Weekend Winks – Best Day of My Life…and Then Some

Due to the current football season underway, we were encouraged to decorate our work spaces with items showing off our #1 team last week. Per usual, I went with subtlety.

Just me, over here in my Hawkeye sequins jersey.

Overboard much?

I hate the Iowa Hawkeyes, obvies.

On Friday, we had a pot luck BBQ and there were raffle prizes to be distributed. When it was said that we were having a few “special guests” help draw the raffle names, my interest was beyond piqued. Then, in skipped two Tennessee Titans cheerleaders, which was pretty cool. As they were getting ready to draw the first prize, it was announced that there was one more special guest. My stomach dropped. I was thinking please don’t be the new head coach Mike Vrabel, please don’t let it be the quarterback Marcus Mariota, but pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let it be my T-Rac. The official mascot of the Tennessee Titans.

See, I have a thing for mascots. You know, those fur coated creatures that accompany my fave sports teams. It sure as shit was my lucky day.

In waltzed T-Rac. My face went red, I screamed like a girl seeing The Beatles on the 1964 Ed fucking Sullivan show, and about broke my metal folding chair pumping up and down on my plump rump. With my heart racing, the cheerleaders started drawing names for raffle winners. T-Rac was the one distributing the awards and I had to get my hands on him. The final prize of the day – a $100 gift card and commemorative Titans glass was on the line. The blonde beauty drew that last ticket and….said MY NAME.

I reacted with real class.

I jumped like a fat rabbit up to get my prize while giddily giggle screaming the entire way.

HUG ME ALREADY.

In the span of 25 seconds, I managed to make a gigantic ass hat of myself in front of my entire office. I also managed to not only maul T-Rac but told him that I loved him AND announced that this was the best day of my life. It wasn’t even noon on a Friday yet.

 

Afterward, the gentlemanly raccoon and his cheering sidekicks stayed to graciously take pics with the peeps.

Four’s a crowd.

demanded asked the hot mammas to please move over and allow me a solo photo with my main plush squeeze.

Move over bitches. He’s all mine.

On top of being in the arms of a giant stuffed animal, my life was absolutely complete when I made my debut on T-Rac’s social media page as the inaugural “Fan of the day”.  Of course I turned right around and added it to my Instagram.

Stand by for our “Save the Date” wedding invites.

How could this day get any more exciting?

An email went out announcing free cans of wine in the breakroom. I had to steady myself as I sprinted down the hallway to hoard the loot.

Mine all mine – now safely in my fridge and damn good.

My adrenaline was pumping pretty high, so I was excited I had plans to celebrate one of my nearest and dearest gal pal’s birthday after work.

Birthday girl sandwich.

I could hardly go to sleep since I had such a positive karma filled day. Luckily, Ruby Sue was wide-eyed with me.

Too excited to sleep.

With it being a balmy 90 degrees on Saturday, I hauled ass to the pool, trying to make summer last.

Saturday sun soak.

While I was hoping Saturday wasn’t the last hurrah in the sun, my Iowa twins were up and at ’em with a clever activity. They put coins in pans to freeze overnight.

Different version of Frozen.

They had to break the ice open, count the coins and exchange them for dollar bills from their parents.

Big money for Prince B.

Princess B headed straight to the Dollar Tree.

Saturday night my Hawkeyes played and I headed out to Dada CBXB’s to get the tailgate going.

Who doesn’t love boxed wine and wings?

Positions assumed.

The kitty didn’t stay cozy for long, as Iowa scored five touchdowns. You know what that means…

Five Family Tradition winning shots, baby.

Easily soaked up the next morning by my omelette making father.

What shots?

Being back in the maniac celebrate-everything-for-fun-life mode again, I started decorating for Halloween all day Sunday. My fabulous Fabio could have given two shits about my hard work, turning the mini manse into a haunted fortress.

As I was going back and forth to fetch my Halloween bins from my car, it was raining lightly. When I looked up in the sky, there was a full on rainbow. I seriously considered getting in my rust bucket and searching for the end, hoping for a pot of gold.

For like, a full five minutes.

I mean, I had fab karma going on.

