Weekend Winks – The Pussy Posse, A Penis Pot and Profile Pics

January is proving to be the most challenging time of the year for me. While I’m thrilled for a new year, something negative creeps into my bones whether I like it or not. My stutter is back. My bouncy leg comes out of nowhere. A sense of profound grief follows me around like Peanuts’ Pig-Pen’s dust cloud. It’s almost my Rapegativersary and my body realizes this. BUT all that being said, I have peeps who know how to keep me on the up and up, and so instead of treading water, I’m on a floatie.

My besite stopped by the Mini Manse Friday and we guzzled sipped wine (surprise!) and watched the Melissa McCarthy movie “Life of the Party.” Beyond hysterical.

Thank gawd for First Mate.

Saturday, two of my four pussies had vet appointments for annual check-ups. When I was scheduling, they asked which two and I said, “whichever two I can wrangle into carriers.” You know, Ted always just got swaddled in a blanket and sat on my lap during car rides so this carrier thing is new to me. And my pussies are not stupid (well, except for Ruby Sue – aka Thundercunt – who was the first victim in a cage).

Who wants a shot?

Fabio was a wee bit too big for the skull and crossbones carrier.

But not for the pink one. It was a full on wrestling match trying to shove his muscled ass into the cage but somehow after about a 10 minute struggle, I got the fucking door latched.

Beyond thrilled.

Ruby Sue on the other hand, was in some serious shock at the thought of getting on the scale. Or being at the vet. Or the car ride. Or all three.

Dime sized eyes.

While we waited for the vet, I almost laughed the building down when I saw this comparison on social media.

Better belly laugh yet came when Slappy responded…

I don’t care which way you lean, it’s fucking funny. Upon wondering what kind of comedy show my pussies were putting on in the waiting room, we got a clean bill of health for both Fabs and Thundie. Although Fabio gained 2.5 lbs last year, so he’s officially “big-boned”. Just more for this mama to love on.

While my pussies were braving the vet, my Iowa twins were eating ice cream in sub degree temperatures. Because they’re bad ass like that. Pretty unprecedented weather is coming through the state with temps supposing to feel like -41 later this week. Makes me love the Nashville 50 degree winter days all the more.

Cuteness overload.

First Mate had a girls gathering on Saturday evening and while I almost didn’t go, I was so glad I did.

What it’s like taking a selfie with me.

First Mate and Rach had to team up to pour my glass of wine.

My eye happened to catch what I thought was a tea pot on FM’s counter and thought aloud, “why the fuck do you have a penis pot on your kitchen counter?” Turns out, it’s actually a nettie pot used for sinuses and allergies and we got a full-on infomercial on how to use said pot.

Penis Pot Love

Best kind of therapy for me (friends, not the penis pot).

Perfect remedy for me.

First Mate tucked Rach and I into her couch and she had to wake us up from our peaceful passouts slumber the following afternoon.

What happened? Where am I? Who am I?

What I saw when I woke up.

Good thing is, we hydrated with water all night AND ate pizza (Rach had no memory of) so after a little coffee, we were good to go after a 16 hour girl’s night in marathon.

Hangover Schmangover.

There’s this “game” on Facebook where you can have your next five year’s predicted through photos. This is what a normal one looks like…

It takes your profile pic and then gives you standard photos for the next five years of your life.

Here’s mine…

The actual fuck? I’m not sure why I was surprised although my profile pic is of the twins.

Side note: if someone could put a pillow under my chin in 2023, I would greatly appreciate not getting a stiff neck from sleeping on the toilet face first. Thanks.

My current life philosophy. pc:#mytherapistsays

So while we all try to roll with punches that hit us, it’s always fabulous to have support of any kind. Thank you for yours.

Cheers!

CBXB

 

How to Almost Burn Down a Mini Manse

I’m a woman of many talents.

I photobomb like it’s my career, my dainty laugh makes 80-year-old men want to fight me,  I have a knack for getting strange dudes to send me dick pics and I’m on the brink of being Nashville’s cray cray cat lady.  However, I recently uncovered a new ability of mine when I almost burned my entire apartment complex to the ground with a microwave and a glittery paper plate.

All that glitters is not gold. It's more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

All that glitters is not gold.
It’s more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

It all started with these gorgeous red paper plates, rimmed in silver sparkles because an ordinary white hue was all too normal for me to purchase.

Of course I had to have them.

Food tastes better when combined with glitter, yes?

Maybe it was because I had five one too many Skinny Pirates the night before but I thought it was a good idea to throw the shimmering piece of flimsy cardboard into the microwave in order to heat up chicken fingers (also from the previous evening that may or may not have sat on the counter all night long).

Don't worry. I'm sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Don’t worry.
I’m sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Upon closing the appliance door and setting the timer for 30 seconds, I stepped away from the kitchen, distracted by one of New Cat’s many attempts to commit suicide by sitting on the banister of my second balcony porch.

