Dog Days of Summer

If you know me in the slightest, you know that my fur kids are people to me (whenever I walk in my front door, no matter if I just took the trash out, I holler “where my peeps at?”). My world revolves around them. And, suffice to say, I have had the greatest honor and pleasure of rescuing a small zoo.

But there are always fur babies that hold an extra special spot in your heart and I’m sad to share that I came home from work last week and found that my chug, Precious, had passed away. She was in the exact spot where she normally awaits my arrival home. Although, upon calling out, her little tail didn’t wag and her head didn’t pop up in excitement of seeing her mama after mere hours away from one another.

Coolest chug on the planet.

To say that I am devastated is an understatement. I am having a hard time writing this now – and yet as we all know too fucking well – life moves on. For me, I’m trying to comprehend the timing. I’ve lost my two best fur friends within a year. Two fur peeps that were like guns in holsters by my side, one on each hip constantly. My chest has been heavy and my heart is honestly in pieces. But with my constant support system of the fabulous humans in my life, I’ve managed one moment at a time. One bestie told me that if she didn’t know me, she’d think I had Munchausen Syndrome of drama because so much shit has rained down in the last few years. But unfortunately, it’s all true. Which is why I always let people go first when we talk about how our day has been.

Ted and Presh. Best buddies playing forever over the Rainbow Bridge.

I dread walking through the front door where I found Presh but on the first day the task had to be done, I had a bouquet from the most kick ass friends in which a girl could wish greeting me. They were sitting right outside my door, easing the burden of the inevitable door walk through.

Flowers are a grieving gal’s best friend.

While I wanted to wallow in bed with the covers over my head, I realized I do have rent to pay, lights to keep on and four pussies to feed. When I came into work, pink roses awaited my arrival.

Team members showed their love.

My cousin and his wife were thankfully in town Friday and Dada CBXB and myself went to meet them for a much-needed Skinny Pirate(s) after the longest fucking week. While I do pride myself in being current, I couldn’t help but die when I snapped a pic of our cocktails and saw that a walker was in the background. If you get to Dalts before 5pm, you’ll be sharing the bar with people who make you feel like a newborn. And I don’t hate it.

Can you tell we’re related?

In my Iowa twin news, there were getting prepped for the arrival of Coo Coo (yes, that’s the phrase we use for grandpa – always keeping it classy).

Hunk of the month. I’m talking about the boy, not the dog.

Swish swish full of swag.

Coo Coo made it just in time for cocktail hour on Saturday.

Jazz hands run in the family, obvies.

Another thing that runs in the family? Fabulous nails. Princess B set out to give Auntie CBXB a run for her patriotic mani money.

Red, white and blue-hoo!

Tootsies too.

Same color scheme, slightly different approach for this old broad. I can’t wait to make Sister CBXB give me a manicure next time I see her since she’s got mad mani skills.

Patriotic claws.

While Coo Coo and the twins were living it up in Iowa, I was having a time getting my ass outta the bed.

Rasta and the sun coaxed me out of the mini where I floated the day away.

We were slightly alarmed after seeing the obviously-required-by-the-codes-department-sign hanging at the pool that missed vital information…

Who’s gonna save me?

Getting ready for a bath (full of bawling my eyes out) post swim, First Mate called and saved the day. She swung by with Bota Box Rosé (seriously the best box of wine on the market at the moment) and we chit chatted and then started to binge watch the show Younger (seriously an easy-to-watch-thirty-minutes-of-fuff). And then my main TV crapped out. Did we let ruin our slumber party?

The Gulp ‘n’ Go.

Nope. We moved the cheese platter, popcorn and the pussies into the bedroom.

Our Cardboardeaux Rosé accompanied us.

Nothing like nestling in for a binge…until someone says “I just need to rest my eyes,” and it’s lights out. So First Mate saw herself out of the mini after her host rudely passed out.

Slumber party shenanigans.

Starting the newest novel by Ruth Ware, I decided it was better to get more vitamin D while reading than complete and utter darkness under the covers. Sunday Funday found me back at the pool in 95 degree heat. While I have gained 40 pounds since Rapegate, the one perk of the extra LBs has been the enhancement of my flat chest (oh and I have pride in photos and videos that make the rounds to friends).

Wallowing in the sun.

Complete package.

With must needed thirst quenchers.

Again when I was side eyeing the bath tub (Precious would sit on the toilet while I bathed – again, nothing but classy white trash), knowing it would cause a tearfest, Bird Lady happened to call and suggest a cocktail and snack outing.

When she saw me she said, “Your hair looks really great. What did you do?”

“I finally washed it.”

So fresh and so clean cocktail hour.

Thanks again from the bottom of my heart for helping this gal, who is seriously trudging through the muck of life (I mean fucking seriously, was I a serial killer in a past life?), feel loved, important and heard. Words, gestures and hugs go the longest way.

Can’t wait to see her again and Bear again. Two great loves of my life.

Take care of yourselves. Look both ways before crossing the street. Make sure you don’t fall down any stairs. Wear a floatie in the lake. Make sure that seat belt snaps. Because if you’re reading this, I love you. And my heart can take no more losses at the moment.

