Fight For Your Right

Who doesn’t love the Beastie Boys song “(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party!)”?

OK, maybe you don’t love the song but you at least know of it – or have at least heard it at some point in your life.

Sister CBXB and I never asked for party permission.

Luckily for me, as a woman in 2018, I don’t have to fight for my right to party, nor do I have to fight for the right to vote. But, I still have to fight for so many other fucking issues, it’s insane. Reproductive rights, economic rights, educational equality, fighting to end gender based violence….I could go on (and I’m a white, straight woman – the list is longer when you are neither of the aforementioned).

However, I was raised among fierce fucking females. Whether they knew it or not, their actions and verbal lessons through their own histories somehow sank into my brain between my blonde ears. Gma worked at a factory while raising four kids and cooking (from scratch) for farm hands and her family daily.

Gma the great.

She also taught me to party.

My other grandma had five kids in three and a half years because she had two sets of twins (grandpa probably never got to touch her again). Another grandma raised four kids, cooked daily for family and farm hands, volunteered at church and taught piano (as she pronounced pie-ano). Kick ass women if you ask me.

Mama CBXB ran her own preschool out of our basement and went back to finish college when I was in the third grade.

She also taught me how to party.

Aunt Crazy Pants moved from a tiny Iowa town of 600 to Chicago and supported her husband through optometry school as a dental assistant, starting at the age of 19, then raised four boys.

She also taught me to party.

My great grandma Lulu (Gma’s mama), who passed away at 103, was born when women weren’t allowed to vote (and was also alive when two Presidents were assassinated (McKinley and Kennedy), the Wright brothers flew their first plane, when the original Ford Model T car was produced in 1908, and when Amelia Earhart disappeared in the air  – just to give you an idea of her historic longevity).

While a badass, she only drove a car once and crashed it, ruining a cherry pie. That was the end of her driving career.

Once women were granted voting rights in 1920, she participated in every single election until her death. Fact is, GG Lulu thought it was important to vote every chance she was given because there had been a time in her life when her voice didn’t matter.

So often, I think people feel that their vote doesn’t matter or count. That their voice is lost in a sea of political abyss. It’s easy to forget there was a time when not everyone in the United States could vote and use their voices. But it does matter. Your vote counts. Your voice is heard.

Don’t you hate it when someone is bitching and moaning about politics, the President or a policy? And then you find out they didn’t even vote in the election pertaining to what they’re griping about?

If you don’t vote in this election cycle, I don’t want hear one.single.piece.of.political.opinionated.shit.coming.out.of.your.mouth.

I voted early (mostly because I couldn’t fucking wait to voice my opinions – albeit silently via a ballot) and informed myself beforehand on what issues were most important to me as a voter.

Therefore, I can express opinions on the outcome of today’s midterm elections.

Civic duty done.

Oprah Winfrey was in Georgia campaigning for gubernatorial candidate Stacey Abrams (D) late last week and had these choice words for folks on the fence about voting. “For anybody here who has an ancestor who didn’t have the right to vote and you are choosing not to vote wherever you are in this state, in this country, you are dishonoring your family,” Winfrey said.

Respecting the fuck out of GG Lulu while also performing my civic duty.

In my perfect world, Jack Sparrow would be elected to the Tennessee Senate or as Governor and there would be Skinny Pirate parties every day.

Skinny Pirates

Talk about a political party.

Whether or not you choose to vote is your right (and be glad it’s a choice that you get to make). But if you don’t show up at the ballot booth today and cast a vote, don’t come crying when you disagree with policies of the victorious. If you need any ideas on where to stand when casting your vote…

And if that’s too much of a stretch for you, please keep this in mind…

Truth.

Always.

So in a recap, vote or shut the fuck up.

I even made The Pussy Posse vote.

Now get out there and make your voice heard.

Let’s paaaaaaaaaartay!

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Whipped Cream, Women and Wind Downs

Ever try to jam four months of activities into a weekend?  It’s been a hot minute for me but I managed to make the most of the gorgeous Nashville weekend. Starting with a trip to Warner Music to meet up with my friend M.Star.

Developmentally declined.

We were going to see my favorite radio show – Free Beer and Hot Wings that is on daily here in Music City on 102.9 The Buzz. It’s most likely on whatever the best rock station in your city mornings is from 5am – 9am. We hitched a ride over to the Wildhorse Saloon where we (I) sprinted to the meet and greet line.

Being that I have ample experience with artist management and production, I have been through this dog and pony show before. Except I acted like a total fucking fan girl because I have been listening to this show, laughing with these dudes and feel like somehow I am their invisible side kick. They went to shake my hand and I made them hug me instead.

The Free Beer and Hot Wings crew, a sane lady and a crazy ass clown.

