Lucky Charm

Cinderella once sang “you don’t know what you got till it’s gone.”

I’m talking about the hair metal 80s band, not the princess of course.

I think we all can relate to the sentiment in one way or another. However, when it comes to peeps in my life that I love, you’re either in or out. One quality that I gratefully possess is I am never regretful of time spent with folks that I hold in my heart, nor do I take time with them for granted. That’s why for me, when you love the fuck out of someone and they no longer roam the earth, it can be a heart yanking time when their milestones still appear annually.

Aunt Crazy Pants celebrated her first birthday above on February 23, and in honor of this occasion, Mama CBXB came to Nashville and we par-tayed the only we way our family ever does. Trashtacularly.

On ACP’s actual day of birth, we took her to get her cocktail of choice, gin rickeys, at my fave local watering hole, Dalts.

A hungover day later, we went to get permanent tributes of the lady whose favorite color was green, loved shamrocks and owned one of the most unique signatures ever, which is what we were going to have tattooed on our wrists. I gussied up in my green heels I fashioned at the celebration of ACP’s life, perfected my mani to match and we were ready to go.

Naked and afraid.

While mother/daughter bonding over tattoos may seem odd to you, it’s sort of a family tradition in my clan (which should shock no one hence Jell-O shots with Gma at Christmas and Iowa Hawkeye moonshine touchdown shots are also custom family practices, well shared on this blog).

In summers of yesteryear, our families would spend Fourth of Julys at the Lake of the Ozarks. Which entailed not only in boating and booze but often tattoos and belly button piercings. Yes, yes, you read that right. I even think we made each new girlfriend of our dude cousins get belly button rings on their first Fourth with us. (A dream come true family that acts like a fraternity right here folks).

I was with ACP when she got her first ink from none other than the not even close to being world famous Tattoo Ted in the Ozarks.

We may have had one or eight drinks with sun poisoning but what did it matter?

With our history of classiness, we brought ACP along with us in spirit as Mama CBXB and I rolled into the Rebel Yell Tattoo and Social Club that came highly recommended.

When we traipsed through the doors, I’m fairly certain all four folks in the shop on a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon were well aware that this wasn’t a past time in which we often partook. Especially when I wondered aloud with Justin, our extremely patient artist, how a tattoo on my wrist would look when I do jazz hands. Because I use them a lot. Like, we seriously had a five-minute conversation about it, he put a stencil on my wrist with ACP’s name facing me and let me look in a mirror before I decided how I wanted the fucking three-inch artwork done.

I mean you guys. Obvies we use them.


Maybe our novice was a dead giveaway when I asked my mom 400 times in the seven minutes it took Justin to tattoo her wrist if she was going to cry when it was over (she did – Tearfest 2018).

My defense mechanism against physical pain is apparently laughing because it’s all I did the entire time my four-minute ink was being perfected. Justin kept stopping to ask if I was OK and all I could do was giggle in the most unquiet way possible.

All in all, mission accomplished.

Shortest time frame yet most annoying tattoo subject ever to grace Rebel Yell.

Getting any type of tattoo makes one a bad ass motherfucker, right?

I mean, look at my recovery plastic.

So what did these bad ass mother fuckers do? Celebrated with cocktails of course!

And it just so happened that two of ACP’s grandgirls came through Nashville that night, so we all cheersed our hearts out to the lady we love and miss.

Bittersweet without sharing the experience with ACP, there’s something ultra comforting to know she’s right here on my wrist. There have been some dark days for me recently, and I’ve found myself flipping my wrist over, admiring her signature, reminiscing on conversations, knowledge, 1,573,982,400 laughs and love we shared over her lifetime.

What I come to think of most is right after Rapegate, ACP was one of the first phone calls I received as the news made its way through my family. Her first words were, “you’re already one helluva strong lady – but you’ll be the strongest woman you know now.” The same words rang true when we found out she had terminal cancer six months later – and I repeated her words of wisdom back to her.

While cancer can go fuck itself, I’m comforted by the fact that I knew what I had with ACP before she was gone. Which is why her absence is ever present, more so now that I’m a bad ass mother fucker with a fancy signature on my wrist.

Know what you’ve got before it’s gone.

Now who wants to go get tattoo sleeves with me?

It could be the experience of your lifetime.


Running Out of Gas

Sometimes when bad shit happens to good people, it can take a minute, a month, a year or beyond until life resumes to some sense of ‘normal’. In my case, I’m still in the month category – eighth to be precise – of recovering, trudging through, putting one stiletto in front of the other, moment by moment bullshit that I didn’t ask for but get to relive every day.

Being that I was already a tad absent-minded and every bit the stereotypical blonde prior to my bad shit, it’s a wonder that something like this has never happened to me until I was a grown ass woman as a short while ago, I actually ran out of gas about three blocks from my house.

Does that light mean something?

Does that light and the constant dinging mean something?

You see, I am now often consumed by my thoughts as I go through the motions. I see someone talking to me but I’m not always processing what they’re saying. I know I should be practicing my once beloved hot yoga or jogging but being alone with my thoughts is sometimes unbearable to the point that I cry.  Which means I’m feeling feelings. Gross.