XOXO –

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Weekend Winks – Loud and Proud

First world problem – a non-working cell phone that carries over to a week.

How the fuck do landlines work again?

My iPhone 6 took a literal dump. Complete with a cracked screen (I seriously replaced that motherfucker four times – FOUR TIMES and each and every time cracking occurred, it had a protective screen on it) and total black out of the phone BUT if I kept it charged, sometimes Siri would work. Bonus, I was gifted an iWatch from Sister CBXB for my birthday and I could use that to talk and text like a fucking secret service agent.

Who doesn’t scream into their wrist?

Wanna know how I felt as soon as I had a brand new phone in my hands?

Hello again 2018.

While I was awaiting my new phone, I was able to hire, beg my gal pal Rasta, into being my own personal paparazzi. My cousin, Tballs and his wife with whom he’s been with so long, she feels like a cousin, Hussy #5 visited Nashville and naturally, I needed documentation.

A trashtacular family sandwich.

Hussies for life.

Dad’s Day required margaritas and four heaping bowls of salsa.

Feel good Father’s Day.

My twins of The Pussy Posse turned six last week. They were overjoyed. Obviously.

Sleepy at six.

Another member of my posse is making the rounds at the vet (and I’m still paying off Ted who’s been over the Rainbow Bridge for almost a year), Precious my chug.

Fainting couch needed.

Pres is 12 years old but truly acts like a puppy in the fact that she canNOT contain her excitement over anything. At all. So, in the recent weeks, she’s been so excited seeing her leash, she passes out for a few seconds. The first time at the vet, we were supposed to keep an eye on her. Then, she passed out upon my return home from work last week (I mean, I do know how to make an entrance into a room).

Vet visit two resulted in a referral to a pet cardiologist AND an order to keep this chug as calm as possible. I sound like a fucking ass clown coming home from work, trying to talk in a monotone voice, when typically my screech could shatter windows when talking to my fur kids.

Netflix and chillin’.

I’m not even supposed to take her out to pee (she’s puppy pad trained) because the sight of her sparkle leash literally makes her pass out. So what’s a fabulous fur mom supposed to do for a little stimulation? Put her in a Louis Vuitton and take her on errand runs.

Most annoying duo on the west side of Nashville.

Preshy even joined First Mate and yours truly for an early Friday happy hour.

While speaking of illnesses and fur kids, Mama CBXB  has two pussies that I may or may not have had a hand in getting her. One is a fucking beast who gives all felines a bad name – hissing and batting at legs and making sounds that don’t seem like they belong on this planet. The other, is the sweetest little baby you could imagine. Yet, they get along.

A beast and a baby.

When I tried picking the beast up over the weekend, I got a little souvenir for my heroic efforts of love.

Finally! I’m sprouting cat hair.

Speaking of hair, look who is the proud owner of some colored locks…

Sorry. Not sorry she’s my mini me.

My nephew, Prince B, is taking after his folks for a love of baking. This weekend it was pizza.

Chef BoyArdee.

The ultimate taste tester.

After a week full of shit show news, it was good to get out and about at Nashville Pride.

Roaming the festival with Rasta.

LGBTQ allies.

One of my fave parts of festivals is gawking at people and boy, this one did not disappoint. The best t-shirt ever goes out to this dude, who found it on Etsy.

Trump is not his safe word.

It was also Tan Boy’s birthday and we had a big time making fun of my blondeness.

Taking Pride a tad too literally.

Pride weekend was a much-needed positive reminder after all of the hate spew coming from people of all walks of life these days.

Love is love.

Regardless of your political affiliation, every person bleeds red, compassion is compassion and treating people like actual human beings is NOT hard.

Image by Justin Teodoro.

Care.

Care your fucking brains out with compassion. It matters. If you need any guidance on how to do this, give me a ring. I no longer have to shout into my wrist.

CBXB

CBXB!

Going Mental

Sometimes we become experts in subject matter in which we never wished to be associated.

Sexual Assault Center of Nashville

For me, the aftermath of Rapegate is one that I will grapple with daily for the rest of my life.

Not necessarily in re-living the rape itself but the triggers, the daily reminders due to dealing with PTSD, chronic fatigue, severe stress, anxiety, nerves, handfuls of pills that I now take that have side effects of brain fog (which coupled with blonde brain is a triple shit show), dizziness (like I needed any more help being a fucking klutz), and weight gain (oh the welcomed happiness of gaining 40 lbs – mostly in my belly because of cortisol levels being out-of-whack) and therapy.

That is a perk of Rapegate that will surely have me in weekly sessions forever.

My Therapy Thursday saving grace.

There’s stigma in being a victim of rape – especially within victims themselves. The embarrassment, shame, feeling dirty, like somehow it’s your fault.

Did I deserve it? Why did I “allow” it to happen? It’s all my fault, right?

The questions from others. What were you wearing? Had you been drinking? Why didn’t you scream? And so on, don’t help even though they may come from well-meaning places. The questions above were all asked of me by the Nashville Sex Crimes Detective after my body was violated by a man’s dick. You know, what if a Kim Kardashian sized diamond ring (one can wish) had been stolen off of my finger? Would any of those questions suffice in an investigation? Hell no.