After the excitement, M.Star and I went to pose in front of the stage. Except I forgot to include her in the photo.

Dynamic Duo.

Realizing my mistake.

Take three.

Finally a good one.

While my partner decided to feed herself, I headed to the watering hole where I was served a hearty glass of whipped cream because…why not?

Whipped to perfection.

As I guzzled my vodka and side of whipped cream, M.Star could hardly contain her excitement over the comedy of the show taking place.

She loved it.

While she’d had enough at intermission, I went back for more of the creamy goodness and stayed to laugh my ass off.

Saturday came waaaaay to quickly but I was up and at ’em to head downtown in order to participate in the Women’s March 2.0. Naturally, I had crafted a totally appropriate t-shirt.

Power to the Pussy.

Rasta was my sidekick for the day and we walked every inch of downtown, soaking in all of the sun, speakers and signs.

Turns out, over 15,000 peeps made their way to the march.

A few of my closest friends.

And the signs, oh the signs were my favorite part of the day –

My personal favorite of all time – I have no idea from which city it was displayed, nor who captured the photograph but genius nonetheless.

An after party was held at ACME Feed and Seed, with all proceeds benefiting Planned Parenthood. There was a killer line-up including Michelle Branch and the fucking insanely talented Alana Royale. I even met a new bestie, who used to boss an ex-boyfriend of mine around.

New besties.

I kept bitching about how Michelle Branch never sang “A Thousand Miles” (like the time I went to see Alanis Morrissette and she didn’t fucking sing “Ironic”). Turns out, Vanessa Carlton sings the song I was waiting to hear.

I’m a music genius.

While I was ready to call it a night after the show, Rasta wanted to hit downtown, so who was I to say no?

Celebrating the day.

Until I accidentally went to get a drink and stuck my straw up my nose. Then it was time to call it a day.

Night night.

While every bone in my feet ached Sunday, it was well worth it.

Post protest pretty.

After a long soak in a hot bath, it was time to nestle in and ready myself for NFL playoff games.

Yep.

Desperately wanting this shirt prior to Sunday, it was an OK thing I never ordered it after the ass beating the Vikings took from the Eagles.

I snuggled down on the couch with a new buddy, Rocco, who may as well be a gigantic cat – sleeping for a solid two football games.

Naturally, I hated every minute.

Regardless of your political stance or outlook on the current state of affairs in the world, Saturday proved to me that when people from all walks of life come together peacefully, it can really be a positive affirmation – a reminder that one person really can make a difference. If you don’t like something, you can take the initiative and try to implement change. Power to the polls in 2018.

You may or may not see me voting in this giddy up.

Now go get a cup of whipped cream. It makes everything better.

Cheers!

CBXB

Sayonara 2016

Know anyone who had a ridiculously fabulous 2016?

Me either.

Not to say great things didn’t happen for folks in this dumpster fire of a year but seriously, although my Gma used to say, “don’t wish your life away,” I couldn’t think of anything more that I would wish for than the goddamn clock to strike midnight on December 31, 2016.

Yes. How we all feel about this past fucking year.

Yes. How we all feel about this past fucking year.

While I kicked my year of with bad shit happening to a good person (yours truly) last January, there have been highlights and honest-to-goodness reminders as to why I wished I was a mother fucking super hero (or ass kicking princess).

I tried taking a cue from Elsa early on…

Elsa's help.

But I’m not a sexy smoker (see below). Nor do I know how to inhale. And lastly, I hold grudges like my net worth (let’s be real…I’m elated when I have triple digits in my checking account, so not really saying much), therefore this wasn’t going to be my outlet to let 2016 the fuck go. Also, it was just February.

Not a Sexy Smoker

Trying to heed advice of my fave, fearless lighting designer, Hawaiian Housewife (I know you’re rolling your eyes to the back of your skull M), who seems to let any/everything roll down her back (except puke – in which case she likes to displace on moi) with her famous line of…

Good Advice

Well, I didn’t try a bag of dicks per se but instead used an Iowa ear of sweet corn.

Corn Bag

While delicious, this didn’t help in the hate that seethed out of my soul for the year of all shitacular years.

So what did I do? I sprinted, ran, happened to be at PetSmart on an adopt-a-pussy Saturday sponsored by Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue (yes, I am now officially the face of their rescue and I will give you an autograph) and I did what any sane person does. I picked out three cats to add to my brood because in the end, you really can buy love.

Three's a Crowd

And in the end, you now have four feline mouths to feed.

Mouths

Plus I gotta fill the tiny yapper of my Ewok resembling chug, Precious.

Chug Life

But in the end, I got my loving therapy through this….

2016 at its Finest

All of the extra feline lovin’ seemed to help my in heart failure main squeeze, Mr. Ted E. Bear rekindle his love for life. And that made me feel like one extremely lucky lady – even though I will forever be recognized as the crazy Nashville cat lady. I give zero fucks for that title if this little pussy can still be by my side daily.