No energy to thwart suicide attempts by New Cat.

Thinking long and hard about how rough he has it in my mini manse. Fucker.

In the mere seconds I was away rescuing my idiot pussy, something started happening in the microwave.

A stench started to quickly fill the air.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, flames were bursting through the microwave door as the timer counted down to zero.

For a moment, all I could think about was the loss of my chicken tenders. My hungover ass then snapped out of it and flung the door of the appliance open to find a smoldering, disintegrating plate with burnt to a crisp pieces of poultry attached to it.

So glitter doesn't warm well.

So…… sparkles don’t warm well.

Mourning the loss of my food like broken high heel, I was further pissed off thinking that the manufacturer of this piece of shit plate didn’t list any danger warnings about putting a metallic glitter plate into the microwave for all of the dumb asses out there who apparently don’t know foil starts on fire in a microwave like yours truly.

Then I turned the crispy plate over.

WARNING

I may have missed something here.

Once I realized I wasn’t even close to being the most mediocre genius on the planet, my feelings of grief were geared toward the loss of my beloved red (because white is too normal) microwave that now smelled like a year-long bonfire had taken place inside and ceased to run properly.

Um...

The not so sparkly remnants of a small kitchen fire.

Much to my hungover delight, Target (my mothership) had a shiny red appliance just waiting for me on the store shelf later that day.

Forced to invest in a new appliance.

It’s a kitchen miracle.

Forced to utilize my lingering brain cells, I tried to figure out how to unplug the old glitter cooker from behind the refrigerator without having to move the 250 lb unit.

Not going well.

This might as well have been brain surgery.

You guys, it’s hard being a blonde with so many talents.

Help.

Help.

Who wants to come over for a fancy chicken tenders dinner and watch me put my new microwave to use tonight?

Don’t worry, I got new glitter plates.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Weekend Winks – Sushi’s Revenge

Weekends are all fun and games until….you get to revisit your Friday night sushi over and over and over again…

Sake to me.

Sake to me.

It started out innocently enough at my fave Nashville watering hole, Dalts where I sipped on a few Skinny Pirates.

Typical Friday night...

Typical Friday night date with my Captain.

When it came time to eat, we ventured over to get sushi which couldn’t be consumed without the accompaniment of an assortment of sake, of course.

Sampler platter

Sampler platter of sake.

After a taste test of Japan’s finest a self-inflicted photo shoot took place at the sushi bar.

Sake

My long arms work wonders for selfies.

Sitting in front of the fresh fish I grew balls, got brave and decided to venture out from my typical sushi roll.

Gutsy

Jaws doesn’t seem so menacing anymore.

I ended up with what looked fish nachos minus the greasy tortilla chips.

Sushi nachos

Not cooked to perfection.

After sliding the fish down my hatch, I was feeling pretty foxy and quite adventurous giving myself a pat on my non-foodie back.

I went from this...

I went from celebrating something new Friday night…

To this. Sushi can suck it.

…to feeling like death warmed over on Saturday.

Waking up suddenly at 4am to be reminded what you had for supper is always so very exciting and fun. Especially when a certain someone just happened to make a bed out of the toilet I so desperately needed to use every 20 minutes.

Not making my worshiping easy.

Not making my worshiping easy.

In between sips of 7Up, mouse size bites of crackers and the recurring need to run to the restroom after any attempt to drink or eat, I wallowed in my mess of a raw fish hangover.

Death warmed over.

Sushi can suck it.

While feeling ultra sorry for myself on a gorgeous 65 degree Nashville day, my spirits were lifted by my two little Iowa rug rats, sending pics to their dreary old Auntie CBXB.

Smiley

Ha ha ha Auntie CBXB! Sucks to be you!

Fave Hawkeye

Cutest Hawkeye ever.

The rest of my weekend was spent in the way only Tedstar could love…

Deep in recovery.

Napping me back to good health.

I’m sure Ted will keep his paws crossed I get food poisoning more often…

Cheers to a week full of bland food for me!

CBXB

CBXB!

Pussy Puke

Oh the things my pussy does to me.

It started like any other Saturday. I groggily awoke with a slight hangover from five too many Skinny Pirates the previous evening. Ted was screaming meows at the top of his teeny lungs for breakfast, so course I filled his bowl to the brim with his fancy schmancy duck and green pea food.

FEED ME NOW.

Roaring his brains out.

As I was adjusting my eyes to the mid-morning light I realized Mr. Ted E. Bear had an appointment with our fave vet, Dr. Bowling for his yearly check-up in about 30 minutes (we live a half hour away from Dr. B’s office). Shit.

I threw on some clothes as the Bear inhaled every morsel of his breakfast, then scooped him up, put him in his blanket and swaddled him like the 9-year-old baby that he insists upon being.