Take my coffee mug advice.

But then here we are. I am a walking, talking, rape stereotype. I wasn’t believed by those closest to the case. My detective said it was a he said/she said since the Shane the Rapist said it was consensual sex and his girlfriend of five weeks – my now ex-best friend, backed his play.

That’s a super neat feeling of betrayal beyond words.

In between being raped and the year and a half it took to close the case, where Shane the Rapist walks freely out and about, it would be insane not to think someone might go insane.

And, I have absolutely, 100% felt the self wrath, the aftermath, the internal tornado, the tsunami of emotions that surge whenever the fuck they feel like it and eruption of tears, hotly flowing down my face, onto my chin, into my shirt (accompanied with a river of snot and lemme tell ya, it’s a doozie of a look).

I’m known for being a beautiful bawler.

And killing boxes of tissues in one cryfest.

It’s improbable that someone can experience any kind of trauma or loss (death, divorce, career, disease, disorder, assault, etc) without consequence to them (I had the pleasure of experiencing all of the above examples in the two years since rape – so yeah, I’m a tad done with being overburdened by grief and loss).

The best face I can muster some days.

For me, this is where my once stable strength of fuck off confidence got lost in the swirl of circling the drain.

The emotional, mental, and physical tolls sometime feel beyond debilitating. Combine that with life – which most certainly goes on around you – and it can make the most mundane tasks like making your bed seem like winning an Olympic gold medal if you ever get around to completing the job.

I made my bed. Where’s my accolades?

And the usual worries of life are still abound while grappling with sometimes crippling days. Money worries. Hoping your car doesn’t crap out on your worries. Can my cell phone hang on for another year? Are my friends and family OK? Am I paying enough attention to them? Do they think I’m ignoring them? See how this shit can snowball?

Avalanche

Now more than ever, I feel it’s important to speak up if you can about what can sometimes seem like taboo subjects. I was raped. Think that’s fun topic to bring up to new people? “Oh hi, my name is Captain, I’ll have a Skinny Pirate please, I was raped, how are you?” Of course this doesn’t come up immediately but still, I talk about Rapegate, and if we’re gonna be friends, it’s gonna come out.

Did I scare you off?

Taboo also is this fucking stigma that comes along with mental illnesses. I have PTSD (among a myriad of other lovely conditions). When I was looking for a new job after Rapegate, I had to put down on applications whether or not I had PTSD. Now it’s considered a disability. So, OK it’s a disability. I’m dealing with it the best that I can but do I need to reveal that to a potential employer? Yes, I have had panic attacks silently at work in bathroom stalls and in my car but I’m still showing up and doing my job (although my panic attacks always end with me throwing up, so that’s fun to do out of my car window while attempting not to get vomit on my work attire).

Thankfully the situation of Louis acting as my vomit trashcan has not yet taken place.

And some days are dark. Like calm before storm, clouds rolling in, so quiet it may just drive you mad blackout dark. I think about the recent passing of celebrities Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, both of whom reportedly took their own lives within two days of one another. Both had loved ones, both were celebrated among their professional communities, both had achieved success in different fashions and both had children. So much to leave behind.

But can you even imagine the pain they must have been in to think that their only way out was to “unburden” those around them? That’s really scary to me. Because I often feel like a burden to my family and close friends. Over the past five years, I’ve experienced loss and grief and change beyond my imagination and while I am learning to cope in therapy, I still feel like I’m so needy. “Can I borrow $20 until payday (while swallowing pride for 1,976,000 time)? I can’t go out because I am on a spending freeze (you know those handfuls of pills and doctor follow-ups aren’t free. I’m beyond lucky to have health insurance with co-pays). I just had a panic attack, so I’m going to have to miss your birthday celebration. I am going to stay in because I can’t fathom the thought of getting out of bed.” Mostly, I keep these emotions to myself but I still feel like one motherfucker of a burden.

I. just. can’t.

It’s easy for people to say that suicide is selfish. I can see why one would say that but if you haven’t ever grappled with your own dark demons that sometimes you push deep down inside of you, or think they’re gone, only to have them pop up and taunt you over and over and over again – it’s not easy. I’ve never experienced substance abuse but I can easily see how that would have an even bigger impact on one’s state-of-mind. Mental issues are sometimes a lonely, isolating experience of despair.

How others see me.                                           How I feel inside.

My darkest times since Rapegate (and everything else that has occurred in between), have never eluded me to think about ending my life. However, have I been in a place where I wished my eyes wouldn’t open in the morning because it seemed easier than fighting the anguish of deep depression? Yep. Has my chest been so heavy that I thought my heart was going to burst out of it Indiana Jones style because it could bear no more loss or grief, physically hurting? Fuck yes. Do I hit my snooze button 3,719,003 times in the morning (even though I have been up for three hours already) because the thought of putting makeup on and gussying up for work and putting on a “happy” face seems like too much to bear. Damn skippy.

