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 Pussy Posse

While we all know I’m batshit crazy over cats (and animals in general), I have yet to really introduce my latest brood in proper fashion.

The bitchy love of my life, Teddy Bear, died suddenly last August. I’ve wanted to write about it so many times but the hole his departure left in my heart literally feels like molten lava spilling into my body when I try. Then the volcano eruption of uncontrollable scalding tears rush down my cheeks, so it’s best I save his obituary for another day. Or year. Or century.

My ride or die.

Yes, I’m talking about a cat. Many days and nights I long to be over the Rainbow Bridge with him. He was the last link I had to my previous life and endured the hardships into the one I now lead. But as we all know, the world keeps turning and so, now, I run a fucking zoo.

After Rapegate occurred, Ted kept vigil by being my constant companion, not leaving my side unless he was stuffing his pie hole.

Literally would not leave me.

When my mom came to stay with me, she thought it’d be a good idea for Bear and me to have another furry friend around. Now, I already have joint custody of Precious the Chug but Mama CBXB thought a kitten for Valentine’s Day would be the best gift in 2016.

Um….do we have a say?

We went to see my crazy cat lady gal pal, Penny, who runs Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue (in which I am happy to be the poster child since I have adopted six animals over two years from her – yes you read that right).  Typically, I adopt adult cats, who stand a lesser chance of getting permanent homes as they grow older. But mom thought a baby would be good cuddle therapy.

Crazy Cat Lady 1 and Crazy Cat Lady 2.

Once the cage of kittens opened, the first one I picked up was named Elsa and the decision was immediately and easily done. My Iowa twins love the movie Frozen (what fucking kid doesn’t), so since I grabbed the princess from the movie, it was fate in my eyes.

Princess kitty cat.

Deal sealed.

Then, I stood up and locked eyes with this majestic beauty.

Hello Gorgeous.

Deal not done.

I mistakenly asked to hold her and as soon as I put my face in the kennel, she rubbed her noggin against mine, purring loudly.

Fuck me.

Then Penny pointed out her enormous brother in the back of the cage I never noticed because he didn’t move a muscle from the ball in which he was curled. She explained that they were brother and sister about three years old, surrendered by their owner. The big brother wasn’t coping well in foster care.

Double fuck me.

Well, really triple fuck me.

Who was I to split up a pair of siblings? The black beauty and myself already bonded in .00004 seconds. And her brother was so shy and sad that I was warned I may never see him come out from behind the dryer or under the bed. So yes, I lost my goddamned mind that Saturday and walked out with not one, not two but three motherfucking pussies.

An instant mom to triplets.

Now, on a side note, the always charming actress Drew Barrymore adopted three cats at once and made national headlines for her big heart.

I, on the other hand received sweet messages of support like…

And love notes left on my car…

On the way home from Pet Smart, not a fucking peep was uttered. As soon as I got to the mini manse, the boxes were opened and from that moment on, it was harmonious until Tedstar died a year and a half later.

Love, love, love, love.

RIP Baby Bear.

Penny reached out when she heard the news about Ted and offered my pick of the litter (pun so intended), when I was ready. I knew I wanted another Russian Blue mix and about a month later, Penny sent word that a handsome, shy gent was at Pet Smart. When I raced arrived to check him out, there was a sticky note on his kennel door that read, “needs extra TLC.”

Sweet baby is on the right, afraid to come out.

Penny had instructed me to pet him on his head – hard – and as soon as I did, he cautiously came to me. When I lifted him out of the cage, he put both of his paws around my neck. You know what the fuck happened next.

Crazy cat lady shopping spree with an actual cat in the carrier!

Nothing strange here.

I texted Penny his photo on the way to his new home after the impromptu shopping spree at Pet Smart.

Mine. ALL MINE.

Obvies Fabio was meant to be mine and this was how he spent his first night in the mini manse.

Head rubbin’ on the bed.

So, in no particular favor order, I’m thrilled to introduce The Pussy Posse to you…age before beauty.

Precious the Chug

Age 12. Acts like a puppy. Looks like an Ewok.

Also known as Preshy, Presh, P, Pweshy (as my Iowa twins call her).

Presh is pretty much my sidekick in everything that I do. Without her emotional support after Rapegate and Ted’s passing and everythingfuckingthingelseinbetween…I’m not sure the state I’d be in.

We garden together.

We outfit shop together. DUH.

We drink together. Also DUH.

We take work meetings together.

We get groomed together.

