The Dick Pic Debacle

I got another dick pic!

Just kidding. April Fools. But this is such a goodie, couldn’t refuse sharing again.

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

________________________________________________

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 mini manse full of fur balls).

Girls Night

Wild gal nights out no more as procreating became a focus point for everyone but yours truly.

Several years ago, I 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!”

New Cat, New Cat your order is ready.

Fucking bitch.

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 forehead (affectionately called Bama Bangs) – 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 harmless.

Something along the lines of these guys. So NOT my type.

Being that I’m from Iowa, I assumed Mr. Ohio and I could bond over Big Ten 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.

Um...creepy?!

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

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?

That you’ve only talked to for 240 seconds?

My silence seemed to only pique his interest more.

Do you like piercings on guys?  No response.

Do you want me to pick you up at 7:30 or 8pm? No response. (Although 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? No response but fucking seriously?

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…

The Break Up

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)…

photo 2

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.

I must say, a step up from his khaki shorts.

Oh gee, you look like 874,912 men that reside in Nashville.

photo 3

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.

photo 4

THOUGHT U MAY LIKE THIS?!?!

He thought I might like this?!

photo 3

My initial reaction:

MY EYES!

MY EYES!

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? DID HE REALLY JUST FUCKING 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.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

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.

Down the hatch

Please be a mind eraser. Please.

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.

photo 5

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.

He didn't stop.

Stop the madness!

I thought of sending a pic of me with runaway bride eyes (remember that Georgia lady and her eyes?!) and one of Camo’s menacing guns, D-Bag might piss himself and leave me alone.

Crazy bitch with a gun.

Yes, it would be aimed at his penis.

But I refrained. I sat on my hands and D-Bag’s messages kept coming with no replies from this chick.

photo

By this point, he’d been texting to no one for over a month and I was beyond pissed off.

Furious.

You don’t fuck with an Iowa girl.

Don't mess with a girl who's been corn fed.

Nope. Don’t do it.

You don’t fuck with a crazy cat lady.

Image 6

Seriously. Don’t even think about it.

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 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.

Image 3

Bloggers mean business.

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.

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Throw an Ugly Sweater Party

Get your f'ugly on.

Oh come all ye ugly!

Last weekend, I thew a f’ugly sweater Christmas party for my lady friends (no boys allowed, as my mini manse isn’t yet large enough to accommodate both sexes). This was one of the easiest themed parties I’ve ever put together, as everything can be gaudy (my MO), trashy and anything but classy.

So here are my rules for throwing a CBXB style fucking ugly sweater party.

Rule #1: Create a photo op.

Luckily for me, my friend Camo is pretty handy when it comes to hardware and he agreed to build a place where us gals could capture all of our ugliness.

World's best assistant.

World’s best assistant.

Testing out the goods.

Testing out the goods.

Time for some f'ugly overhaul.

F’ugly overhaul.

Mission accomplished.

Mission accomplished.

Rule #2: Have a hostess with the mostess outfit.

My mom and I morphed into Nashville’s version of Tina Knowles and Beyonce, as she handcrafted my outfit with bows, velcro and a helluva lot of spandex.

Just like Tina Knowles and Beyonce.

The white trash version of House of Dereon in my mini manse.

CBXBey

CBXBey outfit complete.

Rule #3: Put the finishing touches on your gaudy decor.

My mini manse is pretty sparkly even when it’s not the holidays but naturally I add more shit when it’s time to par-tay. And you should too.

Glamingo gussy up.

Glamingo got gussied up.

Skull gussy up.

Even my skull hearts Santa.

Door prizes wrapped and ready.

Door prizes wrapped, ready and under the tree.

Mismatched tablecloths

Mismatched tablecloths from Gma, Mama CBXB and Target add extra gaudiness.

Themed napkins thanks to my gal pal Podunk.

Themed napkins thanks to my gal pal Podunk.

Hobby

Hobby Lobby knew what kind of party I was hosting this year.

Truth.

Truth.

Rule #4: Prep the most important of the party – the bar.

Always offer a signature cocktail to guests.  This year I featured a grape martini accompanied by snazzy boxed wine, Jell-O shots (you know, keeping it classy) and beer.

Prep party drinks.

Grape martinis for everyone!

Wrap the wine

Fancy wine wrapped.

Jell-O shot prep

Whipping up the Jell-O shots.

Grab anything near to avoid messing up my jewels, not tools.

Open all bottles before guests arrive so you don’t find yourself grabbing the nearest kitchen tool with an audience watching you fail miserably.

Classy lady cans in a clean, class sink cooler.

Classy lady cans in a clean, classy sink cooler.

Rule #5: Force every guest to down a Jell-O shot (or five).

