So if you weren’t aware, Dr. Anthony Fauci is my off-season Lee Corso. In other words, I’m cheating on my 85-year- old main squeeze with a younger 80-year-old side piece.
When I was able to get my Fauci Ouchie to say I was ecstatic is an understatement. I went to a slick drive thru vaccination station and from start to finish it took 20 minutes (including the 15 minutes I had to wait afterward to ensure I wouldn’t spontaneously combust from a side effect). Naturally, I brought support with me.
Getting the Fauci Ouchie was cause for celebration much like everything else in my life. But there was a shift in how I felt – a combination of relief and what is that I see?….a light at the end of the Rona tunnel?! Getting vaxxed gave me a renewed lease on an almost post Rona (fingers crossed) life!
I’ve been more active outside now that the weather has turned to a gorgeous Tennessee spring.
Last week started off in a tense manor, as most of the country prepared for the verdict in Derek Chauvin trial. You know, the sociopath cop who murdered George Floyd casually kneeing his neck for nine minutes filmed by a minor child last May.
I stayed late at work to watch the verdict read live and updated the fam, who was also waiting nervously.
While this was a fucking gigantic relief, there is so much more work to be done in this country regarding racism and the blasé attitude so many white people have toward it. But holy fuck was this a needed victory.
After a collective sigh of relief, the rest of the week flew by. I’m back at the office full time now and boy, it was a hard transition after being able to roll out of bed, take care of the fur kids, make coffee and roll up to my home office desk all in 15 minutes time. Now, having to actually give a fuck about my appearance, put on real pants AND wash my hair regularly takes almost every ounce of energy in my being.
It’s such a foreign feeling to be around coworkers and have semblance to the Before Times. I miss working out over lunch with my fave trainer who also happens to have the name of Meghan Trainor (how purrfect?!). I got addicted to her free daily Instagram workouts during quarantine. So I jump on when I’m at work to say hi because I have major FOMO.
The back at the office routine has me extra ready for that TGIF cocktail and I spent Friday on a phone-a-thon with two of my fave peeps.
First up was Slappy (you know, my former co-worker who drunkenly slapped me at a work party when I told her I’d wait on her to go to the bathroom. I knew I loved her from that moment on) and her adorable fur kid, Roscoe.
Next up was Sister CBXB and we had no fun talking as you can see. What the fuck did we do before this technology?!
Saturday was quite luxurious for the pussies of the Mini Manse.
Rocky spent most of the day in my tub, awaiting me to bring him a meowmosa. All of the other Pussy Posse members lounged on the patio, delighted it’s back open for them 24/7 now that the weather is fab.
My Iowa twins had a glow party in their basement. I’m hoping the sticks are still lit when I get to see them next month.
Prepare for your mind to be blown when you gander below at how the twins have turned into actual mini adults. Time needs to stop for a sec, OK?
Sunday was a gorge day to spend outside, so of course I opted to day drink with my friend Aha! inside instead.
Speaking of my love of 80-year-olds, I saw a fucking dude roar in on a bike that looked like it was custom built for me.
The hair. The vest. The bike. The colors. Naturally, I need a pic with my newfound soulmate.
Can we all be this fucking cool at 82?!? Is the octogenarian age group the new 40-year-olds? I’m thinking YES.
Being out and about, I don’t even mind seeing what always annoys me to my core. One of these annoyances is when couples sit on the same fucking side of the table. I mean, can’t you just gaze at each other across the fucking table?
Sunday is hair do day for Princess B and check out her new braids, compliments of Sister CBXB’s sure to be future arthritis’d hands.
I had every intention of heading home and popping some champs for Hollywood’s “golden” night watching The Oscars.
While I was gussying up, I poured myself a glass to primp before my own personal red carpet.
Then I made the mistake of sitting down on the couch and taking a two hour nap. So I skipped my own red carpet, and proceeded to watch the most boring Oscars of ALL TIME. Rocky couldn’t even cuddle to watch it was so lack luster.
