What The Fuck Catch Up

What in the actual fuck?!

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.

Birthday babes.

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.

Believe survivors.

Cheers to hoping your end to the first month of 2021 is also winding down with a bit of relief.

Mask up. Stay safe. Love ya, mean it.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

 

BUY ME A DRINK

The Yule Blog of 2020 Year in Review

What in the actual fuck 20fucking20?

Who could have predicted the surprising mess you would be? In honor of the longest, shortest, most eventful, confusing, defining, emotional, true color revealing, nothing surprises anyone anymore shitshow of a time, I’m doing a yule blog year in review. Starting with this overview, I’ll be breaking my “what-fucking-day-is-it-do-I-have-enough-toilet-paper-do-you-care-enough-about-others-to-follow-three-simple-rules-an-alarmingly-large-portion-of-Americans-are-in-a-cult-like-state-when-did-we-become-so-divided-did-that-just-really-happen-where-have-you-been-maskless-how-is-it-already-december” year down month by month in upcoming posts.

The eve of the new year, December 31, 2019…how the start of a brand new decade – let alone fresh year – felt exhilarating! 

New decade prep.

The years between 2010 and 2020 were beyond rough. I started that decade leaving an emotionally and mentally taxing relationship where I wasn’t appreciated for me being me, moved in with my parents as an independent adult for almost 365 days and sandwiched in between those years, my immediate family crumbled before my eyes, I was sexually harassed at work and lost a career that took years to build, I was raped by my best friend’s boyfriend, I gained half of my pre-Rapegate bodyweight in the following four years, found myself abandoned by what I thought was a tight circle of girlfriends, the electoral college system in America yet again granted a victory to a person who didn’t win the popular vote, THE furball love of my life, Ted E. Bear (and star of this blog) passed away three weeks before I lost my Aunt Crazy Pants to fucking cancer.

Ted. Teddy Bear. Mr. Ted E. Bear. Tedstar. Teddy Krueger. How I miss you.

Fuck, during that decade I was ALWAYS ready for a motherfucking new year.

So young. So innocent. Not knowing the fuckery that was to come a knocking.

Byeeee 2014!

GTFO 2016. Worst.Year.of.My.Life.

…looking toward 2018?

You get the (literal) picture(s). Of course fabulous happenstances were included in the shit sandwich of a decade. The absolute best was the grand appearance of the two not-so-little anymore loves of my life. Sister CBXB and my BIL gifted our family with twins!

The introduction of a lifetime.

I lost my goddamned mind in 2016 after Rapegate one day at PetSmart and adopted three cats at one time.

The Pussy Posse was born that very day.

Princess Elsa Pants of the Mini Manse, Ruby Sue and Rocky.

We’ve since added three more pussies and a Pomeranian.

Fabio, Scooch, Prissy and Girlie Girl have rounded out The Pussy Posse nicely.

Yes. Yes I do realize I will be single forever and I’m OK with it. I also love candles, reading and watch The Bachelor franchise in a wedding veil I found in my dumpster. I’m just living my best life authentically, OK?



This decade, I found my true ride or die people. In person – and virtually. I’ve never “met” some of my most cherished friends who live all over the world. The outpouring of solid, lasting support after sharing my Rapegate story and its profoundly life altering aftermath is what kept me breathing and why I’m alive to type this today.

I sent out the S.O.S. and you answered in droves.

Another reason I still live and breathe is Superhero Sheila. My therapist. My literal lifesaver. We met days after I was raped and she will always be in my life. Thankful isn’t a strong enough word but then again, there isn’t one that exists to describe how grateful I am for her. I can’t take a picture of Superhero Sheila for confidentiality reasons but I named my new car after her. No. I’m not kidding.

OK, so I may be more excited about my Sheila than the actual Sheila but how many peeps can say they have a car named after them?

The excitement of a new decade dawning was cause for fabulous celebrating on my leopard couch December 31, 2019. Out with the awful old and in with all of the brand new!

It’s finally here!

Little did I know the entire world would soon collectively feel like…

The start of THE shitshow of all shitshows was just around the corner.

What kind of badassery do you think January 2020 bestowed to me? We shall soon see.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

Buy Me a Drink

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Birthday Cheers to My Legendary Girl Dad

Oh dads.

If you are lucky enough to have one or have had one in your life, then you win. A familiar fixture on this blog and in my life, my dad celebrates his day of birth (along with his twin!) today. Aunt Crazy Pants once doled out advice that I didn’t think much of at the time when I was younger. She said (during some stupid crazy boy drama, no doubt) “No man will ever love you the way your dad loves you.”

