The force is strong in our furry family,
give in to the power of the sparkly dark side,
or risk a pissy Princess Pussy’s anger that would reach worldwide.
(insert heavy breathing here)
CBXB and Ted
And no, the answer is not me naked.
This past weekend I was beckoned to Des Moines by my bestie Scooby to supply his husband with a good old fashioned make your heart stop birthday surprise. Brainstorming on how I would be presented as a grand gift we landed on the idea of shoving me into the trunk for an ambush on Mr. Scooby.
Naturally, we pulled over in a church parking lot to get the deed done.
A quick prayer was said in the hopes that no one would suffocate to death, all other vehicles on the road would avoid rear ending us and I prayed Scooby wouldn’t forget about me as soon as he went into the house to fetch his hubs.
With the surprise package in compact place, we were off.
As the car reached its destination, I heard voices approaching the vehicle to take a gander at what gift awaited while I almost pissed my pants from trying to keep my not so quiet laugh subdued. Mr. Scooby said, “is there a puppy in there?”
While the surprise was a success, I had a grand entrance fail.
Once able to hoist my fat ass out of the trunk (a true junk in the trunk story here folks) it was birthday hugs for everyone.
The only thing left to do was get the party started.
And party we did.
Now how in the hell am I going to top this next year?
Ah, best friends.
Always around, never letting you keep anything bad down.
Besties are always there to help you with bad hair.
mean gay bestie delights in bringing up just how far we go back.
But I draw the line when a best friend doesn’t know how to properly spell my birth name.
So when it came time to
paybacks going out when my gay bestie was in town, I made sure Scooby was primed and ready with wine…
And then beer….
Topped with flavored moonshine.
By the time we got to the bar, Scooby’s world was spinning faster than a tilt-a-whirl and I kindly offered to take the lightweight back home.
But never fear! Gay best friend’s husband was near!
Mr. Scooby directed his husband out the front door and into my parked vehicle, where he secured drunky into the front passenger side seat as he pretended to drive by moving his hands back and forth on the steering wheel, knowing Scooby would fall fast asleep.
Turns out Mr. Scooby and I are such extremely caring, thoughtful, kind souls that not only did we partake in martinis galore…
… we decided to take the party four blocks down the road to a dance floor.
The club got so hot, I made Mr. Scooby take his shirt off and then I made an impromptu push up bra to compete with his pecks.
And when my feet hurt enough to take my heels off, we went to check on our sleeping beauty who had moved down the seat about four feet.
Makes you think twice about misspelling my name doesn’t it?
Best. Friend. Ever.
Yes, that kind of scrunchie.
Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.
I still own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair and the purple one below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase (now, I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from walking bean fields….I also got a tie dyed shirt. Obviously I put my money to expert use).
Although I hoard scrunchies from decades ago, this does not mean that I condone wearing anything of the sort in public. I feel so strongly about this, I have risked jobs and friendships, saving folks from public embarrassment.
A few years ago while at an extremely new place of employment, I spotted my boss sitting at her desk with a white scrunchie in her gorgeous hair. And while I hadn’t quite figured out our working relationship boundaries yet (being that I was her assistant) I felt it my womanly duty to rip it out of her hair.
Well, actually I walked up behind her and as I slid it off of her hair I leaned in and whispered, “We don’t wear these in public. Trust me.”
Horrified at my casual approach and sure as shit I was about to be fired, she laughed and said thank you. We’re still gal pals to this day thanks to my brazen move in the name of fashion.
And then there’s my old band manager I ran into at the mall one afternoon.
I expected so much more than….
While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach, it was the teeny, tiny piece of material stuck in the layers of curls that made my skin crawl.
Being that I didn’t work for my buddy, I could be a little more blunt in expressing how insane it was to see a grown man wearing a scrunchie.
A mere two seconds later, the scrunchie was mine and my buddy was back to being, well, my buddy.
So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.
But I only sport these little pieces of fashion fails on two occasions.
I wear one to keep myself cool when I sleep within the confines of bedroom walls.
The other occasion in which I wear something so taboo is a deep, dark scrunchie secret.
I wear it to perfect my bun.
Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.
So there I am, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…
I LOST THE BLACK ONE.
Visiting Iowa, I was certain that I left it in my sister’s guest bedroom. And quickly resigned to the fact that I’d never see this beloved piece of my hair history again due to the fact that she has 18 month old twins and a dog that likes to eat everything.