This will increase the fun that everyone thinks they’re already having.

You will do a shot and you WILL LOVE IT.

You will do a shot and you WILL LOVE IT.

Fun

Down the hatch ladies!

Jell-O to go!

Jell-O to go for a husband that wasn’t invited.

Rule #6: Put the photo op to good use.

Be the first to enter the finely decorated piece de resistance and then never leave so you’re sure to be in every single photo.

Photo op to good use.

Single shot requires jazz hands.

Doubling up...

The double up works nicely with moms and daughters.

Triple up...

Or have a threesome in a frame.

Rule #7: Invite a Mad Hatter for party entertainment.

Everyone knows a person who will up the ante of party fun and you need to be sure they’re available to come to your shindig.

Be sure to invite a Mad Hatter to keep the party interesting.

A Mad Hatter will manhandle the only dude allowed in the mini manse, Dada CBXB.

Mad dance in my bathrobe.

A Mad Hatter will go through your closet and appear in some of your finest threads.

Mad attire help.

A Mad Hatter will also help accessorize your outfit with a throw of an ugly vest.

Not amused.

Not amused.

Rule #8: Have a contest with prizes.

No costume party is complete without a contest. In this case there was a prize for Pretty F’ugly, Kinda F’ugly and SO F’ugly.

Prize time!

Prize time!

Too pretty

Pretty f’ugly.

Kinda f'ugly

Kinda f’ugly.

The grand champion of fucking ugly.

The grand champion of fucking ugly.

Not only did my gal pal wear a vest crafted from kitty cat material, she gussied up her face with the most gigantic glasses on the planet and did a throw back to late ’80s hair.

Details matter.

Details matter.

Rule #9: Take a wild photo with guests and the party will REALLY begin.

Jell-O shots consumed, three martinis in and women were ready to rock my mini manse.

Party on!

Party time!

Jazz hands out.

Drunk jazz hands showed up to ruin photos.

Half naked couch surfing began.

Half naked couch surfing began.

And the after party raged on to the wee hours of the night.

And the after party raged on to the wee hours of the night.

Rule #10: Beware of any party food topped with dark blue frosting.

Too much food coloring and your guests may wake up the next morning like this…

Blue Christmas indeed.

Blue Christmas indeed.

And that my friends is how you throw an ultra non-classy fucking ugly sweater party.

Now go get your f’ugly on!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

Rock ‘n’ Roll All Night…

For CBXB, it’s rock ‘n’ roll all night….and pay for it the entire next day.

Jazz hands just scream rocker chick, right?

Jazz hands just scream rocker chick, right?

It was a girls’ night out in Nashville as Motley Crue brought their farewell tour to honky-tonk central.

GNO Crue

Me and my crue.

After six two rounds of pre-party cocktails we headed to the arena, where we stocked up on more libations before going in to see Alice Cooper, the opening act, pretend to be decapitated on stage.

Sobriety

Sobriety is no accident. It’s also no fun.

Naturally, after the besiege of concert cocktails we felt it necessary to hold a photo shoot at every location in which we graced our presence.

Photo shoot begins.

Pictures in the hallway.

My one and only move still going strong.

Photos at the bar with my one and only dance move.

Bathroom selfies!

Selfies in the bathroom….. like all the classy ladies do.

Show selfies

Seat selfies.

With all of our modeling, we almost forgot that there was an actual reason we’d come to the Bridgestone Arena. Luckily for us, we didn’t miss Tommy Lee’s impressive drum solo he performed while his kit moved up and down the lighted truss at .000000001 mph.

Oh yeah, there was also a show going on.

A trick as spectacular as a its geriatric pace.

After the concert it made perfect sense to do an additional whiskey shot in celebration of the kick ass farewell concert performance Motley Crue delivered. But something in my mind was doubting my capabilities to get up for work the next morning.

What the fuck is half of 2/3 cup? WHAT?

What the fuck do you think you are doing with that Fireball?! It’s a school night for Christ’s sake.

Naturally I downed that whiskey like it was Pepto Bismol, which is why I look so effortlessly chic and fabulous today.

Looking how I feel...

I wear my sunglasses inside ’cause I’m cool like that. And still burping up Fireball.

While my exterior appearance mimics exactly how I’m feeling on the inside, I need to get my shit together as I get to do the same thing all over again tonight when attending a Sir Paul McCartney concert.

For free. In a suite. With food. And booze. Free booze.

My liver is screaming “kill me now” with my feet expressing their disdain for my attempt to prance around in my high-heeled hooker boots for a second night in a row. But who cares what my feet think, I’m going to see a music legend, right?

And as Paul McCartney says….Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da life goes on bra.