This didn’t really dawn on me until I was an “adult” (a term I use for myself extremely loosely these days) and a dude I was living with said to me, “I can’t treat you like your dad treats you.”

BOY BYE.

I guess I never had to think about it because of the jackpot I scored when my dad chose to be mine. A knight in shining (well, in his case probably rusty) armor. A frugal on the allowance guy whose driving abilities were always affected by how loudly the radio was playing in unknown territory (TURN DOWN Q.102 GIRLS WE’RE IN DES MOINES!). A dad who commuted four hours daily to work but rarely missed an extracurricular activity. A dude who could scare boyfriends shitless with his size but is actually a giant, goofy Teddy Bear.

A father who not only duct taped my glasses together in the third grade (hence the short-lived nickname “Ducky” by the oh-so-sweet fellow 4th graders) but also uses the same magic to keep my bumper adhered to my car as an “adult”.

A dad who tells you to “tough it up” when you’re sitting in the superintendent’s office, holding a bloody chin after being hit in the face with a baseball bat during P.E. but remains strong and silent decades later when he’s driving you to the hospital after being raped.

So yeah, Aunt Crazy Pants and her advice rings true – best of luck to a dude ever living up to The Man, The Myth, My Legend.

Celebrating the Big Fella today, please join me as I share some of the valuable…

LESSONS FROM MY LEGEND

Image 90

You should always have your family’s back…

bl

… even if they often attack.

Throw your hands up in the air…

wave

…and wave them like I just don’t care.

Even if you’re a dork inside…

...without my shades.
                                              

…it’s no matter if you’re cool on the outside.

The art of muscle blowing is unique.

blow
                      
and
                                       
still

Passed down to generations for upkeep.

Pink isn’t just for girls…

flex

…guys often put the color on for a whirl.

Sequins should be in my everyday attire…

love

     … as you gave me the first bedazzled top I ever acquired.

It’s OK to stand out in a crowd…

Dada C-Note

…just be sure to do it loud and proud.

Giving is better than receiving…

Image 91

…except when you let your three year old open your gift to be appeasing. 

The importance of slathering on sunscreen daily…

very

   …just be sure to not get too crazy.

The significance of jazz hands…

was

…often help when making demands.

It’s not a road trip…

check

…unless you have rotgut vodka and your finger to mix.

Reminding me there’s more than one fish in the sea…

fish

           …especially whenever a boy has been mean to me.

Being the life of the party…

never
                                    

…is like leading one big, fun army.

The duo that shoots shots together…

Wild Turkey
Image 11
Stays together.

…stays together.

It’s important to share…

at the

…even while pigging out at the Iowa State Fair.

It’s OK to relax…

after

…after a day has been crap.

You’ve carried me through physical hard times…

broken foot
         
broken ankle

…even if sometimes it was from too much self-inflicted wine.

Tipping my Skinny Pirates when my nails are drying…

treat
                         

…because you know there’s a silver lining.

Most importantly, not all heroes wear capes…

Not all

…just dads who pick us up no matter our proverbial scrapes. 

So let us all raise our glasses today…

cheers!

…and cheers your birthday away!

Those are just a few of my lessons from…

happy

 The Man. The Myth. The Legend.

Happy Birthday, Dada!

Join the twins in a sing-a-long to Coo Coo…

(of course, we do not have normal monikers such as Grandpa in my classy family)

We love you.

CBXB, Sister CBXB, and the rest of our crazy crew!

CBXB!

Lights Will Guide You Home

It’s fucking insane that my kick ass Aunt Crazy Pants has been partying up above for over 1,000 days now. Today, it is three years since she went to bicker with her mother up above (They seriously used to keep track of who called who last – and reported it to me every time I spoke to either one of them. Thinking about it now, I should have just conducted a three-way call and then they would have been even.)

Oh, no shit? Did you know the phone works both ways?!

I still forget and go to pick up my cell to text or call and then remember I can only communicate via the red bird, a cardinal.  I think about ACP every day (I mean, I do have her signature tattooed on my wrist) but I especially think about her during my beloved Iowa State Fair, which typically takes place for ten days every August (but thanks to that bitch Rona, it was canceled this year).

Giant tenderloin time.

After my folks moved to Nashville, ACP would always be my state fair side kick unabashedly wearing fucking Crocs (so-called “shoes” that I hate with a passion) on her feet while she humored me on my yearly 12 hour day of fair festivities (present when the cannon goes off at 8am until the fireworks boom after the nightly concert at the Grandstand).