Hi there. I’m getting pretty fucking sick of these feelings popping up whenever they fucking feel like it. Byeee.

That all being said, it’s not uncommon for someone to have these types of thoughts once or more in their lifetime. Some people do shoot sunshine out of their assholes (fuck, until three years ago, I was one of them) but more often than not, it’s a combination of rain, sun, sleet and hail as we trudge through life. On top of all this, I’ve constantly seen the suicide hotline phone number everywhere. You know that is fucking great, but you know what’s hard? Reaching out when you need help. And let me say this – if you offer to help someone in any way and they reach out, for the love of God, do NOT shut them down. It’s already exceedingly hard to admit you need help.

So if you see someone, know someone, sense something’s off and can have a conversation or need advice, you, too can call this hotline for another person. I’ve done it.

You know what you can also do? Tend to them the best way you know how – if they are typically social, try to get them out of the house. If they aren’t up to it, stay in and binge watch some TV. Or go on a walk. Just don’t ignore them. Don’t give up on them. Don’t stop inviting them places because they always say no. Be persistant.

You can also help by researching options with the Suicide Prevention Lifeline. I have friends who would greatly benefit from therapy but haven’t been able to find the correct place. I’ve called this number before, searching for answers when someone was in need. In the research I have done around Nashville, there are places that offer sliding scaled payments for those who don’t have insurance, or whose insurance doesn’t cover mental health (so fucked up). However, like in many other situations, the persons who need the help must be willing to go for themselves, not for anyone else. So if they refuse or keep handing you excuses, just do your best to listen.

My mental journey in the aftermath of Rapegate has been eye-opening. I’m so self deprecating to the point of starring in my own version of Mean Girls in my head some days.

Regina George, get the fuck outta my head.

However, I luckily have a solid circle of support. A very large sparkly army that isn’t confined to face-to-face relationships. My circle has expanded as I’ve talked about my struggles. The support system I have now extends from Nashville, to Iowa, to California, to England, to Italy, to Australia…and more. The “checking on you” voicemails, direct messages through social media, “thinking of you texts” to words of encouragement in my comment section, random gifts showing up in my mailbox, snail mailed letters, a cashier’s check just because…Every word, every action, matters.

This is what you do for me.

Please remember that as you move forward with your days. Those struggling the most are sometimes people who you’d least expect. One smile can go miles – and it’s a universal language (as fucking cheesy as that sounds). A small compliment can turn a day around. An out of the blue “how are you” text can save a major cry session. Check on each other. Love on each other. Hug on each other.

Unless of course it’s the person who raped you, in which he’ll get a throat punch at the very least. See, I’m still a bad ass motherfucker when I wanna be.

Obviously.

Be fucking kind.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Summer Snaps

While it seemed the month of January lasted 100 days earlier this year, how in the fuck is it now the middle of June? Bananas.

I’ve taken a slide down the regression train the last two months in regard to Rapegate and its aftermath full of PTSD and what not but – BUT with the help of my family, friends and fur balls, my wheels are still on the track, although daily WD40 is required at this point. Here’s what kept me moving and grooving…

Sometimes all you need are ladies who help keep your crown held high. And wine. Lots and lots of wine.

A night in with laughs, snacks and shenanigans.

I decided to get CPR certified, so maybe when I’m having my own panic attacks I can calm myself the fuck down (just kidding…only chewing on Xanax and getting on all fours does the trick for me). When we were practicing chest compressions on our dummies, the instructor asked who I was mad at…angry much? Yes, I believe I will be taking up kick boxing or kung fu in the near future.

It was the shit watching Nashville’s NHL hockey team, the Predators make their second appearance in the Stanley Cup playoffs, complete with watch parties.

Fang Fingers!

While they didn’t make it to the end, it was a season full of fun with reasons to partake in cocktails whether they won or lost.

Reasons for seasons.

There’s always reminders that I need to stop and smell the roses lilacs, compliments of my Princess B. She knows what’s up.

She reminds me that I always have time to stop and smell the wine.

Not drinking alone if your cats are home.

Or your chug.

Summer sports are in full swing and I think I have a sports star in the making with Prince B.

Sports stud on the rise.

I don’t know if Prince B could do it without the support from his sister, who clearly only comes to his games to watch.

Cheerleading at its finest.

You wanna know what else is a ‘holy fuck?!’ moment? My Iowa twins graduated Pre-K. We have official kindergarteners on ours hands people.

First and last day pics.

As soon as the summer vacation commenced, these two were on it full speed ahead.

Vacay the right way.

Oh and my tender-hearted nephew is about to melt your heart. Even if its dead and cold. He recently shaved his head because he wanted matching ‘dos with his dad.

Like father, like son.

In other happy news, my dophew, Spike, celebrated his third trip around the sun.

Spike with his fave kind of bone.

And in possibly the best news yet, the mini manse’s pool opened.

Summer hydration IV.

Rasta and I celebrated our one year anniversary – we met at the pool last year. Awe.

Alcohol and Bad Decisions.

More happiness with my fabulous stylist who not only is one of my besties but makes me laugh AND makes my hair dreams come true.

