Reason for My Season

As a kid there wasn’t anything worse than the last hour of Christmas because I would sit and think that I had to wait another 364 days for the fucking fun to come around again.

Just your typical family Christmas chaos.

Santa would not only eat the milk and cookies, he even tracked in ashes from the fireplace when he came down our chimney. The man in red also responded to the letters we’d leave him and when we asked for him to give us a kiss while we slept (totally not creepy asking an essential robber breaking into your house through the chimney to also age inappropriately kiss but whatever), we’d wake up to jingle bells by our beds for proof.

There was also never short a short supply of cousins to share in our Christmas spirit.

These family gatherings and traditions have waned over the years, as everyone but me  grew up, flew the coop and started procreating their own spawn and time gets prioritized differently. I do miss our large family get togethers but with everyone peppered across the states, it’s difficult.

However, that has never deterred the Christmas in my heart all year-long type of person you want to punch in the face.

Christmas cheer overdrive…always.

My mini manse never not looked like I was singlehandedly going to host Mr. and Mrs. Claus for the season (naturally I was always hoping that would happen and I could adopt a reindeer and an elf – and yes, I’m being fucking serious).

Serious outside decor.

Not until, that is, Rapegate occurred. It is insane that something that happens in an instant can alter your world so hard that you don’t even recognize yourself. Getting out of the bed was feat enough, how the fuck was I ever gonna be able to muster the energy to pretend I felt joy about celebrating anything when my world was now nothing but gray?

The past two Christmases I’ve twinned with Alice Cooper.

However, with therapy and through my evolving recovery, my holiday merriment is back. It doesn’t feel like a mask I have to put on, making sure those around me don’t feel burdened by me or worry about my state of mind. And oh boy, is it ever the fuck back on in full force.

The past three years, dealing with PTSD, chronic fatigue, severe stress and depression, life continued on which it always fucking does and should. That doesn’t make shitty situations any easier, and some that I’ve loved deeply, have passed on to party in the sky since I last celebrated Christmas in 2015. And, they were all a part of my Christmases, be it from childhood, adulthood or being my fur baby forced into Christmas costumes for a photo every year.

Those that I have lost all loved celebrating the season (whether forced by moi or not).  And this tinybuddha.com quote really resonated with me when I read it.

I celebrate for Ted.

I celebrate for Aunt Crazy Pants and Gma.

I celebrate for my sweet Precious.

I celebrate for Big Al.

Celebrating for those who have passed before is melancholic at times. But I also have 400 million other reasons to celebrate – including you reading this post currently.

So, I’m throwing my sequined antlers on and running the goddamn hap-hap-hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby danced with Danny fucking Kaye.

I’m baaaaaaaaaaack.

Blitzen – for all kinds of reasons.

Starting with the celebration tree I’ve had up all year, it’s now adorned with all things Christmasy.

The mini manse….has been in transition from ultra gaudy to ultra ultra ultra gaudy. I have no less than 16 bins brimming with Christmas cheer that I haven’t touched since 2015. So it’s basically been like a supermarket sweep only with tinsel and all things sparkly.

Work in progress.

This is the first year that The Pussy Posse has witnessed the madness of the holiday season with me.

Exact replica of my four pussies reactions to all decor.

So if you’re wondering what I’ll be up to the rest of December between holiday parties and merriment, I’ll be decorating until the new year.

Very busy with my tinsel pillow.

Please feel free to stop by and receive a festive as fuck guided tour. It will only cost you a bottle of Captain, box of wine or bag of cat food. Seems reasonable, right?

Go get your festive on. NOW.

Cheers!

CBXB

The F Off 2016 Countdown

Fuck 2016.

I have loathed almost every.single.second of this year that instead of an advent calendar counting down the days to my typically fave day of the year – Christmas (I mean, second to my birthday of course), I’m counting the days (30), hours (720), minutes (how do I compute this?) and seconds (for real, I can’t do math that well) and milliseconds (who can help me out here?).