So here we are at the start of another maybe closer-to-post-Rona-life week. Although I’m fully vaxxed, I continue to wear my mask in support of those who haven’t yet had a chance to get their shots and because I give fucks about other people. Wearing a piece of fabric over my face contributes to the mask culture and supports those around me. I hope you do the same for me and your neighbors.
Ever know one of those annoying people who won’t shut the fuck up their birthday? Well, now you do.
Cause I love me some me – especially when it’s my time to shine, celebrating the day I graced Earth with my presence. Candles, crowns and a crowd have always accompanied my birthday.
I think far too many folks don’t celebrate themselves to the fullest and that’s a goddamn shame. Shouldn’t we live every day like it’s our birthday? Show ourselves the same self love we celebrate on our day of birth because as my Gma Morris always said, “another birthday is better than the alternative.”
I’ve always loved my fucking birthday. Maybe it was because when I was growing up, parties felt epic because living in small Iowa town, all of the kids from class were invited.
Maybe it was because I share a birthday with my cousin B (LUCKY HIM) and we always got together to celebrate and that meant two parties for me – one with friends, one with fam. He’s the thrilled kid on the left of the pic below.
Either way, I lived to par-tay and last year, Rona really fucked that shit up.
But this year? Oh hell to THA NO. This year my birthday month was going to be honored and acknowledged by yours truly every.single.day of March. Of course, I had some help.
The champs popped March 1, 2021.
As a visual reminder, I wore a headpiece or birthday crown daily for all to see.
While talking about my second birthday in Rona non-stop, I preemptively took the day off of work in honor to appropriately concentrate on the very important task of celebrating me.
And in case I forgot, I got reminded. (My gawd I have fabulous friends).
When the actual day arrived, I made use of my made just for me booze holder that reads “Happy 2nd Covid Birthday” and filled that sucker up with a Skinny Pirate.
Then I hopped back in bed with Prissy and The Pussy Posse to do whatever the fuck I wanted. To start, I read every single text, social media posts about my birthday and direct messages. Please exit this post immediately if
A) You do not like me.
B) You do not like reading gushingly love filled messages to me that I am going to unabashedly share.
Consider yourself warned.
One woman we have to thank for my love of celebrating every.fucking.thing is Mama CBXB who chose the most appropriate photo to commence the day (and goes to show that I’ve been authentic since birth).
After feeling all of the love, I worked out with my fave trainer I found on Instagram last year during the pandemic. She runs the Body By Trainor Experience (@bodybytrainor) and posts workouts daily on her IG page for free. The heart pumping, along with the fact that we are long lost twins, accompanied by the virtual friendships culminated through this community has made me one motherfucking lucky gal.
I even had a workout named after me – HEYOH!
While I didn’t make the 6am live workout, I enjoyed doing it at my leisure along with Hot Mama and Bella in Chicago, and my fave Beast from Canada.
If you had told me a year ago that I would have an assortment of weights that I used almost daily, I would have laughed masklessly in your face. This year, I am clean pressing 20lbs! What? What?
One friend sent quite a fabulous workout outfit but in lieu of sweating in it, I decided to celebrate in it.
I’m not at a point where I’m ready to go midriff baring however, one’s birthday in isolation is a different story and after I put “It’s My Fucking Birthday” sash on, I threw caution to the wind.
One thing I did not count on was a delivery needing signature. I was back brushing my pearly whites when the knocking didn’t cease on the Mini Manse door.
Oh hello Dizly delivery from my bestie M.Star. I put this to use the moment the ogling delivery dude left (I hated no moments of it).
Spoke to friends who I’ve only “met” virtually in Canada, North Caroline and Chicago!
Got to talk to my great aunt Marge who puts us all to shame in the game of celebrating. I remember my first time drinking with her, she brought a bottle of champs to Christmas and said soon after, “Did I drink all of that? Who can we prank call?”