Instead of looking for lost treasure, I plopped down in my tub for a soak and a People magazine read (side note – I get Meghan Markle is now a princess from America and all but if I wanted to read about the Royals every week, I’d move to fucking England).

Then it was time for a snuggle down on the leopard couch with my new fall scented candles.

No better way to wind down after an exhaustingly excitement filled 48 hours. Amiright?

Here’s hoping your mascot equivalent finds you this week.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Hit Rock Bottom by Twirling

What happens when something – or someone hits rock bottom?

I dunno. You tell me.

According to the dictionary rock bottom is defined two ways, with a third added by me:

rock-bot·tom

ˌräk ˈbädəm/

adjective

  • at the lowest possible level.
  • “rock-bottom prices”

noun

  • the lowest possible level.
  • “morale is at rock bottom”

 CBXB style

  • hit head as hard as possible on concrete
  • “head hit rock bottom”

I took the phrase rock bottom in a very literal way a few Fridays ago, as I twirled around in a parking lot, lost my footing IN FLATS (Louis Vuitton if we’re keeping track) landing only on my noggin which was cushioned by a yellow concrete tire stop.

An absolute guarantee my twirl was not as cute as this girl’s.

I can also guarantee that the concrete was not as cozy as this cushion.

I lost time but never consciousness. My head didn’t crack open and I didn’t have any kind of bump, so no visit to the emergency room commenced. I’ve fallen down so much in my life, this was just a par for the course in my novel.  I spent the night on a friend’s couch aided with water, ice and a high dose of ibuprofen.

The next morning, I did have quite the headache but only where I’d fallen on my head, so I wasn’t concerned.  I retrieved my car, ate breakfast, drank coffee, water, went to the pool, had wine, snacks, wine, supper and wine.

Totally fine enough to go to the pool.

Then that evening, I took a turn for the confused, belligerent and ended up at my mom’s house escorted by Bird Lady who kept telling me, “you’re not making any sense.” (Author’s side note: not uncommon for yours truly to not make any sense due to my self-described ‘blonde brain’ so this was waaaaaaay beyond my usual rambling).

Wait. What’s happening?

Upon waking Sunday, my entire body throbbed from my hairline, behind my eyeballs, my teeth, my neck, spine, knees and somehow in the middle of the night, my right big toe turned black and blue. I was a fucking mess.

Rock bottom if you will.

Mama CBXB had the pleasure of icing my head, listening to me complain about being nauseous, then getting to clean up after her grown ass daughter as I missed the bowl upon abruptly vomiting, when my symptoms were getting more serious. We called my health insurance nurse’s triage line and the on-call doctor at my general practitioner’s office for advice. It was decided I could miserably wait until Monday to see my doctor.

Ice. Ice. Baby.

I rewarded Dada CBXB for being my dad by giving him a reason to waste PTO days on, again, his grown ass daughter. Really, I’m just looking for more ways to bond with him at hospitals. So far, we’ve endured the removal of my tonsils, a busted face stitched up after an aluminum bat hit in 7th grade, Rapegate, his colonoscopy this year and now, my inability to twirl in a parking lot.

Hospital bonding.

I had a CT scan and X-ray of my foot (Dada CBXB just added my out-of-pocket cost to my ever-growing bill) performed, with the results saying there was no brain bleed, just a severe concussion. And a broken fucking toe (I have no idea how in the fuck I managed to break a toe and concuss myself all in the same twirl down, but somehow, I managed).

My doctor prescribed a week of no concentration and rest. No reading. No screen time on the phone and computer. No driving. No work. Just literally sitting and relaxing. And use a cane to help with the fucking toe. Oh, and I couldn’t be alone, so again, Dada CBXB cashed in four more PTO days and waited on his klutzy as fuck kid.

Oh woe is me.

So I decided the best way to communicate my neediness was to not look at him and ask for something while he sat three feet from me on the couch, but instead, I rang a bell.

I got used to the bell in about .000000003 seconds.

Leading up to my twirl down, I was insanely tired. My chronic fatigue has been in full force almost the entirety of this summer. I’d get restless sleep (because Shane the Rapist appears in my dreams but is just there – like, if I’m at a party, he’s there too. But nothing happens to me in the dream, well really, nightmare). So, I couldn’t remember the last time I woke up feeling refreshed. It’s basically been my job to be as relaxed as possible so that’s even become a chore. How fucked up is that? Three minutes of my life have doled out almost three years of recovery – with many more to come.