Like really, really, really, really hate you 2016.

This year did start off on a fabulous high-heeled foot with smiles, champagne and high hopes of a bright and shiny new year.

Yay! A fresh start from a shitty 2015!

But somehow, this year just took a big dump on almost everyone I know.

For me the sparkle of 2016 lasted about 24 hours.  Family drama involving cops, divorce, death of a young friend, bad shit happening to a good person (that would be moi), and still on the hunt for a job –  all squeezed in on or before January 27, 2016.

How can this be happening already?!

If someone would have told me what the next 11 months entailed, I would have punched myself in the face, possibly crawled into an oven set to broil or figured out how to construct a time machine into the future (although I would need help with the dimensions portion of this project due to the aforementioned horrible math skills).

Fuuuuuuuck.

So, here’s the kick off to my Fuck Off 2016 countdown to better days for everyone I know ahead.

Fuck you for making me feel ashamed of myself to which was no fault of my own.

Fuck you for a culture of victim ignoring, shaming, and turning the other cheek when convenient.

Fuck you for taking the happy, the uncompromising confidence, the pride, the sparkle, the light, the love out of a girl who has never known any different.

Fuck you for taking away my ability to give a rat’s ass about my appearance to the outside world.

No really, fuck you. I mean me in no make-up in public….I think it’s been since 7th grade.

Fuck you for the seven months of sleepless nights on my leopard couch because being alone with my thoughts became unbearable due to an act on one single night.

Fuck you for the lasting post traumatic stress disorder, severe adjustment disorder and extremely delayed response to that event I’ve been trying to cope with over the last 11 months.

Fuck you for the pile of emotions that creep and sneak and fall from the sky at unexpected moments that are bigger than the goddamn mountain of laundry I avoid doing.

Seriously fuck you. I’ve never been a crier.

But fuck you for real 2016! I just.can’t.stop.

Fuck. Even Ted got into the emotional mix.

Fuck you for making my cortisol levels soar, my energy plummet, allowing my anxiety take over, laziness to kick in, sleeplessness be a constant and for making my diet consist of mainly Pepto Bismol, Aleve and carbohydrates.

Fuck you for taking away my excitement for my most wonderful time of the year…celebrating any and everything.

Fuck you for the Halloween fail.

Fuck you for the sucking the Christmas spirit out of my soul (except my Clark Griswold glass, of course).

My gift to 2016.

Fuck you for the lonely feeling of fight – but the fierce (while faint) is still in me and ready to kick some ass.

Oh 2016…

And so, the countdown for me, for you, for the upside down world we live in at the moment is on. I say we commit to a bottle of bubbly per Fuck You 2016 countdown day.

Who’s with me?!?

Holla 2017!

CBXB

 

Game Changers

For everyone there are moments in our lives that epitomize time – where we will never forget the time, the place, the exact feeling.  I’m not talking about the life changers – births, space shuttles exploding, wedding days or the likes of presidential assassinations. Rather, the smaller instances you don’t realize the significance of what you’re experiencing and the way it will shape the days ahead.

Like the occasion it was presented that life as a ballerina wasn’t on the table.

Step ball changing my way through elementary.

Or maybe the time you realized Christina Aguilera was not singing about you in her hit song “Genie in a Bottle.”

Anyone got a magic carpet?

Could be when you realized you not only lacked the tact but also the appropriate attire for becoming a super model.

I see London
I see France
I see above your underpants.

Khakis look good on a runway.

Said no one ever.

Remember when you saw your first concert and it inspired you to be a rock star?

You either have it or you don’t. This Elvis doesn’t.

Maybe the time you had the first bite of your now favorite delicatessen, you knew nothing else would ever taste this good.

Taste bud changer.
Don’t judge my classiness of food choice.

Or was it when you realized that the art of watching a collegiate football game would never again be a dull time if you add in some Skinny Pirates and moonshine?!