And when I can, I like to match her to my hair.

She loves it. Obvies.

Rocky the Gentle Giant

Age 5. Also known as Bigs, Rocco.

Thinks he’s the size of a mouse.

Could teach pussy yoga.

Remember how he was sad and unable to even look at a potential owner until I got my grubby paws on him? He’s now happily the king of the mini manse.

Ruby Sue the Menace

Age 5. Also known as Thundercunt, Thundy, TC.

Wondering how she earned the endearing moniker of Thundercunt? I found her hanging on the blinds after she’d taken down the curtains.

Greetings of salutation after work one day.

The usual set up of the area.

Waiting on accolades as I tried to work around her mess to hang everything back up.

No shame in her game.

She has an obvious infatuation with curtains, as one night around 2 am this happened…

The actual fuck.

As I bolted out of bed, thinking I was going to end up on Forensic Files, I followed the evidence and concluded that in fact, it was TC. Rocky tried to help me hang the curtain back up but I said to hell with it and showered in my other bathroom the next few days.

Ruby Sue also apparently hates her life of rags to riches and walks the plank on my second level balcony every chance she gets. And she’s clumsy as fuck. So fate will be fate – and she’d land on all fours. C’mon, she’s a cat.

Fabio the Fuck Face

Age 3. Also known as Fabies, Faabs (pronounced Fahbs), Fartio and Fabio Le Pew.

This gorgeous guy farts and darts when he gets nervous. He has zero apprehension prancing around the mini manse and head butts like it’s his paying gig. He also has the regal look of daring you to a death match but couldn’t be more of a sweetheart, hence the nickname Fuck Face.

And his tail…oh that’s his best accessory.

Fabio Le Pew.

Princess Elsa Pants of Resting Bitch Face

Age 2. Also known as Pants, Stank Face and Smalls.

Remember how my mom thought a kitten to cuddle would be the best therapy for me? I’ve gotten my hands on this little shit for a good 29 minutes in the last two years I have had her.

But she loves her siblings and that’s all that really matters (except really, her world should revolve around me – there I said it).

She also loves sparkly accessories.

While I sound like a walking, talking billboard of how to remain single for the rest of one’s life, I don’t give a fuck (I also love candles and reading books – DREAM GIRL).

Just a natural weekend run for cat shit.

Except I do keep my dumpster wedding dress and veil in my car just in case I run into Mr. Right getting an equally large cat tree one day.

Oh hi there. You love cats, too?

There’s really nothing like coming home, being greeted by my brood with figure eights performed between my calves, head butts, tail wags and a game of tag with Stank Face. It’s also fabulous to pour supper in their margarita glasses (food, mind you), pour supper into my wine glass and settle in for an evening of furry snuggles.

So glad they’re mine.

I do expect you regular readers to memorize all names for the entire Pussy Posse, with nicknames included if you want to be true super fans. And if that’s too hard, I will let you buy me a Skinny Pirate next time we run into each other and I quiz you.

Cheers!

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!

 

Weekend Winks- Tidbits

It’s been a minute since I have been able to post about my weekend shenanigans as I’ve had my head in the proverbial sand, trying to get my own shit together and love myself.

Loving myself fives hundred times over.

Thanks to my kick ass friends, family and followers, you’ve showered me with enough kindness and love to last a lifetime. And it’s meant the world.

Thank you from the bottom of my butt because it’s a helluva lot bigger than my heart.

Speaking of friends, an old pal from Iowa, Buffalo, blew in from Phoenix a few weeks ago and could not have come at a better time. The belly laughs, peeing of pants and long afternoon pass out naps were severely needed by this chick.

No straws left in Music City.

Dumpy, Buffalo and an Ass Clown.

You guess which one is which.

Honky tonkin’ in Nashvegas is literally like Vegas only you don’t win any money. There isn’t a chance. But you can sure blow your wad…just as Buffalo.

Cowboys and cowgirls out on the town.

What weekend of mine would be complete without jazz hands?

This man could be my soul mate.

After all of the shenanigans, this chick needed a low-key soak in a bubble bath. Since I lack a large lip around my tub, I resort to putting Precious on the shitter. She doesn’t seem to mind, since we’re still together.

Chug a dub dub while mom’s in the tub.

My other four fur babies can’t be bothered to join in any bathing fun because naturally, they sleep 22.6 hours per day.

Why did you have to use the flash, you bitch?!