Soon after, I enjoyed the rest of my evening on the phone chatting with friends and family while mauling Prissy and the Pussy Posse.
The following day was Friday and it was gonna be my first time back at the watering hole that holds half of my heart.
Last year was the first birthday I didn’t spend at Dalts since moving to Nashville due to that cunt Rona. So while this year was still tame due to restrictions, I got to go to the bar, see my fave libations pourer, Marja and par-tay with my closest regulars I hadn’t seen in a year.
My lovely Strawberry Blonde met me and stayed sober while I accepted gifted drinks from other patrons at the bar.
A forced photoshoot is never a surprise when you’re with me, either.
I mean, who doesn’t wear a full length pink and gold sequin cape casually?
As you can imagine, my quiet, quiet voice, my very subtle outfit and me shouting every time someone walked by “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” drew a teeny tiny bit of attention. Unbeknownst to Strawberry Blonde and myself, a fellow customer quietly paid my our tab. We didn’t know it until the end of our eight hour stay but she’d said “I love seeing women celebrating themselves.”
Strawberry Blonde awarded me with a trophy that said “Congrats on Adulting” and I tell you what, we all deserve goddamn prizes for trudging through the last fucking year however we saw fit. This will be the one and only time I throw my weight behind “participation” trophies for all.
The rest of my birthday weekend was spent in bed with The Pussy Posse, Prissy and pizza.
I can’t muster one complaint about celebrating my face off for 31 days. The accessories. The brazen daily announcements regarding me. me. me. all month long on Instagram. The outfit that dared me to bare my belly that’s not quite ready for bikini season yet. The reminder that I excel in the art of not giving a fuck.
So here’s to celebrating you, me and our ability to *almost* emerge shitshow after shitshow of 2020 to a newish norm. Just beware you may wake up looking like this the 32nd morning of your birthday shenanigans.
My beloved Aunt Crazy Pants passed away after a valiant fight against terminal lung cancer (after never smoking a goddamn cigarette in her life). By the time cancer was found through an unrelated surgery, it had already spread everywhere but her brain and she was given six months to a year to live in July of 2016. Well, being a feisty little bitch, she survived with cancer 370 days.
Beat cancer for five extra days. Suck it.
Today is ACP’s heavenly birthday and she would be turning a very young 70. Ever since her passing in September of 2017, we keep celebrating the fuck out of one of our favorite crazy ladies. We always cheers with her fave cocktail – specifically from The Cheesecake Factory – a gin rickey.
Celebrating ACP’s first heavenly birthday together, Mama CBXB and I did what all mother/daughters do to bond. We got tattoos of ACP’s signature. We were the first ones at the tattoo shop that day and acted like we’d never been in a place of permanent ink before.
Totes normal Saturday with static in our hair.
In fact, we’d been several times with ACP to get her tattoos, so we brought her along in pictures.
She was there to witness our ink ups.
The photo I chose was of me holding her hand while she got her first tattoo. It was at the Lake of the Ozarks non-world renowned Tattoo Ted’s after a day of coving out and cocktails.
Mothers and daughters who tattoo together, PARtay together.
We then went to our fave spot on Broadway in Nashville, Robert’s Western World to keep the celebration alive.
We love sharing stories and peeing our pants over shit she would say or do (she literally shit her pants during a shopping trip at Target with her mom once. When ACP shared why she had to rush to the bathroom, Gma might have well been on the store’s loud speaker and announced loudly, “YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS?” For the record, I’ve also shit my pants at Target. Must run in the family….). I just got an eye roll (sorry Gma) and a belly laugh (you’re welcome ACP) from the sky, I’m sure. We’d often witness tears running down her leg from laughing so hard and we have fun remembering the spirit this woman, mother, daughter, sister, crazy fun aunt and loyal friend to countless people sprinkled throughout our lives.
To say there’s a hole in my soul doesn’t do it justice, as my aunt was like a mother to me and I take after her in many lovely ways.