What will keep me cool at night?!
How will a bun ever be the same?!
But then I remembered I still had a purple scrunchie from 4th grade.
I think I found it in my Caboodle.
As I went to sleep that evening, reaching for the limp pile of aged elastic and who-knows-how-many-germs-its infested-with-material, I heard a snap.
My purple piece of shit went to scrunchie heaven, as the decades old elastic finally died (most likely committing suicide).
Finding myself empty-handed, I did the only thing I could think of to console myself.
I headed to Claire’s Boutique – a store I haven’t stepped foot in since I was a gal on the hunt for prom accessories in high school. Upon entering the overstuffed store, a sweet girl who was maybe fifteen greeted me and instantly looked baffled when I told her I was in dire need of a scrunchie.
“A what?” she asked.
“A scrunchie. You know, a hair tie with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.
Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her to the back of the store to the clearance section where she announced…
“This stuff has been here since before I started working here two years ago. Maybe you’ll find something to help you out.”
The new take on scrunchies are pieces of fake fur wrapped around elastic that are about as durable as an earthworm on a dry day, which would be why they were on clearance for 99 cents.
Giving up on Claire’s, I headed to the mall where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts. While perusing the endless goodness at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.
Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.
What has this world come to?
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do and also knowing my bun days were over, I started to try and begin mending my broken haired heart.
Mama CBXB returned from another trip to Iowa and had a surprise for me.
All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.
Stop judging me.
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
This not-in-the-slightest fairytale post contains a blurred out dick pic I received as a love note.
It all started with an innocent girl’s night out. My friends and I rarely get together, as everyone is busy with work, husbands and offspring (I of course, am extremely busy with my two pussies).
I’d recently found myself single and when our gaggle of gals ran into a group of Ohio guys at a honky tonk, my bestie G (you know, the one who almost got in a fist fight to defend my honor against an 80-year-old man) chatted up a nice fellow who had recently moved to Music City. At the end of their 82 second conversation, she turned to me giddily exclaimed, “I gave him your number!”
OK, so maybe I was overreacting a tad. I looked at the dude who was obviously an old frat guy (you know the look “fancy” leather flip flops, khaki shorts, golf shirt tucked in with a belt typically accompanied by swoopy bangs on foreheads – at least in the South anyway – but this guy had a shaved head) I thought it wouldn’t kill me to put my toe back in the dating pond, as dude looked normal.
And being that I’m from Iowa, I assumed we could bond over Big 10 football (even though I loathe THE Ohio State Buckeyes). So I talked to the guy for about four entire minutes, he asked if I’d like to go to happy hour the following week and I accepted.
And soon after wished I hadn’t.
The following day I received no less than 23 texts and tried to be a good sport before turning into an extremely annoyed lady –
Nice meeting you last night! You too.
What’s for breakfast? I don’t cook.
Send me a pic! You know what I look like, I just met you last night.
What’s your last name? No Googling before our date.
Are you on Facebook? Isn’t everyone?
And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on until I finally said (at 7:30pm) that I was going to bed.
Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I reached out to G and my sister who both thought maybe this guy was simply nervous and overly anxious for our date in a few days.
OK, OK maybe I wouldn’t write him off – yet.
But then, I received this the following morning…
Thought you might like this.
I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what the hell to say. Who sends half naked pictures to a chick when she’s already said yes to a date?
My silence seemed to only pique his interests more.
Do you like piercings on guys?
Do you want me to pick you up at 7:30 or 8pm? (we said happy hour you stupid fuck and I might as well put my photo on a milk carton if I give you my address)
Do you have any tattoos I’ll be surprised to find?
And after forwarding everything to my sister and G, I got two similar responses:
CRAIGSLIST KILLER CANCEL DATE IMMEDIATELY
Of course I was already in the process of excusing myself from hanging with this psycho because I was sure to be hog tied and either end up at the bottom of the Cumberland River or in one of his apartment rooms for 3.4 years before eventually gnawing through my own arm to escape.
Either way, no thanks.
Here’s how it went as I tenderly tried to turn him down…
Now I’m sure you’re thinking that I went easy on him as I used the word “reschedule” which I’d soon regret. But I didn’t know how much this D-Bag knew about me, having my phone number, so I went for the easing out of it approach.
Which didn’t seem to work well because this kept happening (I’ve blurred out anything associated with my job)…
D-Bag kept sending me pictures of himself sitting at his desk, “funny” memes he’d found online and asking how I was doing. My silence was turning out not to be so golden.
