Weekend Winks – Panic, Boos! and Pussy Shenanigans

Friday started on the right foot with some prep for a Halloween party at the office tomorrow.

However, things took a hard turn when I had a panic attack out of fucking nowhere after lunch. I had to leave work, after catching my breath and then I managed to throw up while driving down the interstate. With my head out the window like a dog. And still  got my empty stomach contents all over my shoulder and down the inside of my door.

Adulting is hard.

I threw my newest armour on that I received last week via mail with no note. Now, obviously the sender really knows me, as the shirt not only included sparkly pink text, it read, “Onward Buttercup there’s fuckery to spread.” I had posted a blog about my own personal Harvey Weinstein on Friday (thinking back, possible trigger for a panic attack), and got this text from the sender.

I have the best friends.

Unable to un-tense any section of my body (even my eyeballs ached), I wallowed on the leopard couch, played Words With Friends that pissed me off when realizing my favorite state isn’t really considered a word.

WTF?

I was joined in snuggles from Iowa by my sister and Princess B.

Miles apart but the same at heart.

I was being mauled by my fur balls and I didn’t hate a second of it.

Fierce feline snuggles from Ruby Sue.

Precious and Rocky joined in, too.

I was mighty happy the Iowa game didn’t start until 5:30 pm on Saturday, so I was able to do one out of 100 loads of laundry I should have done, lay on the couch, and watch my 81-year-old boyfriend Lee Corso on ESPN’s College Game Day rock a skeleton outfit. It was pretty much a perfect fucking all day.

Game day ready.

Extremely conflicted as to wear a costume, Iowa Hawkeye gear or a combo of both, I went for the gaudier side. A little Halloween and a whole lotta Hawkeye.

Conflicted costume.

Traveling out to Dada CBXB’s for the game (also known as Pamela Anderson to my Kid Rock this time of year), we got to see Cousin Eddie and Clark that I originally rescued but they took to my dad so much so, that I wrapped them up and gave him to them for Christmas two years ago. He can’t tell them apart and calls them Cat 1 and Cat 2.

To me it’s beyond obvious.

Cousin Eddie

Clarkie

We were all Skinny Pirated up and ready for the 5:30 kick-off. Some of our crowd were more excited than others…

Although the first half was kind of a snore, my Hawkeyes pulled out a win and we take those no matter how ugly!

Two touchdown and one victory shot! Whoop!

We then settled down with nightcaps of Manhattans courtesy of my BIL’s famous recipe.

Nighty night.

I slept the most consecutive hours Saturday night in as long as I can remember. TEN hours. TEN! I’ve been averaging maybe four per evening the past two years, so saying I felt like a new lady is an understatement.

To top off the start to my Sunday, I was treated by Dada’s world-famous cheese omelette (according to him) which is one of my fave things he cooks.

Ah, yeah baby.

My Iowa twins couldn’t decide which holiday they wanted to celebrate more…

From Halloween. To Christmas. Back to Halloween.

Pumpkin perfecting.

With some elbow grease to finish.

Paw Patrol is still big at the Twin Castle, and my handy sister was able to create adorable ensembles for the most adorable duo on the planet.

Skye

Zuma

Then, all hell broke loose for me when fucking Facebook popped up a memory from a year ago and feelings started to seep into my soul. This time every year, I would be prepping Teddy Bear’s costume – this is the first time in eight years I haven’t been able to do it. And top that off with it being National Cat Day, I had a come apart of epic proportions.

Hole in my heart over my main squeeze who is gone too soon.

Not wanting my current fur babies to feel left out, (as I do have the cutest kids on the fucking block), I still celebrated my fave four pussies, of course.

My fab four. Rocky, Fabio, Ruby Sue and Elsa Pants.

I’ll leave you with a little wisdom one of my Nashville sistas gave me in regard to closing out 2017, looking forward to a new year:

Anyone have any cheese for my cracker?

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Jazz Hands, Chugs and Pussy

You know I love the word pussy – a word I use quite frequently on this blog in describing my beloved feline fur balls. However, hearing it come from a dirty old man’s mouth, in regard to grabbing a woman’s crotch (any woman’s crotch for that matter) because he’s a ‘star’…. fucking please. So, to tune out all of the P word debate nonsense, I chilled with my fave P word – Precious the chug on the mini manse porch Friday evening.

My punkin with a full pumpkin.

We had to take it easy, as I was bleary eyed for an 8am appointment at the hair house on Saturday. Luckily, I get to bring my mascot – who needs no primping with a face like hers.

Louis Vuitton salon style puppy.

Even though I feel very Paris Hilton circa 1999, annoyingly toting my squatty bodied pooch in my purse, it’s too fun to resist – so I don’t.

Sunglasses hide sins. Yes, even inside.