College football changer.

Possibly being educated about where feminine products are appropriately placed turned your world into a real life Monopoly board game.

#SOS

Recently I found myself  in a downtown Nashville community building that is still all but deserted of anything reminiscent past the ’80s. I sat alone and waited impatiently for my name to be called so that I could further discuss the bad shit that happens to good people.  My leg was inadvertently bouncing so hysterically that the lone security guard came over to ask me if I was OK.

MOTHER FUCKING GAME CHANGER.

It was in that split second that my game changed.

I can’t help what happened to me. I can’t change the way I feel about this situation. I can’t help the sleepless nights, the not wanting to be alone with my thoughts, the shame I still experience. But I CAN do something about it.

So from this day forward, my uniform is permanently on.

Bring it.

My blingy armour will remain in tact.

Let’s do this.

I mean, it is fabulous.

I’m rounding up the biggest posse I can wrangle.

You in?

And this tasty treat will be on the menu at my next mini manse party.

Mmm…my favorite.

Who wants to play with me?
CBXB

Shitter’s Full

So…it appears that naming my new twin fur babies after my favorite Griswold characters has come back to bite me in the ass.

Clark and Cousin Eddie buttering me up.

Upon bringing the twins home to my mini manse, I escorted them into the wing they’d be spending much time in – the Pussy Wing.  Within this section of my apartment, all things cat related happen in here. The litter box is behind the green couch, food stored behind the partition, window always available to perch, etc…

A mini manse in a mini manse.

As you may well know (and he most definitely knows), the king of my castle is Mr. Ted E. Bear. Not only does this feline rule my roost non-stop, he has a version of kitty Celiac disease and needs prescription food to get by in life. Which costs a mere $65 per bag and can last one cat two months (which makes me thrilled out of my blonde mind that I now get to feed three mouths premium feline food).

My main squeeze.

Turns out that Clark and Cousin Eddie were beyond thrilled tasting this fine concoction of green peas and duck – so much so they were sucking it down their throats without even chewing.

Classy dudes with the kitty cat caviar.

It also turns out that the Griswolds have touchy digestive systems and this fancy food didn’t bode well with them.

As in, gave them diarrhea.

The squirts.

The runs.

Did you know that when cats have the shits, they don’t use their pan?

Me either.

Facing a literal shit show.

Being that the shade of feces and my carpet matched perfectly, I was able to put my foot in a few piles before I realized what was happening (and I’m sure my neighbors thought I was being murdered due to my overreaction of being touched by liquid dookie).

Trying to remedy this situation before having to burn my mini manse down to get rid of the defecating smells, I put out puppy pads, thinking this would help my sanity.

Fort Diarrhea

Only when my little chug friend Precious saw the puppy pads, she thought she was being ‘good’ by using them.

So now everyone is shitting and pissing on the fucking puppy pads.

How could anyone be mad at this mug?

Thwarting further insult to injury, I tipped the green couch in the Pussy Wing up on end as Cousin Eddie is now sharting (a little piece of shit coming out with a fart) and there have been a few dribbles on the sofa.

Leaning tower of green.

I also lined the sides of the couch with foil because from what I have heard and read online, cats are terrified of the stuff.

Clearly.

Foiled by my feline.

I just had this feeling that no matter how hard I was trying, this shit show version of my life was going to last a bit longer…

And, as Ed molested my head (as he has done nightly since his arrival) last night, I kept thinking that he smelled insanely rank but let it go.

All about the snugs.

Until this morning.

When I woke up still smelling rank ass and found this on my chest from Eddie’s sleeping ass.

Greeting the day by being shit on.

MAKE IT STOP.

So I’m taking the little shits who can’t control their bowel movements to the vet tomorrow and hoping there’s a cure for all things digestive related in these little monsters.

Driving me to drink straight out of the boxed wine bag.