He does the hair. I provide the accessories.

 

The pink glitter cup he gifted me left me with surprises in my pie hole.

Sequin tooth in place. Does this give me street cred?

Bird Lady and I found a new bar, Firefly Bar and Grille, where I want to move in as they have their Christmas lights up all year long inside. Better yet, when one strand burns out, they leave it up and just put new ones over the old strand. Be still my beating heart.

Firefly and feeling fine.

When my gal pal from college came in, we shut that damn bar down while showing off our jazz hands we perfected in our collegiate show choir. Yep. We were cool like that.

Jazz hands still on point.

There have been many a Friday night where I want to stay in and get wild with organization. But this keeps happening…

So I catch up on how to murder people without getting caught. Don’t piss me off.

I’m also happy to report that Nashville is finally joining the 1980s and offering wine on Sundays now. We still can’t purchase liquor but I’ll settle for Jesus juice.

Miracles do come true.

Speaking of miracles, my loudmouth was allowed on a golf course to play a bit of put-put (or as real golfers call it, golf) while also delivering snacks and booze. All for a fabulous cause – Monroe Carell Jr. Children’s Hospital at Vanderbilt. Over $300,000 was raised for the kids.

Koozies make the best earrings.

When they told me to stock up the cart with snacks, I pretended I was on Supermarket Sweep and took just about everything in sight.

Griswolds of the golf course.

Roaming around on the golf course are sheep and being the animal lover I am, I wanted to take one home. But I settled for a photo instead, where they look like white blobs behind a big slob.

The famous sheep with a gigantic asshat.

In other famous news, Princess B got all dolled up for her second recital. And while I am very proud of her, I am also beyond jealous of her costume and am considering an extreme diet so I can squeeze my ample rear end into it.

Dancing Queen

Since she supported her brother in baseball, it was only fair he happily did the same…complete with the proper dance picture pose.

Hands on hips.

I used to be an avid jogger. My bed seems so much better these days, yet, First Mate got me out of my shell and coaxed me into participating in a Coconut RAD (Random Ass Distance) Run. Rasta was so moved, she made us a support poster.

The only way I will run anymore is if I can also hold booze.

One size fits “most”…uh, yeah, right.

While we were far from first place, we were also far from last. And, we couldn’t say no to rum in our coconuts.

Middle of the pack finishers!

No better way to cool off than a party day with Dada CBXB.

Race day cool down.

Suns Out, Buns Out.

I took one for the team, rounding up my dad’s ginormous sandals when it was time to leave.

You all know how much I love my fur balls and one in particular is having some issues. Precious the chug passed out yesterday on the way out for a walk. She’s been to the vet and had tests done, so please send your good juju her way.

Hopeful to get some pep back in her pitiful step.

That, my friends is a long winded catch up. The many reasons I have to smile has everything to do with you.

Thank you.

XOXO

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

The Pussy Posse

While we all know I’m batshit crazy over cats (and animals in general), I have yet to really introduce my latest brood in proper fashion.

The bitchy love of my life, Teddy Bear, died suddenly last August. I’ve wanted to write about it so many times but the hole his departure left in my heart literally feels like molten lava spilling into my body when I try. Then the volcano eruption of uncontrollable scalding tears rush down my cheeks, so it’s best I save his obituary for another day. Or year. Or century.

My ride or die.

Yes, I’m talking about a cat. Many days and nights I long to be over the Rainbow Bridge with him. He was the last link I had to my previous life and endured the hardships into the one I now lead. But as we all know, the world keeps turning and so, now, I run a fucking zoo.

After Rapegate occurred, Ted kept vigil by being my constant companion, not leaving my side unless he was stuffing his pie hole.

Literally would not leave me.

When my mom came to stay with me, she thought it’d be a good idea for Bear and me to have another furry friend around. Now, I already have joint custody of Precious the Chug but Mama CBXB thought a kitten for Valentine’s Day would be the best gift in 2016.

Um….do we have a say?

We went to see my crazy cat lady gal pal, Penny, who runs Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue (in which I am happy to be the poster child since I have adopted six animals over two years from her – yes you read that right).  Typically, I adopt adult cats, who stand a lesser chance of getting permanent homes as they grow older. But mom thought a baby would be good cuddle therapy.

Crazy Cat Lady 1 and Crazy Cat Lady 2.

Once the cage of kittens opened, the first one I picked up was named Elsa and the decision was immediately and easily done. My Iowa twins love the movie Frozen (what fucking kid doesn’t), so since I grabbed the princess from the movie, it was fate in my eyes.

Princess kitty cat.

Deal sealed.

Then, I stood up and locked eyes with this majestic beauty.

Hello Gorgeous.

Deal not done.

I mistakenly asked to hold her and as soon as I put my face in the kennel, she rubbed her noggin against mine, purring loudly.

Fuck me.

Then Penny pointed out her enormous brother in the back of the cage I never noticed because he didn’t move a muscle from the ball in which he was curled. She explained that they were brother and sister about three years old, surrendered by their owner. The big brother wasn’t coping well in foster care.