But, I’m back doing my beloved hot yoga, which helped me wind down in the past.

I take bubble baths after yoga. I read. I take my meds as needed. I drink sleepy time tea an hour before bed. I have a sound machine. I smell lavender. I put oil on my pulse points. I wear a sleep mask. I have a weighted blanket that is supposed to help with relaxation. I mean Jesus tap dancing Christ, this is my nightly ritual that shouldn’t seem like a fucking chore. But nothing was really working for my exhaustion and I was a train in dire need of some WD-40 on my wheels before they rolled completely away.

GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP.

Something had to give – and so, it did.

It came in the form of a severe concussion and a broken toe, forcing my ass to sit still and let others step in and care for me.

More water, please.

I can’t remember the last time I ate three meals a day consecutively since January 29, 2016. Well, that was remedied quickly.

My dad’s omelettes are my fave.

His BLT lettuce boats aren’t bad, either.

His stuffed peppers don’t suck.

Nor do his chicken lettuce wraps.

Chef Boyarcbxbeeee

I can’t remember the last time I took hour-long naps in the middle of the day.

Let’s get some day zzzz’s.

I can’t remember my dad ever watching the Bachelorette or Bachelor in Paradise, but we did.

New shows on the radar.

I can’t remember the last time I slept ten consecutive hours overnight. But I did.

I know you can’t tell, but I’m well rested.

I can’t remember ever not feeling like I’d swallowed the weight of a bowling ball in my belly since January 29 of 2016. But that feeling is gone.

The feeling of not feeling like I’ve swallowed a 14 lb. bowling ball.

The thing is, I’ve been treading water justenough to keep from drowning to the depths of my own personal Bermuda Triangle. There’s no escaping the aftermath of any trauma but when I started making baby steps in progress, even if I’d regress some later, it seemed so daunting to get up on that goddamn horse and try, try again.

When I saw glimpses of pre-Rapegate me starting to shine through my cracks, I wanted to do everything at once to grasp, hold on, keep the feeling there. I wanted to fight through therapy and come out on the other end, meet with the detective and sergeant of the Nashville Sex Crimes department to discuss the mishandling of my case, lose the 40 lbs I’ve gained since being raped, feel confident no matter what, work out daily, keep the mini manse sparking clean, be “on” and “happy” at work, make my bed without feeling like I should earn a gold medal for that feat, eating even though I have no appetite, grocery shopping, taking and keeping track of my meds, paint my nails, gussy up, take pride in my appearance, not wanting to make people who care about me worry, trying to not feel like a burden to those who do love me, avoiding panic attacks only to have them creep on stronger, listening to the judgement of others not solicited from folks who mean well and like to offer suggestions and the “I told you so” phrase even though they aren’t medical professionals or have experienced my exact trauma, remaining relaxed to try to sleep, trying to save money and pay back loans while keeping my lights on, dealing with life and loss like a normal person when I’m feeling like a tsunami inside (loss of self, ferociousness, confidence, dignity, ashamed of being raped (all daily feelings), my best fur friend Teddy Bear died, my second mom, Aunt Crazy Pants died, a friend of mine cut me out of his life completely with no explanation, a job loss, Precious my beloved Chug died – and this is all just part of fucking life) – I have been exhausted to the marrow of my bones.

Then, I suffered a severe concussion.

I first thought maybe one of those stupid cardinal wings of Aunt Crazy Pants’s was under my head, keeping me out of further harm when my noggin hit the concrete. Looking back now, I’m wondering if everyone who is a cardinal in Heaven and loves me joined forces and pushed my ass down, knowing I needed to stop.the.madness that had become my life. I was circling the drain in a bad way and I needed my ass kicked to stop it.

Thanks for the shove from above. Let’s not do it again, mmmkay?

Thankfully because of my family and friends (virtual and in real life), the Sparkly Army, that – if you’re reading this, you’re a part of– I’m back at it again.

Albeit a tad slower.

Canes are cool, right?

Unless you are my parents, sister, family, friends, or co-workers. In their case it’s me, then you.

