Alive and Kickin’

Holla!

Did you think I fell off the face of the fucking earth? Well, I kinda did.

My 2016 in a nutshell.

My 2016 in a nutshell.

After the start of this year, I knew January was going to be a doozie, so I stuck my head in proverbial sand, pretending I was the world’s most glamorous ostrich.

A leopard print ostrich.

The first month of 2017 marked the initial 365 days without my sweet J.Bean on the planet. The absence of this fiery young force is missed tremendously by her family and friends.

First anniversary of a devastating loss.

A devastating loss last year.

Couple the above situation with the first anniversary of bad shit happening to a good person (yours truly) within days of one another, I almost hunkered down in my dressing room to cry the rest of my life away (with all of my furry pussies, of course). I was hoping a sparkly asteroid would hit my mini manse.

Awaiting the Glitterbombpocalypse.

Instead, almost one year to the day of my bad shit, I found motivation to get my ass the size of Iowa out of the closet. I chose to march with millions of other folks in hundreds of cities across the globe in solidarity with the Women’s March on Washington (if you’re one of the people still wondering why this took place (has your head been in the sand – or perhaps my purse from above?) I’ll be addressing that in a later blog). The Nashville march expected around 4,000 people. Over 15,000 showed up and peacefully flowed through the downtown streets.

#imarchwithlinda

#imarchwithlinda

Surrounded by thousands of fellow citizens made me feel less alone (which seems utterly ridiculous, since I have a support system that rivals the American military). On the actual anniversary evening of my incident, gal pals came over to the mini manse and at midnight, we cheersed the fuck out of surviving various bad shit that happens to all of us.

Cheers to

We survive. We persevere. We kick ass.

Starting the second month of 2017 off on the right high-heeled foot, I found myself feeling empowered, emotionally stronger and proud that I trudged through the worst few hundred days life has presented me thus far. Still struggling with PTSD, adjustment disorder and severe stress caused from one single traumatic event – I finally felt some of my happy seep back in. Happy – the one thing this lonely lady has needed most out of the many things stolen from her in an instant. And anything that makes me feel better seems like a goddamn victory.

Yay me.

I also found myself suddenly unemployed – but can’t say I was sad.

At all.

Although my wallet is waaaaay lighter, my spirits are brighter, not breathing fumes from a toxic environment. Stumbling into unemployment presented all kinds of fun. Like getting into a small fender bender on the way to a therapy session minutes after cleaning out my office.

I mean, C'MON.

Nothing a glass of vino can’t fix. With a side of car insurance…

Life Savers

… and a round of life savers.

Time away from the daily grind has been fabulous. It’s allowed me to arrange a long trip to Iowa, aiding Aunt Crazy Pants in kicking some cancer ass.

Aunt Crazy Pants

Jazz hands for Crazy Pants!

When bad shit happens to good people, sometimes they (who moi?) lose their fucking minds and adopt three cats at once without first consulting their existing pussy and chug.

Some of us were more happy than others on adoption day last year.

This milestone gave a big reason to celebrate! I mean, what pussy wouldn’t be thrilled to come home to a trashtacular mini manse and doting (albeit almost certifiably cray cray) mama?

Happy kit cat adoption day!

Dada CBXB and I threw down a party so hard, the cats needed to snooze the entire next day. And night. And then the next day. And night.

One year later…taking the damn manse over.

Having extra time on my personally manicured talons also means I can stare at these two mugs all day long.

Uh, yeah. Smiles for Miles

Uh, yeah. Smiles for miles from Iowa.

Waaaaaaay too cool for school.

Waaaaaaay too cool for school…

I'm waiting patiently to be their auntager.

… but not too cool to be models for their local library’s website. I’m waiting patiently to be their auntager.

While we creep into a Nashville spring, the reminder that human beings are generally kind has enveloped over me like a hangover seeps out of your pores on a Sunday morning. There’s finally a light at the end of the longest fucking tunnel I’ve ever looked down (maybe it’s more of a Grand Canyon type deal but you get the point, right?). Mind you, the hue is fuchsia with flecks of pink sparkle slowly falling all around. It doesn’t twinkle or glisten.

It glows. Radiating the biggest, brightest, fuchsia light I’ve ever fucking seen down a tunnel I’m starting to walk down. A tunnel I’m starting to run down. A tunnel I’m starting to sprint down. When I finally arrive at the other side of the tunnel (way out of breath needing a gallon of water but instead opting for a bottle of champs), watch out. Because it will be then that I’ll have gained the ability to pick up my rusty, once broken spirit and kick my ass into high gear.