I carry the torch for her klutziness (I fell into her closet after getting out of her bed – still in my emerald green stilettos and funeral dress – the day after her funeral).
Humor helps klutzy broads.
We also can ruin phones like nobody’s business. She would constantly drop hers in a toilet, I run my over with cars. It’s a special talent.
I carry her ability to get tongue tied at any given moment (I asked a male co-worker at a new job if “these are the size of rubbers you wanted” – I forgot the word band after rubber). She constantly called my boyfriends the wrong name. I once dated a guy named John for a few years. He answered the phone when she called once and, for whatever reason at a loss, she said, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh GARY?!”
Quite the combo.
I have the ease of her unabashed bluntness and no fear of confrontation (she deemed me the biggest bitch of the family before she passed. I know, so sweet).
Whether ya wanna know the truth or not, ya gonna hear it. Even if we look like ass clowns with delivery.
I will honor her by eating double what I normally do during trips to the Iowa State Fair when this bitch Rona finally gets the fuck outta dodge.
Being a crazy aunt is something I’m already all over.
Or rather, they’re all over me.
I was born with her dramatic flair for life, so that bonfire was lit long ago within me.
Jazz hands for life.
While it’s important to remember that when someone may no longer be among us on earth, our relationship with them can still exist, it’s also important to remember the quality of life given during an especially grueling battle with cancer. ACP’s youngest son R. Nasty made sacrifices I can’t say many young adults his age – let alone any adult – would do to care for his dying mother. I mean before being diagnosed with cancer, she was already the most dramatic woman on the planet (like bitching about “having” to pack to go to Hawaii – or any other fabulous destination…yeah, poor thing), so you can imagine the sheer joy the magnification of her theatrics became.
Flair for fun dramatics.
R. Nasty moved in with his mom (all young men’s dream come true) being closest in proximity and able to make accommodations to do so, while his other brothers and extended family lived further away.
All other Bros and Hos live far away.
He answered every time she hollered with a patient, “yes Mother,” sauntered into her room after every bell ring (a sound that will surely haunt him for the rest of his days), removed an ice cube each time he accidentally put four instead of three into her water and endless other duties that come along with caring for a cancer patient.
The true meaning of ‘got your back’.
My point is, this dude is a fucking saint. Throughout all the treatment routines, doctor’s appointments, therapy, surgeries, etc, ACP’s absolute favorite time was watching The Late Show with Stephen Colbert with R. Nasty every weeknight. Even if she dozed off in the evening as she got more cancer riddled, she wanted to be woken up to watch Stephen Colbert with her son.
Wake me up before you go go.
In the evening on August 31, 2017 my feisty aunt was taken from home hospice to the hospital. That night, as the end was drawing near, the room full of family was clearing out and R. Nasty leaned in and said, “We’re going to watch Stephen Colbert one more time, Mom.” And that they did. She died at 3am on Friday, September 1st, 2017.
While we’ve partied in every way possible in honor of Aunt Crazy Pants’ love of life, I’d like to acknowledge the sacrifices her son made so selflessly. When asked about it he always says (and still does), “it’s my honor to take care of my mother.”
So how can you show a small token of appreciation in return to a son who lost a friend, a mother and a fucking funny lady all rolled into one? Sister CBXB came up with a great idea, reached out to me to execute (why do I have to do all the work?) and with the help of some letter writing, reaching out to every.single.contact I have and making them reach out to every.single.contact they have, magic happened.
Through the efforts of fabulous friends and the help of family, we were able to pull this shit off and I scored two VIP tickets (yeah, you read that right – VIP bitches) to The Late Show With Stephen Colbert. R. Nasty and I graced the Big Apple for a taping of the show, celebrating ACP in NYC.
The start of my 28 hour stay.
R. Nasty flew from Iowa, I flew from Music City and we met at the airport. Sounds like a meet cute except we’re cousins.
Of course I had to document every.single.moment of our celebration trip and ever accommodating, R. Nasty indulged me.