Happy to report I’m on the mend, hobbling around on a broken toe, which is like a glimpse into my nursing home future.

If ever I twirl down again, I hope I’m in more appropriate attire.

Twirl at your own risk.

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Loud and Proud

First world problem – a non-working cell phone that carries over to a week.

How the fuck do landlines work again?

My iPhone 6 took a literal dump. Complete with a cracked screen (I seriously replaced that motherfucker four times – FOUR TIMES and each and every time cracking occurred, it had a protective screen on it) and total black out of the phone BUT if I kept it charged, sometimes Siri would work. Bonus, I was gifted an iWatch from Sister CBXB for my birthday and I could use that to talk and text like a fucking secret service agent.

Who doesn’t scream into their wrist?

Wanna know how I felt as soon as I had a brand new phone in my hands?

Hello again 2018.

While I was awaiting my new phone, I was able to hire, beg my gal pal Rasta, into being my own personal paparazzi. My cousin, Tballs and his wife with whom he’s been with so long, she feels like a cousin, Hussy #5 visited Nashville and naturally, I needed documentation.

A trashtacular family sandwich.

Hussies for life.

Dad’s Day required margaritas and four heaping bowls of salsa.

Feel good Father’s Day.

My twins of The Pussy Posse turned six last week. They were overjoyed. Obviously.

Sleepy at six.

Another member of my posse is making the rounds at the vet (and I’m still paying off Ted who’s been over the Rainbow Bridge for almost a year), Precious my chug.

Fainting couch needed.

Pres is 12 years old but truly acts like a puppy in the fact that she canNOT contain her excitement over anything. At all. So, in the recent weeks, she’s been so excited seeing her leash, she passes out for a few seconds. The first time at the vet, we were supposed to keep an eye on her. Then, she passed out upon my return home from work last week (I mean, I do know how to make an entrance into a room).

Vet visit two resulted in a referral to a pet cardiologist AND an order to keep this chug as calm as possible. I sound like a fucking ass clown coming home from work, trying to talk in a monotone voice, when typically my screech could shatter windows when talking to my fur kids.

Netflix and chillin’.

I’m not even supposed to take her out to pee (she’s puppy pad trained) because the sight of her sparkle leash literally makes her pass out. So what’s a fabulous fur mom supposed to do for a little stimulation? Put her in a Louis Vuitton and take her on errand runs.

Most annoying duo on the west side of Nashville.

Preshy even joined First Mate and yours truly for an early Friday happy hour.

While speaking of illnesses and fur kids, Mama CBXB  has two pussies that I may or may not have had a hand in getting her. One is a fucking beast who gives all felines a bad name – hissing and batting at legs and making sounds that don’t seem like they belong on this planet. The other, is the sweetest little baby you could imagine. Yet, they get along.

A beast and a baby.

When I tried picking the beast up over the weekend, I got a little souvenir for my heroic efforts of love.

Finally! I’m sprouting cat hair.

Speaking of hair, look who is the proud owner of some colored locks…

Sorry. Not sorry she’s my mini me.

My nephew, Prince B, is taking after his folks for a love of baking. This weekend it was pizza.

Chef BoyArdee.

The ultimate taste tester.

After a week full of shit show news, it was good to get out and about at Nashville Pride.

Roaming the festival with Rasta.

LGBTQ allies.

One of my fave parts of festivals is gawking at people and boy, this one did not disappoint. The best t-shirt ever goes out to this dude, who found it on Etsy.

Trump is not his safe word.

It was also Tan Boy’s birthday and we had a big time making fun of my blondeness.

Taking Pride a tad too literally.

Pride weekend was a much-needed positive reminder after all of the hate spew coming from people of all walks of life these days.

Love is love.

Regardless of your political affiliation, every person bleeds red, compassion is compassion and treating people like actual human beings is NOT hard.

Image by Justin Teodoro.

Care.

Care your fucking brains out with compassion. It matters. If you need any guidance on how to do this, give me a ring. I no longer have to shout into my wrist.

CBXB

CBXB!

Summer Snaps

While it seemed the month of January lasted 100 days earlier this year, how in the fuck is it now the middle of June? Bananas.

