Crazy Pants and Crazy Aunts

 

Being a crazy pants, entertaining aunt may be the death of me but it’s sure a lot of goddamn fun. A recent trip back home to Iowa was full of celebrations – and that’s just the kind of days this chick needed.

My Aunt Crazy Pants had a birthday a few weeks ago and although she’s kicking cancer ass, she still found her party pants. My sister (the not always happy about being my partner in crime but does it anyway) and Mama CBXB were able to join in on the festivities.

Fab four.

Birthday Queen.

Naturally, I couldn’t resist adding a little bit of fuchsia to the birthday bash.

I now want to grow a mustache. Only in the fuchsia hue.

We even forced Mr. Jakers to get in on the shenanigans.

We kept the thrown down going the following day because, well, why the hell not stretch out a birthday for as long as possible?

Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

It was also my Aunt Crispie’s actual date of birth, so it was a double party whammy. Naturally our trashtastic family always uses the ever classy red solo cups for guzzling beverages of the alcoholic sort.

A trio of fun aunts. You figure out the crazy one.

Being the fun aunt just may be the reason of permanent paralysis below my waist… but so worth it.

A back adjustment the old-fashioned way.

One of the perks of being a short adult is my capability of stuffing myself into an extra-large kids t-shirt. Therefore, I get to wear matching tops with Princess B while she still thinks it’s cool.

It’s party time!

We ended Aunt Crazy Pants’s celebration week with a trip to trivia night at the local grocery store (yes, that is what we do in small town Iowa and it’s fucking fun). Although my brain cells only provided one correct question of 20, our team “The Rats,” were able to slip into second place while having a laugh riot.

Trivia tomfoolery.

Being that I live 1,000 miles away in Nashville, cramming in all celebrations close to my visit date is common. Therefore, Santa made a special visit just for me – even with a small, glittery tree.

Christmas in March.

We also scrunched in an early birthday bash for yours truly, so I really raked it in (don’t worry if you haven’t picked anything out for me yet – you still have time and yes, I will provide a list).

The more the merrier in March!

Any Iowa birthday party of mine isn’t complete without a trip to see my bro-in-law, Dr. Cocktail, who makes libations that rival any mixologist on the planet (and no, that isn’t an overstatement).

Manhattan man.

Mine. All mine.

While there were only four adults present at the kitchen island, it sort of seemed a fraternity party took place when we were winding down. But that only means it was an evening of amusement, yes?

A party of four…or 44?

Regardless of the time my head hit the pillow, I had the two most adorable alarm clocks bust in and interrupt my beauty sleep with their not-so-spot-on rooster imitations.

Cockadoodle don’t.

Talk about a fun aunt. I went to visit my great aunt Marge, whose husband of 67 years recently passed away. Out of the five sisters in her family, her husband was the last to pass and holy shit was he was one gem of a person. He basically became the surrogate hubby to the four widowed sisters – much to his (dismay, perhaps?) delight.

Uncle Bill’s ashes sit in an urn next to Marge’s TV stand. She pointed at it and said, “I’m going in there with Bill but I gotta lose some weight first.”

A BV and water party night.

If there’s anyone I can think of emanating in this lifetime, it’s this spunky, hilarious broad. She’s 88, looks maybe all of 68 and acts 38.

She can also sing karaoke from the couch.

And is obviously true relation with our family tradition of Jell-O shots.

More whipped cream for you?

After my Iowa party parade, I made it to the airport and back to Nashville just in the nick of time, as inches of snow were starting to accumulate.  Although, I was a tad disappointed I didn’t get to play with my two faves in the snow.

Snow bunnies.

However, I’m not sure I would have fit in with this “angel”.

Angelic my ass.

Here’s hoping your day is filled with a little fun, a little crazy or a whole lotta both.

Cheers!

CBXB

They Call Me Captain

It’s funny how a nickname can commence.

The Captain.

I’m sure my parent’s hearts burst with pride knowing that I’ve obtained a substitute moniker that refers to my favorite rum, Captain Morgan.

The spicy love of my life – other than Ted, of course.

I’m not sure the exact moment I fell head over heels for Captain but when the mix of this piquant rum and Diet Coke crossed my lips for the first time, the love of a Skinny Pirate was born and I’ve had one in hand almost ever since.

Documenting my liquid affection.

You see, Skinny Pirates are just the perfect accompaniment to any life situation…

Sneaky sneak time movie fun.

Keeping me cool in the sun.

Cheering me through Iowa Hawkeyes game days like it’s my religion.

Creating Griswold family style traditions.

Quenching my thirst after work outs.

Putting the ho in my down at country shows.

Following me from fancy places…

…. to low class spaces.