See me? I’m the blonde in center of the row. The guests were Lucy Liu (boring) and Henry Winkler (fun).
Regardless of R.Nasty’s twisted ankle and me accidentally crashing a rapper’s photoshoot in Time’s Square, we had a fabulous trip celebrating ACP’s life with a whopping side of shit show. We were only there for what some would say resembles a long layover but it was worth every second.
Oh I’m sorry, this is a prop for your photoshoot? Sorry. Not sorry.
The deeper the love for someone, the deeper the grief. For grief is the price we pay when someone we love the fuck out of departs us for greater pastures. For me, celebrating their life and what they loved makes me still feel connected. And boy, does the grief still run deep for those of us who loved ACP.
We all miss you something terrible.
Cheers to the craziest fun aunt I got to call mine. I promise to quietly laugh my ass off at memories of you (after probably tripping and falling down some stairs first) forever.
Join me in raising a gin rickey high to the sky tonight in honor of the Aunt Crazy Pants in your life. Throw on a little green (emerald or kelly green to be precise) if you really wanna kiss some ACP ass.
Today marks the five year anniversary of being raped – my rapeversary if you will. Last year was the first time since January 29, 2016 that I felt even a sliver of my “old” self on this day. I declared the 29th day of this month the official International Day of the Badass, making all things related to rape and the aftermath of trauma my bitches. No apologies. Sorry not sorry.
Always and forfuckingever nasty.
I was feeling really fucking fabulous. Seeing the world through my pre-Rapegate rose colored glasses again and ready to celebrate any and everything but most specifically, honor all things ME. This motherfucking badass bitch was back.
And then, that cunt Rona showed her ugly face a little more than a month later and my entire world (along with the rest of the global population) went to shit a matter of days.
Who the fuck invited you here?
My trauma ticks (as I call them) that I worked so fucking hard to kick in four years of therapy cropped up whenever the fuck they felt it inconvenient. Stuttering, leg and foot bouncing, incessant itching at imaginary hot spots on my skin, stress induced cortisol dumping into my system, insomnia, the severity of my anxiety was back at its skyscraper height and my stomach hurt 24/7 with a deep side of sciatica (a new place my stress manifests itself in my bod).
Fun self inflicted times on my wrist, inner arm and ankle.
Feeling these regressions bubbling up sent me on a downward spiral so fucking fast, I was constantly treading water that was circling the drain. For me, it’s been the hardest part of Rona because I was JUST feeling foxy again, ready to strut my stilettos and resurfaced sassiness all over the pace. I hate the feeling of going backward (but who loves it unless we’re talking about aging?) and the grief attached to my trauma ticks, along with being isolated when I was ready to mingle with the world again about did me in.
Thank fuck for emotional support animals.
I had a four year out-of-body experience where I had to mourn the loss of my pre-rape life, the death of myself as I knew me – as well as construct my resurrection. I’d trudged my way through an avalanche of the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But Rona took me straight back from a happier place of acceptance to the prior four stages any time she felt like fucking with me.
I think I chose my closet as my panic attack recovery space in 2016 because it’s small and sparkly for comfort.
Then, I was reminded that grief (and all of the shit that comes along with it) isn’t linear.
Queen of the pivot turn.
I gave myself grace (or at least tried – still trying) and remembered Superhero Sheila’s sound advice. If you wouldn’t say it to one of the twins (that woman goes right for the dagger when she needs it), don’t say it to yourself.
It’s like Superhero Sheila is good at her job or something.
So I got my self talk back on some semblance of a cordial track and proceeded to make my way through the additional perils that 20fucking20 threw at every single citizen of the world in its own unique, shitty way.
I choose to wear sunglasses and fancy headpieces to cope.
But even as I try to forge ahead on this International Day of the Badass, my body and mind are constant companions leading up to this dreaded fucking day, kicking my PTSD into the highest of all gears. I wish there was a WD-40 for the bones because the worst is being in your body, not able to control it.