Oh and those Iowa twins of mine? I’m waiting by the phone for a modeling agency to call me, as I’m dying to be their auntager. I will give Kris Jenner a run for all of her millions with these two natural beauties.

Yes, these are the two cutest kids on the fucking planet.

If the modeling doesn’t work out, there is always basketball. Especially if it’s a super girly league and Princess B is able to wear whatever the hell she wants and use a purple basketball.

Future Hall of Famers.

Speaking of kids, I’d be remiss not to speak to the horrendous mass shooting in Florida. The ongoing heartbreak of losing innocent lives, is beyond measure. And, I’ve had to question my own ideas, opinions and thoughts over the days since it’s happened.

Of course, I don’t know the answer. But I sure as shit don’t think that any kind of military grade rifle should be allowed in the hands of regular folks. Do you really need this sort of firearm to hunt? To protect your house? To shoot clay pigeons? I am no gun expert, believe me. I own a revolver and I have exactly five bullets in my mini manse and they are in my gun (for those of you who stay over at the mini, my gun gets unloaded and the bullets are housed in a separate drawer when guests arrive, so calm down). When I see people freaking the fuck out over the phrase “gun control” and being insulted by second amendment rights being taken away, I think that’s extreme. You want a gun to protect your house, fine. You want a rifle to hunt, fine. But do you need a military grade rifle to do so?

I have been reading all points of view – and yes, if someone is bananas enough, they will find away to kill people. Folks think the FBI could have done something, as they have admitted they missed two tips. I wonder though, what could they do? The kid had no record. His mother, when she was alive, notified the police of his behavior. He’d been expelled from school. He was having mental problems that were being treated. How many empty threats are made on a daily basis? Or, would this be like when you take a restraining order out to protect yourself but it does nothing?

Is this the answer? I don’t know what is – I wish I could look to those in politics who can enforce change but it’s beyond evident that I can’t. In my opinion, it’s not a Republican vs. Democrat problem. It’s an American problem that rings through every single state. I can’t imagine being a parent – let alone a fucking kid that has to practice gun shooting drills – today. It’s insane and it has to stop.

While the domination of news was focused on the Florida mass shooting (as it should be), the Olympics have also been underway and Dada CBXB and myself entered in our favorite sport. Drinking.

We trained all football season for this moment.

Speaking of moments, I still have my Christmas tree up (aka Celebration tree) and since it was pouring down on Saturday, I sat my ass on my leopard couch and got sucked into TV movies.

Redneck? White Trash? I don’t give a fuck.

Cuddled up butt to butt with my favorite snuggle pants.

A chug with a chugger.

Watching horrendously cheesy Hallmark movies (side note – it’s a dream of mine to star in one, no shit) full of you-already-know-what-the-character-is-going-to-say-before-they-say-it while falling in love and getting engaged within a week pulled at my cold, dead heart for once. I immediately called in all reinforcement.

Divorce court here I come. Crisis averted.

While I peruse Facebook as often as the next person, I have a serious love/hate relationship with the fucking memories that pop up from forever ago. Yesterday, my Aunt Crazy Pants and I celebrated nine years of social media friendship. Which was fitting because her birthday would have been this upcoming Friday, so she’s been on my mind constantly (not that she isn’t always).

Taking solace in my wine glass was quite easy because it was national drink wine day yesterday (which is every day for me but since it was a nationally recognized holiday, who am I not to overly partake?!).

OH. MY. GOD. BECKY. It’s an every day for us.

Good thing I have wine glasses that hold entire bottles of wine while I plot how to take over the universe.

Cheers to all of the tidbits in your life. Now go pour a heart healthy glass of vino.

Captain’s orders.

CBXB

Make Me Love Me

I have loved hot yoga for years – I always called it my natural Xanax because all I could concentrate on during class were the poses and postures – and nothing else (well, except for that pesky under arm fat/boob located in my armpit that won’t go away no matter what the fuck I do that I can’t stop staring at in the mirrors).

Sweat Now. Wine Later.

As the day of celebrating love is upon us, lightning struck a few days ago as I was in my very last pose of hot yoga class – savasana (for those non-yoga peeps, it’s when you lie on your back completely still and reap the benefits of your workout). The lights are dim, the instructor typically is silent as a song plays and you are relaxing/internalizing the ah-mah-zing shit you just did/thinking about the wine you’ll have after class (well, at least I am).

Worth the sweat.