Imthisclose.

Until then, I’m satisfied being just a little bit of a happier shit show.

At least I’m alive and kickin’!

Now, how the hell are you?

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Turn Your Dad Into Pamela Anderson

This post is a ghost from a Halloween past…but couldn’t resist sharing again this season.

Kissy Face

A few years ago I was dying to dress up as Kid Rock and needed a trashy Pamela Anderson to hang all over me.  Because my dad is no stranger to the spotlight (and always my hero) he leapt at the chance.

But how in the hell do you transform a 6’4″ man into a petite (OK not happening….ever), blond, big busted bombshell?

You start feet first by carefully applying polish to gigantic toes.

Heavy duty gloves for a hazardous job as my dad has a green toe I lovingly refer to as Foot Fungus.

Hoping the thick ass gloves prevent the Foot Fungus from jumping to my body.

Top off the precious pedicure with an orange bow (to make those feet look a teeny tiny bit more feminine and festive).

The bow helps….kinda.

Next, a base for the famous face must be applied as the transformation continues (the application of foundation “hurt his face,” according to this cross dresser).

Suffering to be beautiful has never been this man’s motto.

Also be sure manly Pam has brushed his teeth this century before getting too close.

Be sure your Pam has brushed her teeth this century.

I learned the hard way and had no breath mint.

The trickiest and final step is squeezing Pamela into her costume because we created her famous rack by stuffing as much quilt batting as possible into nylons.

Squeeeeeze

Even the largest bra found at Wal-Mart had velcro extenders added in order to get the damn thing to clasp shut.

Dying a men’s tank top red (and almost ruining a washer in the process) we applied masking tape to create the Lifeguard logo. I scored the checkered shorts in the very big ladies section at Wal-Mart (go figure), topping man Pam off with a blond wig.

Prettiest Man Pam ever. Right?

But by God, she ended up looking like a fabulous Baywatch knock-off and now all Pamela needed was her handsome rock star flavor, Kid Rock.

This union totally lasted… a whole six months.

Our band of misfits were all gussied up, ready to fill our party drinking cups.

Playmate Crazy Pants, Hugh Hefner, Playmate Mama, Pam Man and yours truly.

Playmate Crazy Pants, Hugh Hefner, Playmate Mama, Pam Man and yours truly.

With the complete transformation in place, Pammy was (happily, excitedly, thrilled to be) the center of attention. She tended to overshadow even the most glamorous celebrities at the party.

Marilyn Monroe couldn't help but manhandle Pam's assets.

Marilyn Monroe couldn’t help but manhandle Pam’s assets.

Where's Cher?

Where’s Cher?

Everyone was completely obsessed with Pam’s chest –  even men that view breasts as their day job.

Hugh

Hugh Hefner couldn’t believe his old man eyes.

Even

This dude who knew this Pam was a dude couldn’t help but motorboat.

But even the ladies couldn’t resist a round with Pamela’s chest.

But they do make for a nice place to rest your head.

Lifeguard flotation devices also doubling as head rests.

Although this real life odd couple went on to hit the skids, Kid and Pam were able to let bygones be bygones this particular Halloween.

kissy

Is my dad fun or what?

And while this may not be the Pamela Anderson of everyone’s dreams, she’s awfully pretty to me.

Pam Man is the fairest in this Nashville land.

And that my friends is how you transform your studly, ex-NFL playing father into a sex pot.

But let’s not forget, beauty is in the eye of the beholder…

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Turn Your Dad Into Pamela Anderson

This post is a ghost from a Halloween past…but couldn’t resist sharing this season.

A few Halloweens ago I was dying to dress up as Kid Rock and needed a trashy Pamela Anderson to hang all over me. And when my boyfriend at the time refused and because my dad is no stranger to the spotlight (and always my hero) he leaped at the chance.

But how in the hell do you transform a 6’4″ man into a petite (OK, not happening), blonde, big busted bombshell?

You start feet first.

Heavy duty gloves for a heavy-duty job.  My dad has a green toenail (because he’s too cheap to buy the prescription to remedy) that I lovingly refer to as Foot Fungus (hence the gloves).

Carefully apply polish to the gigantic toes.

I’m hoping the heavy-duty gloves ward off Foot Fungus from jumping on my body.

Which are then topped off with an orange bow (to make those feet look a teeny tiny bit more feminine).

The bow helps….kinda.

A base for the famous face must be applied as the transformation continues (the application of foundation “hurt his face,” according to the cross dresser).

Pre-Pam obviously isn’t in tune with the “must suffer to be beautiful” saying.