Hurrying home after my gussy-up, I filled my fave wine glass with a Skinny Pirate for an 11am Iowa Hawkeyes kick-off.

My glass is resembling our team’s season falling apart.

While we’re tried and true fans, our tradition of touchdown shots was sidelined due a measly two field goals. So we chose to do sympathy shots in the third quarter.

Forced to shoot out of boredom.

Then finally in the last two minutes of the game, Iowa scored a touchdown and we were able to celebrate family tradition style.

Blurry celebratory shenanigans.

While we were day drinking our brains out, my Iowa twins were modeling for family photos.

I mean….the cuteness factor here almost makes my head pop off my body.

That hair.

While I planned on detoxing Sunday, the realm of crazy surrounding the presidential debate forced encouraged me to take the edge of all of the nonsense with a little vino.

Proper debate prep.

When did debate coverage become similar to College Game Day? When posters that made me piss my pants started showing up behind the commentator’s heads.

Best. Sign. Ever.

Even baby Elsa Pants was in dire need of a drink after the word devil was used by one candidate to describe the other.

And Presh could only muster a side eye glance at the shit show.

One eyeing the madness.

Naturally, I guzzled. Well, in truth my sister and I played a game where we drank every time Donald Trump sniffled. Which meant we guzzled every other minute.

Somebody give that man a fucking tissue.

The best thing I’ve seen since the debate was posted by Taraji P. Henson on Instagram in reference to pussy grabbing.

I hope Trump never comes near mine.

You can’t grab this. We’ll cut a bitch.

Here’s hoping no one forcefully grabs anything of importance to you this week.

Cheers!

CBXB

Take Your Chug to Work Day

Being that today is National Take Your Dog to Work Day, I couldn’t leave my Precious behind with all of the pussies in the mini manse.

Not another day with the pussies.

Hell, I take the chug (chihuahua/pug mix) everywhere else I go…

Bitches do have more fun, you know.

Supermarket sweep in the dog aisle.

Dynamic duo getting gussied up together.

Perfectly picking out plants for my black thumb to slowly kill over the summer.

So when I asked P if she wanted to join me at the workplace today she was all –

WHAT?!

Ready.

So I stuffed her into the Louis and she was carried through the streets of downtown Nashville in style.

No autographs please.

She may join in on a meeting or two during the day.

Like a boss.

Presh will claim my chair as her throne knowing she’ll still be overthrown.

Throne fit for two.

When she gets tired of my ample ass in her face, she’s got her own personal air conditioner.

The way her mane blows, she might as well be in a Suave commercial.

Precious has a knack for knowing things – like she’s the cutest dog in the entire universe. But she really loves reading all of the accolades she’s showered with when arriving to the workplace.

Basically, she’s the pretty girl at the party who pretends to not know she’s pretty so people tell her she’s pretty.

Yeah, that’s Precious.

Adore me. Now.

So all of the office peeps follow orders and fawn all over P like it’s their job.

Naturally after all of this hard work today, I’m taking Presh out for a round at happy hour.

A few dogtails will be had in celebration of a successful day.

One proud mama.

The best part about this national Take Your Dog to Work Day? It’s on a fucking Friday.

Hallelujah!

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Wins and Worms

You know when you’re a lady who single-handedly runs a fucking funny farm full of animals inside of her own mini manse that inevitably, someone is going to get sick…and then they all get sick. Because when everyone eats, drinks and shits in the same places it’s germ swapping mania.

Trough of pussies.

So we spent the better half of our weekend at the vet. Why you ask? Because everyone in the goddamned house had worms. FUCKING WORMS. All from our little chug who brought in fleas, which I thought I’d gotten rid of after a dip in the tub and a bomb of the mini manse but apparently, one of the felines got one in their belly and fleas turn in to worms.

Dip Baby Dip.

You know what’s fun when you have four cats and a dog? Prepping to take stool samples for the vet to examine, Ted’s meds for refills and new pussy paperwork on the three February family additions (yes, I’m my veterinarian’s dream come true).

Just another day in my fabulous life.

We loaded up (after a 43 minute mad dash for the baby, Elsa Pants, under beds, on the porch, in a kitchen cabinet – although I can’t blame her because she was getting to ride in a box) and were on our way. The two older cats got to stay back and receive topical treatment when I got home – which didn’t go over well with the three in my petmobile.

Never a dull moment.

When we finally got to the vet, I realized that my Louis Vuitton (my sixth baby), literally had shit in it because that’s where this blonde thought it was a good place to house the Ziplocs of feces when rounding the fur balls up.

Loaded Louis.

Patient patients.

Sweet Elsa Pants had no choice but to be patient in her box because she might as well be a greased pig running down a high school hallway during a Senior prank when out and about.

We have a runner.

