Weekend Winks – Snoop Dogg, Fang Fingers and Flat Tires

When a gal pal wants to treat you to a night out for a belated birthday par-tay, why in the world would you say no? Of course we know I said yes, especially when the evening involved a Snoop Dogg concert. I was especially excited to escape from my reality after some particularly bad news came my way last week. A girl’s night out was just what this chick needed.

I over packed and lugged my beauty bag, taking over Funk 49’s kitchen counter to gussy up for a rainy night out in Nashville.

Yes, my bag of beauty tricks includes alcohol. Doesn’t yours?

Known for my booblegging skills at public events where liquor is priced like it’s solid gold, the glass below may or may not be Pepsi.

Sneaky sneaky.

The night was so full of fun that I forgot what a shit show my life has been for the past 24 months.

Problems? What problems?

After the concert, I didn’t want the night to end so I borrowed my Uber driver’s coffee on the way back to Funk 49’s house for a little perk me up.

Don’t worry. We gave him five stars – and I gave him back his coffee.

We kicked off our rainboots and did what ever girl party does after an evening out – ordered two pizzas for three ladies.

Hubba Hubba.

Upon stuffing my pie hole with at least 1.5 of the pizzas, I tried to coax Funk 49’s dog, Buddy, to lay with me in his bed…I don’t know why he seemed so annoyed.

My version of doggy style.

So I settled for a little downtime the following day with my own puppy Presh.

Prescription sunglasses are the only way to go when rehydrating on a Saturday morning.

While I was hunkered down in my Princess and the Pea bed, the Iowa twins were stuck inside for a third day in a row due to rain storms. So what did my genius sis do? She turned the garage into a bike bonanza for four-year-olds.

Rec room.

The Nashville Predators are in the NHL playoffs and my crew settled in for the third game of the series against the St. Louis Blues. Rocky, Princess Elsa Pants and Ted proved three times a charm, as the Preds skated their way to a 3-1 victory.

Fang Fingers.

I nestled into a Sunday full of job searching, #girlbossing, therapy homework, with a side of Glamour.

Sunday Funday.

No weekend would be complete without an evening full of leopard couch time with Ted – who now has his own personal shadow named Elsa Pants.

Forced Sunday snuggles – with extreme patience.

I found out that my first furry friend in Nashville crossed over to the Rainbow Bridge last night. Caesar was my constant companion when I worked as a personal assistant for a family when I first moved to Music City. He was my only “co-worker” and kept me company so many lonely nights in a new city. Love and miss you little guy.

Trying to keep the wheels from falling off my fragile state of mind, I hit the alarm early for a 7am yoga class today. But about .0005 seconds into the commute, I was t-boned in my parking lot, causing my chariot to come to an immediate halt for the time being.

No zen in sight on this Monday.

I decided it best to switch my morning coffee for something a tad stronger while on the phone with my insurance company.

A bloody mary to help ease spiked blood pressure.

So while I seem to be running into a tad of misfortunes lately, I can’t help but wonder…

I’m wide open for suggestions.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Victoria Beckham Booted Out of Nashville!

Or, at least I would kick her non-existent ass out, anyway.

I recently read an article in an issue of Glamour magazine where Victoria Beckham said she loathed crocs (anyone who gives a rat’s ass about how they look would never be caught dead in a pair), boat shoes (maybe she has a point unless you yacht) and cowboy boots.  STOP. THE. PRESS.

That’s when I decided Victoria Beckham, style queen extraordinaire, didn’t know what the F she was talking about (and after a quick review, you know who Posh Spice is and don’t know me from Adam). I have long admired Mrs. Beckham’s hot husband, style, hot husband, chic clothing, hot husband and often wondered how much food (and more importantly, Captain) I would have to cut out of my life to attain her figure. But I digress.

Because I live in Nashville, you can see where I may have an issue with her derogatory footwear statement (I wonder how many people in Texas she pissed off?) and I do realize that cowboy boots aren’t for everyone.  I avoid tennis shoes like the plague (unless I’m working out) therefore, grant the western boot my casual shoe of choice.

Even as a kid in Iowa, I rocked cowboy boots and a snazzy hat alongside my sister (all dolled up for the annual rodeo).

Now today, I’m not dressing in the traditional country giddy up when I wear boots, but they can and do look fabulous with t-shirts, tanks, jeans and some ladies can even pull them off with a dress or skirt (mostly Taylor Swift, not regular people).

blah

These boots were made for walkin’… and I have almost walked the soles off of my beloved $25 shit kickers (they aren’t the same brand of boot and I was able to masterfully finagle a killer deal).

My boots come in oh-so-fashionably handy when I know I’ll be  running around all day at work, walking for miles to and from sporting events (since I lack a parking pass) and they are my kick ass cherry on top for concert outfits.

holla

If these boots could talk…

I’ll bet you a pair of cowboy boots that if Victoria Beckham had to walk to the third tier of a stadium to get to her seat, saunter three miles to the concert venue because it cost $25 to park across the street (but only $3 if you park next to the empty warehouse with bars on its windows) or ran errands for a living and didn’t get to sit and design gorgeous clothes all day, she’d be swapping her trademark five-inch heels for something a little more comfortable, like cowboy boots…

But then she wouldn’t be the fabulous Victoria Beckham and I wouldn’t be writing this bitchy post about her now, would I?

CBXB

CBXB!