Stuffing Pamela into her costume proved the most difficult task of all.

Even the largest bra found at Walmart had to have velcro extenders added in order to get the damn thing to clasp.

But by God, she ended up looking like a fabulous Baywatch knock-off.

Prettiest Man Pam ever. Right?

Pam’s famous rack was made by stuffing as much quilt batting as possible into nylons. I dyed a men’s tank top red (because I could not find a women’s XXXL) and applied masking tape to create the Lifeguard logo.  I scored the checkered shorts in the very big ladies section at Walmart (go figure), topping the man Pam off with a blonde wig. And that’s how you transform your studly father into a sex pot.

Now all Pamela needed was her handsome rock star flavor at the time, Kid Rock.

This union will totally last. A year.

With the complete transformation in place, Pam was (happily, excitedly, thrilled to be) the center of attention.  She tended to overshadow even the most glamorous celebrities at the party.

Where’s Marilyn?

And everyone was completely obsessed with Pam’s chest.

Just to give you an idea…

Hugh Hefner couldn't even believe his eyes.

Hugh Hefner couldn’t even believe his eyes.

Cher wa

Cher was beyond excited to rest her weary head on Pam’s gigantic chest.

Even a dude who knew that this Pam was was a dude couldn't help but motorboat.

Even a dude who knew that this Pam was a dude couldn’t help but motorboat.

Even though this real life odd couple went on to hit the skids, Kid and Pam were able to let bygones be bygones this particular Halloween.

Is my dad fun or what?

And while this may not be the Pamela Anderson of everyone’s dreams, she’s awfully pretty to me.

Pamela Anderson, the waaaaay later years version.

But then again, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Who’s gotta fun dad to dress up this Halloween?

CBXB

CBXB!

Cheers to a New Year!

Spending the last day of the year on a Miami beach was a tough feat.

Sunglasses always do the trick.

Squeezing out the last bit of 2012 fun.

And I didn’t mind gazing at this gorgeous sunset as I sipped on my happy hour cocktails (booze makes primping so much more fun).

Hard times with a night in Miami

See ya 2012!

Choosing a vodka proved to be as difficult as narrowing down a sparkly ring from Cartier (although I somehow managed).

I cheated on my Skinny Pirates with vodka

Cheating on my Skinny Pirates with Grey Goose.

I had a little help from my favorite Miami Meower, Butterscotch in the attire department.

Wardrobe assistant

Vocal wardrobe assistant (don’t tell Ted)!

I settled on black sequined pants (duh), a fuchsia cardigan and leopard heels, (and yes, that’s my heel in my cup which didn’t deter this party goer from drinking – why would I waste?!).

Nothing but class with bare feet in the posh elevator!

Isn’t everyone chic in Miami (aside from yours truly as I’ve proven)? Here’s a peek at my favorite bartender of the evening, pouring me a much needed glass (or five) of champs.

Bartender Miami Chic

Miami’s version of Hugh Hefner.

And while looking at this handsome Florida gent, I wondered what I was missing in Nashville, as the phone buzzed with a picture of my dad and my curiosity quickly waned.

or Nashville Geek

Miami chic or Nashville geek? Tough choice!

Obviously, you can’t take Nashville out of the girl as I carried my red Solo Cup with me down the elevator.

Red Solo Cups are so chic - only in Miami.

Red Solo Cups are so fancy – in Toby Keith songs.

I realized my true calling during my jaunt to the car…

look but don't touch

Game show gesture model!

I just kept getting better and better as I tried to get ascloseaspossible to this Bentley without spending my New Year’s Eve in the Miami Dade County Jail.

Yes, now I want to work on the Price is Right.

Yes, now I want to work on the Price is Right.

All of the car modeling made me thirsty and I needed to quickly guzzle a martini when we arrived at the bar.

Martini mania

Soothing the three minutes of modeling work.

And after each drink was received, a toast was in order – it was New Year’s Eve after all!

Our 1,345th toast of the evening.

Our 1,345th cheers of the evening.

Which of course led to my expertise in photo bombing (a dying art).

model

Almost 2013!

And as the clock struck midnight and Ryan Seacrest winked at me, I was pretty sure this is how the evening went…

Although my dreams looked like this...

A handsome group.

Drinking 432 martinis will help you acquire double chin while you sleep (not so good for my modeling career), as well as require a sign to arise from deep, dark (passed out) slumber.

Drinking 432 martinis will give you a double chin while you sleep, as well as require a sign for your to arise from slumber.

WAKE UP!

A brand new year, same old me.

CBXB

CBXB!