All because one thousand, eight hundred and twenty five days ago, I was raped by my best friend’s boyfriend while I slept on her couch, in her 600 square foot apartment after a wine and cryfest, grieving the sudden death of a young friend. I woke up to her boyfriend of five weeks on top of me, pajama pants at my knees, arms at my sides, his face in my neck. That was the moment the me as I knew her, died.
Later that day, I sat with my ass cheeks on thin paper, protecting me from any other prior ass cheeks that unfortunately found themselves sitting on the same exam table in the rape kit performance room. The overwhelming fumes of bleach almost resurrected me from the protective shock in which my body had retreated.
“Do you want a rape advocate?” Detective Stupka (soon-to-be renamed Cuntka) questioned me after she recorded my statement of the illegal, intrusive sexual assault that took place several hours earlier. I couldn’t recall Shane the Rapist’s last name (that was listed in my phone, which was dead from being at the hospital waiting for eight hours on a rape kit), how was I able to know if I needed an advocate? What was an advocate? Did I need one? Detective Cuntka said she could not advise me and I somehow communicated that I did, in fact, want an advocate.
I still can’t wrap my brain around my bff not believing me nine hours after being raped, do I look like I can make a goddamned decision about anything?!
I believe rape victims should be assisted with an advocate, period. No questions asked. Just have one show up and let them do the talking because it was a good three years before my typically decisive as fuck ass could make any decision about ANYTHING.
I will just have one of everything on the menu because what do I want?
When Barbie the advocate tenderly walked into the room, careful not to touch me (when I just wanted her to sweep me up in her arms and tell me everything was gonna be OK – although that would have been a disservice on her part because nothing about being raped is ever OK, so, therefore, no hug took place). She spoke with the same amount of tenderness she used when she was inching toward me.
Where was one of my goddamn pussies when I needed them?!
Barbie resembled more of a Skipper than the actual Barbie doll with a petite frame, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag (that naturally, I admired and wondered if she had a phone charger tucked inside I could use) and was such a pleasant sight after the day kept spewing like uncontrollable bowels. After a few minutes of fill-in-what-horrible-thing happened to you, she looked at me straight in the eye and said, “Honey, there is going to be a before rape and an after rape moving forward in your life.”
It was one of those moments that you just know what’s being said is true, no matter how much you want it to be a lie.
My immediate thoughts of life after rape.
Barbie left the room to sit with Dada CBXB who was most likely wondering how in the fuck his Friday turned out so inexplicable. I sat waiting for the rape kit exam to commence after yet again being hazy on decision making when asked, “Do you want the Plan B pill? Did he wear a condom? Do you want to take the HIV preventative even though it will rob you of 30 days of your life since its effects are so brutal? Do you want to be tested for every STD in which science is aware? Have you eaten anything today? Here are crackers to take with the handful of pills we are giving you.”
I seriously can’t compute.
Upon completion of my rape kit and consumption of no less than 51 pills, I was handed a folder of information with numbers to national hotlines I could call, pamphlets of what to expect in the coming days, and instructions of when to take the next round of pills to rid my body of any other foreign substance left behind when Shane the Rapist raped me. It was like onboarding at a new job or getting every class syllabus on the first day of college. It was literature on what my life after rape was going entail.
I had no inkling of what the fuck I was up against.
Open ended ticket for one, please. @deepfriedfreckles
Nobody wants to be in this club. Nobody wants to be an expert on matters in which we never want to be associated. But rape happens. And there I was and here I am.
All too familiar when I wish I had no clue.
I miss my pre-rape life in the way your heart breaks when someone your world revolved around dies. The me I’d always known, died on January 29, 2016, and I had no idea how to bring myself back to life. Thing is, I was still breathing. I wasn’t dead. I just had no feeling left inside, which made me feel like a shell. Hollow, empty and alone.
You don’t have to cry for me because my eyes leaked enough fluid for nine lifetimes.