Although I have a feeling my motto tomorrow will be more along the lines of “Live and Let Die.”

ROCK ON.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

My Very Own Dick Pic

 

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

________________________________________________

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).

Ladies lovin' life!

Lovin’ life with ALee and G.

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!”

New Cat, New Cat your order is ready.

You bitch!

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.

Um...creepy?!

Um…creepy?!

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…

The Break Up

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)…

photo 2

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.

I must say, a step up from his khaki shorts.

Oh gee, you look like 574,912 men that reside in Nashville.

photo 3

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.

photo 4

THOUGHT U MAY LIKE THIS?!?!

He thought I might like this?!

photo 3

My initial reaction:

MY EYES!

MY EYES!

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.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

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.

Down the hatch

Please be a mind eraser. Please.

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.

photo 5

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.

He didn't stop.

Stop the madness!

I thought of sending a pic of me with runaway bride eyes (remember that Georgia lady and her eyes?!) and one of Camo’s menacing guns, D-Bag might piss himself and leave me alone.

Crazy bitch with a gun.

Crazy bitch with a gun. Look out.

But I refrained. I sat on my hands and D-Bag’s messages kept coming with no replies from this chick.

photo

By this point, he’d been texting to no one for over a month and I was beyond pissed off.

Furious.

You don’t fuck with an Iowa girl.

Don't mess with a girl who's been corn fed.

Nope. Don’t do it.

You don’t fuck with a crazy cat lady.

Image 6

Seriously. Don’t even think about it.

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.

Image 3

Bloggers mean business.

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.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Getting together with my gal pals always starts off with classy intentions.

Sometimes, we start at a local Nashville winery where the owner is out and about rubbing elbows with visitors. And being that this winery dude used to be in one of country music’s biggest duos, Brooks and Dunn we have no shame in asking for a photo, naturally.

Does anyone else hear Neon Moon?

Patiently waiting for a neon moon with Kix Brooks while guzzling wine.

Typically on a ladies night, we begin with good intentions all dolled up with our lipstick still in tact.

Good intentions

Pretty in pink with lipstick, of course.

Then after about a cocktail and a half, photo shoots commence while our love for one another gushes throughout conversations.

Fun fun

I love you. No I love you! But I loooove you, Girl.

Once love is professed, it’s time for shots.

And then...

Cheers to classy times.

And then hell starts to break loose…like taking pictures of our party in the back of a mini van.

Photos!

Yep, that’s how we roll.

We feel free to ditch the shoes and any ounce of dignity as our killer heels hurt our feet.

Shoes off!

Who needs shoes when you have booze?!

Our magical powers of prowess surface as we will our significant others to call us.

Pleeeeeeeeease call!

Pleeeeeeeeease call!

We find other uses for feminine products while on cocktail number five.

Tampon Time

No Botox needed when you have a maxi pad.

The fun on girls night out never stops – not even for pangs of hunger.

STOP!

Won’t stop. Can’t stop.

Us trashtacular gals know when it’s time to stuff our faces like truck drivers in order to keep the party going.

Like this...

Eating cheeseburgers is hilarious business.

Once our bellies are full, we charge on divulging deep, dark secrets.

Secrets

Trust me, your secret is not safe with me.

Photo ops get a little trying as we start to lean like the Tower of Pisa.

Pic train

Wait, you leaning left or right?

Once we start feeling fat from cramming food in our bellies, yoga moves seem like a good idea.

Work it.

A plank pose. Who’s with me?

And then we get to feeling crafty. Who doesn’t want a marker creation on their forehead?

Get crafty.

Trust me. This is the best smiley face ever.

No gals evening is ever complete without the appearance of jazz hands.

Jazz hands, anyone?

Treating ten digits like extra accessories.

An evening with my sophisticated crowd wouldn’t be the same without helping a lady to a chair.

Hey-oh! It's not a GNO until someone is groped.

Hey-oh! It’s not a GNO until someone is groped.

But all good things must come to an end.

NOOOOOOOOO I never want the party to end!

NOOOOOOOOO I never want the party to stop!

Some of the bigger bawl babies have to be coddled – soothed into knowing there will be another night to galavant around with the girls.

Tell me I'm going to be OK...

Tell me I’m going to be OK…

Coming home in the morning light isn’t as glamorous as Cyndi Lauper makes it out to be but at least my mother isn’t yelling at me to get my life right.

To this. Sushi can suck it.

Dreams of next GNO dancing in my head.

While it may take us a little time to get back into our daily saddles again, we always have fun in the back of our minds as we work the week away.

Is it? Well, is it?!

Is it? Well, is it?!

Who’s in for the next night out?

CBXB

CBXB!