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.

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

Weekend Winks – Saucy Scaredy Cat and Civic Duty

There’s a fucking saying, “do one thing every day that scares you”… and I’ve always thought it was pretty silly.

Go on a bungee jump? Try chugging a gallon of milk? Jogging instead of walking?

Well folks, I abided by the often used “scare you” quote and ran with it over the weekend (because my friend M. Star made forced coerced asked me too nicely).

Toilet paper on my sparkly pink wedge scares me.

What also scares the fuck out of me is how fast my Iowa twins are sprouting.

Road trip!

Prince B and Princess B were fortunate enough to score tickets to Kids Bop through their parents, thus were escorted to Minneapolis for the big show. This being their first pop rock concert, they needed to fit the part.

Princes B channeled Auntie CBXB in the non-permament pink haired department.

All spray, no stay.

Pop star ready.

What concert goer is complete without signs to hold up while fawning and screaming over the Kid Bop performers?

Already concert going pros.

You know what else is scary? Voodoo got married and I want her wedding ring so badly that I may chop off her finger.

Scary

Voodoo is now a +2.

Cheers to your married years!

Class Acts – First Mate, Voodoo, Bird Lady, Boob and yours truly.

Behind the scenes assy.

It’s also so scary to not watch Hawkeye football games with Dada CBXB because, it’s what we do. Well, what Dada CBXB and I do. Sister CBXB lives roughly 25 miles from the stadium and still, we get texts on game day like…

Because Voodoo’s marital celebration of bliss was in the middle of the Iowa vs. Indiana game, I arrived armed and ready for our Family Tradition shots. This week, we made an exception to do a winning (in lieu of an every touchdown) shot together, which may have been a blessing in disguise because the Hawks won 42-17.

W-I-N shot. With help from Boob and First Mate.

Until next week.

While I was basking in Voodoo’s marital bliss and a Hawkeyes win, the twins were reveling in the first snowfall on Sunday.

The first taste of snow.

Second taste of snow.

While the twins were busy avoiding yellow snow, I was mustering up energy on Sunday morning, trying to remember why in the hell I told one of my besties, M.Star that I would go to my first ever spin class AND then go canvassing. Plus, it was a dreary, rainy day.

Any pussy care to join? Fuck off, we’re good.

M.Star picked me up in her carriage and off to spin class we went. I was mostly worried about having to ice down my crotch afterward.

Will I ever be able to walk again?

A few things happened during class:

• I could not stop staring at myself in the dimly lit room’s mirrors because my cleavage is off the chains due to Rapegate weight gain.
• My foot came out of my shoe that is locked into the bike when I tried to increase the resistance on the bike. Body was obviously saying DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE.
• I came in second to last in overall standings after 45 minutes. Bright side? I beat somebody!

Best part is, this was a mimosa ride.

No mimosa left behind.

M.Star then had asked me to go canvassing with her. I thought she meant to the local gay bar, Canvass and was all “hells yeah!” but what she really meant was “let’s go knock on stranger’s doors and tell them they should go vote.”

Plied with alcohol, anything is possible!

We stopped at the local office for a quick run down of what to and what not to say (i.e. I was forbidden to say “Marsha Blackburn is a cunt.” But I was allowed to say, “you should go vote – here’s where you can even vote early.”) It was deemed that M.Star would be our spokesperson and I would be her sidekick along with our mascot, Mabel.

Would you open your door for us?

I dug deep. Into a bottle of wine. And it worked. Civic duty here I am.

A very convincing duo, indeed. Now go get your ass to the polls. NOW.

Back at the mini manse, I was mobbed by the very non-scary Pussy Posse, easing my weekend fears away.

I think I’m gonna take a breather from doing something ever day that scares me. Unless I’m plied with alcohol. Then, I’m pretty fucking fearless.

Cheers!

CBXB

 

 

 

Weekend Winks – Mini Manse on the Move!

Last weekend was consumed with digesting the fact that I was being asked to vacate my beloved mini-manse due to circumstances out of my control (which would be an unplanned pregnancy by my landlord’s son who lives on the other side…so they’re expanding to my side of the duplex. Condoms rock for those of you who seem to be unaware of the perks such as my neighbor).

So all this week I cruised the streets of Nashville, Craigslist (there are some real doozies out there – people and places – one guy had a bong out on the refrigerator as we toured the apartment), paper and Internet with my gal pal G (you know, the one who wanted to beat up an 80-year-old on my behalf – read about it here).  After much stomach turning, sleepless nights, budget reviewing and armpit sweating, I signed a lease! Now I might have to sell a few body parts between now and July 1, but Ted and I have a new place to call home.

This closet made me do it.

I wore the closest thing I had to ruby-red slippers when I went to sign the lease on Saturday.

Clicking my heels and saying there’s no place like home…

Of course a few cocktails were called for as my mind whirled with thoughts of “WTF did I just do…is it the right thing….will Teddy adjust accordingly….?!”

Mine all mine!

I was quickly reminded of how much fun apartment living can be while celebrating with Mom on the patio.  All of a sudden, small rocks (pebbles, really) from the neighbor’s deck above fell through the cracks accompanied by screams of, “YOU CALLED ME A LAZY ASS! YOU F’ING BITCH!” More rocks thrown through the cracks. Ah, home sweet home.

My new patio wing…the rock quarry.

I had to share the news with my little B & B in Iowa via FaceTime. They insisted on cuddling while I recounted how much fun I will have posting about my neighbors above me.

What happened next Auntie CBXB?!

Father’s Day called from some southern spoiling for my dear old dad (and he hated every minute of it, as you can tell from the pics).

Double fisting gifts.

CBXB gifted Dad with a pretty sweet BBQ hat and a framed quote regarding legendary status I came upon this weekend. My dad often refers to himself as “a legend” because he was an athletic stud in high school and college (which even led to some time in the NFL).

Legendary loot.

The frame included this little picture…

He expected nothing less from the classy gal he raised right.

Hanging with The Legend…

All important margaritas were poured for our Father’s Day celebration (he was heavy-handed with his glass – go figure).

Just a few more ounces should do the trick.

My bro-in-law, celebrating his first Dad’s Day got the little twins giggling with delight (I wish he would call and make me laugh like that).

Fun Day Father’s Day!

Upon returning home from my parent’s house, I had to break the news to Ted that we would be leaving our mini-manse. He took the news about as well as I did when I found out last week …

Me taking the news (not so well, mind you) –

Ted’s reaction last night –

WTF? WE’RE MOVING?

I’ll keep you posted on the feline fun that is coming my way.

CBXB