I found out who could withstand the shell of myself and who needed an exit. I immediately realized I was going to become a walking, talking rape victim stereotype (the victims that report, anyway) when interacting with Detective Cuntka when she told me 37 days after being raped over the phone that I was “one of 29 other cases she was working on. This was a he said/she said case so not much will come of it.” Oh sorry, this is my first time being raped and dealing with anything that accompanies. Please excuse my incessant questions about how this shit works. Chasing my case and any details became a second full time job.
Daily routines ceased existing and the depression bombarded its way in. Brushing teeth, washing my hair, applying make up (I was Ronafied ahead of the times), no polish on my claws because they became unbearable chores.
This is my version of silent screams for help.
No more hot yoga. No more running. No activities where I was alone with my own thoughts. I couldn’t get off of the couch and into my bed for six months to sleep, further exacerbating the endless cycle of depression, anxiety, nerves, self-loathing, shame, blame, fatigue and stress leaving me empty. Literally dead inside.
I gave zero shits.
Therapy has given me life-saving coping mechanisms. Medicines have made my daily life manageable. The kindness of human beings has been astounding and reinstated the belief that simple acts and words of love can do some serious healing. The outpouring of support once I was able to openly talk about my rape case after the grand jury found insufficient evidence to take Shane the Rapist to trial was astonishing.
After all of that recovery, after all of the therapy, after the shit show of 2020, now more than ever I understand that we all carry invisible wounds. And Rona brought all of my luggage back but this time around the baggage felt excruciatingly heavier.
Others can’t see the shame I carry. Others can’t see the guilt I hold (did I somehow ask for it?). Others can’t see the blame I assign myself every single second, minute, hour, day, month.
The year 2020 made it achingly obvious that people I love haven’t been listening to me and can’t – or worse yet – DON’T WANT to see mental anguish caused by society and the normalcy of rape culture.
Judgment is a fucking beast and after rape, it becomes an unwanted daily acquaintance at your breakfast, lunch, and supper table. I started eating at this fucking buffet again last year.
One thing I know to be true is that people who love you – really love you for you, don’t waiver. It’s been my family, my rock-solid friends, the folks who have come to my rescue via virtual friendships (silver lining of 2020!), the people who have re-entered my life to lift me up when I was sure I was going to drown…that all exists.
Here I stand five years later, my heart beating the last 1,825 days, feeling like a motherfucking badass once again. I now understand that grief is an emotion that exists even when life still is within. I died but I lived.
When I think about the people I love and the fur babies I’ve lost, I choose to celebrate them. Drink their favorite drinks, watch a favorite movie, look at photos, read old cards, love on my current Pussy Posse, share fucking funny stories with others that loved them, too. After forfuckingever five years, I am back to celebrating ALL THINGS ME again.
Sorry not sorry.
Join me in celebrating the International Day of the Badass.
This pussy grabs back.
“I won’t back down. I will stand my ground.” – Tom Petty
What are you celebrating on this International Day of the Badass? Because if you’re reading this, you’re one too.
I think just about every motherfucker on the planet was cautiously optimistic about leaving the year 2020 in the dust. I’m also fairly certain the first week of 2021 told its predecessor to hold its beer.
The clusterfuck that ended up being an encouraged attempted coup by a sorry excuse of not only a human being but leader of the free world caused five deaths, utter dismay and shock seen around the world. All over lies fed to an easily manipulated portion of America’s population. Words matter. As we witnessed the domestic terrorists be escorted (not arrested, not pepper sprayed, not shot with rubber bullets), away from the Capitol they stormed, startling images started pouring out.
The utter evil and creepiness of the image of a dude who was soon dubbed “Zip Tie Guy” just made my skin crawl. A few days after the insurrection, it came out that Zip Tie Guy, Eric Munchel, is a resident of Nashville who, on a mother/son bonding trip, drove to Washington DC with various items for destruction (guns, ammo, zip ties).
