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!

 

Ass Kissing Like a Boss

Most of my working adult life has been spent kissing ass (which, when it boils down to it unless you work for yourself, comes with career territory), as I’ve found myself being a personal assistant (job description: therapist, mom, chauffeur, wife that goes home at night, nurse, pet wrangler, girl Friday, psychoanalyst, chef, medical doctor, maid, laundress, child care provider) more than once.

Being that I live in Nashville, I once scored a job as a member of an “up and coming country music artist’s” management team (translation: personal assistant).

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

This up and comer had more money than God. Like hundreds of millions of dollars to live on and wipe her ass with, allowing her to not work a day in her life. Ever. So what’s a gal with all of that money and limited talent to do? Be a country singer -DUH!

My first day on the job, I was supposed to fetch lunch for this budding superstar. My list said chicken broth and Sprite. Surely this was supposed to read chicken noodle soup and Sprite, yes? Nope. I sat there and watched a grown woman with the body of a 4th grader slurp chicken broth for lunch – you know, to keep that girlish figure.

That being said, I should have known better when I was requested to bird sit (yes, you read that right) her three fine feathered friends and she told me to help myself to anything in the fridge. But when I ran to see what kind of name brand goods a rich up and comer ate, I was sadly disappointed to see that A) I would be starving over the weekend and B) it was all food for the birds except for mustard, Jell-O cups and eggs.

Help yourself to my bird food. Literally. Her birds' food.

Help yourself to my bird food.

Of course, being that this is Music City and I worked for a mover and shaker, I experienced all kinds of fun events. Like the Country Music Festival held in Nashville every June. Before we headed there for her first appearance, she said to my colleague, “Better not tell anyone you work for me or you might get mobbed.”

Tens of tens

Clearly I feared for my safety as she performed.

Other events I was able to experience included red carpet moments for her gigantic showcases. One time, as I was laying out her very high-end, $28,000 designer dress out for a show she ran in after a facial and screamed, “MY FACE IS RED!” I glanced up at her and agreed by saying, “Your face is red,” as she’d just had her mug rubbed, poked and prodded. Her response? “Eat shit and die.” I’m surprised I have any tongue left after all of the biting I had to do in order to keep a paycheck.

Your face matches the empty carpet.

Did I mention that your face matches the empty carpet?

I also got to be a personal stylist when we were getting ready for “big” magazine shoots (you know for a free city publication).  While helping her skeletal frame in and out of outfits, touching up her lip gloss, assuring her that her hair was just big enough but not too big I often got to hold her beautiful diamond jewelry between shots.

Sweating

Who wouldn’t spend $56,000 on a toucan ring? WHO?

This lovely creature of a woman also purchased a puppy for her manager on Valentine’s Day. Because nothing says “I love you” like a dog you (i.e. the assistant) get to take care of. Forever. A puppy was beyond an appropriate gift for a guy who travels three weeks per month. Perfection. So you all know that this goddamn dog became my pet, right?

Mells

The bane of my existence, pain-in-the-ass, little love of my work life.

As we all know I’m much more of a cat lady, although I couldn’t help but fall in love with that flipping happy face.  Which ended up being a good thing as the puppy single-handedly destroyed my office one night, managed to eat a bag full of mini Snickers over lunch one day therefore shitting gold for three weeks (after I was assured by the vet she wouldn’t die), chewed through the hose on my personal washing machine when I took her to my house and managed to eat through every single can of a 12 pack of Sprite, spraying the sugary liquid from floor to ceiling. FUN TIMES.

Such a good listener

Sit. Stay. I’m magic with dogs.

While wrestling with the dog became part of my daily duties, I also got the pleasure of carting this woman to and from very important appointments (mani, pedi, massage, hair appointments).  And what better way to use my double degree from a fine university than to balance her three pet birds on my body while driving through the streets of Nashville (you know, to socialize them)?

Goddamn Bird I ended up loving...ugh.

No Polly, I don’t want a mother fucking cracker. I want you to keep your crest from obstructing my view of traffic.

Amazing what one will do for a paycheck, isn’t it? While I happily, thankfully, fortunately, get down on my hands and knees and praise Jesus every day that I don’t work for this woman anymore, here’s how I always wanted to respond to her requests….

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking most all of the time.

Safe to say I don’t miss her! One bit.

The dog…that’s a different story.

CBXB

CBXB!