Double fuck me.

Well, really triple fuck me.

Who was I to split up a pair of siblings? The black beauty and myself already bonded in .00004 seconds. And her brother was so shy and sad that I was warned I may never see him come out from behind the dryer or under the bed. So yes, I lost my goddamned mind that Saturday and walked out with not one, not two but three motherfucking pussies.

An instant mom to triplets.

Now, on a side note, the always charming actress Drew Barrymore adopted three cats at once and made national headlines for her big heart.

I, on the other hand received sweet messages of support like…

And love notes left on my car…

On the way home from Pet Smart, not a fucking peep was uttered. As soon as I got to the mini manse, the boxes were opened and from that moment on, it was harmonious until Tedstar died a year and a half later.

Love, love, love, love.

RIP Baby Bear.

Penny reached out when she heard the news about Ted and offered my pick of the litter (pun so intended), when I was ready. I knew I wanted another Russian Blue mix and about a month later, Penny sent word that a handsome, shy gent was at Pet Smart. When I raced arrived to check him out, there was a sticky note on his kennel door that read, “needs extra TLC.”

Sweet baby is on the right, afraid to come out.

Penny had instructed me to pet him on his head – hard – and as soon as I did, he cautiously came to me. When I lifted him out of the cage, he put both of his paws around my neck. You know what the fuck happened next.

Crazy cat lady shopping spree with an actual cat in the carrier!

Nothing strange here.

I texted Penny his photo on the way to his new home after the impromptu shopping spree at Pet Smart.

Mine. ALL MINE.

Obvies Fabio was meant to be mine and this was how he spent his first night in the mini manse.

Head rubbin’ on the bed.

So, in no particular favor order, I’m thrilled to introduce The Pussy Posse to you…age before beauty.

Precious the Chug

Age 12. Acts like a puppy. Looks like an Ewok.

Also known as Preshy, Presh, P, Pweshy (as my Iowa twins call her).

Presh is pretty much my sidekick in everything that I do. Without her emotional support after Rapegate and Ted’s passing and everythingfuckingthingelseinbetween…I’m not sure the state I’d be in.

We garden together.

We outfit shop together. DUH.

We drink together. Also DUH.

We take work meetings together.

We get groomed together.

And when I can, I like to match her to my hair.

She loves it. Obvies.

Rocky the Gentle Giant

Age 5. Also known as Bigs, Rocco.

Thinks he’s the size of a mouse.

Could teach pussy yoga.

Remember how he was sad and unable to even look at a potential owner until I got my grubby paws on him? He’s now happily the king of the mini manse.

Ruby Sue the Menace

Age 5. Also known as Thundercunt, Thundy, TC.

Wondering how she earned the endearing moniker of Thundercunt? I found her hanging on the blinds after she’d taken down the curtains.

Greetings of salutation after work one day.

The usual set up of the area.

Waiting on accolades as I tried to work around her mess to hang everything back up.

No shame in her game.

She has an obvious infatuation with curtains, as one night around 2 am this happened…

The actual fuck.

As I bolted out of bed, thinking I was going to end up on Forensic Files, I followed the evidence and concluded that in fact, it was TC. Rocky tried to help me hang the curtain back up but I said to hell with it and showered in my other bathroom the next few days.

Ruby Sue also apparently hates her life of rags to riches and walks the plank on my second level balcony every chance she gets. And she’s clumsy as fuck. So fate will be fate – and she’d land on all fours. C’mon, she’s a cat.

Fabio the Fuck Face

Age 3. Also known as Fabies, Faabs (pronounced Fahbs), Fartio and Fabio Le Pew.

This gorgeous guy farts and darts when he gets nervous. He has zero apprehension prancing around the mini manse and head butts like it’s his paying gig. He also has the regal look of daring you to a death match but couldn’t be more of a sweetheart, hence the nickname Fuck Face.

And his tail…oh that’s his best accessory.

Fabio Le Pew.

Princess Elsa Pants of Resting Bitch Face

Age 2. Also known as Pants, Stank Face and Smalls.

Remember how my mom thought a kitten to cuddle would be the best therapy for me? I’ve gotten my hands on this little shit for a good 29 minutes in the last two years I have had her.

But she loves her siblings and that’s all that really matters (except really, her world should revolve around me – there I said it).

She also loves sparkly accessories.

While I sound like a walking, talking billboard of how to remain single for the rest of one’s life, I don’t give a fuck (I also love candles and reading books – DREAM GIRL).

Just a natural weekend run for cat shit.

Except I do keep my dumpster wedding dress and veil in my car just in case I run into Mr. Right getting an equally large cat tree one day.

Oh hi there. You love cats, too?

There’s really nothing like coming home, being greeted by my brood with figure eights performed between my calves, head butts, tail wags and a game of tag with Stank Face. It’s also fabulous to pour supper in their margarita glasses (food, mind you), pour supper into my wine glass and settle in for an evening of furry snuggles.

So glad they’re mine.

I do expect you regular readers to memorize all names for the entire Pussy Posse, with nicknames included if you want to be true super fans. And if that’s too hard, I will let you buy me a Skinny Pirate next time we run into each other and I quiz you.