She also poured water over her head when she was hot. I think she wore a white top on purpose.

I haven’t been back to the Iowa State Fair since ACP passed and it will be bittersweet when I get to go again.

Corn dog round four, waiting on the fireworks.

But she relayed the torch to R. Nasty who was keen to accompany ACP and me to the fair in past years even though it was most likely the worst days of his life. Now, he gets me all to himself as I force him to eat everything in sight, ride the death traps carnies assemble (although they took the double Ferris wheel away and I AM NOT OK WITH IT), and visit every.single.livestock barn.

Two peas in a forced fair pod.

I’ve really been missing her beyond lately. She was my second mom.

Obvies.

It’s comforting to a degree knowing that she’s with her folks, other family members, and all of my furballs (who are most likely mauling her) that passed before ACP. While our family celebrates her life while we’re still living, it doesn’t make the void any less painful.

Five Hussies. One photo booth. What could go wrong?

I miss the cards she used to mail me. I miss her texts that made no fucking sense (so I’d end up having to call her anyway to find out what the fuck she was talking about which may have been her plan all along). I miss her not giving one fucking thought to what came out of her mouth before she said it aloud.

Oh my fucking Gawd. Did you really say that?!

I miss cheering her up on what she called her ‘blue’ days. I miss having her to call when I’m having ‘blue’ days. I miss making her laugh until she pissed her pants (super easy). I miss her Christmas Village she set up every year that was literally the size of a small town. I miss laughing my ass off with and at her.

Whenever I hear the song “Fix You” by Coldplay from their X&Y album, I think of ACP and the fucking cancer that stole her life waaaaaaaaay too soon (the chicks on her side of the family easily live to at least 90 years young. This means I’m going to need a helluva lotta Botox). If you haven’t heard the song or need a refresher, stop what you’re doing and go listen to it or click on the highlighted Fix You words above for a link to the video. I’ve always loved the song but it’s taken on a new meaning for me since ACP passed.

We miss you.

When she received her unfuckingfair diagnosis, her peeps rallied and while we couldn’t fix or take the pain away from her, we could provide happy experiences for her remaining time and memories for her to leave with us. She tried her best to stay as long as she could here because she was insanely in love with her kids, grandkids, family, friends and was at a point in life where she was positively starting over.

Positive pants.

In honor of Aunt Crazy Pants, turn your radio (or really these days, your iPhone) up, raise those gin rickeys high in the air, as we celebrate how much we miss her and hate the fuck out of cancer in my mixed lyric rendition of the song.

Fix You

When you try your best

But you don’t succeed

When you get what you want

But not what you need

When you feel so tired

But you can’t sleep

Stuck in reverse

And high up above

Or down below

When you’re too in love

To let it go

But if you never try

You’ll never know

Just what you’re worth

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And we did try to fix you

Tears stream

Down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream

Down your face

When you lose something you can’t replace

Tears stream

 Down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And we don’t have to fix you

Love you Aunt Nancy.

Weekend Whatever Week You’re On Winks

Oh the things being stationed from home 24/7 will make you do…like take in a kitten who just had her own litter. Therefore, making me not a grandma but a GLAMma.

Oops I did it again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

I have an outside brood of seven pussies that I’ve been feeding the last two years. I was able to trap and release (TNR) each one last spring. TNR is when you catch a cat in a trap, take it to the vet for a spay or neuter and then release it where you found it. I’m making this sound easy but it takes a goddamn act of the stars being aligned even if Mercury is in Retrograde to accomplish this because feral cats are basically wild animals.

I missed a female last spring and she had kittens. And now, I am a Glamma and have four sweet, teeny, tiny Glammies inside the Mini Manse quarantined in their own Rona hell to my bedroom. They are now known as The Glam Squad and I almost lost an arm and two eyes trying to get them into the Mini Manse but that’s a story for another day.

Girlie Girl feeding Maverick and Ruth.

The Glammies are almost fully weaned off of Mama. I’m on a waiting list at Value Vet and Nashville’s Pet Community Center (that has 600 felines afuckinghead of me) for spaying and neutering. These little nuggets won’t be going back outside, either. They’ve entered the Mini Manse and are now accustomed to a boxed wine luxury lifestyle with Glamma. It’s been a shit ton of work but definitely, a welcomed distraction from whatever this thing is we now call the world. All of the babies will be up for adoption. Don’t you think you need a new friend?

Girlie Girl, Fauci and Nelly enjoying their breakfast buffet.

All of this pussy momming has given me even more reason to dive right into my Crazy Cat Lady status that I have not one ounce of shame over.