The photo below came the evening that we were supposed to be meeting for drinks and I suppose it was allowing me to see just what I was missing out on.
At my usual Friday night happy hour, I was laughing and showing friends what D-Bag had been sending over and over with no response from me and another photo popped up.
THOUGHT U MAY LIKE THIS?!?!
He thought I might like this?!
My initial reaction:
As the entire bar turned to look at our table because yours truly couldn’t stop screaming, “DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT??”
I happened to be sitting next to First Mate at the time – much to her arm’s dismay as I almost ripped it off upon seeing the penis of a complete stranger with whom I’d had a four (FOUR!) minute conversation.
I’m pretty sure I single-handedly polished off a bottle of Jager before stumbling home to pass out in the comforting paws of Ted.
When someone doesn’t respond to your naked picture you’d think that would be the biggest hint of all time, like a neon sign blinking “STOP TEXTING ME YOU CRAZY ASS CLOWN” but it turns out this douche really wanted to get together.
When he didn’t stop, I was going insane trying not to respond. Naturally, I was discussing this with everyone from work friends to girlfriends to my family. We couldn’t decide if going to the police would make him angry (or crazier) and if I responded, it would most likely egg him on.
But I refrained. I sat on my hands and D-Bag’s messages kept coming with no replies from this chick.
By this point, he’d been texting to no one for over a month and I was beyond pissed off.
You don’t fuck with an Iowa girl.
You don’t fuck with a crazy cat lady.
And you most certainly don’t fuck with a picture happy blogger who will be sure everyone knows that you, a gigantic D-Bag, work at the new downtown Nashville Omni hotel where you started as a Project Manager from Ohio but are now permanently residing in Music City.
There also may or may not be flyers up of him in all of his glory at the hotel.
Sorry you if you can’t erase the images above from your mind.
But I just had to share because as D-Bag said…
I thought you might like it.
This is a CBXB celebration!
Cel-e-brate good times, come on! Let’s celebrate.
There’s a party goin’ on right here,
Cowboys and Crossbones has been blogging for two fabulous years.
So bring your good times, and your laughter too,
I’m gonna celebrate and take Jell-O shots with you.
Come on now…
Let’s all celebrate and dance for good times.
We gonna celebrate and be fed food all night long.
It’s time to come together
It’s up to you, what’s your dancin’ pleasure?
Everyone around the world
Cel-e-brate good times, come on!
This calls for cake, it’s all right.
Cel-e-brate good times come on!
Skinny Pirates for everyone!
We’re gonna have a good time tonight
Let’s double fist, it’s all right.
We’re gonna have a good time tonight
Dress Teddy up,
Then get him drunk.
We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Lose a shoe, it’s all right.
We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Drink all this,
Look like shit.
Two whole years of good times, come on! (Let’s celebrate)
Writing this blog is so damn fun, come on, stay tuned for more!
It’s a celebration!
Celebrate with me and the pussies for another year strong! (Let’s celebrate)
We’re gonna have a good time tonight, all of my readers, you’re outta sight!
We’re gonna have a good time tonight, cheers to this year, it’s been dynamite!
See you all here again next year, we’ll celebrate, my blogging year three.
Everyone around the world, come on!
And/or throw her back out…
When I was a kid, my friend Scooby (yes, the one who was just here this weekend. Miss our shenanigans? Do yourself a favor and click here,) had a knack of hiding in my front bushes at any time of the day or night. He’d wait for the opportune moment to pop up, pound on the windows and give my mother a heart attack (her chair sat right next to the window), therefore making her piss her pants or throw her back out (thankfully, she has a strong heart but a weak bladder after two 10 lb babies).
The master of suspense would also creep around the back of my house on a Saturday night, while I was watching movies downstairs and just stand in the light outside the double french doors and stare. My sister and I would scream bloody murder, therefore making my mother sprint like an Olympian to the basement from her slumber.
So what better way to spend a drunken Saturday afternoon when Scooby was visiting Nashville than to perform a surprise attack on my mom? It was a no-brainer in our book.
Full disclosure: The pictures below are staged reenactments. No mother was hurt during this photo shoot.
I’m proud to state that no bladders were emptied and all back muscles remained in tact during this scare.
Does that mean Scooby is losing his edge?
My mom sure hopes this is true.