Neat news. Three days after ZTG was identified as a Nashville resident, it was further revealed that HE. WAS. MY. FUCKING. NEIGHBOR. In my small apartment complex. I saw him walking his dog daily with a stupid gun around his leg (yes, that’s legal in Tennessee with a carry permit) and I could NOT wrap my brain or any logic around the fact that I’d looked evil dead in the face, while demanding Prissy take a piss with my fucking “United Not Divided” sign on my front porch every.single day. for the past few years.
When he was arrested an array of unsettling items were discovered in his dwelling.
My nerves and anxiety were beyond thankful that he was behind bars, awaiting sentencing and what I assumed would be an impending trial for federal charges. Never once did it dawn on me that he could be a candidate for bail. But he was – and he got it. The judge declared he wasn’t a “threat to his community”…um BEG YOUR PARDON? Here’s where it’s impossible for anyone to disagree that there are two justice systems in America.
Zip Tie Guy was part of a mob of terrorists who stormed the Capitol, mere feet from the vice president of the fucking United States of America and the fact that he even gets consideration for bail? Fucked up. White privilege at its fucking finest. He most likely wouldn’t still be breathing if he was Black or a POC. Thank fuck a federal judge stepped in late Sunday and blocked his release on bail.
The sheer anxiety (to an already overloaded person with severe anxiety) of a domestic terrorist coming back to await trial mere buildings away really frayed my nerves. Thankfully, I had something to look forward to, not knowing just how fucking much it would impact my body, mind and soul.
If you’ve been any part of my bubble since 2016 personally, socially or via social media, you are aware of my feelings on the former person elected to be president. I knew, as a survivor of rape, how triggering it was for me knowing America only perpetuated rape culture, electing a man who opening admitted to grabbing women’s pussies and has been accused by 23 women of sexual assault. Would you have supported my rapist, Shane to be America’s leader? Because he was never arrested. He was never charged. He only stands as “accused”.
Boy did I underestimate how much JOY would fill my being. I mean, what was this feeling? Happiness? Hope?
I documented inauguration day on my Instagram stories, sharing my “what the fuck feeling is this” moments.
The fact that not only a racist, rapist, xenophobic, sexist, insurrection encourager was out of a job BUT THE FIRST FEMALE VICE PRESIDENT was sworn in almost made me spontaneously combust. Oh the fucking representation and encouragement that gives to females across the globe.
Turns out, America got a new President and Veep but the real star of the day was Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont, bundled up like he was a fourth grade teacher on recess duty instead of an attendee at the inauguration of the POTUS.
The Internet immediately went into meme overdrive, doing what it does best. A few of my faves…
Senator Sanders put his newfound meme fame to good use, slapping the image on a sweatshirt, selling it and giving all proceeds to Vermont’s Meals On Wheels program. Now that’s working for the people.
In other fabulous news, the twins turned eight and a week later it was Sister CBXB’s turn to celebrate her trip around the sun.
Always so photogenic.
Princess B got an ugly ass hermit crab for Christmas, named Brownie. She received another one for her birthday, named Marshmallow. I believe these two crabs are possibly the most spoiled crustaceans on the planet, as she’s crafted them a fucking playpen.
Their new digs is decked out with nothing but the finest art – pics of the twins.
While Princess B decorated her crab dwelling, I threw love on my celebration tree for Valentine’s Day.
With all of the extreme ups, downs, turnarounds, nerves, stress, anxiety and relief felt within a matter of days the last week of January for me, has looked a lot like Prissy in the picture below.
The only animal I know who sleeps with her eyes open.
I’m waking up daily feeling the need to pinch myself because my stomach isn’t in knots and feelings of existential dread are no longer hanging like low clouds over my head. I had no idea the lengths my body was going to in order to fight off daily triggers due to friends, family and 70+ million Americans electing a rapist to the highest position in this country. I was in a constant “fight or flight” mode daily since 2016. It feels so good to be back.
Cheers to hoping your end to the first month of 2021 is also winding down with a bit of relief.