I’ve taken a slide down the regression train the last two months in regard to Rapegate and its aftermath full of PTSD and what not but – BUT with the help of my family, friends and fur balls, my wheels are still on the track, although daily WD40 is required at this point. Here’s what kept me moving and grooving…

Sometimes all you need are ladies who help keep your crown held high. And wine. Lots and lots of wine.

A night in with laughs, snacks and shenanigans.

I decided to get CPR certified, so maybe when I’m having my own panic attacks I can calm myself the fuck down (just kidding…only chewing on Xanax and getting on all fours does the trick for me). When we were practicing chest compressions on our dummies, the instructor asked who I was mad at…angry much? Yes, I believe I will be taking up kick boxing or kung fu in the near future.

It was the shit watching Nashville’s NHL hockey team, the Predators make their second appearance in the Stanley Cup playoffs, complete with watch parties.

Fang Fingers!

While they didn’t make it to the end, it was a season full of fun with reasons to partake in cocktails whether they won or lost.

Reasons for seasons.

There’s always reminders that I need to stop and smell the roses lilacs, compliments of my Princess B. She knows what’s up.

She reminds me that I always have time to stop and smell the wine.

Not drinking alone if your cats are home.

Or your chug.

Summer sports are in full swing and I think I have a sports star in the making with Prince B.

Sports stud on the rise.

I don’t know if Prince B could do it without the support from his sister, who clearly only comes to his games to watch.

Cheerleading at its finest.

You wanna know what else is a ‘holy fuck?!’ moment? My Iowa twins graduated Pre-K. We have official kindergarteners on ours hands people.

First and last day pics.

As soon as the summer vacation commenced, these two were on it full speed ahead.

Vacay the right way.

Oh and my tender-hearted nephew is about to melt your heart. Even if its dead and cold. He recently shaved his head because he wanted matching ‘dos with his dad.

Like father, like son.

In other happy news, my dophew, Spike, celebrated his third trip around the sun.

Spike with his fave kind of bone.

And in possibly the best news yet, the mini manse’s pool opened.

Summer hydration IV.

Rasta and I celebrated our one year anniversary – we met at the pool last year. Awe.

Alcohol and Bad Decisions.

More happiness with my fabulous stylist who not only is one of my besties but makes me laugh AND makes my hair dreams come true.

He does the hair. I provide the accessories.

 

The pink glitter cup he gifted me left me with surprises in my pie hole.

Sequin tooth in place. Does this give me street cred?

Bird Lady and I found a new bar, Firefly Bar and Grille, where I want to move in as they have their Christmas lights up all year long inside. Better yet, when one strand burns out, they leave it up and just put new ones over the old strand. Be still my beating heart.

Firefly and feeling fine.

When my gal pal from college came in, we shut that damn bar down while showing off our jazz hands we perfected in our collegiate show choir. Yep. We were cool like that.

Jazz hands still on point.

There have been many a Friday night where I want to stay in and get wild with organization. But this keeps happening…

So I catch up on how to murder people without getting caught. Don’t piss me off.

I’m also happy to report that Nashville is finally joining the 1980s and offering wine on Sundays now. We still can’t purchase liquor but I’ll settle for Jesus juice.

Miracles do come true.

Speaking of miracles, my loudmouth was allowed on a golf course to play a bit of put-put (or as real golfers call it, golf) while also delivering snacks and booze. All for a fabulous cause – Monroe Carell Jr. Children’s Hospital at Vanderbilt. Over $300,000 was raised for the kids.

Koozies make the best earrings.

When they told me to stock up the cart with snacks, I pretended I was on Supermarket Sweep and took just about everything in sight.

Griswolds of the golf course.

Roaming around on the golf course are sheep and being the animal lover I am, I wanted to take one home. But I settled for a photo instead, where they look like white blobs behind a big slob.

The famous sheep with a gigantic asshat.

In other famous news, Princess B got all dolled up for her second recital. And while I am very proud of her, I am also beyond jealous of her costume and am considering an extreme diet so I can squeeze my ample rear end into it.

Dancing Queen

Since she supported her brother in baseball, it was only fair he happily did the same…complete with the proper dance picture pose.

Hands on hips.