Thing is, it took almost a solid two years to regularly get back on my beloved mat after Rapegate because I couldn’t be alone with my thoughts. I’ve recently been going at least three times a week since the new year and been proud of myself, getting back in my sweaty groove in a room heated to 100 degrees. However, the most fun thing about being triggered by trauma is you never know when the fuck it’s going to come out of the clear blue and smack you in the face. Or gut. Or heart. Or the motherfucking trifecta.

That night in savasana, as I settled in for my thoughts on snuggling with my pussies and Precious the chug while guzzling wine, Bonnie Raitt’s insane voice came quietly through the speakers singing “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”

All I wanted to think about…

While I have heard this song no less than 5,872,012 times, it punched me in the heart. HARD. And I started ugly crying as quietly as one can while trying to act like I was just seriously out of breath. THANK GAWD the lights were off, and we sweat our asses off, so no one could see tears rushing down my red-hot cheeks.

Why though? It’s a stupid fucking love song that is about pining for something you can’t have with another. Except in this case, it was me realizing I haven’t been able to make me love me since being raped. The lyrics hit me faster than I can down a Skinny Pirate. And my thoughts followed the words…

“Turn down the lights”

  • It won’t matter because I won’t sleep anyway

“Turn down the bed”

  • I didn’t have the energy to make it this morning (and I love a made bed)

“Turn down these voices inside my head”

  • “You didn’t scream.” “Did you finish?” “You should have said no.” The voices won’t go away

“Lay down with me”

  • I can’t get vulnerable with myself

“Tell me no lies”

  • If I don’t lie, there’s nothing good to tell

“Just hold me close, don’t patronize”

  • In the fetal position permanently

“Don’t patronize me”

  • I can’t stop condescending myself

“Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t”

  • You’re broken. Damaged goods. Carry permanent baggage.

“You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t”

  • My heart is numb

“Here in the dark, in these final hours”

  • If only I could get hours of sleep

“I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power”

  • Self loathing is beyond power

“But you won’t, no you won’t”

  • I won’t, I don’t

“Cause I can’t make you love me, if you don’t”

  • You’re broken. Damaged goods. Permanent baggage.

This could get ugly.

Jesus tap dancing Christ. I was a puddle. Here I’d thought I’d come soooooooo far. But in reality, I’ve been having a seriously hard time liking, let alone loving myself over the last 746 days (I mean, washing my hair is still hard – and I love my hair. So I resort to wearing it in a bun on an almost daily basis).

Wake up. Put up. Repeat.

Until friends force me to wash it.

If you knew me pre-Rapegate, self-esteem, confidence and the ability to ignore negative background noise aimed at me from others was ingrained in my personality. Or my core. Or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. I sparkled. I pulsated to my own beat no matter who loved it or not. I gave no fucks. Loud and proud.

Hieeeee. It’s jazz handing me not giving a shit how much my loudness annoys you.

But that was ripped from me without my permission. And it hurt. It aches still. For the first time in my life, I’ve felt lost with myself (like, Tom Hanks from Cast Away, with a fucking volleyball as my companion lost).

No shit behind my mini manse this morning.

It stems from the actual rape itself but it also has to do with the betrayal, abandonment and neglect I was left holding when my best friend believed her boyfriend of five weeks over me when he said it was consensual sex (which as a reminder, he got up out of their bed and assaulted me on the couch as I was sleeping in the middle of the night).

Yeah…she can also SUCK IT.

Rationally, I know none of this bullshit is my fault. But hearing that song about making someone love you if they don’t…well, that’s been me. My super hero therapist, Sheila has been on point in telling me my self-talk is beyond harsh. I’m supposed to speak to myself the way I would to a friend or any loved one in my situation. However, I’m such a black and white person, my coping skills in the past with myself have been “wallow, get over it, it’s life, move on.” With trauma like this, accompanied by PTSD, severe stress and adjustment disorder, I’m not getting off the hook that easily.

For fuck’s sake.

When I am triggered, various emotions come barreling down the hatch like a tsunami. Sadness, anger, grief, loss swirl in my brain and body – and then, I fall down the rabbit hole. I hate The Rapist who walks free. I hate my ex-friend for not believing me and stating falsehoods in her on-the-record police interviews. I hate I never got to confront either of them. And then, I end up hating myself for “letting” this happen to me (beyond fucked up, I know).

Haters gonna hate. Oh and love special places in hell saved for those they hate.

So here we are at the, “I can’t make you love me if you don’t.”

Thing is, I can make me love me. I loved the fuck out of myself before this shit. And I have been working second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, month after month and now – year after year to get my groove back on with my bad self.