Even when I try to cheat, Captain just can’t be beat.

Easily swallowed through a sippy cup.

Skinny Pirates also help loosen the holidays up.

No hands needed to drink this libation.

And my Captain keeps me sparkling on every occassion.

There when I celebrate small life successes.

An inspiration for making Mani Mondays a bit excessive.

Always keeping me company at the bar.

So what if my main squeeze comes from a glass jar?

As you can see, my favorite libation is never far from my reach and Captain is suitable in addressing me.

In fashion with Captain.

As my favorite pirate says, “To live, love and loot!”

You’d better cheers with me or this Captain will give you the boot.
CBXB

 

Weekend Winks – Shit Show Style

You know how you feel when life decides to sucker punch you in the face? I am familiar with the feeling (aren’t we all?). Going about our business, minding our own business and tending to our business, when out of the blue the sky seems to fall an our life becomes an immediate shit show…

Thank God for t-shirts that say it all and before noon screwdrivers.

It’d been one of those weeks (that seems to keep reoccurring over the last four months) and I couldn’t wait to meet up with my First Mate and her hubs for a few happy hour libations on Friday.

The happy hour trio.

It was a dreary start to the weekend, so we were more than happy to stay dry and hydrate our livers while rain soaked the Nashville streets.

This calls for another round.

Just what the weekend ordered….a Skinny Pirate.

And many repeated cheers to the weekend!

Happy to return home and snuggle with my main feline squeeze Teddy B., I found a note taped to my door, which was odd but then thought maybe it was a letter from a secret admirer or better yet a clue to the beginning of a very cool scavenger hunt…but of course it wasn’t anything of such fun.

Letter of lovely news.

My mini-manse (and the zip code it comes with – read here) is one side of a duplex and the owner’s stoner son lives on the other half with his gal pal.  This note I received basically said in a very formal way, “I got my girlfriend pregnant on accident and now you’re f’d because we need your side of the duplex by the end of July because we don’t have any money to move and need more space. Sorry and let us know if we can do anything.”

First, I was utterly flabbergasted, as when my neighbor told me of the pregnancy news a few months ago, I asked him point-blank if they’d need my space with the answer being, “No, we’d move out before asking you to.  You’re totally fine – you may just be getting a new tenant.”

Second, I was completely livid that I’m paying the price for someone else’s life changing event. And can you do anything for me? You bet your ass you can. Do you have $3,000 for first and last month’s rent, pet deposit, security deposit and moving expenses? Oh, and about 12 hours per week to look at places during lunch, after work and all weekend long? Along with hours for the boxing and organizing your belongings?

Lastly, I kinda lost my mind. Life hasn’t been easy the past few years and I’ve taken solitude and pride in my little slice of my neighborhood, being able to scrape by and have finally – in the past few weeks – felt that I was getting back up on my feet financially. So this news feels like salt being scooped by the barrel into an open wound.

So what’s a gal do when she goes off the deep end? Buy a pack of cigarettes of course (which by the way, are the most expensive habit in the world. $6 for one pack? WTF?). I am a non-non-non smoker. Like don’t socially smoke. Never crave a cigarette. But once every decade it seems as if the moment of sheer insanity raids my body and I feel the need to become a chain smoker.

CODE RED

While sitting outside, bawling my eyes out I thought I would share just how ridiculous I look while smoking (and as I threw butts in the yard (because I’m having an acrimonious moment and can do that), I was secretly hoping a smolder might catch the lawn on fire…).

Smoking wreck. Not a natural when it comes to nicotine.

And while I let this news get the better of me –  I missed out on a friend’s party, a few days of Nashville sunshine, working out and maybe single-handedly gave myself lung cancer in one sitting – I ran out to have my dad ‘baby’ me (you know, say things will be OK while I’m crying, take me to eat Mexican and offer to pay on student loan bills so I have a little extra dough for moving) on Saturday night. Sometimes you just need your stand-by guy.

Dad to the emotional rescue!

While this news isn’t the end of the world (although it truly did feel like it this weekend), it just snapped me back into place of being the girl who once again needs all the help she can get, as I watched my pride sink back into the size of an inch worm. Luckily, I have amazing family, friends and a fur ball who stand by my side – whether it be forcing me out of my house to get fresh air (and a cocktail), wiping the snot off my nose or making sure I don’t resort to selling my body for extra moving money (I’m kidding mother), I know everything will be fine.

Cuddle dud let me maul him into the wee hours of the evenings.

On my way out of my beloved mini-manse, I’ll want to leave a note that simply says “SUCK IT.” And while I probably won’t, I will definitely be leaving behind a box of condoms.

Happy times are here again!

CBXB