Naturally getting the best fucking news of my life (and no, I’m not kidding) was cause for all kinds of celebration across the miles.

It was a big fat box of wine (yes I said box and don't you judge) for mama.

It was a big fat bottle Skinny Pirate for mama.

Moonshine cheers from Dada CBXB.

Moonshine cheers from Dada CBXB.

It was Patron for First Mate

It was Patron for First Mate…

...and her friends.

…and her mates.

Tequila Rose for Mama CBXB

Tequila Rose for Mama CBXB.

Our buddy Z-Man toasted with milk.

Our buddy Z-Man toasted with milk.

Beer cheers from Uncle Toddy.

Beer cheers from Uncle Toddy.

Wine from Sister CBXB in Iowa.

Wine from Sister CBXB in Iowa.

Ted and I (and anyone else who knows how bat shit crazy I have been over the past three weeks) thank each and every one of you from the bottom of our hearts for the well wishes, concern, prayers, good karma, comments, messages, phone calls, magic spells, suggestions, cards and happy juju you sent our way. It means more than you could know and we love you!

Well worth the drama in my eyes.

Well worth the drama in my eyes.

Hopefully I will get to bring him home soon and we’ll have all kinds of shenanigans to share with you. But until then, please join us in the toasting celebration, as Bear is back on the mend!

Cheers from this very relieved mama!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Trash Up a Classy Joint

You can't take me anywhere.

You can’t take me anywhere.

While in Miami recently, I was lucky enough to be invited to the beyond delicious Bourbon Steak restaurant. I’m sure the staff wanted to run for the hills upon our appearance and hearing my shrill voice laughing at the first photo of the evening which ended up being a group selfie fail compliments of yours truly.

Group Selfie Fail

I need longer arms. Or perhaps one of those things Santa delivered every other narcissistic person on the planet for Christmas…a selfie stick!

When entering a fine dining establishment, it’s important to first capture all of your classiness before you disrupt every other diner for two straight hours.

Don’t all restaurant goers get a pic in the entryway?

First, capture all of your classiness before you disrupt the other diners for two straight hours.

Hidden trashiness at its finest.

All of your classy efforts will fly right out the window faster than a witch on a broom when you’re unable to decide what to sip on for the evening due to the cocktail menu being as large as an outdated encyclopedia, so you just splurge. No one will look at you funny.

Two is better than one.

Two is better than one.

Next be sure to capture all of the finest accessories that accompany your experience because if you’re like me, you’re known for whipping together fancy suppers like this…

One of my masterpieces.

One of my masterpieces.

So pay no attention when snide looks are thrown your way as you snap a pic of very ordinary items on your lavish dinner table like olives so green it appears as if the Grinch made them.

Grinch green olives reenest olives on the planet.

GREEN OLIVES! HOLY SHIT!

And act cool when a Caesar salad comes out with a swirly bacon hat on top of it.

Is this considered six degrees from Kevin Bacon?

Is this considered six degrees from Kevin Bacon?

Keep it together when your sushi comes out minus the rice.

Tasty tuna.

If I eat this raw fish I will have the body of Demi Moore, correct?

Being a classless diner means you wolf your food down while everyone else acts like a normal person and eats at a normal speed (and actually chews their food).

Did I do that? Inhaler.

Did I do that?

Another thing about fabulously fancy restaurants is their comfortable seating. If you’re too full to move or need to pass out take a nap, simply lie down and do so.

After double fisting cocktails and stuffing my face so fast I wouldn’t have noticed if I swallowed one of my own rings, I sank into  the plush couch where my ample rear resided.

Pass out, er I mean nap time.

Fancy restaurants require a snooze.

Photobombing

Fancy restaurants require photo bombing.

Thumb sucking.

Fancy restaurants require thumb sucking.

Make out sesh with my pillow.

Fancy restaurants require make out sessions with a pillow.

To all of those diners around me, it looked as if I was down for the count.

JUST KIDDING!

JUST KIDDING!

When you’re back and at ’em again, it’s smart to get your second wind by drinking a martini and coffee at the same time.

Still able to double fist.

Secrets to lasting all night.

Something else that will help you remain secretly trashy in a classy joint is being joined by a sidekick. Not only did mine expertly photo bomb me, she did the following when I asked her to take yet another picture of me (because I didn’t have enough already)…

A woman after my own heart.

Yep, she’s perfect for me.

Once a Sidekick is in residence, it’s important to share every little detail of the fancy eating experience.

So when I discovered a full length mirror with complimentary lighting, I had to get SK in on the adventure.

Oh hello mirror!

Oh hello mirror! I’ve never seen myself before. Better get a picture.

Get out of the way bitch. We need the 5,389,013 picture of ourselves tonight!

Get outta the way bitch. We need the 5,389,013 picture of ourselves tonight!

Victoria's Secret has not called yet.

Victoria’s Secret has not called yet. Weird.

It’s of the utmost importance to act as if dining in such a fine establishment is no big deal, so on your way out of the restaurant don’t make a scene where everyone in the restaurant can see you.

Hey-oh!

No, that’s not a plastic bag hanging off of SK’s purse as you might expect. It’s a scarf. Because it’s terribly cold in Miami.

But then again, what fun is it dining in a classy place without bringing a little tashtacular attitude?

You can't take me anywhere.

No fun. No fun at all.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

Jacksonville Tour Tomfoolery

A 12 hour tour bus trip for work to the Florida Country Superfest meant only one thing this past weekend….endless shenanigans for this Nashville chick.

Me and my one adoring fan.

Me and my one adoring fan.

After prepping my ride for the weekend with an overabundance of booze, low-class snacks and booze, we were ready to roll.

Weekend ride

My chariot.