Being that I’ve been diagnosed with severe stress, extreme PTSD and adjustment disorder (I know, I know, I sound like a dream woman!), I have no clue when or where something is going to be triggered. But I do know that I’m absent-minded as fuck, so I often fall down because I don’t notice the pothole, stairs, curb, drop off in front of me. Or forget to pay bills because, well, that means I have to keep track of something. In accordance with those symptoms, naturally I ran out of gas on a humid, blistering, Nashville morning while I was experiencing what could be described as an intense tiny hangover.

As I puttered to a dead stop in front of a Nashville bus stop on a busy highway, I couldn’t help but get into a hysterical laughing fit. I’m an adult with eyes that missed the yellow ‘warning-you’re-about-to-run-out-of-that-stuff-that-makes-your-car-move’ and the incessant sound that accompanies the light. All I could giggle about is how 2016 has really been shaping up as one motherfucking humdinger of a year.


2016 has done nothing but make this chick run on nothing but empty – especially emotionally – it’s been exhausting. I’m out of gas.

Thoughts on 2016.

No love for this year.

While I was contemplating what the fuck a gas damsel in distress should do, my iPhone broke the silence and the woman whose voice I hate more than most anything asked me this:


A lot Suri. You can help me with a fucking lot.

You can help me want to shower and change out of pajamas.

You can help me want to shower and change out of pajamas.


You can help me understand this statement fully.

You can help me find my sunglasses.

You can help me find my sunglasses.

You can remind me to buy larger bottles of wine on therapy day.

You can remind me to buy larger bottles of wine on therapy day.

You can give Ted a head's up when his Mama has had a shit of a day.

You can give Ted a head’s up when his Mama has had a shit day.

You can tell me why I hadn't been able to sleep in my bed for 7.5 months.

You can tell me why I haven’t been able to sleep in my bed for 7.5 months.

Snapping back into my reality after 38 seconds of wallowing with Suri, the first person to come to mind in calling (although I knew there was a chance he’d be in a moonshine coma on a Sunday morning) was Camo. You know he’s the type of dude who could build an outhouse with a match and whatever else is in the back of his goddamn truck. And I was pretty sure he already had a gas can.

Gas hero

Camo needs a non flammable cape.

After making sure my chariot started – and thankfully it did – I hauled ass the nearest gas station.

Back from Fumegate.

Fumegate 2016 over.

While my gas tank took what felt like almost an hour to fill up, I started perusing around my shit show of an SUV in search of a diamond pinky ring that had gone missing. Much to my surprise, my personal luck tank was turning around.

Jazz Hands

I found the ring – along with what could have amounted to a large order of McDonald’s french fries under the driver’s seat.

Fumegate miracle.

Fumegate miracle.

Which got me to thinking about how I’ve been coasting on fumes through life the past 240 days and I started dwelling on the instances and folks who have helped me keep my fumes from fully being extinguished.

Cheers to a full tank.

Cheers to a full tank.

Family up close and personal.

Family up close and personal depositing some gas.

Family fully blowing my self esteem up with hot air.

Family fully blowing my self-esteem up with hot air.

Family cheersing me from agar.

Family cheersing with me across the miles.

Family bringing the Cornhusker fun to the Music City.

Family bringing the Cornhusker fun to the Music City.

Mugs that make working away from the office the best ever.

Mugs that make working away from the office the thing best ever.

Whiskey in coffee needed for this shit.

Whiskey in coffee is needed for this shit.

Friends filling up my tank, embracing my cray.

Friends filling up my tank, embracing my cray.

Friends following through on a brunch date because they know you need it.

Friends following through on a brunch date because they know you need it.

The more I thought about the non flammable Camo giving my car the liquid needed to work, the more I considered how much has been changing – even if it’s at a snail’s pace.


Easing myself back into the bedroom the only way I knew how…

Netflix, hot pussy, hotter sox and wine.

Netflix, hot pussy, hotter sox and wine.

Then Mr. Bear got extremely demanding, tired of restlessly trying to fight me for room on my leopard couch.



The way I ended back up in my heaven of a bed was by having a buddy spend the night who was a tad too intoxicated to drive home. Without thinking, I offered up my permanent bed couch. And you know what? I may not have slept more than mere minutes but I was back in the bedroom saddle again.

Awe yeah!

Awe yeah!

Another quarter of my personal tank has been filled by Sunday nights being mani night again.

Horror show.

Naked nails are not this chick’s style.

Mani Monday back in all of its glory folks.


Thinking about how lucky I am to have those around me keeping my primary tank as full as possible – and about the teeny, tiny baby steps I’m making are so easily overlooked by myself when consumed by a panic attack or go-to feelings of despair. While I can’t always help how I feel, I know the Grand Canyon I accidentally fell into January 1 of this year through no fault of my own, is something I’m slowly climbing out of (I say slowly because let’s be real…my nails are jewels, not tools).

