New Phone, Who Dis?

How do you survive without a cell phone?

Anyone else feel like their mini computer (that also acts as an old fashioned voice-to-voice communication device) may as well be a required apparatus for existence these days?

First phone, what dis?

If you don’t, I envy you. My cell phone is somewhere in No Man’s Land. I have been without it for a whopping 84 hours at this point and I feel isolated (which makes that a first world problem, how basic can I get?) and out of sorts with life. I slept on the couch when I realized my one digital alarm clock I still own no longer worked, setting the oven timer to awake me from a semi-sleep for work (you know the kind of sleep where you don’t sleep because you are worried that you will over sleep, so you can’t sleep).

Sleeping motherfucking Beauty.

That nifty “find your phone” app only works when your cell phone is alive and kicking. Mine is unequivocally deceased.

Me. Without a cell phone.

Thankfully (or maybe forcefully), I committed to Apple a company of technology products that allows me the capacity to receive text messages to my computer. Realizing my phone was gone, I was able to message my folks on Facebook, letting them know I was still in the Mini Manse with the Pussy Posse.

Only available through my office landline.

I haven’t ever had much luck with technology (I took a hammer to a Canon printer in college after it failed the 1,734,902 time I was trying to print a paper. The hammer was therein referred to as “Canon Killer”).

Technology is hard.

Upon getting my first cell phone, it was simply a new means of applied science for which I could fail. There was the time my phone accidentally got ran over by a boyfriend picking me up for supper.

Let’s just stay in and have some wine.

And the time I lost a fucking phone in the Mini Manse (where it has yet to be recovered). I retraced every single high-heeled step from the prior night (knowing it was in the manse because I’d ordered a pizza upon arrival home), morphing into a Tasmanian devil tearing the Mini Manse apart. After five hours of scouring my trash cans, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom drawers, couch cushions, the piano, under the bed, in the freezer, through dirty laundry, in the pussies food bowls, behind every piece of furniture under the roof, outside of the balcony AND through my car, I looked like a deranged lunatic in dire need of a bottle of booze.

Luck of the Irish my ass

Anybody seen a pink sparkly phone?

How ever could I survive without my pussy picture taker?

Another phone debacle took place when my phone screen literally faded to black, therefore staying connected to WiFi, enabling me to communicate through my iWatch but unable to use the device. I looked like I was in a perpetual play state of FBI agent.

Not so secret agent woman, as I tended to scream at my wrist.

Once again, I was relegated to the old fashioned phone cord plugged into a wall piece of equipment that’s utterly foreign to many peeps today.

So very busy, chained to my landline.

Upon realization I played David Copperfield with yet another cell phone this weekend, I unsuccessfully retraced steps, places, nooks and crannies in Music City. WHAT. THE. FUCK. was I going to do?!

How would I capture the every day beauty of my pussies?

Yes. The world needs a good morning pic from Rocky.

How would I document my uneventful weekend debauchery?

Yes. People need to know what First Mate and I do all.the.time.

What if the Iowa twins wanted to FaceTime during my seconds, minutes, hours, days without a device?!

Whatever would I use to pull up a photo of the actor who played Alf’s dad to compare to people who look like Scooby?

Yes. This is important work.

How in the fuck would I paint my lipstick on (at the fucking table – yes, I have the audacity) without using my cell as a mirror?

Taking high maintenance to a whole new level.

The agony of feeling so helpless with the scenarios that I missed capturing with every waking second was almost unbearable (I mean, my ultra, beyond dramatic side could be showing its ass). And then, I received my new phone today right around noon.

Eighty four hours after a true first world nightmare.

This was an early Christmas miracle, indeed.

Call me!

CBXB

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.

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!

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?!

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).

Fuck 19

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 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 2

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.

img_3122

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

Fuck You 4

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

Fuck You 6

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 7

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 9

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.

Fuck You 8

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

Fuck You 9

Fuck You 10

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

Fuck You 11

Fuck. Even Ted got into the emotional mix.

Fuck You 14

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 15

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

Fuck You 12

Fuck you for the Halloween fail.

Fuck You 13

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

Fuck You 16

My gift to 2016.

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.

Thank You

Oh 2016…

Fuck You 20

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.

Holla 2017!

Who’s with me?!?

Holla 2017!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

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!