Being that this bus was full of party animals, surprisingly there was only one rule to follow the entire trip…

The lone bus rule.

The lone bus rule located in the bathroom.

As we pulled out of Nashville, I assumed my assigned position of tending bar.

Happy Times

One Skinny Pirate and glass of vodka coming right up!

After an hour (or three) of cocktailing, hoisting my ample ass up to the top bunk was no easy feat.

Uh...

This is the face after a self-inflicted concussion.

No worries about the wound, as I did what you’re supposed to do after all head injuries. I slept it off.

After what felt like 32 minutes of sleep, we’d arrived in Jacksonville and I couldn’t get out of my own personal coffin fast enough.

Whoa Baby

Trying to bust a move off the bus gracefully.

I high-tailed it off of the bus and followed the signs to my fave place in any venue.

The stage.

Sprint.

Sprinting to the stage almost cost me two sprained ankles.

I've arrived.

Florida was underwhelmed with all of my non-showered, greasy glory.

Naturally it’s not easy taking selfies while staying out of the crew’s way, busting their asses in preparation for the evening show, so I didn’t stay around long enough for them to ask me to help with sound check.

Check 1. Check 2. Check yourself off of the stage.

Check 1. Check 2. Check yourself off of the stage.

Escorting myself out of the high traffic staging area, I decided to take my talents back stage and offer assistance near the tour trucks.

Just

Please. We all know I sat on my ass and watched others work as my nails are “jewels, not tools.”

In dire need of a shower, I settled for a semi-clean bathroom vanity to gussy my raggedy ass up.

Concert prep after being escorted off stage.

Touring at its finest.

It was then time to head for concert where I was treated to a warm up show by a lady who gave me a run for my trashtacular money.

Front row for this...

Who needs a pole when you have a chair?

Not wanting to be out classed by the chair dancer, I managed to spill an entire Skinny Pirate on my pal Rocky as I was prepping for a pic of us.

Hey oh! Managed to spill an entirely full Skinny Pirate on this guy and he still smiles.

Swimming in a Skinny Pirate and he still smiles. Sign of a good friend!

Speaking of friends, what about me getting to hang with my Florida bestie, who I had no clue would be in attendance at the festival?

My fab friend!

Surprise reunion!

Think she looks familiar?

Well, she does. Not only has she joined me in being a Holly Jolly Drunk girl this past Christmas, she also took part in one of my very best photo-bombing events.

Yep,  you've seen her before in my photo-boming mad skills

Which one of these is not like the other?

But I digress.

Of course Holly Jolly Drunk Girl and I consumed cocktails while catching up.

This is all we did...

She talked. I guzzled.

While us gals were gabbing, nature started to call upon my over flowing bladder, so I went to wait in a line that was roughly 5,312 ladies long. After 20 hellish minutes I realized that an emergency was about to take place, so I sought other means of relief.

Yep. I did.

Yep. I did.

I sprinted into the men’s room with my hands cupping my eyes while yelling, “I’m not looking! I can’t see you! I’m about to piss my pants!”

A very kind, extremely inebriated cowboy with his pants unbuttoned turned around from his urinal and tried to escort me toward the first open stall. While trying to avoid his germ filled grip, I slammed the door behind me and was greeted to this lovely sight.

Most disgusting

Only the classiest will do for this fancy chick.

While I’d never shared a toiled with a Gatorade bottle, a beer can and someone’s regurgitated lunch it was well worth the sacrifice because I would have missed Florida Georgia Line waiting to use the ladies room.

NOt Gonna miss htis.

I mean seriously. The sacrifices I make.

Singing along with the likes of Little Big Town, Eric Church and Jason Aldean for the rest of the evening didn’t suck either.

While bleary eyed and not at all bushy-tailed the next morning, I was greeted to a scantily clad Luke Bryan outside the bus window.

Luke!

Our fingers were crossed his ball would break a bus window.

Collecting myself for yet another jammed packed day, I met my buddy Aha! who is on tour with Easton Corbin.

Or my buddy!

Buddies so old we used to be in a band together.

While perusing the other buses backstage, my eye caught a very sore sight. It was a plane with an advertisement that was obviously never double checked, as it read:

“$250 for AIDS and hearing test”

Only at a country festival

Only at a country music festival…

Popping back up on stage, I earned a new side gig acting as a guitar tech for Easton Corbin. My big moment came when I ushered a guitar out on stage and whispered in a semi-shout, “Turn this thing on!”

Just helping guitar tech for Easton Corbin. My new side gig.

Aha! aiding me in my new career.

Being that I was embarking on a new profession called for a celebration with the crew.

Three cheers for the guitar

Four cheers for my abilities to guitar tech volunteer!

Many celebratory cocktails later, we were crooning along to our fave country tunes with our closest 75,000 friends.

Eric Church

Luke Bryan looking good in the fabulously lit hood.

When it was all said and done, we headed back to our home on wheels that looked like it’d been through a 21 day excursion, instead of our 48 hour trip.

Bar?

Anyone see the Captain?

Of course I was still enamoured with the mirrored ceiling that provided yours truly with endless entertainment.

Still

Mirror mirror on the ceiling, I still find this overly appealing.

Returning home, the only thing I could do Monday night was sift through the weekend aftermath in my purse.

Remnants...feels like my liver. Direct reflection of how my liver feels.

Remnants of a fun-filled two days.

In case you were wondering, this photo is a direct reflection of how my liver is still feeling.

Until the next tour…

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

Pussy Protector

Don’t fox with us.

Don’t even think about it.

Or my pussy, Ted, will claw your eyes out.

If looks could kill…

But Mr. Bear insists you have a good weekend.

You don’t want your eyes clawed out, do you?

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!