Better Tedder!

Friends tried to help by burning some of my past hurts away, while I ignited flames with lighter fluid.

Fire Starter

The fire didn’t really cure anything BUT this shirt did reflect my outlook…

Win Win

So I’d call that a win-win, wouldn’t you?

Being involved in a traumatic, life changing event, I enlisted the help of a f.a.b.u.l.o.u.s. therapist that I regularly see on Thursdays (#therapythursdays anyone?). Upon completion of sessions, copious amounts of vino is required. And while I don’t mind drinking with my five (yes I said fucking FIVE fur balls), my sister and gusband (gay husband) are more than ready to join me in Iowa and Missouri, respectively, when I need the company.

Therapy Thursday

IOWA!

My kind of pour.

My kind of pour.

Over the course of this year, I’ve let my pride of self-worth sit on a back burner and simmer (due to uncontrollable reactions to aforementioned bad shit happening).  With the help of friends who aren’t afraid to tackle the CBXB monster and family who’ve dealt with me forever, I was forced to not only wash my hair but show face at my fancy salon (with my fabulous chug in tow, of course) to get my pink rejuvenated and remain blonde.

Gussy

Those same folks about keeled over seeing me in flats and also forced me into my pre-2016 daily shoes…stilettos. I mean, I’ve always been known for my practicality.

Heeled UP

Counting on those who know you best, I hung in like a champ for my Iowa Hawkeyes football tailgates – and kept the family tradition of moonshine touchdown shots alive with Dada CBXB.

Tailgating

Cheering it on with family as often as I could.

CHEER

Speaking of cheering, you all have sent nothing but positivity, well wishes, fab karma, and outrageous juju my Aunt Crazy Pants’s way after her cancer diagnosis this summer. While she’s my end-all-be-all-twin, she’s still kicking some fucking cancer ass. And that’s the way we prefer.

Holla!

Aside from my family and very, very close circle of now known friends (funny how tragedy, traumatic experiences, etc. leads you to your faithful peeps) these two twin monkeys have done nothing but keep my rails from coming fully off the track. I mean, look at their faces. How lucky am I? Even if it was the most dismal year in the history of histories in my lifetime?

For real.

Speaking of rails on the track, while my job is typically a full-on shit show, I have people surrounding me in the office that are full of life, love and overall kindness. Their humor, wit and ability to deal with crazy on a daily basis has made my 2016 a better place.

Work

What made this year – day after day – hour upon hour – minute upon minute – second upon second – all the more difficult was the constant issue of rape culture and the shaming of women, men and any human who has suffered this intolerable situation. From Brock Turner getting a fucking six month sentence after raping a woman in public on a campus, to the published accounts of victims reading letters to their accused in court, to a fucking presidential nominee with 12 – yes 12 women accusing him of inappropriate conduct…one being recorded on tape resulting in a TV anchor’s dismissal from a network by simply being in the situation and not stopping it.

But then, America voted that man president. Women I know voted for that man. Women I know that have daughters voted for that man. Men I know who have daughters voted for that man. Why? It’s beyond me.

Not only does he “grab pussy” because he’s a “star” but he’s totally going to “Make America Great Again.”

FUCK YOU TRUMP

TRUTH

I’m all for voting and standing by your decisions. And I’m also not saying I loved the other choice on the ballot but fuck. Nominating a male chauvinist pig (among many other indecencies as a human being) as POTUS made the end of the year almost unbearable as a person in my standing.

TRUTH TRUTH

This year has proven unbelievable in the most horrific ways. Unbelievable in the most humane ways. Unbelievable in the amount of support I have garnered at the hands of acquaintances, friends, social media buddies, family – the outpouring was (and still is) something that I can’t even still comprehend in the best way possible. To that, I am grateful. To that, I dedicate my first bottle (of tonight) champs to you.

CHAMPS!

I will put on my finest threads and ride out the rest of the hours 2016 has to offer.

MOTHERFUCKER

I will most likely headbang my way into 2017, giving zero fucks about the neckache I will endure.

Bangin'

Because if you are reading this, you have aided me through the darkest 365 day chapter of my life thus far. And I love you for being there digitally, emotionally, physically, snail mailingly, social medially, FaceTimingly, textingly, etc. You have no idea how much one message, like, encouraging word can carry me through days.

Together

The motto I have stuck to and lived by every moment of 2016…

MOTTO

And now, it’s time for a fresh start. Not to say I – or anyone else – is immune to bad shit. It happens. It’s life and makes up the DNA of our souls. But sometimes enough is enough.

I say enough.

FUCK YOU 2016

Sayonara 2016.

FUCK YEAH 2017!

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!