If I’d have known that naming my cats after Griswolds would result in an actual remake of certain scenes from Christmas Vacation, I might have reconsidered.

But until tomorrow the shitter shall remain full.

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Titans Style

A Nashville weekend for CBXB complete with a little kit cat time, preseason NFL football and a whole lotta lazy in the sun.

The number of cups equals the amount of fun had at a Titans game, FYI.

Friday called for a little relaxation out on the patio of my mini manse.

Fridays taste so good!

I was trying to unwind under my bright lights that annoy the piss out of my neighbors (someone had to be the Clark Griswold of the neighborhood!) but the incessant whining from some little furball inside made it impossible for me to concentrate on reading my People magazine and chug my Skinny Pirate. So I let the little whine calf out.

Who wouldn’t wanna party here?

And I immediately regretted my decision as Teddy sprinted to the end of the deck, dramatically putting the front half of his body out over the ledge and meowed (what he surely thought sounded like a lion’s roar, but sounded like a sick goat) to announce his presence to no one. I thought, “Great. My family is going to have a heyday with this story when the apartment complex calls telling my folks that I broke my neck jumping off my second story deck to save my cat, Mr. Bear – who would of course walk away unscathed.” So instead of freaking the F out and yelling at him, I casually pulled him in and yelled “NO!” once he was back on all fours of the appropriate side of the deck.

You go, I go you little shit.

Once every nook and cranny was checked out, it was time for tricks.

Acrobatic show off.

And while practicing his balance, TB acted as if he was doomed to be on the porch forever,  trying to claw at the window screen.

Outside looking in.

Once again yelling “NO!” (you see how scared Ted is of me?), he tight roped down the chair and settled in for a nice, long cat nap.

F You!

Four minutes of curiosity makes a feline tired.

Worn out after the circus tricks of the prior evening, I hauled my lazy ass up to the pool on Saturday. Where I continued to be lazy. All. Day. Long.

All I was missing was a tan.

A spontaneous invitation to go to the Tennessee Titans game produced all kinds of fun with my First Mate and her hubs. Although, as I was rushing to get ready, she reminded me that you can’t take a purse bigger than your palm in to the stadiums anymore. WTF?! Where am I supposed to put my sunglasses? My bootlegged liquor? My lip gloss? My ticket won’t even fit into my purse without having to be folded! The horror!

Teeny tiny purses didn’t deter from fun.

I was still able to mix cocktails in the bathroom bar by smuggling in my spirits.

Can’t stop this classy girl!

Although, we were forced to be assholes wearing our sunglasses at night because we had nowhere to put them.

Yeah, we know we’re cool.

While we started out with our vodka and beer, First Mate and I HAD to have a glass of wine once we saw the container it came in.

Reusable AND it has a lid!

Cupholderific!

The mixing of liquor, beer and wine gave us a really good idea for a blog post. I’m going to try out to be a Titans cheerleader next year and First Mate will document my uncoordinated experience. You’re welcome in advance and I am not eating solid food until after tryouts next April (but I refuse to give up my Skinny Pirates).

All I need to make the cut is fake boobs, three more inches added to my legs and the ability to make it through a cheer without giggling. I got this.

Parched as we were, a stop at our fave bar Dalts was required before calling it quits on a fun Saturday night. Can’t you tell Hubs was just having the time of his life?

Leaning tower of blondes.

With the best of intentions of going to hot yoga on Sunday, I decided to sweat out the shenanigans of Saturday night by holding a day long savasana pose by the pool.

Perfect end to the weekend…while gaining a teeny tiny tan.

While I sat on my soon-to-be-a-Titans-cheerleader-dreams-dashed-hopeful-ass by the pool, I also studied pics of my niece and nephew practicing their favorite poses.

Happy Baby.

Plank.

Not only do they look cuter doing yoga than I do, it seems as if they have better form too. Show-offs!

Here’s a big cheers to a great week!

CBXB