Cheers!

CBXB!

The Colbert Report

Tokens of appreciation can go along way. So, too, can the tokens of absolute strangers who help make magic happen.

As many of you readers know, I lost my Aunt Crazy Pants to fucking lung cancer last September. Her son, R. Nasty became her primary caretaker and together, they watched The Late Show With Stephen Colbert every evening – in fact, it was one of the last things they ever did together.

It was also something I got to watch the last time I partied with ACP.

Colbert Time!

Ever since her passing, my sister and I had been working on how to solidify tickets for R. Nasty to attend the show. You know, kind of a way to honor his mom. Through letters and emails and contacts and friends and acquaintances of friends and husbands of wives who work at Conan O’Brien, who had a friend who writes for The Colbert Show, WE GOT TICKETS.

Don’t mind if we do!

VIP to be braggy.

While R. Nasty resides in Iowa and I am in Nashville, we decided it would be super easy to meet up at LaGuardia Airport because what could possibly go wrong? Naturally, upon my landing an hour ahead of him, I selfied the fuck out of myself and sent it to all of my friends and family.

R. Nasty and I were only two terminals away from one another, so what I thought would take hours, took mere minutes to find one another after he landed. It was the non-city slickers in us that needed aid. So I texted Rasta, the gal pal who was extremely instrumental with our VIP ticket grab, how to get an Uber in NYC. I mean, there are Ubers and Lyfts in Nashville but you walk right out of the baggage claim and BAM there is no way to fuck it up.

So Rasta guided us on how to get on the bus that would drop us off at the parking lot where an Uber we called would be waiting on us. This city shit was already hard.

But we did it!

Upon checking into the hotel (that I made R. Nasty pay for naturally, after surprising him with tickets, making him cough up cash for shit), I immediately checked on a bottle of Tennessee champagne I had packed carefully in my luggage to celebrate this momentous occasion (you guys, R.Nasty and I don’t get out much – neither of us has been to a city bigger than Chicago, k?).

Who doesn’t put champs in their suitcase?

Once we guzzled drank the champs dry, we unpacked and here’s what our bathroom counter looked like…

My accessories at the top of The Economist vs. his one accessory which was The Economist.

We decided to giddy up and check out the area – Manhattan – to be exact, which I thought would look a helluva lot fancier than it did. But I’m from Nashville, so what the fuck do I know? What I DO know is to ask for recommendations and my social media buddy, suggested a fab place called Faces and Names.

Fabulous find compliments of a fellow Captain@sgrstk – and if you don’t follow him or have never read his books, go do so right now.

We were kind of excited to be there. And when I asked R.Nasty if he was having fun, he responded with “Yeah, this is kinda fun.” To which I kindly replied – YOU WILL AND ARE HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE.

Not excited. At all.

We had libations in honor of our first time in NYC, talking about ACP and just chit chatting about whatever the fuck you typically do when you are getting a bit buzzed.

Cheersed!

…and cheersed…

… aaaaaand cheersed.

So as we stumbled marched out of the bar to explore more of the block (I mean, my feet already hurt), what did before my wondering eyes did appear?

Destination Station!

Not being in the least bit full of any ounce of shame, it was selfie time.

Theater selfie fail #1.

Due to the length of my arm being about as tall as an earthworm, we had to do round two.

Theater selfie fail #2.

Satisfied with shitty selfies, we went back to the hotel room for wine and snacks in preparation for the one and most likely only day of our lives we would be VIPs.

Tidiness runs in the family. Obvies.

I must say the kink in my neck remains at my incessant gawking at all of the buildings and signs and bicyclists who give zero fucks if you are walking in their pathway. I also very narrowly missed my death about 536 times by stepping off of a cub almost too soon which would have resulted in my demise by a yellow taxi cab.

Daylight theater.

What do good tourists do when heading to their fave late show? They do as tourists do and eat at there.

The restaurant of Mr. Colbert’s choice, or so I like to think.

I also continued my unabashed selfie taking because what’s a memory without a photo?

Not a tourist at all.

R.Nasty and I sipped on cocktails and waited for our 4pm call time to stand in the VIP (I did mention we were VIPs, right?) lane at Angelo’s watching all of the little people who only had priority seating. The horror.

 

We straight up VIP, yo!

And naturally I needed to document with a selfie as well.

Yep. Proof we’re VIPs.

We also had Aunt Crazy Pants with us. Lest not forget the things all mothers and daughters bond over, tattoos – Mama CBXB and I had ACP’s signature inked onto our wrists (yes, I know we are now complete bad asses) over her first birthday weekend above us.

Lucky charm in tow.

Then it was time to enter the theater that makes me want an entrance to my mini manse in lights now.

Before I made my national television debut, the warm up comedian came out and picked on audience members. R. Nasty was beyond relieved that we were seated middle balcony but don’t worry, I was loud enough to get picked out of the crowd. As we were being interviewed, the comedian asked where we were from and if we were married. I said no, we’re cousins but since I’m from Tennessee, we could be.