Light Friday night reading compliments of M.Star.

So how do Prissy and The Pussy Posse feel about acquiring temporary residents?

WHAT. THE. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK?

Because The Pussy Posse, Prissy, and yours truly all sleep in my Princess and the Pea bed, I’ve had to do some distracting to avoid immediate punishment from the permanent feline residents in the Mini Manse. The weather has been quite fabulous, so I am able to leave the Pussy Patio wing of the Mini, Teddy’s Terrace open for their recreational habits of napping all day every day and night.

Fabio has no complaints.

Thundercunt would like to speak to the manager.

While I’ve been trying to keep my cat hoarding situation under control, Sister CBXB has been entertaining her duo with her fabulous versions of summer camp.

So far they’ve been to France, Japan, and space.

Day camps can be exhausting, so they get a little happy hour every day.

Summering so hard.

Princess B also got a visit from the tooth fairy twice last week.

I could run a summer camp on how to find shit in the garbage can. Remember when I found my dumpster wedding dress (that is still in my possession, I mean, just in case, you never know)? Well, when I was leaving the Mini Manse on Saturday, what to my wondering eyes did appear but a gigantic framed fancy photo of some golfer. And you know who loves her some golf?

First Mate.

One woman’s trash is First Mate’s treasure.

I snapped a pic of it and sent it to her as a joke. Turns out she really wanted it and I unshamefully backed my ass up and it’s now anchored at her beige palace.

You who else needs to back their asses up? Every single motherfucker in this photo from Kid Rock’s bar in downtown Nashville taken this weekend. What do you want to bet every single person in this photo has bitched and moaned about businesses reopening and how masks are an infringement on their personal fucking freedom?

Thanks for helping Nashville inch back to Phase 1.

EVERYONE I know wants to get out and about and have some sense of pre-Rona normalcy. But when a very large handful of peeps take the conveyed Tennessee message “proceed with common sense,” in establishments that completely ignore city set guidelines (6 feet apart, wear a mask), it’s inevitable to not feel like these folks aren’t being wise. Nashville is in a four-phase reopening plan. Currently, we are on Phase 2, with many businesses waiting for Phase 3 to reopen. Selfish folks, like Kid Rock’s establishment, accompanied by many other downtown Nashville bars are completely ruining it for other businesses waiting for their economic means to starting flowing again. Get your shit together you selfish fucks and maybe, just practice compassion for others.

In London over the weekend, great compassion was shown for a counter-protester to the Black Lives Matter march. Patrick Hutchinson saw a white counter-protester on the ground, about to be trampled. Hutchinson picked the man up, and with help from friends, got him out of the large crowd and to safety. Remarkable compassion and integrity.

Selflessness at its finest.

I think some people have become frustrated with what may seem like a lull after two weeks of full-on worldwide protesting (so yeah, the entire universe thinks black lives matter). It’s important to remember that Black Lives Matter is a movement, not a moment. It will take time, education, resources, protests, reform, and….compassion.

Speaking of viruses, my vehicle has been nothing but bad juju and decided to finally piss out on me two weeks ago. It’s just been sitting in the parking lot (silver lining of remote working compliments of Rona) at the Mini Manse until yesterday. And when I started to drive it to CarMax, seeing if I could muster any kind of moola out of them for it, the old rust bucket came up with the soundtrack to 2020.

The brakes completely went out about 15 seconds in the car. I was able to emergency brake it the entire way to the dealer. When the mechanic took it out for a test spin, before giving me my appraisal, I warned him that if he valued his life, he may want to stay in the parking lot.

The rust bucket in better days, when I wished it was a Range Rover.

Turns out, the make and model of my car holds value. WHAT? WHAT? Exsqueeze me? 

GOOD NEWS?

How awful is it that I’m accustomed to the very worst scenario always panning out? I’m not a pessimist but I am just always prepared for the defeat of a situation these days. Instead, I got so much for my rust bucket, I was able to get a better vehicle in my price range that I love.

Car salesman Harry and I are now best friends.

My new beaut is being transferred from Maryland and is the exact same make, model and color as my old one. Just newer and minus the rust, the duct tape, the myriad of dashboard lights on 24/7, and no power steering fluid leak. HOW LUCKY AM I?!

For those of us who didn’t have my luck yesterday, (which applies to every other area of my non-vehicular life) might I suggest some sage to last us the next six months as we patiently await 2021?

Let me know when you want me to come sage your place. I have a new ride, you know.

Stay safe.

CBXB
CBXB!

 

 

 

 

Buy Me a Drink