I used to be an avid jogger. My bed seems so much better these days, yet, First Mate got me out of my shell and coaxed me into participating in a Coconut RAD (Random Ass Distance) Run. Rasta was so moved, she made us a support poster.

The only way I will run anymore is if I can also hold booze.

One size fits “most”…uh, yeah, right.

While we were far from first place, we were also far from last. And, we couldn’t say no to rum in our coconuts.

Middle of the pack finishers!

No better way to cool off than a party day with Dada CBXB.

Race day cool down.

Suns Out, Buns Out.

I took one for the team, rounding up my dad’s ginormous sandals when it was time to leave.

You all know how much I love my fur balls and one in particular is having some issues. Precious the chug passed out yesterday on the way out for a walk. She’s been to the vet and had tests done, so please send your good juju her way.

Hopeful to get some pep back in her pitiful step.

That, my friends is a long winded catch up. The many reasons I have to smile has everything to do with you.

Thank you.

XOXO

CBXB

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!

 

The Man, The Myth, The Birthday Legend

Oh dads.

If you are lucky enough to have one or have had one in your life, then you win. A familiar fixture on this blog and in my life, my dad celebrates his day of birth (along with his twin!) today. Aunt Crazy Pants once doled out advice that I didn’t think much of at the time when I was younger. She said (during some stupid crazy boy drama, no doubt) “No man will ever love you the way your dad loves you.”

This didn’t really dawn on me until I was an “adult” (a term I use for myself extremely loosely these days) and a dude I was living with said to me, “I can’t treat you like your dad treats you.”

BOY BYE.

I guess I never had to think about it because of the jackpot I scored when my dad chose to be mine. A knight in shining (well, in his case probably rusty) armour. A frugal on the allowance guy whose driving abilities were always affected by how loudly the radio was playing in unknown territory (TURN DOWN Q.102 GIRLS WE’RE IN DES MOINES!). A dad who commuted four hours daily to work but rarely missed an extra curricular activity. A dude who could scare boyfriends shitless with his size but is actually a giant, goofy Teddy Bear.

A father who not only duct taped my glasses together in the third grade (hence the short-lived nickname “Ducky”) but also uses the same magic to keep my bumper adhered to your car as an “adult”.

A dad who tells you to “tough it up” when you’re sitting in the superintendent’s office, holding a bloody chin after being hit in the face with a baseball bat during PE but remains strong and silent decades later when he’s driving you to the hospital after being raped.

So yeah, Aunt Crazy Pants and her advice rings true – best of luck to a dude ever living up to The Man, The Myth, My Legend.

As we celebrate the Big Fella today, please join me as I share some of the valuable…

LESSONS FROM MY LEGEND


Image 90

You should always have your family’s back…

bl

       … even if they often attack.

Throw your hands up in the air…

wave

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

Even if you’re a dork inside…

...without my shades.

                                              

…it’s no matter if you’re cool on the outside.

The art of muscle blowing is unique.

blow

                       Passed down to generations…

and

                                              … and generations …

still

…to upkeep.

Pink isn’t just for girls…

flex

…guys often put the color on for a whirl.

Sequins should be in my everyday attire…

love

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

It’s OK to stand out in a crowd…

Dada C-Note

…just be sure to do it loud and proud.

Giving is better than receiving…

Image 91

…except when you let your three year old open your gift to be appeasing. 

The importance of slathering on sunscreen daily…

very

                      …just be sure to not get too crazy.

The significance of jazz hands…

was

…often help when making demands.

It’s not a road trip…

check

…unless you have rot gut vodka and 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.

Being the life of the party…

never

                                          …is like leading one big…

                                                            …fun army.

The duo that shoots shots together…

Wild Turkey

Image 11

Stays together.

…stays together.

It’s important to share…

at the

                 …even while pigging out at the Iowa State Fair.

It’s OK to relax…

after

…after a day has been crap.

You’ve carried me through physical hard times…

broken foot

         

broken ankle

…even if sometimes it was from too much self-inflicted wine.

Tipping my Skinny Pirates when my nails are drying…

treat

                         

…because you know there’s a silver lining.

Most importantly, not all heroes wear capes…

Not all

…just dads who pick us up no matter our proverbial scrapes. 

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.

Happy Birthday Dada!

CBXB

CBXB!

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!