Yeah, R. Nasty could have died. Of course I hated the attention and laughs.

The could be our wedding photo.

The show started and the anticipation was beyond expectation. It was super fucking cool seeing Stephen Colbert run out from behind stage left and to the crowd slapping high fives. He delivered his monologue and the guests were a very beautiful but boring Lucy Liu and an engaging Henry Winkler.

Oh and you won’t be one bit surprised that my family and friends who tuned in that evening heard me laughing more than they saw me. Only because I have the loudest laugh on the planet….and you could only see the back of my head.

No autographs please.

If there’s any take away from all of the whirlwind 36 hours I spent in NYC with R. Nasty, it’s that the experience we shared together is irreplaceable. I’ve typically lived my life as an as afterward kind of gal, a chick that just jumps in if something sounds fun and I’m so fucking glad I was able to share this with R.Nasty who deserved to get the hell outta Iowa and cut loose (side note, I needed to get the fuck out of Nashville and have some of my own fun as well).

The Infamous Iowan and the Trashy Tennessean.

So if you’re ever contemplating what you should be doing, or if you can swing that trip (hey, I packed hard-boiled eggs and protein bars – AND booze) do what Barb would do…

Love ya, mean it Aunt Crazy Pants. We all miss you something terrible but we’re living it up with you watching over us down here.

Cheers!

CBXB

 

Weekend Winks – Cinco de Drinko

How can you cram in the Kentucky Derby, Cinco de Mayo AND a Nashville Predators hockey play-off game all in one day?

Piece of cake for this liver of mine.

Oh how the anticipation of a Friday feels so good. A long week of work and an even longer week of insane non-fake news calls for a pit stop at my fave watering hole, Dalts.

Skinny Pirates for celebration and consoling.

There was something ultra empowering for victims of sexual assault this week, as America’s former favorite TV dad was found guilty in court for his heinous acts. As he fucking should have been in the first place after nearly five dozen women came forward and spoke out – and keep in mind these are his victims that chose to speak up. Think about the countless others who remain silent for their own reasons. I can’t wait for this man to rot the rest of his life away.

EPIC WIN FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT VICTIMS

On the far end of the negative spectrum, my home state, Iowa, that has always been my pride and joy, took women’s rights back about 50 years. BY THE FEMALE GOVERNOR. Now, I don’t care where you stand on abortion – however, this new legislation prevents abortions after six weeks of pregnancy. SIX WEEKS. Most of my friends who have had children, didn’t know they were pregnant until well after this point. Even if a child is molested and becomes pregnant, or a pregnancy occurs because of rape, the victims only have 45 days to speak up before they must keep the baby. FUCK THAT SHIT.

I mean, if the government truly thinks humans were put on this Earth to procreate, men shouldn’t be able to masturbate to fruition because, the sperm ejaculated could have produced a baby, right?

EPIC FAIL IOWA

All that being said, Dalts was happy to see Camo and Captain doing our drinking thang.

Camo with crazy runaway bride eyes – you guys remember her?

While I was sipping on Skinny Pirates, awaiting Mama CBXB’s arrival to Nashville, my Iowa twins were enjoying the simple treats in life…baseball and ice cream.

While I had my mini sombrero laid out for Cinco de Meowy, I had major tugging at my heartstrings when this popped up in my Facebook feed.

I have a love/hate relationship with these goddamn Facebook memories.

While I was a tad teary eyed Saturday, the twins were all giggle and games in celebration of Cinco de Mayo.

Princess B didn’t let dizziness deter her.

 

Prince B was a bit further from the tail…

 

I tried gussying up with a new product for the celebratory holiday – magnetic false eye lashes. It went about how you’d expect with me.

 

False eyelash-less, I hosted a small party for my NHL Stanley Cup hopeful Nashville Predators. Bird Lady, First Mate, Mama CBXB and yours truly partied regardless of the dismal performance by the Preds. They ended up losing at home 6-2…but the drinkos kept being poured anyhow.

Derby Success.
Cinco de Drinko Success.
Predators FAIL.

A gorgeous Sunday was made for a fun day of errands. Specifically to my second mothership, where I picked up a cat tree fit for my four pussies. Mama CBXB gifted it to her grandcats as a late Christmas gift.

Cray Cray Cat Lady version of Sunday Funday.

I was a usual shit show carrying it to the car, adorning the dumpster wedding veil I keep in my trunk “just in case,” to load the tower into my vehicle. I mean, I didn’t want to crush it, so I put it on.

Who doesn’t do this?

After clearing a little room for plants, we picked up a few flowers to help my black thumbs (I killed a cactus this winter) morph more toward green. Upon arriving home, the pussies couldn’t decide whether to climb on the cat nip loaded tower or eat all of the greenery and throw up.

Decisions. Decisions.

Fabio declaring his space.

Ruby Sue nestled right in.

Rocky couldn’t be bothered to try either, as he was near comatose on the bed.

Fine here, thanks.

Elsa Pants, aka Stank Face, bucked the trend and went for the plants.

…she owns this title.

I can’t wait to see what she’s left for me after work today.

Cheers!

CBXB