Ted and Elsa took their topical worm treatments like pros. Precious on the other hand, ate her way through 18 pill pockets and STILL didn’t get the pill down.

Do your dogs do this?

After five attempts with a pill popper, the vet techs (yes, plural) were successful but someone wasn’t thrilled.

The winning weekend news though was that Teddy gained a pound since February (which is fab, since he lost half his body weight last year due to illness).

Bad news is Precious also gained a pound since February.

The worst news is that yours truly has gained 15 pounds in the same time frame.

Trifecta of emotional eaters.

Better news is that my pharmacist still knows how bananas I am over my pussies since I get to renew pet prescriptions at Walgreens.

Best news is that Elsa Pants forgave quickly.

While I was very busy running around after fur balls and excavating worms, my Iowa twins were all gussied up at their first go ’round as wedding participants.

Flower girl and ring runner.

You know they were highly rewarded for their fabulous efforts..

Turns out, someone takes a little too much after Auntie CBXB in the party department.

Sleeping beauty had one too many slices of cake.

Sunday was spent with Dada CBXB doing what we do best in celebration of Father’s Day.

Day drink!

Here’s hoping your week is off to a worm free, winning start.

Cheers!

CBXB

How to Remedy Trashtacular Hair Hell

Ever wake up after a hard night’s sleep, take a gander in the mirror and immediately want to wave a white flag in defeat?

About last night…

Surrendering any hope for good lookin’ locks for the day, you know when you show face (or dark roots, rather) in public folks will be talking behind your back about what a trashtacular turn for the worst your looks have taken? How you’re letting yourself go? How you must be broke as the top three inches of your hair are shades darker than the rest of your locks?

“There’s Something About Mary” hair – only greasier.

OK, so I don’t generally go in public decked out like a dork.  But I do often wake up longing for hair that magically grows a light blonde out of my scalp (instead, I have to visit my magician every six weeks) therefore alleviating the need for me to wash my hair every.single.day.  If I miss a shampoo, I look like I have taken Crisco to my roots by noon.

How does one cover up the trashiness growing from her mane?

Here are a few remedies I’ve found work for my hair indiscretions.

#1. The Snooki

The Southern version of the Jersey Shore ‘do.

Requirements: two barrettes.

Objects may seem higher in the mirror than in actuality.

This overall style saves me 25 minutes of hair hell in the morning.

#2. The Bang

When I was bitching at work regarding my greasy, grimy mane, a girl turned around and said, “Just wash your bangs in the morning.”

No shit? Being blonde is hard work.

Full frontal cleanliness.

Requirements: shampoo and blow dryer.  This version of “clean” hair saves me 20 minutes of primping.

#3. The Bret Michaels

Every hair has its thorn…

Requirements: scarf (and no ponytail the day/night before).

Talk dirty to me.

This is an ultimate time saver, as I can truly bounce out of bed, tie a scarf and go (but I have to remember to pack a Sharpie marker in my purse for all of the autographs I’m asked to sign while sporting this style), which saves me 30 minutes of hair agony.

#4. The Bun

This was an accidental oily hair cover-up, as I tossed my locks up in a bun one day at the beach.  But when I realized it would stay put all day, the look was added to my dark root arsenal.

An accidental beach miracle.

Requirements: one scrunchie (yes I said a scrunchie – I’m too cheap to buy the bun sponge helper thing. But it doesn’t count as a scrunchie in public if you can’t see it. Ok? OK?!) and bobby pins.

Just dreaming of Jeannie and wishing I could grant wishes.

Behind the bun.

This ballerina remedy adds another 15 minutes to my day.

#5. The Hat Trick

Can’t tell I’m a slimy mess under the fedora, can you?

This is the simplest remedy of them all. Grab hat. Put on head.

Requirements: any kind of stylish head topper.

Playing hide and seek with the horrific dark roots.

This trick saves me 35 minutes of messing with my tresses.

After all of the five remedies above have been tried and tested over the 42 days between salon visits (minus the nerd look), it’s time to visit my miracle maker.

Getting blonder (not smarter) by the second with my precious sidekick, Precious.

My roots breathe a momentary sigh of relief as I let them come out to play in all of their newfound blonde glory.

Back to blonde(r) requires celebration, naturally.

If you happen to see me in any of the above states, you’ll know I’m either trying to eek out seven weeks between salon visits or avoiding the hair wash (because I’m hung over, tired from a long weekend, hung over or just plain lazy).

It’s possible you won’t recognize me in all of my “I-swear-I-don’t-live-in-a-house-on-wheels-although-you’d-never-know-it-with-my-three-inches-of-visible-dark-roots” various, incognito giddy ups as you mistake me for Bret Michaels. Or any guest from the Maury Povich show.

Cheers to good hair days!

CBXB