Now it’s my turn to be the Fumegate Crusader. I’m heading to Iowa this week to assist Aunt Crazy Pants with whatever it is that floats her proverbial boat as she started her fight against that fucking illness called cancer last week.

Aunt Crazy Pants and her side kick.

Dumb and Dumber at their prettiest.

Thoughts on 2016.

Thoughts on Cancergate.

However, I’m showing up with lighter fluid (and of course wine) to ignite this fight.

Lighter fluid and fella included.

Fire stirrer in back not included, so don’t get excited Aunt Crazy Pants.

Here’s hoping that our fumes never run out and we’re lucky enough to always be surrounded by folks who want to keep our gas tanks full.

I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.



Will You Be My Mani-tine?


A Valentine mani.

No holiday passes CBXB by without the need to paint my nails gaudily accordingly.  So here’s my stab at melting hearts with my mani this week.

I used a trio of colors to achieve my look:


Salon Perfect in Silver Plated, Sally Hansen in White On and Orly in Star Spangled.

After applying one swipe of base coat, I painted two coats of White On and let it dry a few minutes.

Step One

Then, I put a thick coat of Orly’s Star Spangled on the tips of my talons.

Add the red

To take the gaudiness up a notch, I applied a thin line of Silver Plated in between the red and white hues. Followed by one swipe of my all-time favorite Seche Vite Dry Fast top coat.


Then I did what any grown woman does after painting her nails.  I started matching my nails to Valentine’s decor.

Image 59

Be mine.

Be mine.

And why stop at decor, when you can color coordinate your mani to the wine you’ll be guzzling?

What pants?

The cork in this bottle reads “Who wears the pants? I wear the pants.” No one tell Teddy!

Now I just need to get a matching wine glass (or two – you know, one for each manicured hand).



Frightful Fingers

Being that I’m crazy over all things pertaining to any holiday, I can’t resist a seasonal mani. While it was hard to stray from simply an orange and black paint job, I added silver for the sheer gaudiness of it all.

The witch is in.

The witch is in.

To achieve this monstrous mani, I started by applying one swipe of Seche Base Coat and followed with two silver coats of DS Radiance by OPI. Once that dried for a few minutes, I topped my nails off with a heavy stripe of Crushed by Sally Hansen. Finishing the look with a thin strip of Black Sketch by Milani followed by my all time fave Seche Vite Dry Fast Top Coat.

Trio for talons.

Trio for talons.


Scary with skulls.

Seriously. Beware.

Seriously. Beware.

Now to put my nail polish thinking cap on for THE week of Halloween…



Hell on Nails

Oh the power of super glue.

Since I basically moved the entire summer, my nails have seen better days.

Nails at the end of day one...

Moving. Hell on nails.

I tried to keep polish on, as it seems to make my nails stronger BUT I somehow managed to bend a nail back last week, and now I have a tear right in the middle. So I will basically have to grow it out until I can cut the nail down. It has been snagging on my clothes, my hair gets caught in the little slit in the shower and I’ve been afraid that the nail would catch on something and my entire polished masterpiece would rip off (I shudder at the thought).

During Sunday night nail night, I had a very non-blonde brain moment (although if this trick hadn’t worked, I might be trying to type with two fingers glued together today). I wondered if Super Glue would hold the nail tear together, so any and everything would quit getting caught in the tiny sliver.

To the rescue...

Nail tear army of four.

I put one small drop of Super Glue on the tear and let it dry (be very careful you do not get the glue on your skin).  I followed with my normal nail routine. Seche Vite base coat, followed by two coats of polish (in this case Black Out by Sally Hansen, $2.49.  Don’t let the price fool you. This will stay on my nails for a full week).  No manicure of mine is complete without Seche Vite Quick Dry Top Coat (seriously, the best ever).


Where’s the tear?

Can’t tell which nail is broken, can you?  It’s my thumb – there is about a 3mm slit on the right hand side, that starts halfway down the nail. Ugh.

But you know what? Until I can cut my nail down, I’m committed to my new manicure addition.

To the rescue....

To the rescue….

I just wonder if I will ever be able to get the Super Glue off my nail…

One must suffer to be beautiful, right?



Fairy God-Mani

You know I take being a (fairy) Godmother very seriously. And it took great consideration to decide how to paint my nails for my niece and nephew’s baptism this past weekend.


Matching a mani to a god-daughter’s outfit.

I decided to go with a bright pink base (for little diva B) accompanied by gray tips (for the all boy B).


Perfect accessory for camo pants and a baby belly, don’t you think?

After applying a base, I painted two coats of Orly’s Oh Cabana Boy and let dry for about three minutes. Then I used one swipe of Orly’s fabulously sparkly Rock Solid on the tips, followed by Seche Vite top coat for completion.



Little diva B was so engaged with my mani, she couldn’t let go of my finger (well, actually she got grabby with my bling bling diamond pinky ring – who can blame her?!).

Wouldn't let go probably not because she loved the mani but fell in love with my bling blibg pinky ring

A lover of all things sparkly already! Following in Godmother CBXB’s footsteps…look out.

It’s never too early to learn that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, right?

She’s learning from a pro.