January 29th marked my second Rapeversary and a sample of how I am reminded to make me love me?

Family –

Sister CBXB…

Mama CBXB…

And friends like you? Fuck you guys are my sparkly army shining bright. Reminders from you that I truly am making leaps and bounds. Prompts that no matter how exhausting, how minute, how trivial the day feels to me, I matter. And isn’t that what we all need to remember? We matter. We matter most to ourselves. And it’s so easy to forget that in daily life, regardless of whether you’re insanely happy every second of every day or in the throes of despair, desperately trying to figure out why the fuck to get out of bed.

If I can, you can.

Friends from afar have noticed and commented in photos I’ve posted –

Friends who have experienced similar trauma know when to give me a head’s up –

Shit like the above makes the quote below all the more believable…

Folks like you help me, help me…. you know, Jerry Maguire style. Help me, help you. And, hopefully I can help others beat stigmas they feel due to their own experiences.

On this day of love and pondering of when I will be 120% back in love with myself, it’s important to know that the struggles are real. We all have them. And I’m thankful to be reminded constantly by those around me near and far that I am loved. I matter. And so do you.

So, cheers to being the own goddamn loves of our lives.

Being our very own, every day Valentine.

Love, love, love from me to you. But mostly to me (see, there’s more of me back than I think).

Love ya, mean it.

CBXB

 

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 – Gizzards, Griswolds and Gaming

Over the river and through the woods to the mini manse they came…

So, I haven’t ever cooked a turkey (or mowed a lawn, washed dishes without rubber gloves, changed a dirty diaper… because you know, my nails are jewels, not tools) but my friend Rasta decided to bake a bird for the Thanksgiving holiday, as she wasn’t traveling back to New York. I had family from Iowa coming into Nashville, she was kind enough to invite us over and it was a Griswolds meets the Iowa Hillbillies meets City Chic. In other words, the best kind of holiday mash-up.

I’ll let you guess which is which.

I went to help prep the evening before and basically sat on my ample derriere washing the evening away with wine, BUT I did help with snapping green beans, K?

Being a sous chef is hard work.

Upon my return to the mini manse, I called Mama CBXB no less than 31 times in 25 minutes because I was attempting my first casserole with a whopping six ingredients.

What’s a ¼ lb. of cheese?

Do you drain the corn or leave the juice in it?

What’s a ¼ lb. of butter look like?

And voila!

Corn and noodle casserole was a hit.

OK, I may have eaten half of it but still, a success.

Rasta baked her tail off, as I supplied a cases of much-needed vino.

My contributions.

Rasta stirring up a storm in her kitchen.

Upon completion of the bird baking, no one in the place had ever before carved a turkey.

How many peeps does it take to carve a turkey?

The bird got divvied, the casserole was a hit and Precious the chug may have had the tryptophan kick in earlier than the rest of us.

Tired turkey.

Friday, after shaking off our turkey comas, we headed down to Bailey’s Irish Pub to join another 125 Hawkeye fans to cheer on our fave team for the last game of the year.

Hey-oh! Hawkeye time!

The outcome of the game looked rather bleak at halftime with the score being tied at 14-14 (and as the Hawks basically rolled over and died their last two games, it was anyone’s guess as to who would win). But, in the third and fourth quarters, Iowa scored an unanswered 42 points, leaving us with a winning 56-14 score.

Somewhere between shots one and four…

… and somewhere between shots five and eight.

Of course each and every time the Hawks scored, I had to Facetime Dada CBXB who was up in Iowa visiting the twins.

I can’t hear you but drink!

What do you do after a victorious beat down? Celebrate, naturally. We headed to Robert’s Western World for some of the best old school honky tonkin’ around.

Showing G’Lee a fun old-fashioned country time.

Enjoying the holiday leftovers in Iowa, my BIL was showing off his doughing skills, making turkey and gravy pizza.

Dough master.

No one was upset about the use of leftovers.

Of course, the second the clock struck 12:01 am the day after Thanksgiving, the twins were ready for Christmas. And the decorating commenced.

Tree trimming.

Old school advent calendar.

While the mini manse residents are still recuperating from the shenanigans – surely, it’s just a turkey hangover.

Snuggle train still ongoing.

A day of Hallmark holiday movies and moving from one side of the couch to the other worked wonders for us.

Working our wind down with wine. Duh.

Here’s hoping your well on your way out of a gravy coma.

CBXB