Let's roll.

All waddled up with somewhere to roll.

Ted has always enjoyed a car ride. He doesn’t make a peep, often takes a nap if the sun is coming in our window and typically tries to help me drive.

Coasting

Road trips – one of Ted’s hobbies…aside from napping and eating.

But this was not either of our lucky days. In the hurried state I was in to not be late for our appointment, I got lost and unfortunately there were about four roundabouts I kept driving through. Which in turn, made the happily full of breakfast Ted regurgitate his morning meal.

In the middle of me driving 50 mph.

All over the place.

Projectile style.

Car sick.

Covering every inch possible with puke.

While this was taking place and I was unable to pull over on the highway, I kept saying this to myself…

chant. chant. chant.

On repeat in my head.

When I finally got the chance to pull over (and trying to avoid having a moment like Chunk in The Goonies), I assessed the damage.

Tedstar had it on his wrist, I had it on my pants, in my sock and under my shoe.

On the paw, my leg

Didn’t miss a spot.

It was in all crevices of my steering wheel and because I was turning a corner as he began upchucking, all over the back of the driving device as well.

Every mother f'ing nook and cranny of the steering wheel.

Every nook and cranny covered.

It was in my hair (don’t ask), my vest pocket, on my cell phone, the volume nob for the radio, all over Ted’s blanket…

Blank stare.

Duck and pea food is very fragrant, unfortunately.

It even found its way into my purse…

Purse contents.

Oh here’s my credit card. And warm piece of cat food for you.

We finally made it to the office, where the nurse gave us a trash bag, a new blanket, wet wipes and paper towels. When Dr. Bowling (who has said she’d like to come back in another life as one of my cats – oh snap!) entered the exam room, the look of trauma on our faces made her laugh.

Trauma

What the fuck just happened?

She took one look at us and said, “Cat moms are real moms too.”

You can say that again.

And again.

And again.

I’m just relieved TB didn’t shit his pants (or rather, his blanket)…how do moms of humans do it?

CBXB

CBXB!

Party Pooped

You’d think that I’d be the one in major recovery after spending four full days (which at this point, felt like years) in Vegas. Yet, while I am still trying to dry my liver out, my fur ball Ted acts like he danced on poles non-stop while I was away.

Unbearable

My Vegas stories exhausted Teddy, who apparently didn’t get his 23 hour nap yesterday.

Thankfully, I was well-educated and earned an additional degree in cocktailing (my mom is beyond proud) from the University of Iowa (ranked as one of the top party colleges in the country – much to parental dismay. But it’s actually the best of both worlds, really. I retained my education AND never miss a day from work due to a hangover. Thanks for the party schooling U of I!)

With the help of Pedialyte (thanks Nate and Al), consecutive hours of sleep (thanks Tylenol PM), greasy food (love you McDonald’s) and hair of the dog (Captain, vodka, wine), I’m feeling like a normal human again but still look like death warmed over.

Death warmed over...

Looking so good, I’ve been hiding behind my stage 5 clinger.

And while Mr. Bear can barely muster his little neck up on his shoulders, I’ve been forced to snuggle non-stop on the couch with him since my return.

party pooped

Is this vacay hangover finished yet?!

I hope you’re feeling better than Ted. And I truly hope you’re looking better than moi. I’m resting up quickly – there’s tailgating to partake in this weekend!

Cheers from the exhausted CBXB duo!

CBXB!

Hangover Helper

Treating your body like a trash can is easy (and oh so fun) to do when the cocktails begin to flow.

But the next day, when I look at myself in the mirror and regret the 11th Skinny Pirate (if only I had added Diet Coke to the Captain Morgan), the entire pizza at 2am (that disappeared in 5 minutes), and wonder where in the hell I am (kidding! you can breathe again dad), I at least have one thing that brings a smile to my last night’s lipstick covered lips (or what’s left of it anyway).

The Hangover Helper. A little sparkle urging me to get back up on my fabulous feet (that still ache from those heels that were meant for sitting and looking pretty, not dancing on tables and almost breaking ankles).

This amazing rescue tool can hold up to 8 desperately needed doses of relief and fits into almost any purse I own. Discovered at TJ Maxx, $3.99.

Having this kit by my side on not-so-pretty mornings makes it easier to muster the energy it takes to to wash my face (which aged 20 days by not doing so last night, according to my mother) brush my teeth and wince when I see the hot mess looking back at me in the mirror.

Not only does my traveling medicine case look fashionable, it’s also a fantastic conversation starter. Like when it falls out onto the table my first day on my new job. While I winced and wondered if my new boss was regretting his most recent hire, he said to me, “That case rocks! I need to get one for my wife.”

Now who would have thought having a hang over kit at work could help you look like a shining star? Better go get your own – it could advance your career.

CBXB

CBXB!